Stephen King's N. by Stephen King, Marc Guggenheim, Alex Maleev Read Free Book Online

ugly sound, but that day it sounded very sweet. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it sounded like redemption.
    I knew there’d be eight stones in Ackerman’s Field, and I was right. I knew they wouldn’t look so much like a circle, and I was right about that, too; they looked like random outcroppings again, part of the underlying bedrock that had been exposed by a tectonic shift, or a withdrawing glacier eighty thousand years ago, or a flood of more recent vintage.
    I understood other things, too. One was that I had activated the place just by looking at it. Human eyes take away the eighth stone. A camera lens will put it back, but won’t lock it in place. I had to keep renewing the protection with symbolic acts.
    [He pauses, thinking, and when he speaks again he seems to have changed the subject.]
    Did you know that Stonehenge may have been a combination clock and calendar?
    [I tell him I’ve read this somewhere.]
    The people who built that place, and others like it, must have known they could tell time with no more than a sundial, and as for the calendar—we know that prehistoric people in Europe and Asia told the days simply by making marks on sheltered rock walls. So what does that make Stonehenge, if it is a gigantic clock/calendar? A monument to OCD behavior, that’s what I think—a gigantic neurosis standing in a Salisbury field.
    Unless it’s protecting something as well as keeping track of hours and months. Locking out an insane universe that happens to lie right next door to ours. I have days—many of them, especially last winter, when I felt pretty much like my old self again—when I’m sure that’s bullshit, that everything I thought I saw in Ackerman’s Field was in my own head. That all this OCD crap is just a mental stutter.
    Then I have other days—they started again this spring—when I’m sure it’s all true: I activated something. And in so doing, I became the latest baton carrier in a long, long line of them, maybe going all the way back to prehistoric times. I know that sounds crazy—why else would I be telling it to a psychiatrist?—and I have whole days when I’m sure it is crazy…even when I’m counting things, going around my house at night touching light switches and stove burners, I’m sure it’s all just…you know…bad chemicals in my head that a few of the right pills will fix.
    I especially thought that last winter, when things were good. Or at least better. Then, in April of this year, things started getting bad again. I was counting more, touching more, and placing just about everything that wasn’t nailed down in circles or diagonals. My daughter—the one who’s going to school near here—again expressed concerns about how I looked and how jumpy I seemed. She asked if it was the divorce, and when I said it wasn’t, she looked as if she didn’t believe me. She asked if I’d consider “seeing someone,” and by God, here I am.
    I started having nightmares again. One night in early May I woke on my bedroom floor, screaming. In my dream I’d seen a huge gray-black monstrosity, a winged gargoyle-thing with a leathery head like a helmet. It was standing in the ruins of Portland, a thing a mile high at least—I could see wisps of cloud floating around its plated arms. There were screaming people struggling in its taloned fists. And I knew—knew—it had escaped from the standing stones in Ackerman’s Field, that it was only the first and least of the abominations to be released from that other world, and it was my fault. Because I had failed in my responsibilities.
    I stumbled through the house, putting things in circles and then counting them to make sure the circles contained only even numbers, and it came to me that I wasn’t too late, that it had only started to come awake.
    [I ask him what he means by “it.”]
    The force! Remember Star Wars? “Use the force, Luke”?
    [He laughs wildly.]
    Except this is a case of don’t use the force! Stop the force! Imprison the force! The chaotic something that