Bag of Bones by Stephen King Page B

been reclining on and sit up in excitement. Sara Laughs had also been the place where the ritual had begun . . . champagne, last line, and the all-important benediction: Well, then, that’s all right, isn’t it?
    Did I want things to be all right again? Did I truly want that? A month or a year before I mightn’t have been sure, but now I was. The answer was yes. I wanted to move on—let go of my dead wife, rehab my heart, move on. But to do that, I’d have to go back.
    Back to the log house. Back to Sara Laughs.
    â€œYeah,” I said, and my body broke out in gooseflesh. “Yeah, you got it.”
    So why not?
    The question made me feel as stupid as Ralph Roberts’s observation that I needed a vacation. If I needed to go back to Sara Laughs now that my vacation was over, indeed why not? It might be a little scary the first night or two, a hangover from my final dream, but just being there might dissolve the dream faster.
    And (this last thought I allowed in only one humble corner of my conscious mind) something might happen with my writing. It wasn’t likely . . . but it wasn’t impossible, either. Barring a miracle, hadn’t that been my thought on New Year’s Day as I sat on the rim of the tub, holding a damp washcloth to the cut on my forehead? Yes. Barring a miracle. Sometimes blind people fall down, knock their heads, and regain their sight. Sometimes maybe cripples are able to throw their crutches away when they get to the top of the church steps.
    I had eight or nine months before Harold andDebra started really bugging me for the next novel. I decided to spend the time at Sara Laughs. It would take me a little while to tie things up in Derry, and awhile for Bill Dean to get the house on the lake ready for a year-round resident, but I could be down there by the Fourth of July, easily. I decided that was a good date to shoot for, not just the birthday of our country, but pretty much the end of bug season in western Maine.
    By the day I packed up my vacation gear (the John D. MacDonald paperbacks I left for the cabin’s next inhabitant), shaved a week’s worth of stubble off a face so tanned it no longer looked like my own to me, and flew back to Maine, I was decided: I’d go back to the place my subconscious mind had identified as shelter against the deepening dark; I’d go back even though my mind had also suggested that doing so would not be without risks. I would not go back expecting Sara to be Lourdes . . . but I would allow myself to hope, and when I saw the evening star peeping out over the lake for the first time, I would allow myself to wish on it.
    *   *   *
    Only one thing didn’t fit into my neat deconstruction of the Sara dreams, and because I couldn’t explain it, I tried to ignore it. I didn’t have much luck, though; part of me was still a writer, I guess, and a writer is a man who has taught his mind to misbehave.
    It was the cut on the back of my hand. That cut had been in all the dreams, I would swear it had . . . and then it had actually appeared. You didn’t get that sort of shit in the works of Dr. Freud; stuff like that was strictly for the Psychic Friends hotline.
    It was a coincidence, that’s all, I thought as my plane started its descent. I was in seat A-2 (the nice thing about flying up front is that if the plane goes down, you’re first to the crash site) and looking at pine forests as we slipped along the glidepath toward Bangor International Airport. The snow was gone for another year; I had vacationed it to death. Only coincidence. How many times have you cut your hands in your life? I mean, they’re always out front, aren’t they, waving themselves around? Practically begging for it.
    All that should have rung true, and yet somehow it didn’t, quite. It should have, but . . . well . . .
    It was the boys in the basement.