Dreamcatcher by Stephen King

shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Anybody woulda.”
    â€œMaybe,” McCarthy said. “And maybe not. In the Bible it says, ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock.’ ” Outside, the wind gusted more fiercely yet, making Hole in the Wall shake. Jonesy waited for McCarthy to finish—it sounded as if he had more to say—but the man just swung his feet into bed and pulled the covers up.
    From somewhere deep in Jonesy’s bed there came another of those long, rasping farts, and Jonesy decided that was enough for him. It was one thing to let in a wayfaring stranger when he came to yourdoor just ahead of a storm; it was another to stand around while he laid a series of gas-bombs.
    The Beaver followed him out and closed the door gently behind him.
    5
    When Jonesy started to talk, the Beav shook his head, raised his finger to his lips, and led Jonesy across the big room to the kitchen, which was as far as they could get from McCarthy without going into the shed out back.
    â€œMan, that guy’s in a world of hurt,” Beaver said, and in the harsh glow of the kitchen’s fluorescent strips, Jonesy could see just how worried his old friend was. The Beav rummaged into the wide front pocket of his overalls, found a toothpick, and began to nibble on it. In three minutes—the length of time it took a dedicated smoker to finish a cigarette—he would reduce it to a palmful of flax-fine splinters. Jonesy didn’t know how the Beav’s teeth stood up to it (or his stomach), but he had been doing it his whole life.
    â€œI hope you’re wrong, but . . .” Jonesy shook his head. “Did you ever smell anything like those farts?”
    â€œNope,” Beaver said. “But there’s a lot more going on with that guy than just a bad stomach.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, he thinks it’s November eleventh, for one thing.”
    Jonesy had no idea what the Beav was talkingabout. November eleventh was the day their own hunting party had arrived, bundled into Henry’s Scout, as always.
    â€œBeav, it’s Wednesday. It’s the fourteenth. ”
    Beaver nodded, smiling a little in spite of himself. The toothpick, which had already picked up an appreciable warp, rolled from one side of his mouth to the other. “I know that. You know that. Rick, he don’t know that. Rick thinks it’s the Lord’s Day.”
    â€œBeav, what exactly did he say to you?” Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been much—it just didn’t take that long to scramble a couple of eggs and heat a can of soup. That started a train of thought, and as Beaver talked, Jonesy ran water to do up the few dishes. He didn’t mind camping out, but he was damned if he was going to live in squalor, as so many men seemed willing to do when they left their homes and went into the woods.
    â€œWhat he said was they came up on Saturday so they could hunt a little, then spend Sunday working on the roof, which had a couple of leaks in it. He goes, ‘At least I didn’t have to break the commandment about working on the Sabbath. When you’re lost in the woods, the only thing you have to work on is not going crazy.’ ”
    â€œHuh,” Jonesy said.
    â€œI guess I couldn’t swear in a court of law that he thinks this is the eleventh, but it’s either that or go back a week further, to the fourth, because he sure does think it’s Sunday. And I just can’t believe he’s been out there ten days.”
    Jonesy couldn’t, either. But three? Yes. That he could believe. “It would explain something he told me,” Jonesy said. “He—”
    The floor creaked and they both jumped a little, looking toward the closed bedroom door on the other side of the big room, but there was nothing to see. And the floors and walls were always creaking out here, even when the wind wasn’t blowing up