Needful Things by Stephen King Page A

up with the claws which were now cradled on her chest, having to do it not by grasping—tonight her fingers would not bend at all—but by pressing, like a woman playing the accordion, and suddenly it was too much, even something as simple as picking up a telephone which had fallen on the floor was too much, and she began to cry.
    The pain was fully awake again, awake and raving, turning her hands—especially the one she had bumped—into fever-pits. She lay on her bed, looking up at the ceiling through her blurry eyes, and wept.
    Oh I would give anything to be free of this, she thought. I would give anything, anything, anything at all.
5
    By ten o’clock on an autumn weeknight, Castle Rock’s Main Street was as tightly locked up as a Chubb safe. The streetlamps threw circles of white light on the sidewalk and the fronts of the business buildings in diminishing perspective, making downtown look like a deserted stage-set. Soon, you might think, a lone figure dressed in tails and a top-hat—Fred Astaire, or maybe Gene Kelly—would appear and dance his way from one of those spots to the next, singing about how lonely a fellow could be when his best girl had given him the air and all the bars were closed. Then, from the other end of Main Street, another figure would appear—Ginger Rogers or maybe Cyd Charisse—dressed in an evening gown. She would dance toward Fred (or Gene), singing about how lonely a gal could be when her best guy had stood her up. They would see each other, pauseartistically, and then dance together in front of the bank or maybe You Sew and Sew.
    Instead, Hugh Priest hove into view.
    He did not look like either Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, there was no girl at the far end of Main Street advancing toward a romantic chance meeting with him, and he most definitely did not dance. He did drink, however, and he had been drinking steadily in The Mellow Tiger since four that afternoon. At this point in the festivities just walking was a trick, and never mind any fancy dance-steps. He walked slowly, passing through one pool of light after another, his shadow running tall across the fronts of the barber shop, the Western Auto, the video-rental shop. He was weaving slightly, his reddish eyes fixed stolidly in front of him, his large belly pushing out his sweaty blue tee-shirt (on the front was a drawing of a huge mosquito above the words, MAINE STATE BIRD ) in a long, sloping curve.
    The Castle Rock Public Works pick-up truck he had been driving was still sitting at the rear of the Tiger’s dirt parking lot. Hugh Priest was the not-so-proud possessor of several OUI driving violations, and following the last one—which had resulted in a six-month suspension of his privilege to drive—that bastard Keeton, his co-bastards Fullerton and Samuels, and their co-bitch Williams had made it clear that they had reached the end of their patience with him. The next OUI would probably result in the permanent loss of his license, and would certainly result in the loss of his job.
    This did not cause Hugh to stop drinking—no power on earth could do that—but it did cause him to form a firm resolution: no more drinking and driving. He was fifty-one years old, and that was a little late in life to be changing jobs, especially with a long drunk-driving rap-sheet following him around like a tin can tied to a dog’s tail.
    That was why he was walking home tonight, and one fuck of a long walk it was, and there was a certain Public Works employee named Bobby Dugas who was going to have some tall explaining to do tomorrow, unless he wanted to go home with a few less teeth than he had come to work with.
    As Hugh passed Nan’s Luncheonette, a light drizzle began to mist down. This did not improve his temper.
    He had asked Bobby, who had to drive right past Hugh’s place on his way home every night, if he was going to drop down to the Tiger that evening for a few brewskis. Bobby