The Dark Half

  "Well . . . I . . . "

  "I only wonder," Pritchard went on, "because people with brain tumors often do very peculiar things. The peculiarity of the acts seems to rise in direct ratio to the intelligence of the man or woman so afflicted. But the boy didn't have a brain tumor at all, you know--at least, not in the usually accepted sense of the term. It was an unusual case. Extremely unusual. I've read of only three similar cases since 1960--two of them since I retired. Has he had the standard neurological tests?"

  "Yes. "

  "And?"

  "They were negative. "

  "I'm not surprised." Pritchard fell silent for a few moments, then said: "You're being less than honest with me, young man, aren't you?"

  Alan stopped making shadow animals and sat forward in his chair. "Yes, I suppose I am. But I very badly want to know what you mean when you say Thad Beaumont didn't have a brain tumor in 'the usually accepted sense of the term. ' I know all about the confidentiality rule in doctor-patient relationships, and I don't know if you can trust a man you're talking to for the first time--and over the phone, at that--but I hope you'll believe me when I say that I'm on Thad's side here, and I'm sure he would want you to tell me what I want to know. And I can't take the time to have him call you and give you the go-ahead, Doctor--I need to know now. "

  And Alan was surprised to find that this was true--or he believed it to be true. A funny tenseness had begun to creep over him, a feeling that things were happening. Things he didn't know about . . . but soon would.

  "I have no problem with telling you about the case," Pritchard said calmly. "I have thought, on many occasions, that I ought to get in touch with Beaumont myself, if only to tell him what happened at the hospital shortly after his surgery was complete. I felt it might interest him. "

  "What was that?"

  "I'll get to it, I assure you. I didn't tell his parents what the operation had uncovered because it didn't matter--not in any practical way--and I didn't want anything more to do with them. With his father in particular. That man should have been born in a cave and spent his life hunting woolly mammoths. I decided at the time to tell them what they wanted to hear and get shut of them as fast as I could. Then, of course, time itself became a factor. You lose touch with your patients. I thought of writing to him when Helga showed me that first book, and I've thought of it on several occasions since then, but I also felt he might not believe me . . . or wouldn't care . . . or that he might think I was a crackpot. I don't know any famous people, but I pity them--I suspect they must live defensive, disorganized, fearful lives. It seemed easier to let sleeping dogs lie. Now this. As my grandchildren would say, it's a bummer. "

  "What was wrong with Thad? What brought him to you?"

  "Fugues. Headaches. Phantom sounds. And finally--"

  "Phantom sounds?"

  "Yes--but you must let me tell it in my own way, Sheriff." Again Alan heard that unconscious arrogance in the man's voice.

  "All right. "

  "Finally there was a seizure. The problems were all being caused by a small mass in the prefrontal lobe. We operated, assuming it was a tumor. The tumor turned out to be Thad Beaumont's twin. "

  "What!"

  "Yes, indeed," Pritchard said. He sounded as if the unalloyed shock in Alan's voice rather pleased him. "This is not entirely uncommon--twins are often absorbed in utero, and in rare cases the absorption is incomplete--but the location was unusual, and so was the growth-spurt of the foreign tissue. Such tissue almost always remains inert. I believe that Thad's problems may have been caused by the early onset of puberty. "

  "Wait," Alan said. "Just wait." He had read the phrase "his mind reeled" a time or two in books, but this was the first time he had ever experienced such a feeling himself. "Are you telling me that Thad was a twin, but he . . . he somehow . . . somehow ate his brother?"

  "Or sister," Pritchard said. "But I suspect it was a brother, because I believe absorption is much more rare in cases of fraternal twins. That's based on statistical frequency, not hard fact, but I do believe it. And since idenficals are always the same sex, the answer to your question is yes. I believe the fetus Thad Beaumont once was ate his brother in his mother's womb. "

  "Jesus," Alan said in a low voice. He could not remember hearing anything so horrible--or so alien--in his entire life.

  "You sound revolted," Dr. Pritchard said cheerfully, "but there is really no need to be, once you put the matter in its proper context. We're not talking about Cain rising up and slaying Abel with a rock. This was not an act of murder; it's just that some biological imperative we don't understand went to work here. A bad signal, perhaps, triggered by something in the mother's endocrine system. We aren't even talking about fetuses, if we speak exactly; at the time of absorption, there would have been two conglomerates of tissue in Mrs. Beaumont's womb, probably not even humanoid. Living amphibians, if you will. And one of them--the larger, the stronger--simply swarmed over the weaker, enfolded it . . . and incorporated it. "

  "It sounds fucking insectile," Alan muttered.

  "Does it? I suppose so, a little. At any rate, the absorption was not complete. A little of the other twin retained its integrity. This alien matter--I can think of no other way to put it--wound up entwined in the tissue which became Thaddeus Beaumont's brain. And for some reason, it became active not long after the boy turned eleven. It began to grow. There was no room at the inn. Therefore, it was necessary to excise it like a wart. Which we did, very successfully. "

  "Like a wart," Alan said, sickened, fascinated.

  All sorts of ideas were flying in his mind. They were dark ideas, as dark as bats in a deserted church steeple. Only one was completely coherent: He is two men--he has ALWAYS been two men. That's what any man or woman who makes believe for a living must be. The one who exists in the normal world . . . and the one who creates worlds. They are two. Always at least two.

  "I would remember such an unusual case no matter what," Pritchard was saying, "but something happened just before the boy woke up that was perhaps even more unusual. Something I have always wondered about. "

  "What was it?"

  "The Beaumont boy heard birds before each of his headaches," Pritchard said. "That in itself was not unusual; it's a well-documented occurrence in cases of brain tumor or epilepsy. It is called sensory precursor syndrome. But shortly after the operation, there was an odd incident concerning real birds. Bergenfield County Hospital was, in fact, attacked by sparrows. "

  "What do you mean?"

  "It sounds absurd, doesn't it?" Pritchard seemed quite pleased with himself. "It isn't the kind of thing I'd even talk about, except that it was an extremely well-documented event. There was even a story about it on the front page of the Bergenfield Courier, with a picture. At just past two in the afternoon on October 28th, 1960, an extremely large flock of sparrows flew into the west side of County Hospital. That is the side where the Intensive Care Unit was in those days, and of course that was where the Beaumont boy was taken following his operation.

  "A great many windows were broken, and the maintenance men cleared away better than three hundred dead birds following the incident. An ornithologist was quoted in the Courier's article, as I recall--he pointed out that the west side of the building was almost wholly glass, and theorized that the birds might have been attracted by the bright sunlight reflected on that glass. "

  "That's crazy," Alan said. "Birds only fly into glass when they can't see it. "

  "I believe the reporter conducting the interview mentioned that, and the ornithologist pointed out that flocking birds seem to share a group telepathy which unites their many minds--if birds can be said to have minds--into one. Rather like foraging ants. He said that if one of the flock decided to fly into the glass, the rest probably just followed along. I wasn't at the hospital when it happened--I'd finished with the Beaumont boy, checked to make sure his vites were stable--"

  "Vites?"

  "Vital signs, Sheriff. Then I left to play golf. B
ut I understand that those birds scared the bejabbers out of everyone in the Hirschfield Wing. Two people were cut by flying glass. I could accept the ornithologist's theory, but it still made a ripple in my mind . . . because I knew about young Beaumont's sensory precursor, you see. Not just birds, but specific birds: sparrows. "

  "The sparrows are flying again," Alan muttered in a distracted, horrified voice.

  "I beg your pardon, Sheriff?"

  "Nothing. Go on. "

  "I questioned him about his symptoms a day later. Sometimes there is localized amnesia about sensory precursors following an operation which removes the cause, but not in this case. He remembered perfectly well. He saw the birds as well as heard them. Birds everywhere, he said, all over the houses and lawns and streets of Ridgeway, which was the section of Bergenfield where he lived.

  "I was interested enough to check his charts, and match them with the reports of the incident. The flock of sparrows hit the hospital at about two-oh-five. The boy woke up at two-ten. Maybe even a little earlier." Pritchard paused and then added: "In fact, one of the ICU nurses said she believed it was the sound of the breaking glass that woke him up. "

  "Wow," Alan said softly.

  "Yes," Pritchard said. "Wow is right. I haven't spoken of that business in years, Sheriff Pangborn. Does any of it help?"

  "I don't know," Alan said honestly. "It might. Dr. Pritchard, maybe you didn't get it all--I mean, if you didn't, maybe it's started growing again.

  "You said he'd had tests. Was one of them a CAT-scan?"

  "Yes. "

  "And he was X-rayed, of course. "

  "Uh-huh. "

  "If those tests showed negative, then it's because there's nothing to show. For my part, I believe we did get it all. "

  "Thank you, Dr. Pritchard." He had a little trouble forming the words; his lips felt numb and strange.

  "Will you tell me what has happened in greater detail when this matter has resolved itself, Sheriff? I've been very frank with you, and it seems a small favor to ask in return. I'm very curious. "

  "I will if I can. "

  "That's all I ask. I will let you get back to your job, and I will return to my vacation. "

  "I hope you and your wife are having a good time. "

  Pritchard sighed. "At my age, I have to work harder and harder to have just a mediocre time, Sheriff. We used to love camping, but I think next year we'll stay home. "

  "Well, I sure appreciate you taking the time to return my call. "

  "It was my pleasure. I miss my work, Sheriff Pangborn. Not the mystique of surgery--I never cared much for that--but the mystery. The mystery of the mind. That was very exciting. "

  "I imagine it was," Alan agreed, thinking he would be very happy if there were a little less mental mystery in his life right now. "I'll be in touch if and when things . . . clarify themselves. "

  "Thank you, Sheriff." He paused and then said: "This is a matter of great concern to you, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Yes it is. "

  "The boy I remember was very pleasant. Scared, but pleasant. What sort of man is he?"

  "A good one, I think," Alan said. "A trifle cold, maybe, and a trifle distant, but a good man for all that." And he repeated: "I think. "

  "Thank you. I'll let you get on with your business. Goodbye, Sheriff Pangborn. "

  There was a dick on the line, and Alan replaced the receiver slowly. He leaned back in his chair, folded his limber hands, and made a large black bird flap slowly across the patch of sun on his office wall. A line from The Wizard of Oz occurred to him and went clanging around in his mind: "I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do, I do, I do believe in spooks!" That had been the Cowardly Lion, hadn't it?

  The question was, what did he believe?

  It was easier for him to think of things he didn't believe. He didn't believe Thad Beaumont had murdered anybody. Nor did he believe Thad had written that cryptic sentence on anyone's wall.

  So how had it gotten there?

  Simple. Old Dr. Pritchard just flew east from Fort Laramie, killed Frederick Clawson, wrote THE SPARROWS ARE FLYING AGAIN on his wall, then flew on up to New York from D. C., picked Miriam Cowley's lock with his favorite scalpel, and did the same thing to her. He operated on them because he missed the mystery of surgery.

  No, of course not. But Pritchard wasn't the only one who knew about Thad's--what had he called it?--his sensory precursor. It hadn't been in the People article, true, but--

  You're forgetting the fingerprints and the voice-prints. You're forgetting Thad's and Liz's calm, flat assertion that George Stark is real; that he's willing to commit murder in order to STAY real. And now you're trying like hell not to examine the fact that you are starting to believe it all might be true. You talked to them about how crazy it would be to believe not just in a vengeful ghost, but in the ghost of a man who never was. But writers INVITE ghosts, maybe; along with actors and artists, they are the only totally accepted mediums of our society. They make worlds that never were, populate them with people who never existed, and then invite us to join them in their fantasies. And we do it, don't we? Yes. We PAY to do it.

  Alan knotted his hands tightly, extended his pinkie fingers, and sent a much smaller bird flying across the sunny wall. A sparrow.

  You can't explain the flock of sparrows that hit Bergenfield County Hospital almost thirty years ago any more than you can explain how two men can have the same fingerprints and voice-prints, but now you know that Thad Beaumont shared his mother's womb with someone else. With a stranger.

  Hugh Pritchard had mentioned the early onset of puberty.

  Alan Pangborn suddenly found himself wondering if the growth of that alien tissue coincided with something else.

  He wondered if it had begun to grow at the same time Thad Beaumont began to write.

  2

  The intercom on his desk beeped, startling him. It was Sheila again. "Fuzzy Martin's on line one, Alan. He wants to talk to you. "

  "Fuzzy? What in hell's name does he want?"

  "I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. "

  "Jesus," Alan said. "That's all I need today. "

  Fuzzy had a large chunk of property out on Town Road #2, about four miles from Castle Lake. The Martin place had once been a prosperous dairy farm, but that had been in the days when Fuzzy had been known by his proper Christian name, Albert, and was still holding the whiskey jug instead of the other way around. His kids were grown, his wife had given him up as a bad job ten years ago, and now Fuzzy presided alone over twenty-seven acres of fields which were going slowly but steadily back to the wild. On the west side of his property, where Town Road #2 wound by on its way to the lake, the house and barn stood. The barn, which had once been home to forty cows, was a huge building, its roof now deeply swaybacked, its paint peeling, most of the windows blocked with squares of cardboard. Alan and Trevor Hartland, the Castle Rock Fire Chief, had been waiting for the Martin house, the Martin barn, or the Martin both to burn down for the last four years or so.

  "Do you want me to tell him you're not here?" Sheila asked. "Clut just came in--I could give it to him. "

  Alan actually considered this for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "I'll talk to him, Sheila. Thanks." He picked up the telephone and cocked it between his ear and his shoulder.

  "Chief Pangborn?"

  "This is the Sheriff, yes. "

  "This is Fuzzy Martin, out on Number Two. Might have a problem out here, Chief. "

  "Oh?" Alan drew the second telephone on the desk closer to him. This was a direct line to the other offices in the Municipal Building. The tip of his finger skated around the square keypad with the number 4 stamped on it. All he had to do was pick up the receiver and push the button to get Trevor Hartland. "What kind of problem is that?"

  "Well, Chief, I'll be dipped in shit if I edzackly know. I'd call it Grand Car Thievery, if it was a car I knew. But t'wasn't. Never seen it before in m'life. But it came out of my barn just the same." Fuzz
y spoke with that deep and somehow satiric Maine accent that turned a simple word like barn into something that sounded almost like a bray of laughter: baaa'n.

  Alan pushed the inter-office telephone back to its normal place. God favored fools and drunks--a fact he had learned well in his many years of police work--and it seemed that Fuzzy's house and barn were still standing in spite of his habit of flicking live cigarette butts here, there, and everywhere while he was drunk. Now all I have to do, Alan thought, is sit here until he unravels whatever the problem is. Then I can figure out--or try to--if it's in the real world or only inside whatever is left of Fuzzy's mind.

  He caught his hands flying another sparrow across the wall and made them stop.

  "What car was it that came out of your barn, Albert?" Alan asked patiently. Almost everyone in The Rock (including the man himself) called Albert Fuzzy, and Alan might try it himself after he'd been in town another ten years. Or maybe twenty.

  "Just told you I never seen it before," Fuzzy Martin said in a tone that said oh you damned fool so dearly he might as well have spoken it. "That's why I'm callin you, Chief. Sure wasn't one of mine. "

  A picture at last began to form in Alan's mind. With his cows, his kids, and his wife gone, Fuzzy Martin didn't need a whole lot of hard cash--the land had been his free and dear, except for taxes, when he inherited it from his dad. What money Fuzzy did see came from various odd sources. Alan believed, almost knew, in fact, that a bale or two of marijuana joined the hay in Fuzzy's barn loft every couple of months or so, and that was just one of Fuzzy's little scams. He had thought from time to time that he ought to make a serious effort to bust Fuzzy for possession with intent to sell, but he doubted if Fuzzy even smoked the stuff, let alone had brains enough to sell it. Most likely he just collected a hundred or two hundred dollars every now and again for providing storage space. And even in a little burg like Castle Rock, there were more important things to do than busting drunks for holding weed.

  Another of Fuzzy's storage services--this a legal one, at least--was keeping cars in his barn for summer people. When Alan first came to town, Fuzzy's barn had been a regular parking garage. You could go in there and see as many as fifteen cars--most of them summer cars owned by people who had places on the lake--stored where the cows used to spend their winters. Fuzzy had knocked out the partitions to make one big garage and there the summer cars waited out the long months of fall and winter in the sweet hay-smelling shadows, their bright surfaces dulled by the steady fall of old chaff from the loft, parked bumper to bumper and side to side.