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'They don't work！' Tad had screamed in a hopeless； despairing voice that had hollowed out Vic's guts with fear。 'Daddy； the Monster Words don't work！ Oh； Daddy； they don't work； they never worked！ You lied； Daddy！ You lied！'
He ran on； but it was as if he were on a treadmill。 And he had looked at the base of that high gray wall and had seen a heaped drift of old bones and grinning skulls； some of them furred with green moss。
That was when he woke up。
What had the monster been； anyway？
He just couldn't remember。 Already the dream seemed like a scene observed through the wrong end of a telescope。 He dropped the cigarette into the john； flushed it； and ran water into the sink as well to swirl the ashes down the drain。
He urinated； shut off the light； and went back to bed。 As he lay down he glanced at the telephone and felt a sudden irrational urge to call home。 Irrational？ That was putting it mildly。 It was ten minutes of two in the morning。 He would not only wake her up； he would probably scare the living hell out of her in the bargain。 You didn't interpret dreams literally； everyone knew that。 When both your marriage and your business seemed in danger of running off the rails at the same time； it wasn't really surprising that your mind pulled a few unsettling head games； was it？
Still； just to bear her voice and know she's okay
He turned away from the telephone； punched up the pillow； and resolutely shut his eyes。
Call her in the morning； if that'll make you feel better。 Call her right after breakfast。
That eased his mind； and very shortly he drifted off to sleep again。 This time he did not dream … or if he did； these dreams never imprinted themselves on his conscious mind。 And when the wake…up call came on Tuesday； he had forgotten A about the dream of the beast in the clearing。 He had only the vaguest recollection of having gotten up in the night at all。 Vic did not call home that day。
Charity Camber awoke that Tuesday morning on the dot of five and went through her own brief period of disorientation …yellow wallpaper instead of wood walls； colorful green print curtains instead of white chintz； a narrow single bed instead of the double that had begun to sag in the middle。
Then she saw where she was … Stratford； Connecticut … and felt a burst of pleased anticipation。 She would have the whole day to talk to her sister； to hash over old times； to find out what she had been doing the last few years。 And Holly had talked about going into Bridgeport to do some shopping。
She had awakened an hour and a half before her usual time； probably two hours or more before things began to stir in this household。 But a person never slept well in a strange bed until the third night … that had been one of her mother's sayings； and it was a true one。
The silence began to give up its Iittle sounds as she lay awake and listening； looking at the thin five…o'clock light that fell between the half…drawn curtains 。。。 dawn's early fight； always so white and clear and fine。 She heard the creak of a single board。 A bluejay having its morning tantrum。 The day's first muter train； bound for Westport； Greenwich； and New York City。
The board creaked again。
And again。
It wasn't just the house settling。 It was footsteps。
Charity sat up in bed； the blanket and sheet pooling around the waist of her sensible pink nightgown。 Now the steps were going slowly downstairs。 It was a light tread： bare feet or sock feet。 It was Brett。 When you lived with people； you got to know the sound of their walk。 It was one of those mysterious things that just happen over a course of years； like the shape of a leaf sinking into a rock。
She pushed the covers back； got up； and went to the door。 Her room opened on the upstairs hall； and she just saw the top of Brett's head disappearing； his cowlick sticking up for a moment and then gone。
She went after him。
When Charity reached the top of the stairs； Brett was just disappearing down the hallway that ran the width of the house； from the front door to the kitchen。 She opened her mouth to call him 。。。 and then shut it again。 She was intimidated by the sleeping house that wasn't her house。
Something about the way he had been walking。。。 the set of his body 。。。 but it had been years since
She descended the stairs quickly and quietly in her bare feet。 She followed Brett into the kitchen。 He was dressed only in light blue pajama bottoms； their white cotton drawstring hanging down to below the neat fork of his crotch。 Although it was barely midsummer he was already very brown … he was naturally dark； like his father； and tanned easily。
Standing in the doorway she saw him in profile； that same fine； clear morning light pouring over his body as he hunted along the line of cupboards above the stove and the counter and the sink。 Her heart was full of wonder and fear。 He's beautiful； she thought。 Everything that's beautiful； or ever was； in us； is in him。 It was a moment she never forgot … she saw her son dad only in his pajama bottoms and for a moment dimly prehended the mystery of his boyhood； so soon to be left behind。 Her mother's eyes loved the slim curves of his muscles； the line of his buttocks； the clean soles of his feet。 He seemed 。。。 utterly perfect。
She saw it clearly because Brett wasn't awake。 As a child there had been episodes of sleepwalking； about two dozen of them in all； between the ages of four and eight。 She had finally gotten worried enough … scared enough … to consult with Dr。 Gresham （without Joe's knowledge）。 She wasn't afraid that Brett was losing his mind …anyone who was around him could see he was bright and normal … but she was afraid that he might hurt himself while he was in that
strange state。 Dr。 Gresham had told her that was very unlikely； and that most of the funny ideas people had about somnambulism came from cheap； badly researched movies。
'We only know a Iittle about sleepwalking；' he had told her； 'but we do know that it is more mon in children than it is in adults。 There's a constantly growing； constantly maturing interaction between the mind and body； Mrs。 Camber； and a lot of people who have done research in this field believe that sleepwalking may be a sympton of a temporary and not terribly significant imbalance between the two。'
'Like growing pains？' she had asked doubtfully。
'Very much like that；' Gresham had said with a grin。 He drew a bell curve on his office pad； suggesting that Brett's somnambulism would reach a peak； hold for a while； then begin to taper off。 Eventually it would disappear。
She had gone away a little reassured by the doctor's conviction that Brett would not go sleepwalking out a window or down the middle of a highway； but without being much enlightened。 A week later she had brought Brett in。 He had been just a month or two past his sixth birthday then。 Gresham had given him a plete physical and had pronounced him normal in every way。 And indeed； Gresham had appeared to be right。 The last of what Charity thought of as his 'nighwalks' had occurred more than two years ago。
The last； that was； until now。
Brett opened the cupboards one by one； dosing each neatly before going on to the next； disclosing Holly's casserole dishes； the extra elements to her Jenn…Aire range； her dishtowels neatly folded； her coffee…and…tea creamer； her as…yet…inplete set of Depression glassware。 His eyes were wide and blank； and she felt a cool certainty that he was seeing the contents of other cabinets； in another place。
She felt the old； helpless terror that she had almost pletely forgotten as parents do the alarms and the excursions of their children's early years： the teething； the vaccination that brought the frighteningly high fever as a little extra added attraction； the croup； the car infection； the hand or leg that suddenly began to spray。 irrational blood。 What's be thinking？ she wondered。 Where is be？ And why now； after two quiet years？ Was it being in a strange place？ He hadn't seemed duly upset 。。。 at least； not until now。
He opened the last cupboard and took down a pink gravy boat。 He put it on the counter。 He picked up empty air and mimed pouring something into the gravy boat。 Her arms suddenly broke out in gooseflesh as she realized where he was and what this dumbshow was all about。 It was a routine he went through each day at home。 He was feeding Cujo。
She took an involuntary step toward him and then stopped。 She didn't believe those wives' tales about what might happen if you woke a sleepwalker … that the soul would be forever shut out of the body； that madness might result； or sudden death …and she hadn't needed Dr。 Gresham to reassure her on that score。 She had gotten a book on special loan from the Portland City Library 。。。 but she hadn't really needed that； either。 Her own good mon sense told her what happened when you woke up a sleepwalker was that they woke up … no more and no less than just that。 There might be tears； even mild hysteria； but that sort of reaction would be provoked by simple disorientation。
Still； she had never wakened Brett during one of his nightwalks； and she didn't dare to do so now。 Good mon sense was one thing。 Her unreasoning fear was another； and she was suddenly very afraid； and unable to think why。 What could be so dreadful in Brett's acte