Chapter 19 Chapter Eighteen

one He waited until Liz was in bed before going upstairs to the study, pausing at their bedroom door on the way, and hearing her regular breathing convinced her that she was asleep.Little did he know whether what he was trying would succeed, but if it did, it would be dangerous, extremely dangerous. His study is one large room divided into two: a reading area and a work area.The reading area is lined with books, has a sofa, a chaise longue and a floor lamp.The work area is at the other end, and it's mostly an ugly old-fashioned desk, shabby but functional.Tad had owned the desk when he was twenty-six, and Liz sometimes told people that he didn't want to throw it away because he believed it was his "fountain of vocabulary."They both smiled when she said that, like they really believed it was a joke.

Three glass-covered lamps were dimmed on top of the antique, but when Tad turned on only a few of them as he was doing now, the blinding, overlapping halos of light cast on the cluttered desk looked as if he were about to play billiards.No one knows what rules to follow to play on such a complex table.But on the night after Wendy's incident, onlookers could tell from Ted's tense face that the stakes were high, no matter what the rules were. Ted would agree 100 percent with that guess.After all, it had taken him twenty-four hours to muster up the courage to do so. He looked at the typewriter on the desk, covered with a hood, a stainless steel return lever protruding from the left like a hitchhiker's thumbs up.He was left in front of it, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table uneasily, and then opened the drawer to the left of the typewriter.

The drawer was wide and deep, and he took out his diary from it, then pulled the drawer all the way.The ceramic bottle in which he held his Belore pencils rolled over and the pencil fell out of it.He took it out, put it in its usual place, and put the pencil back together. He closed the drawer and looked at the vase.During his first stupor, he wrote "The Sparrows Fly Again" on the manuscript of "The Golden Dog" with a Belore pencil, and then he threw the bottle into a drawer.He never thought of using it again...but, the other night, he fiddled with the pencil again.Now they were where they had been for a dozen years, when Stark lived with him, in him.Stark was very quiet for a long time, his presence was hardly felt.Then a flash of thought popped out of his head, Sly George, like a runaway toy box that pops open and a man jumps out.I'm here, Ted!Come on, old man!go ahead!

For about three months thereafter, Stark popped out at ten o'clock every day, even on weekends.He'd pop out, grab a Belloire pencil, and start writing the crazy stuff—the stuff that would make money in a way that Ted's own work couldn't.After writing, Stark will disappear again. Tad pulled out a pencil, looked at the tooth marks on the shaft, and threw it back in the bottle with a jingle. "I am the other half of the darkness," he whispered. But is George Stark him?Was he ever him?After writing the word "End" under the last page of his last Stark novel, Sail to Babylon, he never used these pencils, except in a dazed state.

After all, there was no need to use them, they were George Stark's pencils, and Stark was dead...or he assumed he was.He thought he'd throw them away in the end. But now, he seems to need them again. His hand reached for the jar, and then he drew it back, as if withdrawing his hand from a very hot stove. Not yet. He pulled the pen out of his shirt pocket, opened the diary, uncapped the pen, hesitated, and began to write. "If William cries, so does Wendy. But I find that they are more connected than that, and yesterday Wendy fell down the stairs and got bruised - a purple mushroom-shaped bruise. When the twins woke up, Willian has one too. Same position, same shape."

Ted began to ask and answer himself, which is the characteristic of his diary.As he did so, he realized that the habit meant some form of duality... maybe it was just another aspect of his schizophrenia, that was both fundamental and mysterious. Q: If you took the bruises off my kids' legs and put them on top of each other, would they look exactly the same? A: Yes, I think so.Like fingerprints, voice ripples. Tad sat silently for a moment, tapping the tip of his pen in his journal, thinking about this, and then he leaned forward and began to write faster. Q: Did William know he had bruises?

Answer: No.I don't think he knows. Q: Do I know what sparrows are, or what they mean? Answer: I don't know. Q: But I know there are sparrows.That's all I know, right?Believe it or not, Alan Pangble or anyone else, I know there are sparrows, I know they fly again, right? answer. Now the pen was writing quickly on the paper, and he hadn't written so fast for several months. Question: Did Stark know about sparrows? Answer: I don't know.He said he didn't know, and I took his word for it. He paused, then resumed writing. Stark knew there was something.But William should also know there was something - if his leg was bruised, it should hurt.But Wendy had bruised him when he fell, and William only knew he was hurt in one place.

Q: Did Stark know he had an injury?A fragile place? Answer: Yes.I think he knows. Q: Are the flocks mine? Answer: Yes. Q: Does this mean that when he wrote "The Sparrows Fly Again" on Clausen and Miriam's wall, he didn't know what he was doing, and couldn't remember afterwards that he wrote it? Answer: Yes. Q: Who wrote those words?Who wrote it in blood? Answer: Those who know, those who own sparrows. Q: Who is the one who knows?Who owns the sparrow? Answer: I am someone who knows.I am the owner. Q: Am I there?Was I there when he killed them? He paused again.Yes, he wrote, and then again: no.Both are right.I didn't go into a trance when Stark killed Homer Gammazzi or Clausen, at least I don't remember ever being in a trance.I think what I know... what I see... is increasing.

Q: Has he met you? Answer: I don't know.but…… "He should have," Thad whispered. He wrote: "He should have known me, he should have met me.If he did write those novels, he's known me for a long time.His awareness and seeing also increased.All that tracking and recording equipment didn't bother Crafty George, did it?of course not.For crafty George knew they were there.You've spent ten years writing crime fiction, there's no way you don't know that stuff.That's one reason he doesn't care.But another reason is better, isn't it?He knows where and how to find me when he wants to talk to me in private, doesn't he?

right.But when Stark wanted someone to eavesdrop, he called Ted's house, and when he didn't want people to overhear, he called David's store.Why did he want someone to eavesdrop?Because he wants to send a message to the police, that is: he is not George Stark, and he knows he is not... He has stopped killing people, and he will not come after Ted and his family.There was another reason, he wanted Tad to see the voiceprint, he knew the police wouldn't believe their evidence, no matter how irrefutable it seemed...but Ted would. Q: How does he know where I am? Good question, isn't it?It's like asking how two people can have the same fingerprints and voiceprints, and how can two different babies have the same bruises... especially when only one baby bruises her leg.

He knew there were many strange mysteries involving twins.About a year ago, there was an article in a news magazine about this.Since he has twins himself, he read that article carefully. There were two twins far apart, but when one broke his left leg, the other felt a great pain in his left leg, and he had no idea at that time that something had happened to his sibling.There are two twin sisters who have created a unique language of their own that no one in the world understands.Despite their high IQs, the twin girls never learned English.What do they want English for?They have each other... that's all they need.The article also said that there were two twins who were separated at birth. When they reunited as adults, they found that they were married on the same day in the same year, had the same first name as the woman they married, and they looked very similar.What's even more interesting is that both couples named their first son Robert, and both Roberts were born on the same month of the same year. half and half. Cross and cross. Tick ​​and tick. "Ike and Mike, they think exactly the same," Ted whispered.He reached out to circle the last line he wrote: Q: How does he know where I am? Below this he wrote: A: Because the sparrows are flying again, because we are twins. He turned another page in the diary, put the pen aside, his heart was beating violently, his skin was constricted with fear, he stretched out his right hand tremblingly, and pulled out a Belor pencil from the bottle, his As hot as hand fire. It's working time. Ted Beaumont leaned forward, hesitated, and wrote "Sparrows Fly Again" on the top of the white paper. two What on earth was he trying to do with the pencil? But he knows the answer.He wanted to try to answer one last question, which was so obvious he didn't even bother to write it down: Can he consciously induce a trance?Can he make sparrows fly? He had read reports of paranormal contact, but had never seen one, the way it was written automatically.A person attempting to make contact with a dead spirit (or living person) in this way holds a pen or pencil loosely in his hand, holds it up over a blank sheet of paper, and waits for the spirit to push it.Automatic writing is often dismissed as a game, but it is actually dangerous and prone to obsessing over the performer. When Ted read the report, he neither believed it nor disbelieved it, as remote from his life as pagan idolatry or drilling for a headache.Now that he wants to attract sparrows, he has to try this method. He thought of sparrows and tried to conjure up the image of birds, thousands of them standing on the telephone wire behind the roof under the spring sky, waiting for the first telepathic signal to spread their wings. The image emerges...but it's flat and unreal, like a mental picture, lifeless.This was often the case when he began to write—a dull exercise.No, it's worse than that.He always felt disgusted when he first started writing, like kissing a dead body. But he knew that if he kept writing, if he kept pushing words on the page, something wonderful and terrible would emerge.Individual words began to disappear, and inanimate figures began to crawl, as if he had put them in some cupboard at night, and they had to flex their muscles to perform their intricate dances.Changes began to take place in his mind, he could almost feel that the electric waves there had changed, freed from restraint, and turned into unfettered, turbulent electric waves. Now, hunched over his journal, pencil in hand, Ted tries to recreate that state.As time passed and nothing happened, he started to feel more and more stupid. A line from a cartoon entered his brain, and he couldn't get it out: "Hey, Minnie, Cherry, Beanie, the soul is about to speak!" With a pen in his hand and a blank sheet of paper in front of him, how would he answer her?Said he tried to draw bunnies on matchboxes to win a New Haven artist school scholarship?Hell, he didn't even have one of those matchboxes. He was about to put the pencil back when he stopped again.He spun around in his chair to face the window to the left of his desk. There was a bird standing on the windowsill, looking at him with bright black eyes. It is a sparrow. As he watched, another joined in. Here comes another one. "Oh, my God!" he said tremulously.He'd never been so scared in his life... Suddenly, a disembodied feeling filled him, just like when he spoke to Stark, only now stronger, much stronger. Another sparrow fell, and it crowded the other three sparrows. Behind them, he saw a row of birds standing on top of the garage where the weeding equipment and the Ritz were kept, and the old weathervane on the roof of the garage was full of sparrows, crumbling under their weight. "Oh my God," he said again, and he heard his voice from millions of miles away, full of terror and wonder, "oh my God, they're real—the sparrows are real .” He never suspected it in his imagination...but had no time to think about it, no heart to think about it.Suddenly the study was gone, and he saw the Ridgeway section of Burgenfield, where he had grown up.It lay there empty, like the house of his Stark nightmares, and he found himself peering into a dead world. But it wasn't quite dead, for every roof was full of chirping sparrows.Every TV antenna is full of sparrows, every tree is full of sparrows, they line every telephone wire, they stand on top of parked cars, they stand on the big green mailboxes on street corners, On the bike rack in front of the convenience store where he used to buy milk and bread for his mother as a kid. The world is full of sparrows waiting to be commanded to spread their wings. Ted Beaumont leaned back in his chair, a little spittle came from the corner of his mouth, his feet twitched aimlessly, and now all the windows in the study were lined with sparrows, all staring at him.There was a long gargling sound from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes rolled up, revealing the shining whites. The pencil touched the paper and began to write. "little girl" It crossed the top line, moved down two lines, wrote a fig symbol to indicate a new paragraph, and then wrote: "The woman started dodging towards the door, she did so almost before the door swiveled in, but it was too late, and my hand shot through the two-inch gap between the door and the door frame and grabbed her tightly. hand. " The sparrow flies. They flew up at the same time, one from the Burgenfield in his head, one from outside his Ludlow house... the real one.They flew into two skies: the white spring sky of 1960, and the black summer sky of 1988. They flew with a clattering sound of their wings. Tad sat up...but his hand was still fixed on the pencil, being pulled away. The pencil is writing automatically. I did it, he thought drowsily, wiping the spittle from the corners of his mouth and chin with his left hand.I made it...and I hope to go with the flow.what is this? He stared at the words gushing from under his fist, his heart beating violently as if it were going to jump out of his throat.The sentences written on the wire are in his handwriting—but all Stark novels are in his handwriting.The same fingerprints, the same brand of cigarettes, the same signature of the voice, it wouldn't be strange if it was someone else's handwriting, he thought. It was his handwriting, but where did the words come from?Certainly not from his own mind, where there was nothing but fear and confusion.He has no feeling in his hand, the right arm is more than three inches from his own, and he can't even feel the slightest pressure on his fingers, although he sees his thumb and first two fingers tightly grasping the Belor pencil , Fingertips turned white.He seemed to have been injected with an anesthetic. He wrote to the bottom of the first page, turned the paper over with numb hands, smoothed it with numb palms, and began to write again. "Milliam Cowley opened her mouth to shout. I just stood in the door and waited patiently for over four hours, no coffee, no cigarettes, and one as soon as it was over, but here Before, the smell of smoke would have alerted her. I reminded myself to close her eyes after cutting her throat." Ted realizes with horror that he's reading the report on the murder of Miriam Cowley...and this time it's not rambling words, but the smooth, brutal narrative of a man who was a powerful writer — whose appeal has led millions of people to buy his novels. Here comes George Stark non-fiction, he thought with disgust. He'd done what he wanted: to get into Stark's mind by touch, just as Stark got into Tad's mind.But who knows what terrible, unknown forces he will unleash by doing so?Who knows?The sparrow — and the realization that the sparrow is real — is bad, but this is even worse.Does he feel that pencils and notebooks are hot to the touch?No wonder, this man's brain is a fucking stove. Now - my God!look here!Flowing from his fist!God! "You're thinking of hitting me over the head with that thing, aren't you, girl?" I asked her. "I'm telling you, that's not a brilliant idea. You know what happens to people whose brilliant ideas fail?" Tears rolled down her cheeks now. " What's the matter, George?Your brilliant idea failed? Not surprisingly, the ruthless bastard was taken aback when he said that.If that's the case, then Stark said the same thing before killing Miriam. "I got into his murderous brain, that's why I used that phrase in the David shop talk." Here, Stark forces Miriam to call Ted because she's too scared to remember the number, and he dials for her, even though she used to be very familiar with the number.Ted finds her oblivion and Stark's understanding horrifying and believable.Now Stark uses his razor to-- But he didn't want to read that, couldn't read that.He raised his arm, and followed his numb hand like lead.As soon as the pencil left the notebook, it felt like it was back in his hand, the muscles were so stiff, the side of his middle finger was so sore, and there was a red indentation on the pencil shaft. He looked down in horror at the scribbled paper, not wanting to put the pen down again, not wanting another nasty exchange between him and Stark...but he didn't do it just to read Stark's murder novel. Liam Cowley's first-hand account, right? What if the bird came back? But they didn't, the birds had served their purpose.He could still go on, and Thad didn't know how he knew, but he did. "Where are you, George? he thought. How can I feel you? Is it because you don't know me, just like I don't know you? Or is it something else? What the hell are you doing?" where?" He held the thought before his mind and tried to see it clearly.Then he grabbed the pencil again and started reaching for his journal. As soon as the tip of the pencil touched the paper, he raised his hand again, turned to a new page, and smoothed the paper with his palm, just as he had done before.Then the pencil returned to the paper and wrote: "It's all right," Massin told Jack Langley, "it's the same everywhere." He paused. "Except maybe home. I'll know when I get there." All places are the same.He recognized the sentence first, then the entire quotation.It comes from the first chapter of Stark's first novel, "Macin's Way". This time the pencil stops automatically.He held it up and looked down at the writing, which was cold and sharp.Maybe apart from home, I'll know when I get there. In "The Massin Way," home is Fleurbush Street, where Alex Massin grew up playing in the billiard room of his ailing alcoholic father.Where is home in this story? Where is your home?He mused over the pencil, and slowly put it down on the paper. The pencil quickly draws a series of M-shaped lines.It stopped for a moment, then moved again. "Home is where it began." Pencil writes under bird. A pun.Does it make sense?Is he really still in contact with Stark now, or is he fooling himself?The sparrow is true, and what I wrote when I wrote madly for the first time is also true, but the fiery feeling and impulse seem to have subsided.His hand still feels numb, but it has something to do with his grip on the pen too tightly.He once read in the article on automatic writing that the person who writes automatically is actually guided by his own subconscious thoughts and desires. Home is where it started—if that's still Stark's idea, if the pun makes sense, it's here, in this room, isn't it?Because George Stark was born here. Suddenly, part of the damned Popular magazine article floated into his mind. "I rolled a piece of paper into the typewriter...then I unrolled it. I always wrote on a typewriter, but George Stark apparently didn't like typewriters, maybe because there were no typewriters in the place where he was serving his sentence." Smart, very smart, but that's not quite the truth, is it?It wasn't the first time Tad told a story that wasn't quite true, and he thought it wouldn't be the last—assuming, of course, that he survived his current ordeal.It wasn't exactly a lie, strictly speaking, it wasn't even an exaggeration of the truth, it was the unconscious act of making up one's own life, as Ted knew every novelist did.You don't do it to glorify yourself, sometimes you do, but it's easier to tell a story that uglifies yourself.In a movie some journalists say: "When you have a choice between truth and legend, choose legend." It is true of reporting scandals, and it is true of writing novels.A side effect of storytelling is making up your own life, which is almost unavoidable—just like playing guitar leads to calloused fingers, or years of smoking cigarettes lead to coughing. Stark's birth was actually quite different from what "Popular" said. There was no mysterious reason that led him to write Stark novels with a pencil, it was just a ritual.Writers, like athletes, are prone to superstitious rituals.Baseball players will wear the same socks day in and day out or make the cross before walking into the pitcher's box if they play well; successful writers tend to follow the same patterns until they become rituals to avoid failure... called writer's block. In fact, the reason why George Stark wrote with a pencil is simple: Ted forgot to bring the typewriter ribbon to his summer cottage in Castle Rock.He didn't have a typewriter ribbon, but the urge to create was so strong that he rummaged through drawers until he found a notebook and some pencils and— In those days we didn't go to the house by the lake until late in the summer because I had a three-week class—what was that class called?Creative thinking, very stupid class.It was late July of that year, and I remember going upstairs to the study and noticing there weren't any ribbons there.hell!I remember the Liz didn't even have coffee there- "Home is where it begins" When talking to Mike Donaldson of Popular magazine about George Stark's semi-fictional birth story, he changed the location without a second thought to the big house in Ludlow, which was his main home. Writing about locations, it's normal to have scenes here, especially when you're setting them up like a fictional novel.But this is not the birthplace of George Stark, who saw the world for the first time through the eyes of Ted, who wrote most of Stark's novels here and his own, and here they are Live most of the double life. "Home is where it begins" In this case, home should refer to Castle Rock.Castle Rock also happens to be the site of the Hometown Cemetery.Ted believes that it was at Hometown Cemetery that George Stark had first incarnated two weeks earlier. Then another question came naturally, a question so fundamental he heard himself ask aloud, "Why are you writing novels again?" He dropped his hand until the tip of the pen touched the paper.The numbness returned immediately, as if the hand had been soaked in cold, clear water. He raised his hand again and turned to a new page.It fell again, smoothing the paper... but not writing right away this time.Tad thought the contact was over when the pencil moved in his hand as if it were alive... alive but badly wounded, it jerked, drew a line like a comma, jerked again Pull, draw a dash, and write: "George stark george george stark no bird George Stark" right.You can write your name, you can deny the sparrow, fine, but why do you write for whom? Why is it so important?Important enough to kill? "If I don't write I'm going to die." Pencil writes. "What do you mean by that?" Thad asked, but he felt a burning hope explode in his head.Is it that simple?He thinks it's that simple, especially for a writer.Gosh, for real writers, unless they write, they don't exist, or feel like they can't exist... For someone like Hemingway, writing and being are the same thing, aren't they? The pencil trembled, and then drew a long scribbled line under the last message, which looked strangely like a sound ripple diagram. "Come on," Thad whispered, "what the hell do you mean?" "fester" Pencil writes.The words are crooked and crooked.The pencil jerked and dangled in his hand, his fingers white as wax.If I push harder, Tad thought, it'll break. "lose lose the necessary cohesion no bird fuck no bird ah bastard leave my head" Suddenly his arm rose, and at the same time, his numb hand tapped the pencil nimbly, like a magician on a stage performing a card. The pencil was not caught between his fingers, but was held in his hand. In the fist, like a dagger. He plunged down—Stark plunged—and suddenly the pencil sank into the flesh between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, the graphite point almost penetrated the flesh, the pencil snapped, and blood flowed out.Suddenly, the force holding him was gone.His hand was on the table with a pencil stuck in it, and severe pain spread from there. Throwing his head back, Ted clenched his teeth, holding back a cry from the torture. three There was a small bathroom next to the study, and when Ted thought he could walk, he went there to examine the wound on his hand, which was shaking violently under the harsh fluorescent light.The wound looked like a bullet--the round hole was surrounded by a circle of black graphite, which looked like gunpowder.He turned his hand over and saw a pinpoint-sized red spot on the side of the palm, which was the tip of a pen. Almost shot through, he thought. He rinsed the wound with cold water until his hands were numb, then took a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cupboard.Finding that he couldn't hold the bottle with his left hand, he clamped it around his body with his left arm and opened the lid.Then, he poured the disinfectant into the hole in his hand, watched the liquid turn into white foam, and clenched his teeth in pain. He put the disinfectant bottle back in its place, and took out the other medicine bottles one by one, looking at the labels on them.Two years ago, he fell skiing and suffered severe back pain. Dr. Humer prescribed painkillers.He took only a few pills because he found that they disrupted his sleep system and made it difficult for him to write. He finally found the plastic bottle, which was hiding behind a jar of shaving cream that was at least a thousand years old.Ted gritted the cap off the bottle and poured out a pill.He considered whether to add another tablet, and finally decided to forget it. This medicine is very powerful. "Maybe they don't work, maybe you end up with a whole body cramp and have to go to the hospital, and that's the end of this ridiculous night, eh?" But he decided to take a risk.The pain in the hand was indeed very painful, it was almost unbearable.As for the hospital... He looked at the wound on his hand again and thought, maybe I should go and bandage it, but if I did I would be screwed, I've had enough of people looking at me like I'm crazy these days. He poured out four more painkillers, stuffed them into his pants pocket, and put the bottle back on the shelf.He put a Band-Aid over the cut.Look at the circle of plastic, he thought, you have no idea how much this damn place hurts.Stark set a trap for me, a trap in his head, and I fell into it. Is that really the case?Ted didn't know, not quite sure, but he knew one thing too: he didn't want to do it again. Four When Ted finally got himself under control again, he put the diary back in the drawer, turned off the light in the study, and walked to the second floor.He paused in the hallway at the top of the stairs, listening. The twins were quiet, and so was Liz. The painkillers were clearly not working, and the pain in Ted's hand began to ease a little.If he bends his hand carelessly, it will be so painful that he will cry out, but if he pays attention to this, it will not hurt too much. Ah, but it hurts so bad in the mornings, man... how do you explain that to Liz? He didn't know what to say, maybe telling the truth...or parts of it, and she seemed to be able to see through his lies pretty well. The pain was better, but the aftermath of the shock was still there, and he thought it was difficult to sleep, so he went to the first floor and looked out through the thin curtains of the living room, where the state police patrol car was parked in the driveway On it, he could see two cigarette butts flickering inside. They just sat there calmly, he thought, and the birds didn't bother them, so maybe there were no birds at all, except in my head.After all, these guys take money to solve other people's troubles. It's a tempting idea, but the study is on the other side of the house and its windows are invisible from the driveway, nor the garage here, so the police can't see the birds anyway, at least they fall out of sight. But can they see when they fly?Are you going to tell yourself they can't hear the birds?You saw at least a hundred sparrows, Tad—maybe two or three hundred. Ted walked out the door.As soon as he opened the kitchen screen door, two cops stepped out of the car. They were huge, moving like jaguars. "He's on the phone again, Mr. Beaumont?" asked the man from the driver's side, his name was Stevens. "No," said Tad. "I was writing in my study, and I thought it was a little strange to hear a flock of birds flying up. Did you two hear that?" Ted didn't know the name of the policeman who came out of the passenger side. He was young, fair-haired, with a round, innocent face, and looked very kind. "We hear and see them," he said, pointing to the moon in the sky, "and they fly across the moon, a great flock of sparrows, and they seldom fly at night." "Where do you think they came from?" Ted asked. "I'll tell you," said the round-faced cop, "I don't know. I failed my bird-watching class." He smiled, the other cop didn't. "Are you a little restless tonight, Mr. Beaumont?" he asked. Ted just stared at him. "Yes," he said, "I've been feeling restless every night lately." "What can I do for you now, sir?" "No," said Tad, "I don't think so. I'm just curious about what I heard. Good night, gentlemen." "Good night," said the round-faced policeman. Stevens just nodded.His eyes are bright and expressionless. That guy thinks I'm guilty, Tad thought, walking back.What is the crime?He didn't know, and probably didn't care, but his face showed that he believed all men were guilty.Who knows?Maybe he's right. He closed and locked the door, walked back into the living room, and looked out again.The round-faced cop was back in the car, but Stevens was still standing by the driver's door, and for a moment it seemed to Tad that Stevens was looking him in the eye.Of course, this was impossible, and with the curtains drawn, Stevens could only see a vague silhouette...if he could see anything at all. However, that feeling remains in the mind. Tad drew the heavy curtains over the thin curtains, then went to the wine cupboard.He opened the cupboard door, took out a bottle of his favorite spirit, looked at it for a long time, and put it back in its place.He wanted to drink badly, but it would be too inappropriate to start drinking at this time. He went to the kitchen, poured a glass of milk, and was careful not to bend his left hand, the wound was hot. "Stark was dazed at first," he watched as he sipped his milk. "It didn't last long - it was scary how quickly he woke up - but he started off in a daze. I think he fell asleep. He may have been dreaming about Miriam, but I don't think so. What I overheard was too coherent to be a dream, I thought it was a memory, George Stark's subconscious reference room, where everything was written clearly and neatly Put them in their respective places. I suspect if he had eavesdropped on my subconscious — which he might have done for all I know — he would have found the same thing." He sipped his milk and looked at the pantry door. "I wonder if I can eavesdrop on his waking thoughts...his waking thoughts." I think the answer is yes...but he also thinks it will make him hurt again.Next time it might not be a pencil stuck in your hand, next time it might be a paper knife stuck in your neck. "He can't, he needs me. Yes, but he's crazy, and crazy people often don't know what's best for them. " He looked at the pantry door, thinking about how he'd get in...and then out from there, on the other side of the house. "Can I make him do something? Like he makes me do something?" He couldn't answer, at least not right now, a failed experiment would kill him. 泰德喝完牛奶，洗净杯子，把它放回原处。然后他走进食品室。在这里，右边架子上放着罐头食品，左边架子上是纸包装食品，一个上下两扇可分别开关的门通向后院的草坪。他打开锁，推开上下两扇门，看到野餐桌和烧烤架摆在那里，像沉默的哨兵一样。他走到外面的柏油小路，这条小路绕着房子的这一侧，最后和前面的大道相通。 小路在月光下像黑色玻璃一样闪闪发光，他能看到稀稀落落的白色污点在上面。 那肯定是麻雀屎，他想。 泰德沿着小路慢慢走，一直走到他书房窗户的下面。一辆卡车从地平线开上来。急驶下十五号公路，有那么一瞬，车灯照亮了草坪和柏油小路。在这一亮之间，泰德看到两个麻雀的尸体躺在小路上——分成三叉的脚爪从一堆羽毛中伸出来。然后汽车开走了。在月光中，死鸟的尸体又变成了不规则的一片阴影——如此而已。 它们是真的，他又想。麻雀是真的。那种莫明的恐惧又回来了，不知怎么使他觉得很肮脏。他试着握紧拳头，他的左手伤口疼得他差点儿叫起来，止痛片的效力已经过去了。 “它们在这儿，它们是真的，怎么会这样呢？” he does not know. “是我把它们招来的，还是我从空气中创造出来它们的？” he does not know.但他确信一件事：今天晚上来的麻雀，他恍惚状态之前来的麻雀，只是所有可能来的麻雀中的很少一部分，极微小的一部分。 再也别这样了，他想，请再也别这样了。 但他怀疑这与他的愿望无关，这才是真正可怕之处：他引发了他身上惊人的超常能力，但却无法控制它。在这件事上，控制这个念头本身就是一个笑话。 他相信在这事结束之前，它们会回来的。 泰德打了个冷战，像小偷一样溜进自己的食品室，锁上门，然后带着剧痛的手上床。在他上床之前，他又用厨房自来水吞下一片止痛药。 他在丽兹身边躺下时她没有醒来。过了一会儿，他逃入梦乡，断断续续睡了三小时，其间恶梦不断。