Chapter 7 Chapter Three Six Telephones (1985) 5

9 bill dunbon "Go?" Audra repeated again.She was a little puzzled and a little scared.She sat cross-legged, the floor was cold and the room was cold.Spring in southern England has been exceptionally cold and wet this year.Somehow when Bill Dunbon goes out for a walk morning and evening, he always thinks of Maine...   Reminds me vaguely of Derry. Their cottage was supposed to have central heating - so it was advertised.There was a stove in the small, tidy basement, but it sat unused in the old coal shed.He and Audra had discovered early on that the British and American concepts of central heating were quite different.

In the eyes of the British, as long as the toilet bowl is not frozen in the morning, it is considered to have a central heating system.It's a quarter past eight in the morning, and Bill just hung up the phone five minutes ago. "Bill, you can't just walk away." "I have to go." He walked into the small room at the end of the room and poured a glass of wine.The wine was spilled on the table along the side of the glass, and he cursed angrily. "Whose call? What are you afraid of, Bill?" "I'm not afraid." "Really? Then why are your hands shaking? Why did you drink without breakfast?"

He walked back, sat on the chair, smiled reluctantly, but didn't laugh. On TV the BBC TV announcer summed up the morning's slew of bad news.Then the results of last night's football match will be announced. "I've been homesick a lot lately," Bill said, taking a sip of his wine. "Home?" Seeing Audra's confused face, Bill couldn't help laughing. "Poor Audra! You have been married to the man in front of you for 11 years, and you still haven't fully understood him." He smiled again, and drank the rest of the wine in his glass.Audra heard something strange about his laughter, as unusual as seeing him drink early in the morning.That laugh sounded like a howl of pain. "I wonder if other people's husbands or wives know so little about their lovers. I'm sure they do, too."

"Bill, I love you," she said, "and 11 years is enough to prove it." "I understand." He smiled at her—sweet, tired, and terrified. "Bill, tell me what happened?" Her feet were tucked under her pajamas, and she looked at him with beautiful gray eyes.This is the woman he loves deeply and lives with him.He wanted to see her eyes and read her mind.He tries to make it all a story.It's just that the story doesn't sell. This was a poor kid from Maine who went through college on a scholarship.His lifelong wish was to be a writer.But when he started to learn to write, he found himself lost in a strange and weird world.Some want to be Updike, some want to be New England's Faulkner.But he just wanted to describe the miserable life of the poor in plain language.

During this period, Bill Dunbang wrote a mysterious story in a deserted house, 3 science fiction novels, and 7 horror novels.One of the sci-fi stories was awarded excellent.The instructor also wrote this comment on the title page: "This one is much better. The counterattack of foreigners in the article shows the vicious cycle of violence begets violence; I especially appreciate the needle-shaped spaceship that symbolizes the sexual relationship within the social group. Although It’s kind of puzzling to focus on that throughout, but it’s fun.” The best grades of other students that time were passing.

One day, we were discussing a comment by a sallow-faced girl about "a cow inspecting an abandoned engine amidst the ruins."Discussions have been going on for 70 minutes. The girl was smoking one cigarette after another and squeezing the pimples on her temples from time to time.She firmly sees the short review as a sociopolitical commentary, in the style of Orwell's early satires.Everyone agrees with this statement, but the discussion goes on endlessly.Finally, Bill couldn't bear it and stood up.When Bill stood up, all eyes were on him.He was tall and handsome.He spoke slowly and without stammering. "I don't get it at all. I don't understand everything we're talking about. Why does a work have to be about society or something? Politics, culture, history... isn't that a natural part of a work? I mean ..." He looked around, saw pairs of hostile eyes, and realized that those around him took his words as an attack.Those people thought there was a warmonger among them. "I mean, can't we just treat that as a pure story?"

There was no sound in the classroom.The sallow-faced girl puffed out a big puff of smoke and snuffed out the cigarette butt in the ashtray she brought with her.Finally the instructor spoke, very kindly, as if treating a vexatious child. "Do you think Faulkner is just telling stories? Shakespeare is just making money? Bill, tell us, what do you think?" "I think so," Bill said frankly, after a moment of serious thought.He saw the hatred in everyone's eyes. "I suggest," the professor said to him with half-closed eyes, "that you still have to study hard."

There was applause from the back of the classroom. Bill left the classroom.But when the family met again the following Sunday, he still insisted on his views.During this week, he wrote a novel titled "Heidu", which tells the story of a little boy who found a monster in his cellar, he bravely faced the danger, fought the monster, and finally killed the monster.While writing this story, he experienced a kind of extreme joy.I even feel that he is not telling the story at all, but the story flows naturally from the pen.His mind was full of the story—a little bit of horror.The story is exciting enough only if it is horror.He felt that if he didn't write the story with flying brush, the story would burst out of itself and become a real thing. "Write all the fucking stuff out."

Bill yelled into the dark winter night.He smiled—a quivering laugh.After 10 years of hard work, he finally discovered how to write.It was as if he had suddenly found the button to start a huge, battered bulldozer that took up so much space in his brain, and it turned on, and came to life.There is nothing pretty about this big machine.It doesn't take pretty girls to prom, it's not a status symbol.It is a profession.capable of destroying everything.If he's not careful, he can even destroy himself. He finished writing "Darkness" in one go, until 4 o'clock in the morning, and fell asleep on the table.He'd be taken aback if someone said he was actually writing about his brother George.Because he was convinced he hadn't thought of George all these years.

But the instructor gave him a failing grade, and wrote two words on the title page: pulp!Rubbish! Bill was about to burn his 15-page manuscript.But the moment he opened the furnace door, he realized how absurd his behavior was.Sitting on the rocking chair, he looked at the "death warrant" and burst out laughing.pulp?it is good!Just let it be pulp!There are plenty of them in the woods. "Let those trees fall!" Bill yelled.He couldn't stop laughing, tears streaming down his face. He reprinted a title page and sent it to a Nash magazine called The White Tie.However, Bill didn't hold out much hope for this.He has not submitted manuscripts to many magazines and only received rejection notices.But the editor of the fiction section of The White Bow Tie bought the novel and promised to pay for it as soon as it was published.He was overjoyed.The deputy editor of the magazine also wrote a short review, calling his work "the best horror novel since Bradbury's "Jar"." Readers will read this novel."Bill didn't care one bit.Anyway, I can earn 200 yuan!

In his senior year of college, he was desperate to continue writing fiction, because writing would only slightly assuage his fears.He pitched his manuscript to Viking Press, thinking it would be just the first stop on a long voyage for his ghost novel.The publisher bought the book.Bill's mythical story was staged. "Stuttering Bill" is 23 years old and has a successful career. Three years later, he became famous for marrying a movie star five years his senior. The gossip columnists harped on it for seven months.Friends and foes alike are betting they will eventually divorce.Not only the age gap, but also the differences in all aspects are too great. He was tall, bald, and slightly fat.He speaks very slowly in front of people, sometimes even slurred.And Audra has beautiful brown hair, a graceful figure, charming and charming, and looks like a fairy. Bill was hired to adapt his second novel, Black Torrent, into a screenplay.His first draft was very good, so he was invited to Universal Studios to continue to rewrite the script and study matters related to shooting. His agent is a man named Susan.Brownies for short women.She tried to persuade Bill to give up the idea of ​​rewriting the script. "Listen to me, Bill! Take the money and quit. You're young and full of energy. That's what they need you for. When you get there, they'll wear down your ego and make you a straight line." Not only that, but they make you tasteless. You can only write like an adult, but you are still a child." "I've got to go. I've got to get out of New England." Bill dared not go any further, as if it were a spell, but he had to tell her the truth. "I have to get out of Maine." "why?" "Don't know. But I have to." "Tell me are you serious, or joking?" "really." "Then go," her voice was expressionless, and she turned her back to him, "When everything is ready, call me if you still have the strength. If you have any bones left, I will Go collect your body." After "Black Torrent" was made into a movie, the name was changed to "The Devil's Trap", starring Audra.The name of the movie doesn't sound like much, but it's well done.The only thing Bill lost in Hollywood was his heart. "Bill." Audra pulled him back from memory.He saw her turn off the TV.The fog outside the window winds around. "I'll try to explain it to you," Bill said. "You have a right to know. But do two things for me first." "OK." "Make yourself a cup of tea first. Then tell me what you think of me. Or what you think you know." Audra gave him a terrified look, and went to the tall chest of drawers. "I know you're from Maine," she said as she drank her tea.She's not British, but since the filming of "The Penthouse" (for which they lived here specifically), she speaks with a British accent.This was Bill's first screenplay.He was also invited to be a director of photography.Thankfully he declined.Otherwise, if he left, he would mess up everything.He knew that the entire crew would say that Bill Bangbang had revealed his secrets.He's just a boring lunatic writer. God knows.At this moment he really felt that he was insane. "I know you have a younger brother, you love him very much, and he is dead." Audra continued. "I know you grew up in a small town called Derry. You were 14 when you moved to Bangor two years after your brother died. Your father died of lung cancer when you were 17. You Wrote a best-selling book while in college. You got through college on a scholarship and working in a textile factory. Increased income, bright future, these must be foreign to you.” She went back to the room where Bill was.At that moment, Bill realized the gap hidden between them. "I know that a year later, you wrote "Black Torrent" and came to Hollywood. Just a week before the filming started, you met a confused woman named Audra Phillips. She understands your situation , you need to decompress. Because 5 years ago she was Audrey. Philbert, an old-fashioned, ordinary woman. That woman is about to sink." "Audra, don't..." Audra looked intently into his eyes. "Oh, why not? Let's be honest. For two years before I met you, I was taking painkillers. A year later, I started drinking Coke again. So, taking medicine in the morning, drinking Coke at noon, and a glass at night Wine, Valium before bed. These are my vitamins. Too many press conferences, too many good characters. I'm like Jacqueline. Suzanne's self-defeating heroine. Bill, you know me How do you see those days now?" "have no idea." She took a sip of her tea, still looking into his eyes, and smiled. "It's like running down the aisle at LAX. Do you understand?" "do not understand." "It's a conveyor belt, about a mile long." "I know the passage," he said, "but I don't understand you..." "You just stand on it and it will take you all the way to the baggage claim area. But if you want, you don't have to stand there. You can walk on it, or run, like a normal walk, jog, sprint ...because your body forgets what you're doing - going beyond the speed of that rolling channel. So they put up markers at the end of the channel to remind you to 'roll the ramp, slow down'. When I met you, I It's like running off of it just now, with my feet on the solid floor. There I am, so far away from my feet. You can't keep your balance, and sooner or later you'll fall. But I didn't fall because I caught you .” She put down her teacup, lit a cigarette, and never took her eyes off Bill.From the beating flame of the lighter, he knew that her hands were trembling.Audra took a deep breath and exhaled a big mouthful of smoke. "What do I know about you? I know you seem to have it all. I know that. It's like you're never in a rush, like you're in no hurry to get to the next meeting, the next party. You seem so confident There will be... if you want it. You speak slowly. People in Maine talk like that, but it's more of you. You are the first person I ever met who dared to speak slowly. I also Had to slow down to listen. Bill, seeing you sees people who never sprint on a rolling passage. Because you know it's going to get you where you want to go. You seem completely unaffected by the restless, hysterical life around you.You don't rent fancy cars to satisfy your vanity, and you don't know the reporters who make the news for you.You are open and true. " He smiled. "I know you'll be there for me when I need you. You'll take care of me when I'm drunk. I used to be a playboy until I met you, and I found my true self," she said. After taking two puffs of cigarettes, he continued: "I know you have been part of my life since then. We love each other in harmony. I think I can grow old with you and have a brave heart. I know you love beer, Don't like exercising; I know you sometimes have nightmares at night..." Bill was taken aback.Almost scared the soul away. "I never dream." Audra smiled faintly. "When journalists ask you where you get your inspiration for your writing, you tell them that. But that's not true. I don't believe it." "Am I talking in my sleep?" he asked cautiously.He doesn't remember having a dream.Whether it was a good dream or a nightmare, he never dreamed of it. Audra nodded. "Sometimes. But I can't hear what you're saying. Sometimes, you're still crying in your dreams." He looked at her with a blank expression on his face, and felt a bad taste in his mouth, like a melted aspirin tablet. The taste extends from the tip of the tongue to the throat.You know what it's like to be afraid now.he thought to himself.Now you have time to think about the horror you wrote.He figured he'd get used to it, if he lived that long. The tide of memory is surging.It was as if there was a black air sac in the head that was constantly inflating.Some terrifying images gushed out of his subconscious and hit his reason.He'd go crazy if all this came in a rush.So he resisted desperately, blocking those memories back.But suddenly heard a voice - the wailing of a person who was buried alive in the ground.It's Eddie.Cusbrak's voice. "You saved me, Bill. Those big boys were after me like hell. Sometimes I really think they're trying to kill me." "Your arm." Audra interrupted his recollection. Bill looked down to see goosebumps on his arms.Not dots, but bumps the size of bug eggs.They were dumbfounded, as if they were looking at an interesting exhibit in a museum.It took a while for those bumps to slowly disappear. Audra broke the silence. "I also know that someone called from the United States this morning, telling you to leave me." He stood up, glanced at the wine bottle on the table, turned and walked into the kitchen, and poured a glass of orange juice. "You know I have a brother, and he's dead. But you don't know he was murdered." Breathing heavily, Audra pressed, "Murder! Oh, Bill, why didn't you ever..." "Tell you?" Bill laughed strangely, "I don't know." "what's going on?" "We were living in Derry then. There was a flood. But it was almost over. George was bored. I was sick with the flu. He wanted me to build him a boat out of newspapers. Chanmu Street and Jackson Street because the water was deep there. So I made him a paper boat, and he thanked me and went out. That was the last time I saw him alive. If I hadn't A cold, maybe I can save his life." He stopped, and kept rubbing his left cheek with his right hand.A pair of eyes appear unusually large through the lenses.Thoughtful... but didn't look at her. "He died on Wisham Street, not far from the Jackson Street intersection. The killer tore off his left arm like a child snapping a fly's wing. The medical examiner said he died of fright, or Died from blood loss. It doesn't make any difference to me." "My God, Bill!" "I think you're wondering why I haven't told you. In fact, I'm surprised myself. We've been married for 11 years and you don't know anything about George until today. And I know everyone in your family, including you Aunt, aunt, uncle, uncle. I know your grandfather was drunk, wielding a chainsaw, and died in the garage of his home in Iowa. I know so much, because no matter how busy a married person is , it won't be long before you know every bit of each other. If they really get tired of listening, they close their ears. But they will always understand bit by bit. Do you think I'm wrong?" "No," Audra seemed weak, "You are right, Bill." "Okay Audra. You've learned every single thing about me in the past 11 years. Every secret, every thought, every cold, every friend, everyone who's ever bullied me .You know I slept with Susan Brownie. You know sometimes when I get drunk and get weak, I like to play records loud." "Especially with 'The Grateful Dead,'" she said.Bill laughed.This time she laughed too. "Most importantly—you know everything I want you to know." "Yeah, I think so. But this..." She paused, shaking her head, thinking for a moment. "Bill, how much does this call have to do with your brother?" "Let me take my time. Don't rush me through everything or I'll feel constrained. It's very big... very... terribly bizarre... I've got to get my head together. You know, I never thought I just wanted to tell you about George." She frowned and shook her head puzzled. "What I want to say is, Audra, I have never thought of George in more than 20 years." "But you told me you have a younger brother named..." "I'm just saying a fact, that's all. His name is just a word, no trace in my mind." "But I thought he left a shadow in your dream." Audra's voice was unusually calm. "Moaning? Crying?" She nodded. "I think you're right," he admitted. "Actually, you're right. But it doesn't matter if you don't remember your dreams, does it?" "You mean you never thought of him at all?" Audra shook his head, expressing doubt. "Even the horror of his death?" "To this day, Audra." She looked at him and shook her head again. "Before I got married you asked me if I had any brothers or sisters, and I said there was a younger brother, who died young. You know my parents are both dead, and you have so many relatives. They take all your attention. But that's not all. " "what do you mean?" "Not just George in the black hole. I never thought of Derry in 20 years, those close friends - Eddie Cusbrak, Richie Dorje, Stanley Ulis, Beverly. Marsh..." He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed, his voice trembling. "It was like having amnesia. So forgetful that I didn't realize it. Until Mike Hanlon called..." "Who is Mike Hanlon?" "Best friend as a kid - we've been best friends since George died. Of course he's not a kid anymore. We're not kids anymore. Mike called from across the ocean. He said, 'Hello, Is it the Dunbang family? 'I said yes.He said again, "Bill? Is that you?" I said yes. He said again, "I'm Mike Hanlon. 'The name doesn't mean anything to me.He might be selling encyclopedias or records.Until he said, 'I'm in Derry.' When he mentioned Derry, it was like a door opened inside me and a terrible light came out. I remembered who he was, and George, and everybody else , everything that happened—” Bill snapped his fingers. "That's it. I know he's going to tell me to go back." "Back to Derry." "Yes." He took off his eyes, rubbed them vigorously, and looked at her.Never in her life had she seen a man so afraid. "Back to Derry. Because we swore. We all swore. We stood by the creek, hand in hand, in a circle, and cut our palms with glass, like a bunch of kids playing sworn children. Only We are real." He held out his palm to show her.I saw a deeply embedded white line on the palms of both hands, which was clearly the trace of a wound.She has held these hands countless times, but never noticed the faint scar on his palm.She remembered very well that Bill had no scars on his palms. Bill nodded. "That's right. There's no scar. I can't be absolutely sure, but I don't think it was there last night. Ralph wrestled with me for a beer. I think I must have noticed." He grinned at her dry, heavy and panicked. "I think they came back as soon as Mike called. I think so." "That's impossible, Bill," she said, reaching for a cigarette. Bill played with her hands. "It was drawn by Stanley, with a piece of Coke bottle, I remember it very clearly." He looked up at Audra, the eyes behind the lens were full of pain and confusion. "I remember that glass glistening in the sun. It was a new, clean piece of glass. Remember? The Coke bottle was green back then." She shook her head, but Bill didn't see it.He was still thinking about his palm. "I remember Stanley slapping his hand at the end and pretending to cut off his wrist.I think he's a fool.I almost stood up and stopped him, though, because he seemed serious at the time. " "Bill, stop talking." Audra begged him in a low voice.This time she had to hold the wrist of her left hand with her right hand to keep her hand from shaking, like a policeman with a gun. "Scars don't come back. If you have it, you have it, if you don't, you don't." "And you mean you've seen the scar before?" "Very shallow." Audra's voice became sharp. "We're all bleeding," he went on, "and we're standing in the water, not far from the dam that Eddie Cusbrak and Ben Hansko and I built." "You're not talking about the architect?" "Is there an architect with that name?" "God! Bill, he designed the BBC Broadcasting Centre. People are still debating whether that design was a brilliant dream or a failure!" "Oh, don't know if it's the same guy. Not likely. But maybe. That Ben I know is a real builder. We're all standing there. My right hand holds Beverly. Marsh's left, left hand Holding Rich Dorje's right hand. We stood there with our heads held high, as if we had just been baptized. I remember seeing the Derry Water Tower at the end of the horizon, white as an angel's dress. We swear we blew Oath: If the nightmare is not over, if the demon appears again, we will go back and work together to stop new disasters. Forever." "Stop what?" she yelled at him angrily. "Stop what? What are you talking about?" "I hope you don't ask, ask..." Bill hesitated.Audra felt a tinge of dull fear crept into his face. "Give me a cigarette." She handed him the cigarette case.He lights one.Audra had never seen him smoke. "I used to stutter." "You stutter?" "Yes, back then. You said I was the only person in Los Angeles who dared to speak slowly. The truth is I dared not speak fast. That wasn't deliberation, it wasn't calm, it wasn't intelligence. All people who have corrected stuttering talk Slow. It's just a trick." "Stuttering." There was an awkward smile on her face, as if he had told a joke, but she didn't know what was funny. "I stuttered a bit until George died." Bill had heard every sound repeating in his head, as if separated infinitely on the coordinates of time.He uttered each word with his usual deliberate rhythm, but in his head he heard words like "George" and "a little" overlapping and becoming "Jo, Joe." , George, one, one, a little."After George died, I stuttered even more.It didn't get better until I was fourteen or fifteen years old.I went to Portland to see a speech specialist, Mrs. Thomas.She is just amazing.She taught me some very useful techniques.Most importantly there I forgot everything about Delhi.I did not forget the past all at once, but in a relatively short period of time.Maybe no more than 4 months.My stuttering, all memory is gone.It's like someone wiped the blackboard and all the old formulas are gone. He drank the juice in his glass. "I stuttered a bit when I said 'ask'. This is the first time in 21 years." He looks at her. "Scars, stutters, stutters. Do you hear, do you understand?" "You said that on purpose!" She was terrified. "No. I don't think there's any way to make people believe it, but it's true. Stuttering is ridiculous and creepy. Frankly, you don't even realize it when you stutter. But your conscious mind can hear it. It's like some part of your brain One part runs faster than the other. Like the reverb setup in old cars that kids used to play with, the sound coming out of the rear speakers is always slower than the sound coming out of the front speakers." He got up and paced the room looking restless and tired.He has worked so hard for the past 13 years.It seems that his mediocre talent can only be proved by working desperately and non-stop.Thinking of this, Audra felt very uneasy.She tried to push the unpleasant thought back, but couldn't.If Bill gets a call from Ralph, invite him to a bar for an arm wrestle.A game of chess; or Freddie, the director of The Penthouse, with a few questions, maybe even a wrong call?What is the result of thinking like this? Well, Derrytown and Mike are nothing but hallucinations, hallucinations due to incipient insanity but that scar, Audra, how do you explain that scar?Bill is right.It wasn't there...and now it is.This is a fact. "What else?" Audra asked. "Who killed George? What did you do with those children? What vows did you take?" He walked up to her, knelt down, and shook her hand, like a gentleman proposing marriage in olden days. "I thought I'd tell you," he said tenderly. "If I really wanted to, I would. There are many things I don't remember, but when I do, they all come back. I It feels like those memories are about to explode, like a dark cloud with wind and rain. It's just that the rain is dirty. The trees that grow after the rain are monsters. Maybe with them I can face it." "Do they know?" "Mike said he called them all. He thought everyone was going except Stanley. He said Stanley sounded weird." "It all sounds weird to me. You freak me out, Bill." "I'm sorry." He said and kissed her like a stranger's kiss.She hated that guy named Mike. "I should try to explain it to you. I think that's better than sneaking away in the middle of the night. I must go. I think Stanley will go too, no matter how queer his voice sounds. I can't imagine not being there. " "For your brother?" Bill shook his head slightly. "I could say that, but that's a lie. I love him. You must be surprised to tell you that I haven't thought about him in over 20 years. But I do love him." He smiled slightly. "He's crazy, but I love him. Do you understand?" Audra also has a younger sister.She nodded: "I understand." "But not because of George. I can't tell. I..." He stared at the dawn mist outside the window. "It's like a bird. When autumn comes, the bird knows it's time to fly home. Intuition. I believe intuition dictates our thoughts and you can't say no. You can't say no to your choice because you have no other choice. Same You can't stop it from happening. I have to go. That oath is firmly tied to my heart." She stood up and walked cautiously to his side.Feeling weak and about to collapse. "Then take me with you." The look of fear—worried for her—was plainly on his face.She couldn't help taking a step back, feeling a pang of fear that penetrated her bones. "No," Bill said, "Audra, don't think so. Derry is going to be hell on earth for the next few weeks. You stay here and do it for me. Promise me." "Do I have to swear too?" She looked at him intently. "Isn't it, Bill?" "Audra—" "Didn't you? You made a promise, and see what happens to you now. And I must swear, because I'm your wife, and because I love you." His big hands gripped her shoulders tightly. "Promise me! Promise me! A, A, A, A—" She couldn't stand it any longer.Bill stuttered like a harpooned fish stuck in its mouth, struggling desperately. "I promise, okay? I promise!" She couldn't bear it anymore and burst into tears. "Are you happy now? My God! You're crazy. The whole world is crazy. But I promise you." He put an arm around her shoulders, settled her down on the sofa, and brought her another glass of brandy.She took a sip and slowly calmed down. "When are we leaving?" "Today," he replied, "fly. Instead of taking the train, I'll drive to Heathrow, and I can afford it. Don't tell anyone, and pretend you don't know anything." She nodded reluctantly. "By the time everyone notices, I'll be in New York. If the connection goes well, I'll be in Derry in the evening." "When will I see you again?" she asked softly. He held her tightly in his arms, but did not answer her question. 10 January 2, 1985 Can a city be haunted? Like the legendary old house? Not simply a building somewhere in the city, or a street corner, or somewhere in a park—it's everywhere.the whole city. Is that possible? Derry is haunted by monsters!It turned out to be a predation ground for monsters! What the heck is shocking in Delhi?What is their food? I don't know if anyone has ever been as frightened as I am since what happened to Andrand Manlon.I felt like I had fallen into a story of extreme horror.You won't feel so scared until the end of the story.In the dark, the monster finally came out of the house and started hunting for food - of course, that food is you. It's you. If it's a horror story, it's better than Bradbury or Ellen.Suspense-ridden horror classics like Poe's are as good as it gets.One day in September last year, I read the report of the Erwin Court of Inquiry reproduced in the Derry News, and I realized that it was the man who killed George.Dunbang's Joker is back.I actually started around 1980 - I think some part of me has been awakened... I think it's all started again. So what role?I think it's Watchmen. Or maybe it's the turtle's megaphone.Yes... I think so.I know Bill Dunbon would believe it too.我不断地在那些旧书中发现过去的恐怖新闻；不断地从旧期刊中找出过去的屠杀事件。在我思想的后面，我听到不断增长、不断联合的某种力量发出的“嗡嗡”的声音，而且越来越响；我似乎嗅到一种闪电霹雳即将来临时苦涩的气息。我开始为我在世时几乎肯定无法完成的一本书作笔记。在我思想的一个侧面，我一直被那些最古怪的恐怖所煎熬；而在另一个侧面，我作为一个小镇的图书管理员继续忍受着世俗的生活。每个白天我整理图书，发放图书证…… 我知道我会待在这个小镇里直到老死……在每个夜晚我会从睡梦中突然惊醒，用拳头堵住嘴不让自己尖叫。 那些恐怖故事中常见的场面都错了。我的头发并没有变白。我并没有夜游。我并没有说一些含义隐晦的话。我也并没有随身携带占卜板。我想我笑得更多了，就这么样。尽管有时我的笑声有些凄厉可怕。 我担任的一个角色——～个比尔所说的“海龟传声筒”的角色——告诉我，今晚应该给他们所的人打电话了。但是我，甚至现在，对这一切完全确定吗？我想要完全确定吗？不——当然不想。但是上帝，发生在安德兰·曼伦身上的惨案和1957年发生在结巴比尔弟弟乔治的事情像极了！ 如果它又开始，我会给他们打电话的。我不得不那么做。但是现在为时尚早。上一次发生得比较慢，直到1958年的夏天才真正开始。 所以……我要等待。我不停地记着笔记，我不停地看着镜子里自己的脸从一个孩子变成了一个成年男子。那个孩子的脸很胆怯，满是书呆子气；而那个男人的脸很憔悴，正在挣扎着木使他的思想到处游离如果我不得不打电话的话，会杀死他们中的某些人。 那是漫漫长夜里失眠中的我不得不面对的事情之一。我不知道他们对过去还有多少记忆。有时我想他们一点都记不起来了，因为他们根本没有必要记住。我是谁一听过海龟声音的人，惟一能记住过去的人，因为只有我一个人留在德里镇。他们都四分五裂——他们不知道彼此竞过着相同的生活。叫他们回来，告诉他们……是的，也许这样会杀死某些人。也许会杀死所有的人。 所以我一遍又一遍地在脑子里想着，回想他们过去的模样，想象他们现在的样子。我想知道他们当中哪一个最脆弱。 有时我想大概是“脏嘴”理奇珍杰——尽管班恩要比他胖得多，但他是被克里斯、哈金斯还有鲍尔斯他们最经常抓到的人。鲍尔斯是理奇最害怕的人——当然也是我们当时最害怕的人。如果我给他打电话，理奇会不会看见那可怕的三个人又回来呢？当然其中的两个是从坟墓中，而鲍尔斯是从监狱回来。有时我想艾迪是最软弱——他不仅有一个掌管一切的大胖子母亲，而且还有那可怕的哮喘病。那么贝弗莉呢？她总是装出一副勇敢的样子，但其实她也和其他的人一样害怕。是不是结巴比尔？他每次写作完毕还得面对那不可抗拒的恐惧。 那么是不是斯坦利呢利斯？ 在他们每个人的头上都高悬着无比锋利的断头台的铡刀。我想他们根本不知道那铡刀在那里。我是谁一控制开关的人。只需打开电话簿给他们一个接一个地打电话，那铡刀就开启了。 也许我不必那么做。我仍然抱有一线希望，希望是我自己太胆小而误会了那越来越真切的海龟的声音。但是这种希望越来越渺茫。惨案不断发生。曼伦在7月遇害。去年10月一个孩子惨死在内伯特大街街头。在12月又有一个人在纪念公园遇难，报纸上说他可能是个流浪汉，或者是个疯子因为悔浪而自杀。 Maybe. 但是艾尔布里奇家的闺女恰好也在距离那幢邪恶古屋不远的内伯特大街遇害……而且和27年前乔治邻邦被杀是在同一天。然后又是约翰逊家的儿子，惨死在纪念公园，他的一条腿自膝盖以下全没了。 纪念公园当然是德里水塔的所在地，而那个孩子也正是倒在水塔脚下。水塔也是斯坦利。尤利斯见到那些男孩的地方。 那些死去的男孩子。 但是这仍然可能是幻觉。或者是巧合。或者二者之间有什么联系——一种邪恶的重复。is it possible?我觉得可能。这里是德里镇，任何事情都是可能的。 我想起了从前发生过的事件——先是1957年和1958年这里的血案；然后是1929年和1930年“黑点”酒吧被缅因州白人荣耀军团烧毁；1904年和1905年以及1906年初凯辰特钢铁制品厂爆炸事件；直到1876年和1877年的惨案，此类事情几乎每隔27年左右就会发生。有时早一些，有时晚一些……但迟早都会发生。尽管查阅历史记载越来越难，但是我知道，它总是会来的。 所以——我想我必须得打电话。我想这是我们的事。出于某种原因，我们被挑选出来去阻止这一切，使其不再发生。是命运的安排，还是又是那该死的海龟？它到底是在说话还是在命令？我不知道，我怀疑它到底和我们有没有关系。许多年前比尔就说过“海龟不会帮助我们的”。如果那句话是真的，那么现在也是真的。 我想起我们都手拉着手站在水中，发誓说如果这一切再次开始我们一定回来——我们站在那里，围成一圈，紧握的手上流淌着我们的誓言。那个仪式可能有人类的历史那么久远，所有的力量——我们所知的土地上以及未知的土地上的所有力量都江进了里面。 因为那些可怕的相似之处——但是现在我就像是比尔·邓邦，结巴得厉害，只是不停地重复着一些事实以及许多让人不快的（而且子虚乌有）设想。this is not good.也没有用。甚至很危险。 这个笔记本，我想，能够一定程度上让我摆脱那些束缚，扩大我的注意力——毕竟这个故事不只是关系到6个男孩和一个女孩。他们当中没有一个人是高兴的，没有一个人被他的同辈所接受。就在艾森豪威尔仍然当总统的时候，在那个炎热的夏季里，他们陷入了噩梦之中。如果把我们的照相机镜头稍稍向后拉一些，你就会看见——在这个小城，一个有3.5万居民的小城，人们工作吃饭睡觉买东西驾车旅行散步上学入狱，有时消失在黑暗中。 要知道一个地方现在的状况，我相信必须了解它过去的样子。如果我不得不说出对我来说一切又真正开始的日子，那就是1985年初春我去看文伯特。卡森的那一天。艾伯特。卡森从1914年到1960年是图书馆的首席管理员，他在去年夏天去世了，享年91岁。我感到他是我了解德里历史的最佳人选。我们就坐在他家的走廊里谈话。我问他问题，他嘶哑着嗓子回答。当时他正和喉癌作斗争，而最终就是那癌症杀死了他。 “那么我应该从哪里开始呢？” "Start what?" “研究这个地区的历史。德里镇的历史。” “哦，好吧。先从弗里克和米裘德开始。一般认为他们都是最好的。” “我读过之后——” “读过他们的书？上帝，不要！把它们扔到垃圾筒里！那是你的第一步。然后读一读布丁格尔·布兰森。布丁格尔是一个相当草率的研究者，经常犯些错误，但是他那对德里镇的研究很严谨。尽管他得到的大多数事实是错误的，但是他是故意搞错的，汉伦。” 我笑了一下，卡森的嘴唇上也咧出一丝笑容——那种幽默的表情真的有些怕人。当时他就像是一头快乐的秃骛守望着一只刚刚被杀的野兽，在进餐之前等待着尸体腐烂。 “读完布丁格尔，再读伊维斯。把他谈过话的所有人都做上记录。桑迪·伊维斯仍然在缅因大学。他是个民俗学家。读完他的书再去看他。请他吃上一顿，然后再好好聊聊。把他所讲的人物、地址都记下来。到那时，如果你有我所想的一半聪明的话，你就找到了很棒的起点。然后顺藤摸瓜，你会发现许多历史记载上没有的东西。那些东西可能会让你晚上失眠的。” “德里……” “它怎么样？” “德里有点不好，是不是？” “好？”他嘶哑着嗓子低声问道。“什么是好？那个词是什么意思？如果说的是肯塔斯基河的落日风景，那么德里很好，因为它的风景很美。如果好是指那个老处女委员会挽救那幢镇长官邪，或者指在水塔前面挂一块纪念匾，那么德里非常好，因为在这里每个人的事我们都可以管。那么在镇中心的那个丑陋的保罗。班扬的塑料雕像好不好？如果我有一卡车凝固汽车弹，再拿上我的打火机，我他妈的会好好地照顾一下那个东西。我向你保证……但是如果一个人美的观念可以把那个雕像都包容的话，那么德里还是挺好。问题是，好对你来说到底是什么意思，汉伦？嗯？再往深说一点，好又意味着什么呢？” 我只能摇摇头。他或者知道或者不知道。他或者想说或者不想说。 “你的意思是说那些让人不快的故事吗？那些故事总是有的。一个城镇的历史就像是一栋绵延的老屋，充满了各式的房间，还有各种隐秘的地方……当然不用说不时出现的神秘的通道了。如果你探寻德里这栋老屋，你就会发现各种各样的东西。是的。可能你以后会后悔，但是你会找到它们。一些房间是锁着的，但是会有钥匙……有钥匙。” 他的眼睛流露出一个老人的睿智。 “你也许会想你碰上了德里镇最可怕的秘密之—……但是总会有更多的秘密出现。更多的秘密。” “你是不是——” “我不得不请你原谅我。今天我的喉咙痛得厉害。我得吃药、休息了。” 换句话说，给你刀子和叉子，朋友；看看你能用它们砍点什么。 我接受了卡森的意见——把弗里克和米裘德的历史书扔进了垃圾筒。我开始读布丁格尔的《老德里的历史》，查阅书里的脚注。那本书跨越的历史有一百年，根据许多专门研究论文和成百上千让人头疼的小镇报告和账簿写成的。 和桑迪·伊维斯和谈话更有趣一些。他的历史和布丁格尔的历史相互交叉。从1963年到1966年他曾写过一系列关于德里的文章，他的研究主要是口头历史。我从他那里得到了线索，然后开始大量的采访记录工作。 但是布丁格尔和伊维斯在某一点上取得了完全一致的共识：首批到达德里地区的白人定居者大概有300人。他们都是英国人。他们得到了特许权，成立了德里公司。但是就在1741年，德里镇上的每个人都失踪了。就从那一年的6月到10月，所有的人——确切地讲是340口人，全部失踪了。只有那些木房子仍然孤零零地站立在那里。 其中的一间，就在现在威产姆大街和杰克逊大街的交叉处，被烧成了灰烬。米裘德在他的历史书里坚持说所有的人都被印第安人屠杀了，但是却没有证据——除了那间被烧的小木屋还有可能之外。更可能的是，谁家的炉子突然走火点着了房子。 是印第安人的屠杀？让人怀疑。即没有骨头，也没有尸体。是洪水？那一年根本没发生过。是疾病？周围的城镇里根本没有提到过。 他们只是消失了。everyone.所有340口人。没有一点线索。 就我所知，在美国历史上和那次事件惟一有点类似的就是弗吉尼亚州的罗诺克殖民者失踪案。那次事件几乎每个小学生都知道，但是又有多少人知道德里失踪案呢？很显然，甚至连生活在德里镇的居民都不知道。即使学校的本地历史课本对此事件也只字未提。只有奇怪的静默。 有一种静默的帘子掩盖着在德里发生的事情……但是还是有人讲话了。我想没有什么东西能阻止人们讲话。但是你必须用心听着——那是一种难得的技能。我敢说在过去4年中。我已经提高了那种技能。一位老人曾经告诉我，他的妻子曾经在他们的女儿临死的3周前听到厨房水槽的下水道有人说话——那是1957年到1958年的初冬时节。他们的女儿是德里镇一系列谋杀案的牺牲者之一。 “那是些旋转着的声音，含糊不清地搅和在一起，”他告诉我，“她说她马上就回应了。她趴在水槽上面开始打招呼。'你究竟是谁？'她问道。'你叫什么名字？'然后所有的声音都开始回答——嘟味着、嚎叫着、尖叫着，中间一直夹杂着笑声。她说他们所说的就是那个疯子和耶稣讲过的话：“我们的名字是军团。 '两年多的时间她都不愿靠近那个水槽。我天天累得半死还不得不回家洗那些该死的盘子。 " 那位老人拿了一罐百事可乐喝了起来，从嘴角流下来的汽水和眼角流出的泪水在他的脸上汇成一条条小溪。可怜的老人，70多岁还得忍受工作的折磨。 “可能你会想我已经发疯了，”他说道，“但是如果你把那个玩艺儿关掉的话，我还会告诉你一些其他的事。” 我关掉了我的录音机，朝他微笑着说：“我考虑到过去几年中我所听过的某些东西，你得花大力气来证明你的确是个疯子。” 他也笑了，但是那笑容当中没有任何幽默。“一天晚上当我像平时一样洗盘子的时候——那是在1958年的秋天，事情已经发生之后。 我的妻子在楼上睡着了。贝蒂是上帝赐给我们的惟一的孩子，自从她遇害之后，我的妻子花很多时间睡觉。当时我拔出了皮塞子，水槽里的水一下涌了下去。你听过真正的肥皂水流入下水道中发出的声音吗？就像某种吸水的声音。它发出的声音很响，但是我没有注意；只是当那个声音开始消失的时候，我听到我女儿在下面。我听到我的女儿贝蒂在下水道的某个地方。她正在笑。就在黑暗中的某个地方，笑。如果再仔细听，好像她还在尖叫。或者二者都有。就在下水道的管子里面尖叫、大笑。那是我第一次听过那样的东西。也许我只是想象。但是……我认为不是那样。 " 他看着我，我也看着他。从肮脏的玻璃窗射进来的光线落在他的脸上，使他看起来就像是《圣经》中的长寿者玛士撒拉。我记得那一刻我感觉有多么冷。冷极了。 “你想我是在骗你吗？”老人问我。1957年的时候，他只有45岁。就在那年的圣诞节后，他的女儿贝蒂。理普瑟僵死在杰克逊大街上，全身都被撒裂了。 “不，”我回答说，“我不认为你在骗我，理普瑟先生。” “你说的是真话，”他有一点惊讶，“我能从你的脸上看出来。” 就当他想再说点什么的时候，有一辆车开过来加油。He went out. 但是等他回来的时候，他冷漠地看着我，就像是看着街头的一个陌生人。我说了声再见，起身离开了。 历史学家布丁格尔和伊维斯在其他方面也有共同的观点：德里镇发生的事件真的不正常；德里的事情从来就没有正常过。 我最后一次看见文伯特。卡森是在他临死前的一个月。他的喉癌更严重了。他只能尽力嘶哑着低声说几句。“还想写德里历史吗，汉伦？” “还有那个想法。”我说，但是当然我从本计划去写这个小镇的历史，我想他也知道。 “你得花20年，”他的声音很低，“没有人会读。没有人想读。算了吧，汉伦。” 他停了停，又加了一句：“布丁格尔自杀了，这你知道。” 我当然知道——但是《德里新闻》说那只是一次意外跌落事故，而根本没提到他在自家厕所里的凳子上跌落的，脖子上还挂了根绳子。 “我知道那个'周期'吗？” 我看着他，惊呆了。 “哦，是的，”卡森小声说道，“我知道。每隔26年或者27年。 布丁格尔也知道。许多老年人都知道，即使给他们喝酒他们也不愿意说。forget it.Hanlon. " 他伸出一只手来——瘦得像鸡爪子一样。他抓住我的手腕，我能感觉到癌症正在吞噬他的躯体——时间已经所剩无几。 “麦克，陷进去没意义。德里的事情会伤人的。算了吧。算了吧。” "I can not." “那么小心。”他说。突然间，那位垂死老人的眼睛瞪大了——就像一个恐惧异常的孩子。 "Be careful!" 德里。 我的家乡。根据爱尔兰的一个同名村庄而命名。 德里镇。 我出生在这里；从小学到中学也都在这里；虽然上大学离开一段时间，但是毕业后我仍然回到这里，在图书馆当管理员。我是一个小镇的人，像千千万万个人一样，过着小镇的生活。 但是——但是：1879年一群伐木工人惨死在肯塔斯基河上游——也就是现在孩子们所说的班伦地区。他们总共9个人，就在他们的冬季宿营地惨遭杀害，尸体被四分五裂。 但是：1851年约翰。马克逊用毒药毒死了他的全家。坐在用亲人尸体围成的圆圈里，马克逊吞噬了一个白色的蘑菇。 小镇警官在他的报告中写到，一开始他以为马克逊的尸体在朝他咧着嘴笑，后来他才发现那笑原来是满满一嘴的白色毒蘑菇。马克逊在临死前还忍受着剧痛和痉挛吞咽那可怕的蘑菇。 但是：1906年复活节，凯辰特纳铁制品厂的老板决定为“德里所有的好儿童”举行“寻找复活节彩蛋”活动。活动地点就在铁制品厂内，也就是现在的德里商业街的位置。 孩子们兴奋地笑着、叫嚷着，寻找着500只巧克力复活节彩蛋。 大人们也来观看这场盛会，准备在4点钟给他们发奖。 但是就在3点过一刻的时候，铁制品厂突然爆炸了。最后的死亡人数是102人，其中88个是孩子。此后就在星期三，正当全镇的居民还沉浸在哀伤之中的时候，一位妇女在她家后院的苹果树下发现了她儿子的头。他的头发上全是血，嘴里还咬着一块巧克力。那是最后的一位知名的死者。还有8个孩子和一个大人不知去向。那是德里历史上最惨痛的悲剧，甚至比1930年发生的“黑点”酒吧的大火还要惨重。 事故原因一直未能查明。铁制品厂最后被完全关闭了。 但是：德里发生凶杀案的发案率是新英格兰地区其他同等规模小镇的6倍。我曾经把这个数字给一个电脑黑客看过，他用电脑画了一张图表，上面是德里和其他6个同等规模小镇的比较。在那个柱状图上，德里显得异常突出。看完那张图，他的惟一评论是：“这里的人们都很暴躁，都很邪恶。”我没有回答。 如果我回答的话，我一定会告诉他，在德里镇只是某个东西既邪恶又暴躁。 在德里镇，儿童的莫名失踪案每年有40到60起，大多数都是十来岁的孩子。他们都被认为是离家出走。我想其中一些甚至极有可能。 就在那段卡森所讲的“周期”之内，失踪率陡然上升。例如在1930年——“黑点”酒吧发生大火的那年——有多达170个孩子失踪——那只是向警方报告记录在案的数字。“没什么惊讶的，”现任警长里德马赫告诉我，“那是大萧条时期。可能他们中的大多数都厌倦了喝土豆汤或者在家挨饿，于是骑上小木棍出去寻找好地方了。” 1958年在德里又有127个孩子失踪，年龄从3岁一直到19岁。 “1958年又是大萧条吗？”我又问警长。“不是。”他说，“但是人们总是要到处走动的，汉伦。小孩子走路多了脚上就容易起泡，起了泡就不能按时回家，不能按时回家就得挨打，怕挨打他们就逃走了。” 我给他看了一张登载在1958年4月《德里新闻》上查德。洛威的照片。“你认为这个孩子也是怕挨打而逃走的吗？里德马赫警长？他失踪的时候只有3岁半。” 里德马赫瞪了我一眼，然后说和我谈话很愉快但是他很忙。我离去了。 一个妖怪惊食的地方。妖怪出没。 如果还有任何事情发生——只要发生——我就会打电话。I have to.同时我不得不假设，失眠，回忆过去——该死的记忆。我还不得不记笔记，向隅而泣。图书馆已经闭馆了。我就坐在悄无一人的大厅里，听着黑暗中传来的微弱的声音，看着昏黄的灯光投下的黑影，我的双手哆咦得厉害。我确信他们……没有改变。 我坐到了电话旁边。 我把手指放了上去……伸进了拨号盘的小洞里……就是那些小洞能使我们所有的人保持联络，我的老伙伴们。 我们深深地陷在一起。 我们一起进入黑暗当中。 第二次进入，我们能从黑暗中出来吗？ I do not think so. 但是上帝，我不得不给他们打电话。 God!