'It's a whole lotta lettuce,' I agreed, and wished him a good night.

I drank black coffee and ate toast in the kitchen the next morning, watching the TV weatherman. Like so many of them these days, he had a slightly mad look, as if all those Doppler radar images had driven him to the brink of something. I think of it as the Millennial Video Game look.

'We've got another thirty-six hours of this soup to work through and then there's going to be a big change,' he was saying, and pointed to some dark gray sc.u.m lurking in the Midwest. Tiny animated lightning-bolts danced in it like defective sparkplugs. Beyond the sc.u.m and the lightning-bolts, America looked clear all the way out to the desert country, and the posted temperatures were fifteen degrees cooler. 'We'll see temps in the mid-nineties today and can't look for much relief tonight or tomorrow morning. But tomorrow afternoon these frontal storms will reach western Maine, and I think most of you are going to want to keep updated on weather conditions. Before we get back to cooler air and bright clear skies on Wednesday, we're probably going to see violent thunderstorms, heavy rain, hail in some locations. Tornados are rare in Maine, but some towns in western and central Maine could see them tomorrow. Back to you, Earl.'

Earl, the morning news guy, had the innocent beefy look of a recent retiree from the Chippendales and read off the Teleprompter like one. 'Wow,' he said. 'That's quite a forecast, Vince. Tornados a possibility.'

'Wow,' I said. 'Say wow again, Earl. Do it 'til I'm satisfied.'

'Holy cow,' Earl said just to spite me, and the telephone rang. I went to answer it, giving the waggy clock a look as I went by. The night had been quiet - no sobbing, no screaming, no nocturnal adventures - but the clock was disquieting, just the same. It hung there On the wall eyeless and dead, like a message full of bad news.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'Mr. Noonan?'

I knew the voice, but for a moment couldn't place it. It was because she had called me Mr. Noonan. To Brenda Meserve I'd been Mike for almost fifteen years.

'Mrs M.? Brenda? What - '

'I can't work for you anymore,' she said, all in a rush. 'I'm sorry I can't give you proper notice - I never stopped work for anyone without giving notice, not even that old drunk Mr Croyden - but I have to. Please understand.'

'Did Bill find out I called you? I swear to G.o.d, Brenda, I never said a word - '

'No. I haven't spoken to him, nor he to me. I just can't come back to Sara Laughs. I had a bad dream last night. A terrible dream. I dreamed that . . . something's mad at me. If I come back, I could have an accident. It would look look like an accident, at least, but . . . it wouldn't be.' like an accident, at least, but . . . it wouldn't be.'

That's silly, Mrs M. That's silly, Mrs M., I wanted to say. You're surely past the age where you believe in campfire stories about ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties. You're surely past the age where you believe in campfire stories about ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties.

But of course I could say no such thing. What was going on in my house was no campfire story. I knew it, and she knew I did.

'Brenda, if I've caused you any trouble, I'm truly sorry.'

'Go away, Mr. Noonan . . . Mike. Go back to Derry and stay for awhile. It's the best thing you could do.'

I heard the letters sliding on the fridge and turned. This time I actually saw the circle of fruits and vegetables form. It stayed open at the top long enough for four letters to slide inside. Then a little plastic lemon plugged the hole and completed the circle.

yats,

the letters said, then swapped themselves around, making

stay

Then both the circle and the letters broke up.

'Mike, please please.' Mrs. M. was crying. 'Royce's funeral is tomorrow. Everyone in the TR who matters - the old-timers - will be there.'

Yes, of course they would. The old ones, the bags of bones who knew what they knew and kept it to themselves. Except some of them had talked to my wife. Royce himself had talked to her. Now he was dead. So was she.

'It would be best if you were gone. You could take that young woman with you, maybe. Her and her little girl.'

But could I? I somehow didn't think so. I thought the three of us were on the TR until this was over . . . and I was starting to have an idea of when that would be. A storm was coming. A summer storm. Maybe even a tornado.

'Brenda, thanks for calling me. And I'm not letting you go. Let's just call it a leave of absence, shall we?'

'Fine . . . whatever you want. Will you at least think about what I said?'

'Yes. In the meantime, I don't think I'd tell anyone you called me, all right?'

'No!' she said, sounding shocked. Then: 'But they'll know. Bill and Yvette . . . d.i.c.kie Brooks at the garage . . . old Anthony Weyland and Buddy Jellison and all the others . . . they'll know. Goodbye, Mr. Noonan. I'm so sorry. For you and your wife. Your poor wife. I'm so sorry.' Then she was gone.

I held the phone in my hand for a long time. Then, like a man in a dream, I put it down, crossed the room, and took the eyeless clock off the wall. I threw it in the trash and went down to the lake for a swim, remembering that W. E Harvey story 'August Heat,' the one that ends with the line 'The heat is enough to drive a man mad.'

I'm not a bad swimmer when people aren't pelting me with rocks, but my first sh.o.r.e-to-float-to-sh.o.r.e lap was tentative and unrhythmic - ugly - because I kept expecting something to reach up from the bottom and grab me. The drowned boy, maybe. The second lap was better, and by the third I was relishing the increased kick of my heart and the silky coolness of the water rushing past me. Halfway through the fourth lap I pulled myself up the float's ladder and collapsed on the boards, feeling better than I had since my encounter with Devore and Rogette Whitmore on Friday night. I was still in the zone, and on top of that I was experiencing a glorious endorphin rush. In that state, even the dismay I'd felt when Mrs M. told me she was resigning her position ebbed away. She would come back when this was over; of course she would. In the meantime, it was probably best she stay away.

Something's mad at me. I could have an accident.

Yes indeed. She might cut herself. She might fall down a flight of cellar stairs. She might even have a stroke running across a hot parking lot.

I sat up and looked at Sara on her hill, the deck jutting out over the drop, the railroad ties descending. I'd only been out of the water for a few minutes, but already the day's sticky heat was folding over me, stealing my rush. The water was still as a mirror. I could see the house reflected in it, and in the reflection Sara's windows became watchful eyes.

I thought that the focus of all the phenomena - the epicenter - was very likely on The Street between the real Sara and its drowned image. This is where it happened This is where it happened, Devore had said. And the old-timers? Most of them probably knew what I knew: that Royce Merrill had been murdered. And wasn't it possible - wasn't it likely likely - that what had killed him might come among them as they sat in their pews or gathered afterward around his grave? That it might steal some of their force - their guilt, their memories, their TR-ness - to help it finish the job? - that what had killed him might come among them as they sat in their pews or gathered afterward around his grave? That it might steal some of their force - their guilt, their memories, their TR-ness - to help it finish the job?

I was very glad that John was going to be at the trailer tomorrow, and Romeo Bissonette, and George Kennedy, who was so amusing when he got a drink or two in him. Glad it was going to be more than just me with Mattie and Ki when the old folks got together to give Royce Merrill his sendoff. I no longer cared very much about what had happened to Sara and the Red-Tops, or even about what was haunting my house. What I wanted was to get through tomorrow, and for Mattie and Ki to get through tomorrow. We'd eat before the rain started and then let the predicted thunderstorms come. I thought that, if we could ride them out, our lives and futures might clarify with the weather.

'Is that right?' I asked. I expected no answer - talking out loud was a habit I had picked up since returning here - but somewhere in the woods east of the house, an owl hooted. Just once, as if to say it was was right, get through tomorrow and things will clarify. The hoot almost brought something else to mind, some a.s.sociation that was ultimately too gauzy to grasp. I tried once or twice, but the only thing I could come up with was the t.i.tle of a wonderful old novel right, get through tomorrow and things will clarify. The hoot almost brought something else to mind, some a.s.sociation that was ultimately too gauzy to grasp. I tried once or twice, but the only thing I could come up with was the t.i.tle of a wonderful old novel I Heard the Owl Call My Name I Heard the Owl Call My Name.

I rolled forward off the float and into the water, grasping my knees against my chest like a kid doing a cannonball. I stayed under as long as I could, until the air in my lungs started to feel like some hot bottled liquid, and then I broke the surface. I trod water about thirty yards out until I had my breath back, then set my sights on the Green Lady and stroked for sh.o.r.e.

I waded out, started up the railroad ties, then stopped and went back to The Street. I stood there for a moment, gathering my courage, then walked to where the birch curved her graceful belly out over the water. I grasped that white curve as I had on Friday evening and looked into the water. I was sure I'd see the child, his dead eyes looking up at me from his bloating brown face, and that my mouth and throat would once more fill with the taste of the lake: help I'm drown, lemme up, oh sweet Jesus lemme up help I'm drown, lemme up, oh sweet Jesus lemme up. But there was nothing. No dead boy, no ribbon-wrapped Boston Post Boston Post cane, no taste of the lake in my mouth. cane, no taste of the lake in my mouth.

I turned and peered at the gray forehead of rock poking out of the mulch. I thought There, right there There, right there, but it was only a conscious and unspontaneous thought, the mind voicing a memory. The smell of decay and the certainty that something awful had happened right there was gone.

When I got back up to the house and went for a soda, I discovered the front of the refrigerator was bare and clean. Every magnetic letter, every fruit and vegetable, was gone. I never found them. I might have, probably would have, if there had been more time, but on that Monday morning time was almost up.

I dressed, then called Mattie. We talked about the upcoming party, about how excited Ki was, about how nervous Mattie was about going back to work on Friday - she was afraid that the locals would be mean to her, but in an odd, womanly way she was even more afraid that they would be cold cold to her, snub her. We talked about the money, and I quickly ascertained that she didn't believe in the reality of it. 'Lance used to say his father was the kind of man who'd show a piece of meat to a starving dog and then eat it himself,' she said. 'But as long as I have my job back, I won't starve and neither will Ki.' to her, snub her. We talked about the money, and I quickly ascertained that she didn't believe in the reality of it. 'Lance used to say his father was the kind of man who'd show a piece of meat to a starving dog and then eat it himself,' she said. 'But as long as I have my job back, I won't starve and neither will Ki.'

'But if there really are are big bucks . . . ?' big bucks . . . ?'

'Oh, gimme-gimme-gimme,' she said, laughing. 'What do you think I am, crazy?'

'Nah. By the way, what's going on with Ki's fridgeafator people? Are they writing any new stuff?'

'That is the weirdest thing,' she said. 'They're gone.'

'The fridgeafator people?'

'I don't know about them, but the magnetic letters you gave her sure are. When I asked Ki what she did with them, she started crying and said Allamagoosalum took them. She said he ate them in the middle of the night, while everyone was sleeping, for a snack.'

'Allama-who-salum?'

'Allamagoosalum,' Mattie said, sounding wearily amused. 'Another little legacy from her grandfather. It's a corruption of the Micmac word for "boogeyman" or "demon" - I looked it up at the library. Kyra had a good many nightmares about demons and wendigos and the allama-goosalum late last winter and this spring.'

'What a sweet old grandpa he was,' I said sentimentally.

'Right, a real pip. She was miserable over losing the letters; I barely got her calmed down before her ride to VBS came. Ki wants to know if you'll come to Final Exercises on Friday afternoon, by the way. She and her friend Billy Turgeon are going to flannelboard the story of baby Moses.'

'I wouldn't miss it,' I said . . . but of course I did. We all did.

'Any idea where her letters might have gone, Mike?'

'No.'

'Yours are still okay?'

'Mine are fine, but of course mine don't spell anything,' I said, looking at the empty door of my own fridgeafator. There was sweat on my forehead. I could feel it creeping down into my eyebrows like oil. 'Did you . . . I don't know . . . sense anything?'

'You mean did I maybe hear the evil alphabet-thief as he slid through the window?'

'You know what I mean.'

'I suppose so.' A pause 'I thought I heard something in the night, okay? About three this morning, actually. I got up and went into the hall. Nothing was there. But . . . you know how hot it's been lately?'

'Yes.'

'Well, not in my trailer, not last night. It was cold as ice. I swear I could almost see my breath.'

I believed her. After all, I had had seen mine. seen mine.

'Were the letters on the front of the fridge then?'

'I don't know. I didn't go up the hall far enough to see into the kitchen. I took one look around and then went back to bed. I almost ran ran back to bed. Sometimes bed feels safer, you know?' She laughed nervously. 'It's a kid thing. Covers are boogeyman kryptonite. Only at first, when I got in . . . I don't know . . . I thought someone was in there already. Like someone had been hiding on the floor underneath and then . . . when I went to check the hall . . . they got in. Not a nice someone, either.' back to bed. Sometimes bed feels safer, you know?' She laughed nervously. 'It's a kid thing. Covers are boogeyman kryptonite. Only at first, when I got in . . . I don't know . . . I thought someone was in there already. Like someone had been hiding on the floor underneath and then . . . when I went to check the hall . . . they got in. Not a nice someone, either.'

Give me my dust-catcher Give me my dust-catcher, I thought, and shuddered.

'What?' Mattie asked sharply. 'What did you say?'

'I asked who did you think it was? What was the first name that came into your mind?'

'Devore,' she said. 'Him. But there was no one there.' A pause. 'I wish you'd you'd been there.' been there.'

'I do, too.'

'I'm glad. Mike, do you have any ideas at all about this? Because it's very freaky.'

'I think maybe . . . ' For a moment I was on the verge of telling her what had happened to my own letters. But if I started talking, where would it stop? And how much could she be expected to believe? ' . . . maybe Ki took the letters herself. Went walking in her sleep and chucked them under the trailer or something. Do you think that could be?'

'I think I like the idea of Kyra strolling around in her sleep even less than the idea of ghosts with cold breath taking the letters off the fridge,' Mattie said.

'Take her to bed with you tonight,' I said, and felt her thought come back like an arrow: I'd rather take you I'd rather take you.

What she said, after a brief pause, was: 'Will you come by today?'

'I don't think so,' I said. She was noshing on flavored yogurt as we talked, eating it in little nipping bites. 'You'll see me tomorrow, though. At the party.'

'I hope we get to eat before the thunderstorms. They're supposed to be bad.'

'I'm sure we will.'

'And are you still thinking? I only ask because I dreamed of you when I finally fell asleep again. I dreamed of you kissing me.'

'I'm still thinking,' I said. 'Thinking hard.'

But in fact I don't remember thinking about anything very hard that day. What I remember is drifting further and further into that zone I've explained so badly. Near dusk I went for a long walk in spite of the heat - all the way out to where Lane Forty-two joins the highway. Coming back I stopped on the edge of Tidwell's Meadow, watching the light fade out of the sky and listening to thunder rumble somewhere over New Hampshire. Once more there was that sense of how thin reality was, not just here but everywhere; how it was stretched like skin over the blood and tissue of a body we can never know clearly in this life. I looked at trees and saw arms; I looked at bushes and saw faces. Ghosts, Mattie had said. Ghosts with cold breath.

Time was also thin, it seemed to me. Kyra and I had really been at the Fryeburg Fair - some version of it, anyway; we had really visited the year 1900. And at the foot of the meadow the Red-Tops were almost there now, as they once had been, in their neat little cabins. I could almost hear the sound of their guitars, the murmur of their voices and laughter; I could almost see the gleam of their lanterns and smell their beef and pork frying. 'Say baby, do you remember me?' 'Say baby, do you remember me?' one of her songs went, one of her songs went, 'Well I ain't your honey like I used to be.' 'Well I ain't your honey like I used to be.'

Something rattled in the underbrush to my left. I turned that way, expecting to see Sara step out of the woods wearing Mattie's dress and Mattie's white sneakers. In this gloom, they would seem almost to float by themselves, until she got close to me . . .

There was no one there, of course, it had undoubtedly been nothing but Chuck the Woodchuck headed home after a hard day at the office, but I no longer wanted to be out here, watching as the light drained out of the day and the mist came up from the ground. I turned for home.