There. It wasn't perfect. A close inspection would show where the latch frame had been pulled out and then readjusted. So what? Mike turned and walked down the lane.

There was still no traffic on County Six. Mike jogged down the hill, wishing the shadows here at the bottom were not so deep. It looked like night in the thick woods on either side.

The Black Tree Tavern was closed and dark-no alcohol could be served on Sunday-and it was strange to see the little building with no cars in front. Mike slowed to a walk when he got up the hill and past the Black Tree driveway. The woods continued to his left, Gypsy Lane was in there somewhere, but the country opened out to cornfields to his right and it was much lighter up here. Mike could see the junction with Jubilee College Road only a couple of hundred yards ahead, and once there, Elm Haven's water tower would be visible three quarters of a mile to the west.

Mike had slowed even more, silently cursing himself as a coward, when he heard gravel crunch behind him. It wasn't a car, but the soft tread of footsteps.

Still moving, he turned to walk backward, hands unconsciously raised to fists.

Another kid, he thought when he first saw the shadow separate itself from the darkness under the trees on the road at the top of the hill. He didn't recognize the kid, but saw the old-fashioned Boy Scout hat and uniform. The boy was about fifteen yards behind him.

Then Mike realized that it wasn't a kid. It was a guy in his twenties maybe, and the outfit wasn't a Boy Scout uniform but some sort of soldier suit like the uniforms Mike had seen in old photographs. The guy's face seemed waxy, smooth, and oddly featureless in the dim light!

"Hi!" yelled Mike and waved. He didn't know the soldier, but he was still relieved. When Mike had heard the footsteps behind him, he'd had a sudden image of Van Syke on the road with him.

The young soldier didn't wave back. Mike couldn't see his eyes, but it was almost as if the guy was blind. He wasn't running-just walking quickly in a sort of stiff, straight-legged march, but it was a fast enough march that the soldier had already closed some of the distance between them. He was ten yards away now and Mike could clearly see the brass buttons on the brown uniform, the weird khaki wrappings-like bandages-around his legs. The hobnailed boots made crunching noises on the gravel. Mike tried again to see the face, but the broad-brimmed hat cast deep shadows despite the dim light.

The young man was marching so quickly that Mike got the definite feeling that he was trying to catch up ... was hurrying to close the distance.

The shit with this, thought Mike, vaguely aware that he would have to confess another bad word to Father C.

Mike turned and began running down Jubilee College Road toward the distant smudge of trees that was Elm Haven.

Dale's little brother Lawrence was afraid of the dark.

As far as Dale could tell, the eight-year-old wasn't afraid of anything else. He'd climb places that no one else-except perhaps Jim Harlen-would even consider attempting. Lawrence was tough with that kind of quiet physical courage that sent him ripping into bullies half again as tall as him, his head down, fists pummeling even while he was taking a beating that would send an older kid fleeing in tears. Lawrence loved daredevil stunts-he would jump his bike from the highest ramp they could build, and when it came time in their backyard daredevil show for someone to lie down in front of the ramp while others jumped their bikes over him, Lawrence was the only one to volunteer. He played tackle football against mobs of kids bigger than him, and his idea of fun was to be taped up in a cardboard box and thrown off the strip-mined cliffs of Billy Goat Mountains. Sometimes Dale was sure that Lawrence's lack of fear would get him happily killed someday.

But he was afraid of the dark.

Lawrence was especially afraid of the dark in the hallway at the top of their stairs, and even more afraid of the dark in their bedroom.

The Stewarts' house-they had rented for the five years they had lived here since their move from Chicago-was old. The light switch at the bottom of the stairs controlled the bulbs on the small chandelier above the lower entrance hall, but left the landing above steeped in darkness. To get to the boys' room, one had to walk around the landing in that semidarkness. Worse, from Lawrence's point of view, was the fact that there was no wall switch in their room. To turn on the hanging light bulb in the center of the room, the boys had to walk into the darkness, feel around for the cord hanging in midair, and tug it on. Lawrence hated that part and begged Dale to go up to turn on the light for him.

Once, as they were falling asleep with the night-light on, Dale had asked him why he hated to do that. . . what exactly was he afraid of? It was their room. At first, Lawrence wouldn't answer, but finally he'd said sleepily, "Somebody might be in here. Waiting."

"Somebody?" Dale had whispered. "Who?"

"I dunno," Lawrence had sleepily whispered back, "somebody. Sometimes I think I'll come into the room and be feeling around for the light cord . . . you know, it's sorta hard to find . . . and instead of the cord, I'll feel this face."

Dale's neck had gone cold.

"You know," continued Lawrence, "some tall guy's face . . . only not quite a human face . . . and I'll be in here in the dark with my hand on his face . . . and his teeth'll be all slick and cool, and I'll feel his eyes wide open like a dead person's . . . and ..."

"Shut up," Dale had whispered.

Even with the night-light on, Lawrence was afraid of things in the room. The house was old enough not to have closets-Dale's dad had said that people used big wardrobes for their clothes back then-but the previous owners or renters had added a closet to the boys' room. It was a crude thing-hardly more than a floor-to-ceiling box of painted pine boards in one corner-and Lawrence said that it reminded him of a coffin propped up there. It reminded Dale of a coffin, too, but he wouldn't admit it. Lawrence would never be the first to open the closet door, even in the daytime. Dale could only imagine what his brother thought might be waiting in there.

But mostly Lawrence was afraid of what might be under his bed.

The boys slept a few feet apart on small beds, identical down to the Roy Rogers blankets on them. But Lawrence was sure that something waited under his bed.

Lawrence would kneel to say his prayers if his mom was in the room, but when the two boys were alone, he was quick to get into his pajamas and jump onto the bed-not even come within grabbing distance of the darkness under it-and then he would go through a ritual of tucking his blankets in, securing everything so that nothing could drag him down, pull him under. If he was reading a comic or something and it fell on the floor, he would ask Dale to pick it up. If Dale didn't, the comic remained on the floor until morning.

Dale had reasoned with his brother for years. "Look, stupid," he'd said, "there's nothing under your bed but dust-balls."

"There could be a hole," Lawrence had whispered once.

"A hole?"

"Yeah, like a tunnel or something. With something in it waiting to get me." Lawrence's voice had been very tiny.

Dale had laughed. "Peabrain, we're on the second floor. There can't be a hole or tunnel on the second floor. Plus, it's solid wood." He'd leaned over and rapped the floor with his knuckles. "See, solid."

Lawrence had closed his eyes as if expecting a hand to reach out and grab Dale's wrist.

Dale had given up trying to convince Lawrence that there was nothing to be afraid of. Dale wasn't afraid of the dark upstairs-his fear was centered on the basement, specifically the coal bin where he had to go down to shovel coal every winter night-but he'd never told Lawrence or anyone about that anxiety. Dale loved summer because he didn't have to go down in the basement. But Lawrence was afraid of the dark all year round.