shit； Doc； whatja tryin' to do？ Stroke 'im back to life？'
She looks around； dazed； at first not sure of what he's talking about 。 。 。 until she realizes that she's now holding a mostly erect penis。 And as she screams…screams and snatches the shears out of Pete's limp gloved hand…I find myself thinking again of that old Alfred Hitchcock TV show。
Poor old Joseph Cotton； I think。
He only got to cry。
Afternote
It's been a year since my experience in Autopsy Room Four； and I have made a plete recovery； although the paralysis was both stubborn and scary； it was a full month before I began to recover the finer motions of my fingers and toes。 I still can't play the piano； but then； of course； I never could。 That is a joke； and I make no apologies for it。 In the first three months after my misadventure； I think that my ability to joke provided a slim but vital margin between sanity and some sort of nervous breakdown。 Unless you've actually felt the tip of a pair of postmortem shears poking into your stomach； you don't know what I mean。
Two weeks or so after my close call； a woman on Dupont Street called the Derry Police to plain of a 'foul stink' ing from the house next door。 That house belonged to a bachelor bank clerk named Walter Kerr。 Police found the house empty 。 。 。 of human life； that is。 They found over sixty snakes of different varieties。 About half of them were dead…starvation and dehydration…but many were extremely lively 。 。 。 and extremely dangerous。 Several were very rare； and one was of a species believed to have been extinct since mid…century； according to consulting herpetologists。
Kerr failed to show up for work at Derry munity Bank on August 22nd； two days after I was bitten； one day after the story （PARALYZED MAN ESCAPES DEADLY AUTOPSY； the headline read； at one point I was quoted as saying I had been 'scared stiff'） broke in the press。
There was a snake for every cage in Kerr's basement menagerie； except for one。 The empty cage was unmarked； and the snake that popped out of my golf bag （the ambulance orderlies had packed it in with my 'corpse' and had been practicing chip shots out in the ambulance parking area） was never found。 The toxin in my bloodstream…the same toxin found to a far lesser degree in orderly Mike Hopper's bloodstream…was documented but never identified。 I have looked at a great many pictures of snakes in the last year； and have found at least one that has reportedly caused cases of full…body paralysis in humans。 This is the Peruvian boomslang； a nasty viper that has supposedly been extinct since the 1920s。 Dupont Street is less than half a mile from the Derry Municipal Golf Course。 Most of the intervening land consists of scrub woods and vacant lots。
One final note。 Katie Arlen and I dated for four months； November 1994 through February of 1995。 We broke it off by mutual consent； due to sexual inpatibility。
I was impotent unless she was wearing rubber gloves。
At some point I think every writer of scary stories has to tackle the subject of premature burial； if only because it seems to be such a pervasive fear。 When I was a kid of seven or so； the scariest TV program going was Alfred Hitchcock Presents； and the scariest AHP…my friends and I were in total agreement on this…was the one starring Joseph Gotten as a man who has been injured in a car accident。 Injured so badly； in fact； that the doctors think he's dead。 They can't even find a heartbeat。 They are on the verge of doing a postmortem on him…cutting him up while he's still alive and screaming inside； in other words…when he produces one single tear to let them know he's still alive。 That was touching； but touching isn't in my usual repertoire。 When my own thoughts turned to this subject； a more…shall we say modern？…method of municating liveliness occurred to me； and this story was the result。 One final note； regarding the snake： I doubt like hell if there's any such reptile as a Peruvian boomslang； but in one of her Miss Marple capers； Dame Agatha Christie does mention an African boomslang。 I just liked the word so much （boomslang； not African；） I had to put it in this story。
THE MAN IN THE BLACK SUIT
I am now a very old man and this is something which happened to me when I was very young…only nine years old。 It was 1914； the summer after my brother Dan died in the west field and three years before America got into World War I。 I've never told anyone about what happened at the fork in the stream that day； and I never will 。 。 。 at least not with my mouth。 I've decided to write it down； though； in this book which I will leave on the table beside my bed。 I can't write long； because my hands shake so these days and I have next to no strength； but I don't think it will take long。
Later； someone may find what I have written。 That seems likely to me； as it is pretty much human nature to look in a book marked DIARY after its owner has passed along。 So yes…my words will probably be read。 A better question is whether or not anyone will believe them。 Almost certainly not； but that doesn't matter。 It's not belief I'm interested in but freedom。 Writing can give that； I've found。 For twenty years I wrote a column called 'Long Ago and Far Away' for the Castle Rock Call； and I know that sometimes it works that way…what you write down sometimes leaves you forever； like old photographs left in the bright sun； fading to nothing but white。
I pray for that sort of release。
A man in his nineties should be well past the terrors of childhood； but as my infirmities slowly creep up on me； like waves licking closer and closer to some indifferently built castle of sand； that terrible face grows clearer and clearer in my mind's eye。 It glows like a dark star in the constellations of my childhood。 What I might have done yesterday； who I might have seen here in my room at the nursing home； what I might have said to them or they to me 。 。 。 those things are gone； but the face of the man in the black suit grows ever clearer； ever closer； and I remember every word he said。 I don't want to think of him but I can't help it； and sometimes at night my old heart beats so hard and so fast I think it will tear itself right clear of my chest。 So I uncap my fountain pen and force my trembling old hand to write this pointless anecdote in the diary one of my great…grandchildren…I can't remember her name for sure； at least not right now； but I know it starts with an S…gave to me last Christmas； and which I have never written in until now。 Now I will write in it。 I will write the story of how I met the man in the black suit on the bank of Castle Stream one afternoon in the summer of 1914。
The town of Motton was a different world in those days…more different than I could ever tell you。 That was a world without airplanes droning overhead； a world almost without cars and trucks； a world where the skies were not cut into lanes and slices by overhead power lines。
There was not a single paved road in the whole town； and the business district consisted of nothing but Corson's General Store； Thut's Livery & Hardware； the Methodist Church at Christ's Corner； the school； the town hall； and Harry's Restaurant half a mile down from there； which my mother called； with unfailing disdain； 'the liquor house。'
Mostly； though； the difference was in how people lived…how apart they were。 I'm not sure people born after the middle of the twentieth century could quite credit that； although they might say they could； to be polite to old folks like me。 There were no phones in western Maine back then； for one thing。 The first one wouldn't be installed for another five years； and by the time there was one in our house； I was nineteen and going to college at the University of Maine in Orono。
But that is only the roof of the thing。 There was no doctor closer than Casco； and no more than a dozen houses in what you would call town。 There were no neighborhoods （I'm not even sure we knew the word； although we had a verb…neighboring…that described church functions and barn dances）； and open fields were the exception rather than the rule。 Out of town the houses were farms that stood far apart from each other； and from December until middle March we mostly hunkered down in the little pockets of stovewarmth we called families。 We hunkered and listened to the wind in the chimney and hoped no one would get sick or break a leg or get a headful of bad ideas； like the farmer over in Castle Rock who had chopped up his wife and kids three winters before and then said in court that the ghosts made him do it。 In those days before the Great War； most of Motton was woods and bog； dark long places full of moose and mosquitoes； snakes and secrets。 In those days there were ghosts everywhere。
This thing I'm telling about happened on a Saturday。 My father gave me a whole list of chores to do； including some that would have been Dan's； if he'd still been alive。 He was my only brother； and he'd died of being stung by a bee。 A year had gone by； and still my mother wouldn't hear that。 She said it was something else； had to have been； that no one ever died of being stung by a bee。 When Mama