The Boogeyman - Stephen King, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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THE BOOGEYMANTHE BOOGEYMAN'I came to you because I want to tell my story,' the man on Dr Harper's couchwas saying. The man was Lester Billings from Waterbury, Connecticut. Accordingto the history taken from Nurse Vickers, he was twenty-eight, employed by anindustrial firm in New York, divorced, and the father of three children. Alldeceased.'I can't go to a priest because I'm not a Catholic. I can't go to a lawyerbecause I haven't done anything to consult a lawyer about. All I did was kill mykids. One at a time. Killed them all.'Dr Harper turned on the tape recorder.Billings lay straight as a yardstick on the couch, not giving it an inch ofhimself. His feet protruded stiffly over the end. Picture of a man enduringnecessary humiliation. His hands were folded corpselike on his chest. His facewas carefully set.. He looked at the plain white composition ceiling as ifseeing scenes and pictures played out there.'Do you mean you actually killed them, or -''No.' Impatient flick of the hand. 'But I was responsible. Denny in 1967. Shirlin 1971. And Andy this year. I want to tell you about it.'Dr Harper said nothing. He thought that Billings looked haggard and old. Hishair was thinning, his complexion sallow. His eyes held all the miserablesecrets of whisky.'They were murdered, see? Only no one believes that. If they would, things wouldbe all right.''Why is that?''BecauseBillings broke off and darted up on his elbows, staring across the room. 'What'sthat?' he barked. His eyes had narrowed to black slots.'What's what?''That door.''The closet,' Dr Harper said. 'Where I hang my coat and leave my overshoes.''Open it. I want to see.'Dr Harper got up wordlessly, crossed the room, and opened the closet. Inside, atan raincoat hung on one of four or five hangers. Beneath that was a pair ofshiny goloshes. The New York Times had been carefully tucked into one of them.That was all.'All right?' Dr Harper said.'All right.' Billings removed the props of his elbows and returned to hisprevious position.'You were saying,' Dr Harper said as he went back to his chair, 'that if themurder of your three children could be proved, all your troubles would be over.Why is that?''I'd go to jail,' Billings said immediately. 'For life. And you can see into allthe rooms in a jail. All the rooms.' He smiled at nothing.'How were your children murdered?''Don't try to jerk it out of me!'Billings twitched around and stared balefully at Harper.'I'll tell you, don't worry. I'm not one of your freaks strutting around andpretending to be Napoleon or explaining that I got hooked on heroin because mymother didn't love me. I know you won't believe me. I don't care. It doesn'tmatter. Just to tell will be enough.''All right.' Dr Harper got out his pipe.'I married Rita in 1965 - I was twenty-one and she was eighteen. She waspregnant. That was Denny.' His lips twisted in a rubbery, frightening grin thatwas gone in a wink. 'I had to leave college and get a job, but I didn't mind. Iloved both of them. We were very happy.'Rita got pregnant just a little while after Denny was born, and Shirl camealong in December of 1966. Andy came in the summer of 1969, and Denny wasalready dead by then. Andy was an accident. That's what Rita said. She saidsometimes that birth-control stuff doesn't work. I think that it was more thanan accident. Children tie a man down, you know. Women like that, especially whenthe man is brighter than they. Don't you find that's true?'Harper grunted non-commitally.'It doesn't matter, though. I loved him anyway.' He said it almost vengefully,as if he had loved the child to spite his wife.'Who killed the children?' Harper asked.'The boogeyman,' Lester Billings answered immediately. 'The boogeyman killedthem all. Just came out of the closet and killed them.' He twisted around andgrinned. 'You think I'm crazy, all right. It's written all over you. But I don'tcare. All I want to do is tell you and then get lost.''I'm listening,' Harper said.'It started when Denny was almost two and Shirl was just an infant. He startedcrying when Rita put him to bed. We had a two-bedroom place, see. Shirl slept ina crib in our room. At first I thought he was crying because he didn't have abottle to take to bed any more. Rita said don't make an issue of it, let it go,let him have it and he'll drop it on his own. But that's the way kids start offbad. You get permissive with them, spoil them. Then they break your heart. Getsome girl knocked up, you know, or start shooting dope. Or they get to besissies. Can you imagine waking up some morning and finding your kid - your son- is a sissy?'After a while, though, when he didn't stop, I started putting him to bedmyself. And if he didn't stop crying I'd give him a whack. Then Rita said he wassaying "light" over and over again. Well, I didn't know. Kids that little, howcan you tell what they're saying. Only a mother can tell.'Rita wanted to put in a nightlight. One of those wall-plug things with Mickey Mouse or Huckleberry Hound or something on it. Iwouldn't let her. If a kid doesn't get over being afraid of the dark when he'slittle, he never gets over it.'Anyway, he died the summer after Shirl was born. I put him to bed that nightand he started to cry right off. I heard what he said that time. He pointedright at the closet when he said it. "Boogeyman," the kid says. "Boogeyman,Daddy."'I turned off the light and went into our room and asked Rita why she wanted toteach the kid a word like that. I was tempted to slap her around a little, but Ididn't. She said she never taught him to say that. I called her a goddamn liar.'That was a bad summer for me, see. The only job I could get was loadingPepsi-Cola trucks in a warehouse, and I was tired all the time. Shirl would wakeup and cry every night and Rita would pick her up and sniffle. I tell you,sometimes I felt like throwing them both out a window. Christ, kids drive youcrazy sometimes. You could kill them.'Well, the kid woke me at three in the morning, right on schedule. I went to thebathroom, only a quarter awake, you know, and Rita asked me if I'd check onDenny. I told her to do it herself and went back to bed. I was almost asleepwhen she started to scream.'I got up and went in. The kid was dead on his back. Just as white as flourexcept for where the blood had. . . had sunk. Back of the legs, the head, thea-the buttocks. His eyes were open. That was the worst, you know. Wide open andglassy, like the eyes you see on a moosehead some guy put over his mantel. Likepictures you see of those gook kids over in Nam. But an American kid shouldn'tlook like that. Dead on his back. Wearing diapers and rubber pants because he'dbeen wetting himself again the last couple of weeks. Awful, I loved that kid.'Billings shook his head slowly, then offered the rubbery, frightening grinagain. 'Rita was screaming her head off.She tried to pick Denny up and rock him, but I wouldn't let her. The cops don'tlike you to touch any of the evidence. I know that -''Did you know it was the boogeyman then?' Harper asked quietly.'Oh, no. Not then. But I did see one thing. It didn't mean anything to me then,but my mind stored it away.''What was that?''The closet door was open. Not much. Just a crack. But I knew I left it shut,see. There's dry-cleaning bags in there. 3 A kid messes around with one of thoseand bango. Asphyxiation. You know that?''Yes. What happened then?'Billings shrugged. 'We planted him.' He looked morbidly at his hands, which hadthrown dirt on three tiny coffins.'Was there an inquest?''Sure.' Billings's eyes flashed with sardonic brilliance.'So me back-country fuckhead with a stethoscope and a black bag full of JuniorMints and a sheepskin from some cow college. Crib death, he called it! You everhear such a pile of yellow manure? The kid was three years old!''Crib death is most common during the first year,' Harper said carefully, 'butthat diagnosis has gone on death certificates for children up to age five forwant of a better -'Bulishit!' Billings spat out violently.Harper relit his pipe.We moved Shirl into Denny's old room a month after the funeral. Rita fought ittooth and nail, but I had the last word. It hurt me, of course it did. Jesus, Iloved having the kid in with us. But you can't get overprotective. You make akid a cripple that way. When I was a kid my mom used to take me to the beach andthen scream herself hoarse. "Don't go out so far! Don't go there! It's got anundertow! You only ate an hour ago! Don't go over your head!" Even to watch outfor sharks, before God. So what happens? I can't even go near the water now.It's the truth. I get the cramps if I go near a beach. Rita got me to take herand the kids to Savin Rock once when Denny was alive. I got sick as a dog. Iknow, see? You can't overprotect kids. And you can't coddle yourself either.Life goes on. Shirl went right into Denny's crib. We sent the old mattress tothe dump, though. I didn't want my girl to get any germs.'So a year goes by. And one night when I'm putting Shirl into her crib shestarts to yowl and scream and cry. "Boogeyman, Daddy, boogeyman, boogeyman!"'That threw a jump into me. It was just like Denny. And I started to rememberabout that closet door, open just a crack when we found him. I wanted to takeher into our room for the night.''Did you?''No.' Billings regarded his hands and his face twitched. 'How could I go to Ritaand admit I was wrong? I had to be strong. She was always such a je...
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