The House on Maple Street - Stephen King, ebook
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Stephen King - The House on Maple Street
The House on Maple Street
by Stephen King
Although she was only five, and the youngest of the Bradbury children, Melissa had
very sharp eyes and it wasn't really surprising that she was the first to discover
something strange had happened to the house on Maple Street while the Bradbury
family was summering in England.
She ran and found her older brother, Brian, and told him something was wrong
upstairs, on the third floor. She said she would show him, but not until he swore
not to tell anyone what she had found. Brian swore, knowing it was their stepfather
Lissa was afraid of; Daddy Lew didn't like it when any of the Bradbury children "got
up to foolishness" (that was how he always put it), and he had decided that Melissa
was the prime offender in that area. Lissa, who was stupid no more than she was
blind, was aware of Lew's prejudices, and had become wary of them. In fact, all of
the Bradbury children had become rather wary of their mother's second husband.
It would probably turn out to be nothing, anyway, but Brian was delighted to be back
home and willing enough to humor his baby sister (Brian was two full years her
senior), at least for awhile; he followed her down the third-floor hallway without
so much as a murmur of argument, and he only pulled her braids -- he called these
braid-pulls "emergency stops" -- once.
They had to tiptoe past Lew's study, which was the only finished-off room up here,
because Lew was inside, unpacking his notebooks and papers and muttering in an
ill-tempered way.
Brian's thoughts had actually turned to what might be on TV tonight -- he was
looking forward to a pig-out on good old American cable after three months of BBC
and ITV -- when they reached the end of the hall.
What he saw beyond the tip of his little sister's pointing finger drove all thoughts
of television from Brian Bradbury's mind.
"Now swear again!" Lissa whispered. "Never tell anyone, Daddy Lew or anyone, or hope
to die!"
"Hope to die," Brian agreed, still staring, and it was a half-hour before he told
his big sister, Laurie, who was unpacking in her room. Laurie was possessive of her
room as only an eleven-year-old girl can be, and she gave Brian the very dickens for
coming in without knocking, even though she was completely dressed.
"Sorry," Brian said, "but I gotta show you something. It's very weird."
"Where?" She went on putting clothes in her drawers as if she didn't care, as if
there was nothing any dopey little seven-year-old could tell her which would be of
the slightest interest to her, but when it came to eyes, Brian's weren't exactly
dull. He could tell when Laurie was interested, and she was interested now.
"Upstairs. Third floor. End of the hall past Daddy Lew's study."
Laurie's nose wrinkled as it always did when Brian or Lissa called him that. She and
Trent remembered their real father, and they didn't like his replacement at all.
They made it their business to call him Just Plain Lew. That Lewis Evans clearly did
not like this -- found it vaguely impertinent, in fact -- simply added to Laurie and
Trent's unspoken but powerful conviction that it was the right way to address the
man their mother (uck!) slept with these days.
"I don't want to go up there," Laurie said. "He's been in a pissy mood ever since we
got back. Trent says he'll stay that way until school starts and he can settle back
into his rut again."
"His door's shut. We can be quiet. Lissa n me went up and he didn't even know we
were there."
"Lissa and I."
"Yeah. Us. Anyway, it's safe. The door's shut and he's talking to himself like he
does when he's really into something."
"I hate it when he does that," Laurie said darkly. "Our real father never talked to
himself, and he didn't use to lock himself in a room by himself, either."
"Well, I don't think he's locked in," Brian said, "but if you're really worried
about him coming out, take an empty suitcase. We'll pretend like we're putting it in
the closet where we keep them, if he comes out."
"What is this amazing thing?" Laurie demanded, putting her fists on her hips.
"I'll show you," Brian said earnestly, "but you have to swear on Mom's name and hope
to die if you tell anyone." He paused, thinking, for a moment, and then added: "You
specially can't tell Lissa, because I swore to her."
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Stephen King - The House on Maple Street
Laurie's ears were finally all the way up. It was probably a big nothing, but she
was tired of putting clothes away. It was really amazing how much junk a person
could accumulate in just three months. "Okay, I swear."
They took along two empty suitcases, one for each of them, but their precautions
proved unnecessary; their stepfather never came out of his study. It was probably
just as well; he had worked up a grand head of steam, from the sound. The two
children could hear him stamping about, muttering, opening drawers, slamming them
shut again. A familiar odor seeped out from under the door -- to Laurie it smelled
like smouldering athletic socks. Lew was smoking his pipe.
She stuck her tongue out, crossed her eyes, and twiddled her fingers in her ears as
they tiptoed by.
But a moment later, when she looked at the place Lissa had pointed out to Brian and
which Brian now pointed out to her, she forgot Lew just as completely as Brian had
forgotten about all the wonderful things he could watch on TV that night.
"What is it?" she whispered to Brian. "My gosh, what does it mean?"
"I dunno," Brian said, "but just remember, you swore on Mom's name, Laurie."
"Yeah, yeah, but -- "
"Say it again!" Brian didn't like the look in her eyes. It was a telling look, and
he felt she really needed a little reinforcement.
"Yeah, yeah, on Mom's name," she said perfunctorily, "but, Brian, jeezly crow -- "
"And hope to die, don't forget that part."
"Oh, Brian, you are such a cheeser!"
"Never mind, just say you hope to die!"
"Hope to die, hope to die, okay?" Laurie said. "Why do you have to be such a
cheeser, Bri?"
"Dunno," he said, smirking in that way she absolutely hated, "just lucky, I guess."
She could have strangled him... but a promise was a promise, especially one given on
the name of your one and only mother, so Laurie held on for over one full hour
before getting Trent and showing him. She made him swear, too, and her confidence
that Trent would keep his promise not to tell was perfectly justified. He was almost
fourteen, and as the oldest, he had no one to tell... except a grownup. Since their
mother had taken to her bed with a migraine, that left only Lew, and that was the
same as no one at all.
The two oldest Bradbury children hadn't needed to bring up empty suitcases as
camouflage this time; their stepfather was downstairs, watching some British fellow
lecture on the Normans and Saxons (the Normans and Saxons were Lew's specialty at
the college) on the VCR, and enjoying his favorite afternoon snack -- a glass of
milk and a ketchup sandwich.
Trent stood at the end of the hall, looking at what the other children had looked at
before him. He stood there for a long time.
"What is it, Trent?'' Laurie finally asked. It never crossed her mind that Trent
wouldn't know. Trent knew everything. So she watched, almost incredulously, as he
slowly shook his head.
"I don't know," he said, peering into the crack. "Some kind of metal, I think. Wish
I'd brought a flashlight." He reached into the crack and tapped. Laurie felt a vague
sense of disquiet at this, and was relieved when Trent pulled his finger back.
"Yeah, it's metal."
"Should it be in there?" Laurie asked. "I mean, was it? Before?"
"No," Trent said. "I remember when they replastered. That was just after Mom married
him. There wasn't anything in there then but laths."
"What are they?"
"Narrow boards," he said. "They go between the plaster and the outside wall of the
house." Trent reached into the crack in the wall and once again touched the metal
which showed dull white in there. The crack was about four inches long and half an
inch across at its widest point. "They put in insulation, too," he said, frowning
thoughtfully and then shoving his hands into the back pockets of his wash-faded
jeans. "I remember. Pink, billowy stuff that looked like cotton candy."
"Where is it, then? I don't see any pink stuff."
"Me either," Trent said. "But they did put it in. I remember." His eyes traced the
four-inch length of the crack. "That metal in the wall is something new. I wonder
how much of it there is, and how far it goes. Is it just up here on the third floor,
or..."
"Or what?" Laurie looked at him with big round eyes. She had begun to be a little
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frightened.
"Or is it all over the house," Trent finished thoughtfully.
After school the next afternoon, Trent called a meeting of all four Bradbury
children. It got off to a somewhat bumpy start, with Lissa accusing Brian of
breaking what she called "your solemn swear'' and Brian, who was deeply embarrassed,
accusing Laurie of putting their mother's soul in dire jeopardy by telling Trent.
Although he wasn't very clear on exactly what a soul was (the Bradburys were
Unitarians), he seemed quite sure that Laurie had condemned Mother's to hell.
"Well," Laurie said, "you'll have to take some of the blame, Brian. I mean, you were
the one who brought Mother into it. You should have had me swear on Lew's name. He
could go to hell."
Lissa, who was young enough and kind-hearted enough not to wish anyone in hell, was
so distressed by this line of discourse that she began to cry.
"Hush, all of you," Trent said, and hugged Lissa until she had regained most of her
composure. "What's done is done, and I happen to think it all worked out for the
best."
"You do?" Brian asked. If Trent said a thing was good, Brian would have died
defending it, that went without saying, but Laurie had sworn on Mom's name.
"Something this weird needs to be investigated, and if we waste a lot of time
arguing over who was right or wrong to break their promise, we'll never get it
done."
Trent glanced pointedly up at the clock on the wall of his room, where they had
gathered. It was twenty after three. He really didn't have to say any more. Their
mother had been up this morning to get Lew his breakfast -- two three-minute eggs
with whole-wheat toast and marmalade was one of his many daily requirements -- but
afterward she had gone back to bed, and there she had remained. She suffered from
dreadful headaches, migraines that sometimes spent two or even three days snarling
and clawing at her defenseless (and often bewildered) brain before decamping for a
month or so.
She would not be apt to see them on the third floor and wonder what they were up to,
but "Daddy Lew" was a different kettle of fish altogether. With his study just down
the hall from the strange crack, they could count on avoiding his notice -- and his
curiosity -- only if they conducted their investigations while he was away, and that
was what Trent's pointed glance at the clock had meant.
The family had returned to the States a full ten days before Lew was scheduled to
begin teaching classes again, but he could no more stay away from the University
once he was back within ten miles of it than a fish could live out of water. He had
left shortly after noon, with a briefcase crammed full of papers he had collected at
various spots of historical interest in England. He said he was going up to file
these papers away. Trent thought that meant he'd cram them into one of his desk
drawers, then lock his office and go down to the History Department's Faculty
Lounge. There he would drink coffee and gossip with his buddies... except, Trent had
discovered, when you were a college teacher, people thought you were dumb if you had
buddies. You were supposed to say they were your colleagues. So he was away, and
that was good, but he might be back at any time between now and five, and that was
bad. Still, they had some time, and Trent was determined they weren't going to spend
it squabbling about who swore what to who.
"Listen to me, you guys," he said, and was gratified to see that they actually were
listening, their differences and recriminations forgotten in the excitement of an
investigation. They had also been caught by Trent's inability to explain what Lissa
had found. All three of them shared, at least to some extent, Brian's simple faith
in Trent -- if Trent was puzzled by something, if Trent thought that something was
strange and just possibly amazing, they all thought so.
Laurie spoke for all of them when she said: "Just tell us what to do, Trent -- we'll
do it."
"Okay," Trent said. "We'll need some things." He took a deep breath and began
explaining what they were.
Once they were convened around the crack at the end of the third-floor hallway,
Trent held Lissa up so she could shine the beam of a small flashlight -- it was the
one their mother used to inspect their ears, eyes, and noses when they weren't
feeling well - into the crack. They could all see the metal; it wasn't shiny enough
to throw back a clear reflection of the beam, but it shone silkily just the same.
Steel, was Trent's opinion -- steel, or some sort of. alloy.
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Stephen King - The House on Maple Street
Stephen King - The House on Maple Street
"What's an alloy, Trent?" Brian asked.
Trent shook his head. He didn't know exactly. He turned to Laurie and asked her to
give him the drill.
Brian and Lissa exchanged an uneasy glance as Laurie passed it over. It had come
from the basement workshop, and the basement was the one remaining place in the
house, which was their real father's. Daddy Lew hadn't been down there a dozen times
since he had married Catherine Bradbury. The smaller children knew that as well as
Trent and Laurie. They weren't afraid Daddy Lew would notice someone had been using
the drill; it was the holes in the wall outside his study they were worried about.
Neither one of them said this out loud, but Trent read it on their troubled faces.
"Look," Trent said, holding the drill out so they could get a good look. "This is
what they call a needle-point drill bit. See how tiny it is? And since we're only
going to drill behind the pictures, I don't think we have to worry."
There were about a dozen framed prints along the third-floor hallway, half of them
beyond the study door, on the way to the closet at the end where the suitcases were
stored. Most of these were very old (and mostly uninteresting) views of Titusville,
where the Bradburys lived.
"He doesn't even look at them, let alone behind them," Laurie agreed.
Brian touched the tip of the drill with one finger, and then nodded. Lissa watched,
then copied both the touch and the nod. If Laurie said something was okay, it
probably was; if Trent said so, it almost certainly was; if they both said so, there
could be no question.
Laurie took down the picture, which hung closest to the small crack in the plaster
and gave it to Brian. Trent drilled. They stood watching him in a tight little
circle of three, like infielders encouraging their pitcher at a particularly tense
moment of the game.
The drill bit went easily into the wall, and the hole it made was every bit as tiny
as promised. The darker square of wallpaper, which had been revealed when Laurie
took the print off its hook, was also encouraging. It suggested that no one had
bothered taking the dark line engraving of the Titusville Public Library off its
hook for a very long time.
After a dozen turns of the drill's handle, Trent stopped and reversed, pulling the
bit free.
"Why'd you quit?" Brian asked.
"Hit something hard."
"More metal?'' Lissa asked.
"I think so. Sure wasn't wood. Let's see." He shone the light in and cocked his head
this way and that before shaking it decisively. "My head's too big. Let's boost
Lissa."
Laurie and Trent lifted her up and Brian handed her the Pen Lite. Lissa squinted for
a time, then said, "Just like in the crack I found."
"Okay," Trent said. "Next picture."
The drill hit metal behind the second, and the third, as well. Behind the fourth --
by this time they were quite close to the door of Lew's study -- it went all the way
in before Trent pulled it out. This time when she was boosted up, Lissa told them
she saw "the pink stuff."
"Yeah, the insulation I told you about," Trent said to Laurie. "Let's try the other
side of the hall."
They had to drill behind four pictures on the east side of the corridor before they
struck first wood-lath and then insulation behind the plaster... and as they were
re-hanging the last picture, they heard the out-of-tune snarl of Lew's elderly
Porsche turning into the driveway.
Brian, who had been in charge of hanging this picture -- he could just reach the
hook on tip-toe -- dropped it. Laurie reached out and grabbed it by the frame on the
way down. A moment later she found herself shaking so badly she had to hand the
picture to Trent, or she would have dropped it herself.
"You hang it," she said, turning a stricken face to her older brother. "I would have
dropped it if I'd been thinking about what I was doing. I really would."
Trent hung the picture, which showed horse-drawn carriages clopping through City
Park, and saw it was hanging slightly askew. He reached out to adjust it, then
pulled back just before his fingers touched the frame. His sisters and his brother
thought he was something like a god; Trent himself was smart enough to know he was
only a kid. But even a kid -- assuming he was a kid with half a brain -- knew that
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Stephen King - The House on Maple Street
when things like this started to go bad, you ought to leave them alone. If he messed
with it anymore, this picture would fall for sure, spraying the floor with broken
glass, and somehow Trent knew it.
"Go!" he whispered. "Downstairs! TV room!" The back door slammed downstairs as Lew
came in. "But it's not straight!" Lissa protested. "Trent, it's not -- " "Never
mind!" Laurie said. "Do what Trent says!" Trent and Laurie looked at each other,
wide-eyed. If Lew went into the kitchen to fix himself a bite to tide himself over
until supper, all still might be well. If he didn't, he would meet Lissa and Brian
on the stairs. One look at them and he'd know something was going on. The two
younger Bradbury children were old enough to close their mouths, but not their
faces. Brian and Lissa went fast.
Trent and Laurie came behind, more slowly, listening. There was a moment of almost
unbearable suspense when the only sounds were the little kids' footsteps on the
stairs, and then Lew bawled up at them from the kitchen: "keep it down, can't you?
Your mother's taking a nap!" And if that doesn't wake her up, Laurie thought,
nothing will.
Late that night, as Trent was drowsing off to sleep, Laurie opened the door of his
room, came in, and sat down beside him on the bed.
"You don't like him, but that's not all," she said.
"Who-wha?" Trent asked, peeling a cautious eyelid.
"Lew," she said quietly. "You know who I mean, Trent."
"Yeah," he said, giving up. "And you're right. I don't like him."
"You're scared of him, too, aren't you?"
After a long, long moment, Trent said: "Yeah. A little."
"Just a little?"
"Maybe a little more than a little," Trent said. He winked at her, hoping for a
smile, but Laurie only looked at him, and Trent gave up. She wasn't going to be
diverted, at least not tonight.
"Why? Do you think he might hurt us?"
Lew shouted at them a lot, but he had never put his hands on them. No, Laurie
suddenly remembered, that wasn't quite true. One time when Brian had walked into his
study without knocking, Lew had given him a spanking. A hard one. Brian had tried
not to cry, but in the end he had. And Mom had cried, too, although she hadn't tried
to stop the spanking. But she must have said something to him later on, because
Laurie had heard Lew shouting at her.
Still, it had been a spanking, not child abuse, and Brian could be an insufferable
cheese-dog when he put his mind to it.
Had he been putting his mind to it that night? Laurie wondered now. Or had Lew
spanked her brother and made him cry over something, which had only been an honest,
little kid's mistake? She didn't know, and had a sudden and unwelcome insight, the
sort of thought that made her think Peter Pan had had the right idea about never
wanting to grow up: she wasn't sure she wanted to know. One thing she did know: who
the real cheese-dog around here was.
She realized Trent hadn't answered her question, and gave him a poke. "Cat got your
tongue?"
"Just thinking," he said. "It's a toughie, you know?"
"Yes," she said soberly. "I know."
This time she let him think.
"Nah," he said at last, and laced his hands together behind his head. "I don't think
so, Sprat." She hated to be called that, but tonight she decided to let it go. She
couldn't remember Trent ever speaking to her this carefully and seriously. "I don't
think he would... but I think he could." He got up on one elbow and looked at her
even more seriously. "But I think he's hurting Mom, and I think it gets a little
worse for her every day."
"She's sorry, isn't she?" Laurie asked. Suddenly she felt like crying. Why were
adults so stupid sometimes about stuff kids could see right away? It made you want
to kick them. "She never wanted to go to England in the first place... and there's
the way he shouts at her sometimes..."
"Don't forget the headaches," Trent said flatly. "The ones he says she talks herself
into. Yeah, she's sorry, all right."
"Would she ever... you know..."
"Divorce him?"
"Yes," Laurie said, relieved. She wasn't sure she could have brought the word out
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