TO BENEFIT THE CATHOLIC BUILDERS’ FUND “Where did you find these pamphlets, Don?” Len Milliken asked in a rumbling, ominous voice.
“And this collar?”
“Somebody put them inside the main doors,” Don said, “just before everything went to he-” The vestibule door boomed again, making them all jump, only this time it was not opening but closing.
“Hope you like the smell, you Baptist faggots!” someone shouted.
This was followed by a burst of shrill, nasty laughter.
The congregation stared at Rev. William Rose with frightened eyes. He stared back at them with eyes which were equally frightened.
And that was when the box hidden ill the choir suddenly began to hiss.
Like the box placed in the Daughters of Isabella Hall by the late Myrtle Keeton, this one (planted by Sonny jackett, now also late) contained a timer which had ticked all afternoon.
Clouds of incredibly potent stink began to pour out of the grilles set into the sides of the box.
At The United Baptist Church of Castle Rock, the fun had just begun.
3
Babs Miller skulked along the side of the Daughters of Isabella Hall, freezing in place each time a blue-white flash of lightning smoked across the sky. She had a crowbar in one hand and one of Mr.
Gaunt’s automatic pistols in the other. The music box she had bought at Needful Things was tucked into one pocket of the man’s overcoat she wore, and if anyone tried to steal it, that person was going to eat an ounce or so of lead.
Who would want to do such a low, nasty, mean thing? Who would want to steal the music box before Babs could even find out what tune it played?
Well, she thought, let’s just put it this way-I hope Cyndi Rose Martin doesn’t show her face in front of mine tonight. If she does, she isn’t ever going to show her face again anywhere-not on this side of hell, anyway. What does she think I am… stupid?
Meanwhile, she had a little trick to perform. A prank. At Mr.
Gaunt’s request, of course.
Do you know Betsy Vigue? Mr. Gaunt had asked. You do, don’t you?
Of course she did. She had known Betsy ever since grade school, when they were often hall-monitors together and inseparable comrades.
Good. Watch through the window. She will sit down. She will pick up a piece of paper, and see something beneath it.
What? Babs had asked, curious.
Never mind what. If you ever expect to find the key that unlocks the music box, you had better just shut your mouth and open your ears-do you understand, dear?
She had understood. She understood something else, as well.
Mr. Gaunt was a scary man sometimes. A very scary man.
She’ll pick up the thing she’s found. She’ll examine it. She’ll begin to open i’t. By then you should be by the door to the building.
Walt until e eryone looks around toward the left rear of the hall.
Babs had wanted to ask why they would all do that, but decided it would be safer not to ask.
When they turn to look, you will slip the crowbar’s split end under the doorknob. Prop the other end against the ground. Wedge it firmly.
When do I shout? Babs had asked.
You’ll know. They’ll all look like somebody stuck Flit-guns full of red pepper up thef’r butts, Do you remember what you’re supposed to shout, Babs?
She had. It seemed like sort of a mean trick to pull on Betsy Vigue, with whom she had skipped hand-in-hand to school, but it also seemed harmless (well… fairly harmless), and they were not children anymore, she and the little girl she had for some reason always called Betty La-La; all of that had been a long time ago. And, as Mr. Gaunt had pointed out, no one would ever connect it with her. Why should they? Babs and her husband were, after all, Seventh-Day Adventists, and as far as she was concerned, the Catholics and the Baptists deserved just what they got-Betty La -La included.
Lightning flashed. Babs froze, then scurried a window closer to the door, peering in to make sure Betsy wasn’t sitting down at the head table yet.
And the first hesitant drops of that mighty storm began to patter down around her.
4
The stench which began to fill the Baptist Church was like the stench which had clung to Don Hemphill… but a thousand times worse.
“Oh shit.'’ Don roared. He had completely forgotten where he was, and remembering probably wouldn’t have changed his language much.
“They’ve set one up here, too! Out! Out! Everybody out!”
“Move!” Nan Roberts bellowed in her lusty rush-hour-at-thediner baritone. “Move! Boss your freight, folks!”
They could all see where the stink was coming from-thick runners of whitish-yellow smog were pouring over the choir’s waist high railing and through the diamond-shaped cut-outs in the low panels. The side door was just beneath the choir balcony, but no one thought of going in that direction. A stench that strong would kill you… but first your eyeballs would pop and your hair would fall out and your asshole would seal itself shut in outraged horror.
The Baptist Anti-Gambling Christian Soldiers of Castle Rock became a routed army in less than five seconds. They stampeded toward the vestibule at the back of the church, screaming and gagging. One of the pews was overturned and hit the floor with a loud bang. Deborah johnstone’s foot was pinned beneath it, and Norman Harper struck her broadside while she was struggling to pull it free.
Deborah fell over and there was a loud crack as her ankle broke.
She shrieked with pain, her foot still caught under the pew, but her cries went unheeded among so many others.
Rev. Rose was closest to the choir, and the stink closed over his head like a large, smelly mask. This is the smell of Catholics burning in hell, he thought confusedly, and leaped from the pulpit.
He landed squarely on Deborah Johnstone’s midriff with both feet, and her shrieks became a long, choked wheeze that trailed away to nothing as she passed out. Rev. Rose, unaware that he had just knocked one of his most faithful parishioners unconscious, clawed his way toward the back of the church.
Those who reached the vestibule doors first discovered there was no escape to he had that way; the doors had been locked shut somehow.
Before they could turn back, these leaders of the proposed exodus were smashed flat against the locked doors by those behind them.
Screams, roars of outrage, and furious curses blued the air. And as the rain started outside, the vomiting began inside.
5
Betsy Vigue took her place at the Chairwoman’s table between the American flag and the Infant of Prague banner. She rapped her knuckles for order, and the ladies-about forty in all-began to take their seats.
Outside, thunder banged across the sky. There were little screams and nervous laughter.
“I call this meeting of the Daughters of Isabella to order,” Betsy said, and picked up her agenda. “We’ll begin, as usual, by reading-” She stopped. There was a white business envelope lying on the table.
It had been beneath her agenda. The words typed on it glared up at her.
Them, she thought. Those Baptists. Those ugly, nasty, smallminded people.
“Betsy?” Naomi jessup asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “I think so.”
She tore the envelope open. A sheet of paper slid out. Typed on it was the following message:
