Read Stephen King's N. for Free Online

necessarily a guy named Ackerman, but maybe—put up that chain and that sign every fall, to discourage hunters. But deer season doesn’t start until November first. Even bird season doesn’t start til October. I think someone watches that field. With binocs, maybe, but maybe with some less normal form of sight. Someone knew I’d been there, and that I might be back.
    “Leave it alone, then!” I told myself. “Unless you want to risk getting arrested for trespassing, maybe get your picture in the Castle Rock Call. That would be good for business, wouldn’t it?”
    But there was no way I was going to stop, not if there was a chance I could go up to that field, see nothing, and consequently feel better. Because—dig this—at the same time I was telling myself that if someone wanted me off his property I ought to respect that person’s wishes, I was counting the letters in that sign and coming out with twenty-three, which is a terrible number, far worse than thirteen. I knew it was crazy to think that way, but I was thinking that way, and some part of me knew it wasn’t a bit crazy.
    I stashed my 4Runner in the Serenity Ridge parking lot, then walked back to the dirt road with the borrowed camera slung over my shoulder in its little zippered case. I went around the chain—it was easy—and walked up the road to the field. Turned out I would’ve had to walk even if the chain hadn’t been there, because there were half a dozen trees lying across the road this time, and not just trashwood birches. Five were good-sized pines, and the last one was a mature oak. They hadn’t just fallen over, either; those babies had been dropped with a chainsaw. They didn’t even slow me down. I climbed over the pines and detoured around the oak. Then I was on the hill climbing to the field. I barely gave the other sign—ACKERMAN’S FIELD, NO HUNTING, KEEP OUT—a glance. I could see the trees drawing back at the crest of the hill, I could see dusty beams of sun shining between the ones nearest the top, and I could see acres and acres of blue sky up there, looking jolly and optimistic. It was midday. There would be no giant riversnake bleeding in the distance, only the Androscoggin I grew up with and have always loved—blue and beautiful, the way ordinary things can be when we see them at their best. I broke into a run. My feeling of crazy optimism lasted all the way to the top, but the minute I saw those stones standing there like fangs, my good feelings fell away. What replaced them was dread and horror.
    There were seven stones again. Just seven. And in the middle of them—I don’t know just how to explain this so you’ll understand—there was a faded place. It wasn’t like a shadow, exactly, but more like…you know how the blue will fade out of your favorite jeans over time? Especially at stress-points like the knees? It was like that. The color of the hay was washed to a greasy lime color, and instead of blue, the sky above that circle of stones looked grayish. I felt that if I walked in there—and part of me wanted to—I could punch out with one fist and tear right through the fabric of reality. And if I did, something would grab me. Something on the other side. I was sure of it.
    Still, something in me wanted to do it. It wanted to…I don’t know…quit the foreplay and get right to the fucking.
    I could see—or thought I could, I’m still not sure about this part—the place where the eighth stone belonged, and I could see that…that fadedness…bulging toward it, trying to get through where the protection of the stones was thin. I was terrified! Because if it got out, every unnamable thing on the other side would be born into our world. The sky would turn black, and it would be full of new stars and insane constellations.
    I unslung the camera, but dropped it on the ground when I tried to unzip the bag it was in. My hands were shaking as if I was having some kind of seizure. I picked up the camera case and unzipped it, and when I looked at the