Sheriff Pangborn's still mourning his wife and younger child, who died untimely, and it was a sure-enough tragedy, but he'll get over it in time. Polly Chalmers's arthritis isn't getting any better-in fact, it's getting worse, a little at a time-and she may not get over it, but she'll learn to live with it. Millions have.
We bump up against each other every now and then, but mostly things go along all right. Or always have, until now. But I have to tell you a real secret, my friend; it's mostly why I called you over once I saw you were back in town. I think trouble-real trouble is on its way. I smell it, just over the horizon, like an out-of-season storm full of lightning. The argument between the Baptists and the Catholics over Casino Nite, the kids who tease poor Slopey about his stutter, John LaPointe's torch, Sheriff Pangborn's grief... think those things are going to look like pretty small potatoes next to what is coming.
See that building across Main Street? The one three doors up from the vacant lot where the Emporium Galorium used to stand?
Got a green canopy in front of it? Yup, that's the one. The windows are all soaped over because it's not quite open yet. NEEDFUL THINGS, the sign says-now just what the dog does that mean? I dunno, either, but that's where the bad feeling seems to come from.
Right there.
Look up the street one more time. You see that boy, don't you?
The one who's walking his bike and looks like he's havin the sweetest daydream any boy ever had? Keep your eye on him, friend.
I think he's the one who's gonna get it started.
No, I told you, I dunno what... not exactly. But watch that kid. And stick around town for a little while, would you? Things just feel wrong, and if something happens, it might be just as well if there was a witness.
I know that kid-the one who's pushin his bike. Maybe you do, too.
His name's Brian-something. His dad installs siding and doors over in Oxford or South Paris, I think.
Keep an eye on him, I tell you. Keep an eye on everything.
You've been here before, but things are about to change.
I know it.
I feel it.
There's a storm on the way.
CHAPTER ONE
1
In a small town, the opening of a new store is big news. it wasn't as big a deal to Brian Rusk as it was to some; his mother, for instance. He had heard her discussing it (he wasn't supposed to call it gossiping, she had told him, because gossiping was a dirty habit and she didn't do it) at some length on the telephone with her best friend, Myra Evans, over the last month or so.
The first workmen had arrived at the old building which had last housed Western Maine Realty and Insurance right around the time school let in again, and they had been busily at work ever since.
Not that anyone had much idea what they were up to in there; their first act had been to put in a large display window, and their second had been to soap it opaque.
Two weeks ago a sign had appeared in the doorway, hung on a string over a plastic see-through suction-cup.
OPENING SOON!
the sign read.
NEEDFUL THINGS A NEW KIND OF STORE "You won't believe your eyes!"
"It'll be just another antique shop," Brian's mother said to Myra.
Cora Rusk had been reclining on the sofa at the time, holding the telephone with one hand and eating chocolate-covered cherries with the other while she watched Santa Barbara on the TV. "Just another antique shop with a lot of phony early American furniture and moldy old crank telephones. You wait and see."
That had been shortly after the new display window had been first installed and then soaped over, and his mother spoke with such assurance that Brian should have felt sure the subject was closed.
Only with his mother, no subject ever seemed to be completely closed. Her speculations and suppositions seemed as endless as the problems of the characters on Santa Barbara and General Hospital, Last week the first line of the sign hanging in the door was changed to read:
GRAND OPENING OCTOBER 9TH-BRING YOUR FRIENDS!
Brian was not as interested in the new store as his mother (and some of the teachers; he had heard them talking about it in the teachers' room at Castle Rock Middle School when it was his turn to be Office Mailman), but he was eleven, and a healthy eleven-year-old boy is interested in anything new. Besides, the name of the place fascinated him. Needful Things: what, exactly, did that mean?
He had read the changed first line last Tuesday, on his way home from school. Tuesday afternoons were his late days. Brian had been born with a harelip, and although it had been surgically corrected when he was seven, he still had to go to speech therapy.
He maintained stoutly to everyone who asked that he hated this, but he did not. He was deeply and hopelessly in love with Miss Ratcliffe, and he waited all week for his special ed class to come around. The Tuesday schoolday seemed to last a thousand years, and he always spent the last two hours of it with pleasant butterflies in his stomach.