Misery

the picture accompanying the obit was even grainier and fuzzier than usual, Paul saw that Paulette Simeaux made “Queenie” Beaulifant look like Thumbelina. He thought her illness might have been short indeed — a thunderclap coronary, say, followed by a trip to Saint Joe’s, followed by… followed by what? Exactly what?
He really didn’t want to think about the specifics… but all three obits identified Saint Joseph’s as the place of expiration.
And if we looked at the nurses” register for March 1969, would we find the name WILKES? Friends, does a bear go cockadoodie in the woods?
This book, dear God, this book was so big.
No more, please. I don’t want to look at any more. I’ve got the idea. I’m going to put this book down exactly where I found it. Then I am going into my room. I guess I don’t want to write after all; I think I’ll just take an extra pill and go to bed. Call it nightmare insurance. But no farther down Annie’s Memory Lane, if you please. Please, if you please.
But his hands seemed to have a mind and a will of their own; they kept on turning the pages, faster and faster.
Two more brief death notices in the Union-Leader, one in late September of 1969, one in early October.
March 19th, 1970. This one was from the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Herald. A back page. NEW HOSPITAL STAFF ANNOUNCED. There was a photo of a balding, bespectacled man who looked to Paul like the type of fellow who might eat boogers in secret. The article noted that in addition to the new publicity director (the balding, bespectacled fellow), twenty others had joined the staff of Riverview Hospital: two doctors, eight R.N.”s, assorted kitchen staff, orderlies, and a janitor.
Annie was one of the R.N.”s.
On the next page, Paul thought, I am going to see a brief death notice for an elderly man or woman who expired at Riverview Hospital in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Correct. An old duffer who had died of that all-time favorite” Long Illness.
Followed by an elderly man who had died of that perennial bridesmaid, Short Illness.
Followed by a child of three who had fallen down a well, sustained grievous head injuries, and been brought to Riverview in a coma.
Numbly, Paul continued to turn the pages while the wind and rain drove against the house. The pattern was inescapable. She got a job, killed some people, and moved on.
Suddenly an image came, one from a dream his conscious mind had already forgotten, which thus gained the delphic resonance of deja vu. He saw Annie Wilkes in a long aproned dress, her hair covered with a mobcap, an Annie who looked like a nurse in London’s Bedlam Hospital. She held a basket over one arm. She dipped into it. Brought out sand and flung it into the upturned faces she passed. This was not the soothing sand of sleep but poisoned sand. It was killing them. When it struck them their faces went white and the lines on the machines monitoring their precarious fives went flat.
Maybe she killed the Krenmitz kids because they “were brats… and her roommate… maybe even her own father. But these others?
But he knew. The Annie in him knew. Old and sick. All of them had been old and sick except Mrs Simeaux, and she must have been nothing but a vegetable when she came in. Mrs Simeaux and the kid who had fallen down the well. Annie had killed them because — “Because they were rats in a trap,” he whispered.
Poor things. Poor poor things.
Sure. That was it. In Annie’s view all the people in the world were divided into three groups: brats, poor poor things… and Annie.
She had moved steadily westward. Harrisburg to Pittsburgh to Duluth to Fargo. Then, in 1978, to Denver. In each case the pattern was the same: a “welcome aboard” article in which Annie’s name was mentioned among others (she had missed the Manchester “welcome aboard” probably because, Paul guessed, she hadn’t known that local newspapers printed such things), then two or three unremarkable deaths. Following these, the cycle would start again.
Until Denver, that was.
At first, it seemed the same. There was the NEW ARRIVALS article, this time clipped from the in-house newspaper of Denver’s Receiving Hospital, with Annie’s name mentioned. The in-house paper was identified, in Annie’s neat hand, as The Gurney. “Great name for a hospital paper,” Paul told the empty room. “Surprised no one thought of calling it The Stool Sample.” He donkeyed more terrified laughter, all unaware. Turned the page, and here was the first obit, cut from the Rocky Mountain News. Laura D. Rothberg. Long illness. September 21st, 1978. Denver Receiving Hospital.
Then the pattern broke wide open.
The next page announced a wedding instead of a funeral. The photo showed Annie, not in her uniform