She had her cane in one hand and a morning pick-me-up in the other.
She flumped into her easy chair with a fart and a sigh and fired up the television.
Those Coates women had really made something of themselves.
Credit: Off the Shelf/YouTube
Magda didn’t presume to understand the pressures that they operated under.
The news anchor on duty this morning was George Alderson.
He looked like a mortuary attendant.
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Also, he had an unfortunate voice for a TV person.
Well, Magda supposed there was a reason NewsAmerica was number three behind FOX and CNN.
She was eager for the day when Michaela would move up to one of those.
When it happened, Magda wouldn’t have to put up with Alderson anymore.
The expression on his face attempted to combine concern with skepti- cism but landed closer to constipated.
Go Turtle Wax your head, George, and get out of the way for my Michaela.
Here’s Michaela Morgan with more."
“Little Mickey Coates!
I changed your poopy diapers, you little kook, and look at you now!”
Magda thought those short skirts served Mickey very well.
Not always, mind you, but sometimes.
On the issue of Michaela’s new nose, Magda was conflicted.
On the other hand, she did look terrific!
You couldn’t take your eyes off her.
Almost a hundred patients are housed here, most geriatric, and over half of them female.
He spoke on condition of anonymity.
Here he is."
The taped interview was indeed brief little more than a sound bite.
“What’s going on in there?”
“Can you fill us in?”
“It’s just like in Hawaii.”
“Butthemen…?”
“The men are dandy.
Up and eating their breakfast.”
“In Hawaii there have been some reports ofgrowths, on the faces of the sleeping women.
Is that the case here?”
don’t think I should talk about that."
Michaela batted her eyes.
“Peo- ple are concerned.”
“That’s it!”
Magda croaked, saluting the television with her drink and slopping a bit more on her cardigan.
“Not growths in the tumor sense,” the overlord voice said.
“It looks more like they’ve got cotton stuck to em.
Now I gotta go.”
“Just one more question”
“I gotta go.
That cot- ton stuff.
As glad as Magda was to have seen Mickey, she hoped the story wasn’t true.
like Mickey said, that was disquieting.
She would be glad when Anton got home.
It was lonely with only the TV for company, not that she was one to complain.
Magda wasn’t about to worry her hardworking boy, no, no.
Had someone done this to her?
Had she done it to herself?
Was it some kind of bizarre accident?
Some crazy beauty treatment gone wrong?
It was confounding, it was scary, and Anton didn’t want to lose his mother.
A low grumble began to come from inside her throat, almost a snore.
Her eyelids were working, trembling from the movement of her eyes beneath the skin.
Her lips opened and shut.
A little spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth.
Can you wake up for me?”
It seemed she could, because her eyes opened.
Blood clouded the pupils, wafting across the sclera.
She blinked several times.
Her gaze shifted around the room.
Anton slipped an arm under his mother’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position in the bed.
The noise from her throat grew louder; not a snore now but more like a growl.
Should I call an ambulance?
You want an ambulance?
You want me to get a glass of water for you?"
The questions came out in a rush.
Anton was relieved, though.
She continued to look around the bedroom, seeming to regain her bearings.
The growling noise was louder.
It was like she was building up to a yell or maybe a scream.
Was it possible she didn’t recognize him?
“No thanks to you, ha-ha.
You forget to make it, you goose.”
Anton tumbled back- ward, feeling pain and wet and bafflement.
He landed on his knees.
His sight focused on a green splatter on the beige carpet beneath him.
Red dripped into the green.
There was a sharper crack upon impact the thick plastic of the blender jar splitting.
Anton’s face slammed forward into the shake splatter on the bristly mat of the beige carpet.
Excerpted from SLEEPING BEAUTIES by Stephen King and Owen King.
Copyright 2017 by Stephen King and Owen King.
Reprinted with permission of Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
