Stephen King
Just After Sunset
For Heidi Pitlor
“I can fancy what you saw. Yes; it is horrible enough; but after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played… Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint, poetic fancy, to some a foolish tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form. Oh, Austin, how can it be? How is it that the very sunlight does not turn to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath such a burden?”
Arthur Machen
Introduction
One day in 1972, I came home from work and found my wife sitting at the kitchen table with a pair of gardening shears in front of her. She was smiling, which suggested I wasn’t in too much trouble; on the other hand, she said she wanted my wallet. That didn’t sound good.
Nevertheless, I handed it over. She rummaged out my Texaco gasoline credit card-such things were routinely sent to young marrieds then-and proceeded to cut it into three large pieces. When I protested that the card had been very handy, and we always made at least the minimum payment at the end of the month (sometimes more), she only shook her head and told me that the interest charges were more than our fragile household economy could bear.
“Better to remove the temptation,” she said. “I already cut up mine.”
And that was that. Neither of us carried a credit card for the next two years.
She was right to do it, smart to do it, because at the time we were in our early twenties and had two kids to take care of; financially, we were just keeping our heads above water.