The Shining (The Shining, #1)

by Stephen King

“No trouble,” he said. “The boiler’s okay and I haven’t even gotten around to murdering my wife yet. I’m saving that until after the holidays, when things get dull.”

Inside its shell the three of them went about their early evening routine, like microbes trapped in the intestine of a monster.

Wendy, sitting in the bedroom and knitting a scarf, thought to herself that she knew exactly what the skiers could do with all that snow. She knew exactly where they could put it.

Daddy, it was her. Jack looked slowly up into Wendy’s face. His eyes were like small silver coins. “Wendy?” Voice soft, nearly purring. “Wendy, what did you do to him?” Wendy stared back at him in stunned disbelief, her face pallid. She shook her head. “Oh Jack, you must know—” Outside it had begun to snow again.

When he woke up he was standing in the bathroom of 217.

He found himself wishing that Wendy would ask him about the hedges, would ask him what Danny meant when he said You know because you saw—If she did, he would tell her everything. Everything. The hedges, the woman in the room, even about the fire hose that seemed to have switched positions. But where did confession stop? Could he tell her he’d thrown the magneto away, that they could all be down in Sidewinder right now if he hadn’t done that?

In the Overlook all things had a sort of life. It was as if the whole place had been wound up with a silver key. The clock was running. The clock was running.

“I want to see the manager. I…I don’t think he understands. My son is not a part of this. He…” “Mr. Torrance,” Lloyd said, his voice coming with hideous gentleness from inside his plague-riddled face, “you will meet the manager in due time. He has, in fact, decided to make you his agent in this matter. Now drink your drink.” “Drink your drink,” they all echoed.

“I believe you must take it up further with your son, Mr. Torrance, sir. He understands everything, although he hasn’t enlightened you. Rather naughty of him, if I may be so bold, sir. In fact, he’s crossed you at almost every turn, hasn’t he? And him not yet six.”

There was a flat snap as the bolt was drawn back. The door shivered open a quarter of an inch. Jack’s words and breath halted. For a moment he felt that death itself was outside that door.

Standing on top of it was a martini glass, a fifth of gin, and a plastic dish filled with olives. Leaning against it was one of the roque mallets from the equipment shed. He looked at it for a long time.

Then a voice, much deeper and much more powerful than Grady’s, spoke from somewhere, everywhere…from inside him. (Keep your promise, Mr. Torrance.) “I will,” he said. He heard the fawning servility in his own voice but was unable to control it. “I will.” He walked to the chopping block and put his hand on the handle of the mallet. He hefted it. Swung it. It hissed viciously through the air. Jack Torrance began to smile.

Aaaomggg

It shrieked; it shrieked but now it was voiceless and it was only screaming panic and doom and damnation in its own ear, dissolving, losing thought and will, the webbing falling apart, searching, not finding, going out, going out to, fleeing, going out to emptiness, notness, crumbling. The party was over.

Hallorann and Danny and Wendy reached them fifteen minutes later. They had brought extra clothes and brandy and Dr. Edmonds. And the long darkness was over.

He put an arm around Danny’s shoulders and the boy reeled the fish in, little by little. Wendy sat down on Danny’s other side and the three of them sat on the end of the dock in the afternoon sun.