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Victoria Holt
Plymouth Fury.
“You shine on, boy. Harder than anyone I ever met in my life. And I’m sixty years old this January.”
“Yes,” Danny said. He felt much better, soothed. He got up on his knees, kissed Hallorann’s cheek, and gave him a big hard hug. Hallorann hugged him back.
“Young master Torrance,” Watson said gravely, and put out his hand. Danny, who had known all about handshaking for almost a year now, put his own hand out gingerly and felt it swallowed up. “You take good care of em, Dan.”
“Medoc / are you here? / I’ve been sleepwalking again, my dear. / The plants are moving under the rug.”
(She hounded him to his grave; by the time he divorced her it was too late.)
Algernon Blackwood
whatever walked in Hill House walked alone,
Patrick McGoohan,
Lights and colors, the pop of champagne corks, a forty-piece orchestra playing Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.”
Words turned into a shriek of triumph, and the shriek was swallowed in a shattering roar as the Overlook’s boiler exploded.
They were silent for a time, looking out over the stillness of the lake, Hallorann just thinking. When he looked back at Danny, he saw that his eyes had filled with tears. Putting an arm around him, he said, “What’s this?” “Nothing,” Danny whispered. “You’re missin your dad, aren’t you?” Danny nodded. “You always know.” One of the tears spilled from the corner of his right eye and trickled slowly down his cheek.
They were quiet, watching Danny’s bobber drift around thirty feet out from the end of the dock. Then Danny said, almost too low to be heard, “You’ll be my friend?” “As long as you want me.” The boy held him tight and Hallorann hugged him.
That’s your job in this hard world, to keep your love alive and see that you get on, no matter what. Pull your act together and just go on.”
