The mechanical roaring sound, which he now recognized as the boiler at the Overlook which Daddy checked three or four times every day, had developed an ominous, rhythmic hitching. It began to sound like…like pounding. And the smell of mildew and wet, rotting paper was changing to something else—the high, junipery smell of the Bad Stuff. It hung around his daddy like a vapor as he reached for the book…and grasped it.
