Gerald's Game

by Stephen King

Get down, Disco Gerald! Jessie thought wildly. Never mind the Chicken or the Shag—do the Dog!

Dreams on waking were like the empty cocoons of moths or the split-open husks of milkweed pods, dead shells where life had briefly swirled in furious but fragile storm-systems.

Men and women alone in the dark are like open doors, Jessie, and if they call out or scream for help, who knows what dread things may answer? Who knows what some men and women have seen in the hour of their solitary deaths? Is it so hard to believe that some of them may have died of fear, no matter what the words on the death certificates say?

It seemed to her that only adults could combine emotions in so many daffy ways—if feelings were food, adult feelings would be things like chocolate-covered steak, mashed potatoes with pineapple bits, Special K with chili powder sprinkled on it instead of sugar. Jessie thought that being an adult seemed more like a punishment than a reward.

This black being could not be conjured away by anything with an ology suffix. It was a cosmic wildcard.