The shining by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King [King, Stephen]
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Unread
ISBN: 9780452267220
Publisher: Plume
Published: 1991-10-14T22:00:00+00:00

the man who had dominated Jacky's life, the irrational white ghost-god, was

under ground.

The stone read Mark Anthony Torrance, Loving Father. To that Jack would have

added one line: He Knew How to Play Elevator.

There had been a great lot of insurance money. There are people who collect

insurance as compulsively as others collect coins and stamps, and Mark Torrance

had been that type. The insurance money came in at the same time the monthly

policy payments and liquor bills stopped. For five years they had been rich.

Nearly rich . . .

In his shallow, uneasy sleep his face rose before him as if in a glass, his

face but not his face, the wide eyes and innocent bowed mouth of a boy sitting

in the ball with his trucks, waiting for his daddy, waiting for the white ghost-

god, waiting for the elevator to rise up with dizzying, exhilarating speed

through the salt-and-sawdust mist of exhaled taverns, waiting perhaps for it to

go crashing down, spilling old clocksprings out of his ears while his daddy

roared with laughter, and it

(transformed into Danny's face, so much like his own had been, his eyes had

been light blue while Danny's were cloudy gray, but the lips still made a bow

and the complexion was fair; Danny in his study, wearing training pants, all his

papers soggy and the fine misty smell of beer rising . . . a dreadful batter all

in ferment, rising on the wings of yeast, the breath of taverns . . . snap of

bone . . . his own voice, mewling drunkenly Danny, you okay doc? . . . Oh God oh

God your poor sweet arm . . . and that face transformed into)

(momma's dazed face rising up from below the table, punched and bleeding, and

momma was saying)

("--from your father. I repeat, an enormously important announcement from your

father. Please stay tuned or tune immediately to the Happy Jack frequency.

Repeat, tune immediately to the Happy Hour frequency. I repeat--")

A slow dissolve. Disembodied voices echoing up to him as if along an endless,

cloudy hallway.

(Things keep getting in the way, dear Tommy . . .)

(Medoc, are you here? I've been sleepwalking again, my dear. It's the inhuman

monsters that I fear . . .)

("Excuse me, Mr. Ullman, but isn't this the. . .")

. . . office, with its file cabinets, Ullman's big desk, a blank reservations

book for next year already in place-never misses a trick, that Ullman--all the

keys hanging neatly on their hooks

(except for one, which one, which key, passkey-passkey, passkey, who's got the

passkey? if we went upstairs perhaps we'd see)

and the big two-way radio on its shelf.

He snapped it on. CB transmissions coming in short, crackly bursts. He

switched the band and dialed across bursts of music, news, a preacher haranguing

a softly moaning congregation, a weather report. And another voice which he

dialed back to. It was his father's voice.

"--kill him. You have to kill him, Jacky, and her, too. Because a real artist

must suffer. Because each man kills the thing he loves. Because they'll always

be conspiring against you, trying to hold you back and drag you down. Right this

minute that boy of yours is in where he shouldn't be.

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