Five minutes. The kitchen was cold and deserted under the overhead fluorescent bars. She went to the rack where the carving knives hung from their magnetized strips. She took the longest and sharpest, wrapped it in a dish towel, and left the kitchen, turning off the lights as she went. Danny sat on the stairs, his eyes following the course of his red rubber ball from hand to hand. He sang She lives on the twentieth floor uptown, the elevator is broken down. So I walk onetwo flight three flight four  (Lou, Lou, skip to m Lou) His singing broke off. He listened. (Skip to m Lou my daarlin) The voice was in his head, so much a part of him, so frighteningly close that it might have been a part of his own thoughts. It was soft and infinitely sly. Mocking him. Seeming to say (Oh yes, youll like it here. Try it, youll like it. Try it, youll liiiiiike it) Now his ears were open and he could hear them again, the gathering, ghosts or spirits or maybe the hotel itself, a dreadful funhouse where all the sideshows ended in death, where all the specially painted boogies were really alive, where hedges walked, where a small silver key could start the obscenity. Soft and sighing, rustling like the endless winter wind that played under the eaves at night, the deadly lulling wind the summer tourists never heard. It was like the somnolent hum of summer wasps in a ground nest, sleepy, deadly, beginning to wake up. They were ten thousand feet high. (Why is a raven like a writing desk? The higher the fewer, of course! Have another cup of tea!) It was a living sound, but not voices, not breath. A man of a philosophical bent might have called it the sound of souls. Dick Halloranns Nana, who had grown up on southern roads in the years before the turn of the century, would have called it haants. A psychic investigator might have had a long name for itpsychic echo, psychokinesis, a telesmic sport. But to Danny it was only the sound of the hotel, the old monster, creaking steadily and ever more closely around them halls that now stretched back through time as well as distance, hungry shadows, unquiet guests who did not rest easy. In the darkened ballroom the clock under glass struck seventhirty with a single musical note. A hoarse voice, made brutal with drink, shouted Unmask and lets fuck! Wendy, halfway across the lobby, jerked to a standstill. She looked at Danny on the stairs, still tossing the ball from hand to hand. Did you hear something? Danny only looked at her and continued to toss the ball from hand to hand. There would be little sleep for them that night, although they slept together behind a locked door. And in the dark, his eyes open, Danny thought (He wants to be one of them and live forever. Thats what he wants.) Wendy thought (If I have to, Ill take him farther up. If were going to die Id rather do it in the mountains.) She had left the butcher knife, still wrapped in the towel, under the bed. She kept her hand close to it. They dozed off and on. The hotel creaked around them. Outside snow had begun to spit down from a sky like lead. CHAPTER FORTY IN THE BASEMENT (!!! The boiler the goddam boiler !!!) The thought came into Jack Torrances mind fullblown, edged in bright, warning red. On its heels, the voice of Watson (If you forget itll just creep an creep and like as not you an your fambly will end up on the fuckin moon  shes rated for twofifty but shed blow long before that now  Id be scared to come down and stand next to her at a hundred and eighty.) Hed been down here all night, poring over the boxes of old records, possessed by a frantic feeling that time was getting short and he would have to hurry. Still the vital clues, the connections that would make everything clear, eluded him. His fingers were yellow and grimy with crumbling old paper. And hed become so absorbed he hadnt checked the boiler once. Hed dumped it the previous evening around six oclock, when he first came down. It was now  He looked at his watch and jumped up, kicking over a stack of old invoices. Christ, it was quarter of five in the morning. Behind him, the furnace kicked on. The boiler was making a groaning, whistling sound. He ran to it. His face, which had become thinner in the last month or so, was now heavily shadowed with beard stubble and he had a hollow concentrationcamp look. The boiler pressure gauge stood at two hundred and ten pounds per square inch. He fancied he could almost see the sides of the old patched and welded boiler heaving out with the lethal strain. (She creeps  Id be scared to come down and stand next to her at a hundred and eighty ) Suddenly a cold and tempting inner voice spoke to him. (Let it go. Go get Wendy and Danny and get the fuck out of here. Let it blow skyhigh.) He could visualize the explosion. A double thunderclap that would first rip the heart from this place, then the soul. The boiler would go with an orangeviolet flash that would rain hot and burning shrapnel all over the cellar. In his mind he could see the redhot trinkets of metal careening from floor to walls to ceiling like strange billiard balls, whistling jagged death through the air. Some of them, surely, would whizz right through that stone arch, light on the old papers on the other side, and they would burn merry hell. Destroy the secrets, burn the clues, its a mystery no living hand will ever solve. Then the gas explosion, a great rumbling crackle of flame, a giant pilot light that would turn the whole center of the hotel into a broiler. Stairs and hallways and ceilings and rooms aflame like the castle in the last reel of a Frankenstein movie. The flames spreading into the wings, hurrying up the blackandbluetwined carpets like eager guests. The silk wallpaper charring and curling. There were no sprinklers, only those outmoded hoses and no one to use them. And there wasnt a fire engine in the world that could get here before late March. Burn, baby, burn. In twelve hours there would be nothing left but the bare bones. The needle on the gauge had moved up to twotwelve. The boiler was creaking and groaning like an old woman trying to get out of bed. Hissing jets of steam had begun to play around the edges of old patches; beads of solder had begun to sizzle. He didnt see, he didnt hear. Frozen with his hand on the valve that would dump off the pressure and damp the fire, Jacks eyes glittered from their sockets like sapphires. (Its my last chance.) The only thing not cashed in now was the life insurance policy he had taken out jointly with Wendy in the summer between his first and second year at Stovington. Fortythousanddollar death benefit, double indemnity if he or she died in a train crash, a plane crash, or a fire. Sevencomeeleven, die the secret death and win a hundred dollars. (A fire  eighty thousand dollars.) They would have time to get out. Even if they were sleeping, they would have time to get out. He believed that. And he didnt think the hedges or anything else would try to hold them back if the Overlook was going up in flames. (Flames.) The needle inside the greasy, almost opaque dial had danced up to two hundred and fifteen pounds per square inch. Another memory occurred to him, a childhood memory. There had been a wasps nest in the lower branches of their apple tree behind the house. One of his older brothershe couldnt remember which one nowhad been stung while swinging in the old tire Daddy had hung from one of the trees lower branches. It had been late summer, when wasps tend to be at their ugliest. Their father, just home from work, dressed in his whites, the smell of beer hanging around his face in a fine mist, had gathered all three boys, Brett, Mike, and little Jacky, and told them he was going to get rid of the wasps. Now watch, he had said, smiling and staggering a little (he hadnt been using the cane then; the collision with the milk truck was years in the future). Maybe youll learn something. My father showed me this. He had raked a big pile of raindampened leaves under the branch where the wasps nest rested, a deadlier fruit than the shrunken but tasty apples their tree usually produced in late September, which was then still half a month away. He lit the leaves. The day was clear and windless. The leaves smoldered but didnt really burn, and they made a smella fragrancethat had echoed back to him each fall when men in Saturday pants and light Windbreakers raked leaves together and burned them. A sweet smell with a bitter undertone, rich and evocative. The smoldering leaves produced great rafts of smoke that drifted up to obscure the nest. Their father had let the leaves smolder all that afternoon, drinking beer on the porch and dropping the empty Black Label cans into his wifes plastic floorbucket while his two older sons flanked him and little Jacky sat on the steps at his feet, playing with his Bolo Bouncer and singing monotonously over and over Your cheating heart  will make you weep  your cheating heart  is gonna tell on you. At quarter of six, just before supper, Daddy had gone out to the apple tree with his sons grouped carefully behind him. In one hand he had a garden hoe. He knocked the leaves apart, leaving little clots spread around to smolder and die. Then he reached the hoe handle up, weaving and blinking, and after two or three tries he knocked the nest to the ground. The boys fled for the safety of the porch, but Daddy only stood over the nest, swaying and blinking down at it. Jacky crept back to see. A few wasps were crawling sluggishly over the paper terrain of their property, but they were not trying to fly. From the inside of the nest, the black and alien place, came a nevertobeforgotten sound a low, somnolent buzz, like the sound of hightension wires. Why dont they try to sting you, Daddy? he had asked. The smoke makes em drunk, Jacky. Go get my gascan. He ran to fetch it. Daddy doused the nest with amber gasoline. Now step away, Jacky, unless you want to lose your eyebrows. He had stepped away. From somewhere in the voluminous folds of his white overblouse, Daddy had produced a wooden kitchen match. He lit it with his thumbnail and flung it onto the nest. There had been a whiteorange explosion, almost soundless in its ferocity. Daddy had stepped away, cackling wildly. The wasps nest had gone up in no time. Fire, Daddy had said, turning to Jacky with a smile. Fire will kill anything. After supper the boys had come out in the days waning light to stand solemnly around the charred and blackened nest. From the hot interior had come the sound of wasp bodies popping like corn. The pressure gauge stood at twotwenty. A low iron wailing sound was building up in the guts of the thing. Jets of steam stood out erect in a hundred places like porcupine quills. (Fire will kill anything.) Jack suddenly started. He had been dozing off  and he had almost dozed himself right into kingdom come. What in Gods name had he been thinking of? Protecting the hotel was his job. He was the caretaker. A sweat of terror sprang to his hands so quickly that at first he missed his grip on the large valve. Then he curled his fingers around its spokes. He whirled it one turn, two, three. There was a giant hiss of steam, dragons breath. A warm tropical mist rose from beneath the boiler and veiled him. For a moment he could no longer see the dial but thought he must have waited too long; the groaning, clanking sound inside the boiler increased, followed by a series of heavy rattling sounds and the wrenching screech of metal. When some of the steam blew away he saw that the pressure gauge had dropped back to two hundred and was still sinking. The jets of steam escaping around the soldered patches began to lose their force. The wrenching, grinding sounds began to diminish. Oneninety  oneeighty  one seventyfive  (He was going downhill, going ninety miles an hour, when the whistle broke into a scream) But he didnt think it would blow now. The press was down to onesixty. (they found him in the wreck with his hand on the throttle, he was scalded to death by the steam.) He stepped away from the boiler, breathing hard, trembling. He looked at his hands and saw that blisters were already rising on his palms. Hell with the blisters, he thought, and laughed shakily. He had almost died with his hand on the throttle, like Casey the engineer in The Wreck of the Old 97. Worse still, he would have killed the Overlook. The final crashing failure. He had failed as a teacher, a writer, a husband, and a father. He had even failed as a drunk. But you couldnt do much better in the old failure category than to blow up the building you were supposed to be taking care of. And this was no ordinary building, by no means. Christ, but he needed a drink. The press had dropped down to eighty psi. Cautiously, wincing a little at the pain in his hands, he closed the dump valve again. But from now on the boiler would have to be watched more closely than ever. It might have been seriously weakened. He wouldnt trust it at more than one hundred psi for the rest of the winter. And if they were a little chilly, they would just have to grin and bear it. He had broken two of the blisters. His hands throbbed like rotten teeth. A drink. A drink would fix him up, and there wasnt a thing in the goddamn house besides cooking sherry. At this point a drink would be medicinal. That was just it, by God. An anesthetic. He had done his duty and now he could use a little anestheticsomething stronger than Excedrin. But there was nothing. He remembered bottles glittering in the shadows. He had saved the hotel. The hotel would want to reward him. He felt sure of it. He took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and went to the stairs. He rubbed at his mouth. Just a little drink. Just one. To ease the pain. He had served the Overlook, and now the Overlook would serve him. He was sure of it. His feet on the stair risers were quick and eager, the hurrying steps of a man who has come home from a long and bitter war. It was 520 A.M., MST. CHAPTER FORTYONE DAYLIGHT Danny awoke with a muffled gasp from a terrible dream. There had been an explosion. A fire. The Overlook was burning up. He and his mommy were watching it from the front lawn. Mommy had said Look, Danny, look at the hedges. He looked at them and they were all dead. Their leaves had turned a suffocant brown. The tightly packed branches showed through like the skeletons of halfdismembered corpses. And then his daddy had burst out of the Overlooks big double doors, and he was burning like a torch. His clothes were in flames, his skin had acquired a dark and sinister tan that was growing darker by the moment, his hair was a burning bush. That was when he woke up, his throat tight with fear, his hands clutching at the sheet and blankets. Had he screamed? He looked over at his mother. Wendy lay on her side, the blankets up to her chin, a sheaf of strawcolored hair lying against her cheek. She looked like a child herself. No, he hadnt screamed. Lying in bed, looking upward, the nightmare began to drain away. He had a curious feeling that some great tragedy (fire? explosion?) had been averted by inches. He let his mind drift out, searching for his daddy, and found him standing somewhere below. In the lobby. Danny pushed a little harder, trying to get inside his father. It was not good. Because Daddy was thinking about the Bad Thing. He was thinking how (good just one or two would be i dont care suns over the yardarm somewhere in the world remember how we used to say that al? gin and tonic bourbon with just a dash of bitters scotch and soda rum and coke tweedledum and tweedledee a drink for me and a drink for thee the martians have landed somewhere in the world princeton or houston or stokely on carmichael some fucking place after all tis the season and none of us are) (GET OUT OF HIS MIND, YOU LITTLE SHIT!) He recoiled in terror from that mental voice, his eyes widening, his hands tightening into claws on the counterpane. It hadnt been the voice of his father but a clever mimic. A voice he knew. Hoarse, brutal, yet underpointed with a vacuous sort of humor. Was it so near, then? He threw the covers back and swung his feet out onto the floor. He kicked his slippers out from under the bed and put them on. He went to the door and pulled it open and hurried up to the main corridor, his slippered feet whispering on the nap of the carpet runner. He turned the corner. There was a man on all fours halfway down the corridor, between him and the stairs. Danny froze. The man looked up at him. His eyes were tiny and red. He was dressed in some sort of silvery, spangled costume. A dog costume, Danny realized. Protruding from the rump of this strange creation was a long and floppy tail with a puff on the end. A zipper ran up the back of the costume to the neck. To the left of him was a dogs or wolfs head, blank eyesockets above the muzzle, the mouth open in a meaningless snarl that showed the rugs blackandblue pattern between fangs that appeared to be papiermch. The mans mouth and chin and cheeks were smeared with blood. He began to growl at Danny. He was grinning, but the growl was real. It was deep in his throat, a chilling primitive sound. Then he began to bark. His teeth were also stained red. He began to crawl toward Danny, dragging his boneless tail behind him. The costume dogs head lay unheeded on the carpet, glaring vacantly over Dannys shoulder. Let me by, Danny said. Im going to eat you, little boy, the dogman answered, and suddenly a fusillade of barks came from his grinning mouth. They were human imitations, but the savagery in them was real. The mans hair was dark, greased with sweat from his confining costume. There was a mixture of scotch and champagne on his breath. Danny flinched back but didnt run. Let me by. Not by the hair of my chinnychinchin, the dogman replied. His small red eyes were fixed attentively on Dannys face. He continued to grin. Im going to eat you up, little boy. And I think Ill start with your plump little cock. He began to prance skittishly forward, making little leaps and snarling. Dannys nerve broke. He fled back into the short hallway that led to their quarters, looking back over his shoulder. There was a series of mixed howls and barks and growls, broken by slurred mutterings and giggles. Danny stood in the hallway, trembling. Get it up! the drunken dogman cried out from around the corner. His voice was both violent and despairing. Get it up, Harry you bitchbastard! I dont care how many casinos and airlines and movie companies you own! I know what you like in the privacy of your own hhome! Get it up! Ill huff  and Ill puff  until Harry Derwents all bloowwwwn down! He ended with a long, chilling howl that seemed to turn into a scream of rage and pain just before it dwindled off. Danny turned apprehensively to the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway and walked quietly down to it. He opened it and poked his head through. His mommy was sleeping in exactly the same position. No one was hearing this but him. He closed the door softly and went back up to the intersection of their corridor and the main hall, hoping the dogman would be gone, the way the blood on the walls of the Presidential Suite had been gone. He peeked around the corner carefully. The man in the dog costume was still there. He had put his head back on and was now prancing on all fours by the stairwell, chasing his tail. He occasionally leaped off the rug and came down making dog grunts in his throat. Woof! Woof! Bowwowwow! Grrrrrr! These sounds came hollowly out of the masks stylized snarling mouth, and among them were sounds that might have been sobs or laughter. Danny went back to the bedroom and sat down on his cot, covering his eyes with his hands. The hotel was running things now. Maybe at first the things that had happened had only been accidents. Maybe at first the things he had seen really were like scary pictures that couldnt hurt him. But now the hotel was controlling those things and they could hurt. The Overlook hadnt wanted him to go to his father. That might spoil all the fun. So it had put the dogman in his way, just as it had put the hedge animals between them and the road. But his daddy could come here. And sooner or later his daddy would. He began to cry, the tears rolling silently down his cheeks. It was too late. They were going to die, all three of them, and when the Overlook opened next late spring, they would be right here to greet the guests along with the rest of the spooks. The woman in the tub. The dogman. The horrible dark thing that had been in the cement tunnel. They would be (Stop! Stop that now!) He knuckled the tears furiously from his eyes. He would try as hard as he could to keep that from happening. Not to himself, not to his daddy and mommy. He would try as hard as he could. He closed his eyes and sent his mind out in a high, hard crystal bolt. (!!! DICK PLEASE COME QUICK WERE IN BAD TROUBLE DICK WE NEED) And suddenly, in the darkness behind his eyes, the thing that chased him down the Overlooks dark halls in his dreams was there, right there, a huge creature dressed in white, its prehistoric club raised over its head Ill make you stop it! You goddam puppy! Ill make you stop it because I am your FATHER! No! He jerked back to the reality of the bedroom, his eyes wide and staring, the screams tumbling helplessly from his mouth as his mother bolted awake, clutching the sheet to her breasts. No Daddy no no no And they both heard the vicious, descending swing of the invisible club, cutting the air somewhere very close, then fading away to silence as he ran to his mother and hugged her, trembling like a rabbit in a snare. The Overlook was not going to let him call Dick. That might spoil the fun, too. They were alone. Outside the snow came harder, curtaining them off from the world. CHAPTER FORTYTWO MIDAIR Dick Halloranns flight was called at 645 A.M., EST, and the boarding clerk held him by Gate 31, shifting his flight bag nervously from hand to hand, until the last call at 655. They were both looking for a man named Carlton Vecker, the only passenger on TWAs Flight 196 from Miami to Denver who hadnt checked in. Okay, the clerk said, and issued Hallorann a blue firstclass boarding pass. You lucked out. You can board, sir. Hallorann hurried up the enclosed boarding ramp and let the mechanically grinning stewardess tear his pass off and give him the stub. Were serving breakfast on the flight, the stew said. If youd like Just coffee, babe, he said, and went down the aisle to a seat in the smoking section. He kept expecting the noshow Vecker to pop through the door like a jackinthebox at the last second. The woman in the seat by the window was reading You Can Be Your Own Best Friend with a sour, unbelieving expression on her face. Hallorann buckled his seat belt and then wrapped his large black hands around the seats armrests and promised the absent Carlton Vecker that it would take him and five strong TWA flight attendants to drag him out of his seat. He kept his eye on his watch. It dragged off the minutes to the 700 takeoff time with maddening slowness. At 705 the stewardess informed them that there would be a slight delay while the ground crew rechecked one of the latches on the cargo door. Shit for brains, Dick Hallorann muttered. The sharpfaced woman turned her sour, unbelieving expression on him and then went back to her book. He had spent the night at the airport, going from counter to counterUnited, American, TWA, Continental, Braniffhaunting the ticket clerks. Sometime after midnight, drinking his eighth or ninth cup of coffee in the canteen, he had decided he was being an asshole to have taken this whole thing on his own shoulders. There were authorities. He had gone down to the nearest bank of telephones, and after talking to three different operators, he had gotten the emergency number of the Rocky Mountain National Park Authority. The man who answered the telephone sounded utterly worn out. Hallorann had given a false name and said there was trouble at the Overlook Hotel, west of Sidewinder. Bad trouble. He was put on hold. The ranger (Hallorann assumed he was a ranger) came back on in about five minutes. Theyve got a CB, the ranger said. Sure theyve got a CB, Hallorann said. We havent had a Mayday call from them. Man, that dont matter. They Exactly what kind of trouble are they in, Mr. Hall? Well, theres a family. The caretaker and his family. I think maybe hes gone a little nuts, you know. I think maybe he might hurt his wife and his little boy. May I ask how youve come by this information, sir? Hallorann closed his eyes. Whats your name, fellow? Tom Staunton, sir. Well, Tom, I know. Now Ill be just as straight with you as I can be. Theres bad trouble up there. Maybe killin bad, do you dig what Im sayin? Mr. Hall, I really have to know how you Look, Hallorann had said. Im telling you I know. A few years back there was a fellow up there name of Grady. He killed his wife and his two daughters and then pulled the string on himself. Im telling you its going to happen again if you guys dont haul your asses out there and stop it! Mr. Hall, youre not calling from Colorado. No. But what difference If youre not in Colorado, youre not in CB range of the Overlook Hotel. If youre not in CB range you cant possibly have been in contact with the, uh  Faint rattle of papers. The Torrance family. While I had you on hold I tried to telephone. Its out, which is nothing unusual. There are still twentyfive miles of aboveground telephone lines between the hotel and the Sidewinder switching station. My conclusion is that you must be some sort of crank. Oh man, you stupid  But his despair was too great to find a noun to go with the adjective. Suddenly, illumination. Call them! he cried. Sir? You got the CB, they got the CB. So call them! Call them and ask them whats up! There was a brief silence, and the humming of longdistance wires. You tried that too, didnt you? Hallorann asked. Thats why you had me on hold so long. You tried the phone and then you tried the CB and you didnt get nothing but you dont think nothings wrong  What are you guys doing up there? Sitting on your asses and playing gin rummy? No, we are not, Staunton said angrily. Hallorann was relieved at the sound of anger in the voice. For the first time he felt he was speaking to a man and not to a recording. Im the only man here, sir. Every other ranger in the park, plus game wardens, plus volunteers, are up in Hasty Notch, risking their lives because three stupid assholes with six months experience decided to try the north face of Kings Ram. Theyre stuck halfway up there and maybe theyll get down and maybe they wont. There are two choppers up there and the men who are flying them are risking their lives because its night here and its starting to snow. So if youre still having trouble putting it all together, Ill give you a hand with it. Number one, I dont have anybody to send to the Overlook. Number two, the Overlook isnt a priority herewhat happens in the park is a priority. Number three, by daybreak neither one of those choppers will be able to fly because its going to snow like crazy, according to the National Weather Service. Do you understand the situation? Yeah, Hallorann had said softly. I understand. Now my guess as to why I couldnt raise them on the CB is very simple. I dont know what time it is where you are, but out here its ninethirty. I think they may have turned it off and gone to bed. Now if you Good luck with your climbers, man, Hallorann said. But I want you to know that they are not the only ones who are stuck up high because they didnt know what they were getting into. He had hung up the phone. At 720 A.M. the TWA 747 backed lumberingly out of its stall, turned, and rolled out toward the runway. Hallorann let out a long, soundless exhale. Carlton Vecker, wherever you are, eat your heart out. Flight 196 parted company with the ground at 728, and at 731, as it gained altitude, the thoughtpistol went off in Dick Halloranns head again. His shoulders hunched uselessly against the smell of oranges and then jerked spasmodically. His forehead wrinkled, his mouth drew down in a grimace of pain. (!!! DICK PLEASE COME QUICK WERE IN BAD TROUBLE DICK WE NEED) And that was all. It was suddenly gone. No fading out this time. The communication had been chopped off cleanly, as if with a knife. It scared him. His hands, still clutching the seat rests, had gone almost white. His mouth was dry. Something had happened to the boy. He was sure of it. If anyone had hurt that little child Do you always react so violently to takeoffs? He looked around. It was the woman in the hornrimmed glasses. It wasnt that, Hallorann said. Ive got a steel plate in my head. From Korea. Every now and then it gives me a twinge. Vibrates, dont you know. Scrambles the signal. Is that so? Yes, maam. It is the line soldier who ultimately pays for any foreign intervention, the sharpfaced woman said grimly. Is that so? It is. This country must swear off its dirty little wars. The CIA has been at the root of every dirty little war America has fought in this century. The CIA and dollar diplomacy. She opened her book and began to read. The NO SMOKING sign went off. Hallorann watched the receding land and wondered if the boy was all right. He had developed an affectionate feeling for that boy, although his folks hadnt seemed all that much. He hoped to God they were watching out for Danny. CHAPTER FORTYTHREE DRINKS ON THE HOUSE Jack stood in the dining room just outside the batwing doors leading into the Colorado Lounge, his head cocked, listening. He was smiling faintly. Around him, he could hear the Overlook Hotel coming to life. It was hard to say just how he knew, but he guessed it wasnt greatly different from the perceptions Danny had from time to time  like father, like son. Wasnt that how it was popularly expressed? It wasnt a perception of sight or sound, although it was very near to those things, separated from those senses by the filmiest of perceptual curtains. It was as if another Overlook now lay scant inches beyond this one, separated from the real world (if there is such a thing as a real world, Jack thought) but gradually coming into balance with it. He was reminded of the 3D movies hed seen as a kid. If you looked at the screen without the special glasses, you saw a double imagethe sort of thing he was feeling now. But when you put the glasses on, it made sense. All the hotels eras were together now, all but this current one, the Torrance Era. And this would be together with the rest very soon now. That was good. That was very good. He could almost hear the selfimportant ding ! ding! of the silverplated bell on the registration desk, summoning bellboys to the front as men in the fashionable flannels of the 1920s checked in and men in fashionable 1940s doublebreasted pinstripes checked out. There would be three nuns sitting in front of the fireplace as they waited for the checkout line to thin, and standing behind them, nattily dressed with diamond stickpins holding their blueandwhitefigured ties, Charles Grondin and Vito Gienelli discussed profit and loss, life and death. There was a dozen trucks in the loading bays out back, some laid one over the other like bad time exposures. In the eastwing ballroom, a dozen different business conventions were going on at the same time within temporal centimeters of each other. There was a costume ball going on. There were soirees, wedding receptions, birthday and anniversary parties. Men talking about Neville Chamberlain and the Archduke of Austria. Music. Laughter. Drunkenness. Hysteria. Little love, not here, but a steady undercurrent of sensuousness. And he could almost hear all of them together, drifting through the hotel and making a graceful cacophony.


In the dining room where he stood, breakfast, lunch, and dinner for seventy years were all being served simultaneously just behind him. He could almost  no, strike the almost. He could hear them, faintly as yet, but clearlythe way one can hear thunder miles off on a hot summers day. He could hear all of them, the beautiful strangers. He was becoming aware of them as they must have been aware of him from the very start. All the rooms of the Overlook were occupied this morning. A full house. And beyond the batwings, a low murmur of conversation drifted and swirled like lazy cigarette smoke. More sophisticated, more private. Low, throaty female laughter, the kind that seems to vibrate in a fairy ring around the viscera and the genitals. The sound of a cash register, its window softly lighted in the warm halfdark, ringing up the price of a gin rickey, a Manhattan, a depression bomber, a sloe gin fizz, a zombie. The jukebox, pouring out its drinkers melodies, each one overlapping the other in time. He pushed the batwings open and stepped through. Hello, boys, Jack Torrance said softly. Ive been away but now Im back. Good evening, Mr. Torrance, Lloyd said, genuinely pleased. Its good to see you. Its good to be back, Lloyd, he said gravely, and hooked his leg over a stool between a man in a sharp blue suit and a blearyeyed woman in a black dress who was peering into the depths of a Singapore sling. What will it be, Mr. Torrance? Martini, he said with great pleasure. He looked at the backbar with its rows of dimly gleaming bottles, capped with their silver siphons. Jim Beam. Wild Turkey. Gilbys. Sharrods Private Label. Toro. Seagrams. And home again. One large martian, if you please, he said. Theyve landed somewhere in the world, Lloyd. He took his wallet out and laid a twenty carefully on the bar. As Lloyd made his drink, Jack looked over his shoulder. Every booth was occupied. Some of the occupants were dressed in costumes  a woman in gauzy harem pants and a rhinestonesparkled brassiere, a man with a foxhead rising slyly out of his evening dress, a man in a silvery dog outfit who was tickling the nose of a woman in a sarong with the puff on the end of his long tail, to the general amusement of all. No charge to you, Mr. Torrance, Lloyd said, putting the drink down on Jacks twenty. Your money is no good here. Orders from the manager. Manager? A faint unease came over him; nevertheless he picked up the martini glass and swirled it, watching the olive at the bottom bob slightly in the drinks chilly depths. Of course. The manager. Lloyds smile broadened, but his eyes were socketed in shadow and his skin was horribly white, like the skin of a corpse. Later he expects to see to your sons wellbeing himself. He is very interested in your son. Danny is a talented boy. The juniper fumes of the gin were pleasantly maddening, but they also seemed to be blurring his reason. Danny? What was all of this about Danny? And what was he doing in a bar with a drink in his hand? He had TAKEN THE PLEDGE. He had GONE ON THE WAGON. He had SWORN OFF. What could they want with his son? What could they want with Danny? Wendy and Danny werent in it. He tried to see into Lloyds shadowed eyes, but it was too dark, too dark; it was like trying to read emotion into the empty orbs of a skull. (Its me they must want  isnt it? I am the one. Not Danny, not Wendy. Im the one who loves it here. They wanted to leave. Im the one who took care of the snowmobile  went through the old records  dumped the press on the boiler  lied  practically sold my soul  What can they want with him?) Where is the manager? He tried to ask it casually but his words seemed to come out between lips already numbed by the first drink, like words from a nightmare rather than those in a sweet dream. Lloyd only smiled. What do you want with my son? Dannys not in this  is he? He heard the naked plea in his own voice. Lloyds face seemed to be running, changing, becoming something pestilent. The white skin becoming a hepatitic yellow, cracking. Red sores erupting on the skin, bleeding foulsmelling liquid. Droplets of blood sprang out on Lloyds forehead like sweat and somewhere a silver chime was striking the quarterhour. (Unmask, unmask!) Drink your drink, Mr. Torrance, Lloyd said softly. It isnt a matter that concerns you. Not at this point. He picked his drink up again, raised it to his lips, and hesitated. He heard the hard, horrible snap as Dannys arm broke. He saw the bicycle flying brokenly up over the hood of Als car, starring the windshield. He saw a single wheel lying in the road, twisted spokes pointing into the sky like jags of piano wire. He became aware that all conversation had stopped. He looked back over his shoulder. They were all looking at him expectantly, silently. The man beside the woman in the sarong had removed his foxhead and Jack saw that it was Horace Derwent, his pallid blond hair spilling across his forehead. Everyone at the bar was watching, too. The woman beside him was looking at him closely, as if trying to focus. Her dress had slipped off one shoulder and looking down he could see a loosely puckered nipple capping one sagging breast. Looking back at her face he began to think that this might be the woman from 217, the one who had tried to strangle Danny. On his other hand, the man in the sharp blue suit had removed a small pearlhandled .32 from his jacket pocket and was idly spinning it on the bar, like a man with Russian roulette on his mind. (I want) He realized the words were not passing through his frozen vocal cords and tried again. I want to see the manager. I  I dont 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 plagueriddled 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. He picked it up with a badly trembling hand. It was raw gin. He looked into it, and looking was like drowning. The woman beside him began to sing in a flat, dead voice Roll  out  the barrel  and well have  a barrel  of fun  Lloyd picked it up. Then the man in the blue suit. The dogman joined in, thumping one paw against the table Nows the time to roll the barrel Derwent added his voice to the rest. A cigarette was cocked in one corner of his mouth at a jaunty angle. His right arm was around the shoulders of the woman in the sarong, and his right hand was gently and absently stroking her right breast. He was looking at the dogman with amused contempt as he sang. because the gangs  all  here! Jack brought the drink to his mouth and downed it in three long gulps, the gin highballing down his throat like a moving van in a tunnel, exploding in his stomach, rebounding up to his brain in one leap where it seized hold of him with a final convulsing fit of the shakes. When that passed off, he felt fine. Do it again, please, he said, and pushed the empty glass toward Lloyd. Yes, sir, Lloyd said, taking the glass. Lloyd looked perfectly normal again. The oliveskinned man had put his .32 away. The woman on his right was staring into her Singapore sling again. One breast was wholly exposed now, leaning on the bars leather buffer. A vacuous crooning noise came from her slack mouth. The loom of conversation had begun again, weaving and weaving. His new drink appeared in front of him. Muchas gracias, Lloyd, he said, picking it up. Always a pleasure to serve you, Mr. Torrance. Lloyd smiled. You were always the best of them, Lloyd. Why, thank you, sir. He drank slowly this time, letting it trickle down his throat, tossing a few peanuts down the chute for good luck. The drink was gone in no time, and he ordered another. Mr. President, I have met the martians and am pleased to report they are friendly. While Lloyd fixed another, he began searching his pockets for a quarter to put in the jukebox. He thought of Danny again, but Dannys face was pleasantly fuzzed and nondescript now. He had hurt Danny once, but that had been before he had learned how to handle his liquor. Those days were behind him now. He would never hurt Danny again. Not for the world. CHAPTER FORTYFOUR CONVERSATIONS AT THE PARTY He was dancing with a beautiful woman. He had no idea what time it was, how long he had spent in the Colorado Lounge or how long he had been here in the ballroom. Time had ceased to matter. He had vague memories listening to a man who had once been a successful radio comic and then a variety star in TVs infant days telling a very long and very hilarious joke about incest between Siamese twins; seeing the woman in the harem pants and the sequined bra do a slow and sinuous striptease to some bumpingandgrinding music from the jukebox (it seemed it had been David Roses theme music from The Stripper); crossing the lobby as one of three, the other two men in evening dress that predated the twenties, all of them singing about the stiff patch on Rosie OGradys knickers. He seemed to remember looking out the big double doors and seeing Japanese lanterns strung in graceful, curving arcs that followed the sweep of the drivewaythey gleamed in soft pastel colors like dusky jewels. The big glass globe on the porch ceiling was on, and night insects bumped and flittered against it, and a part of him, perhaps the last tiny spark of sobriety, tried to tell him that it was 6 A.M. on a morning in December. But time had been canceled. (The arguments against insanity fall through with a soft shurring sound  layer on layer ) Who was that? Some poet he had read as an undergraduate? Some undergraduate poet who was now selling washers in Wausau or insurance in Indianapolis? Perhaps an original thought? Didnt matter. (The night is dark  the stars are high  a disembodied custard pie  is floating in the sky ) He giggled helplessly. Whats funny, honey? And here he was again, in the ballroom. The chandelier was lit and couples were circling all around them, some in costume and some not, to the smooth sounds of some postwar bandbut which war? Can you be certain? No, of course not. He was certain of only one thing he was dancing with a beautiful woman. She was tall and auburnhaired, dressed in clinging white satin, and she was dancing close to him, her breasts pressed softly and sweetly against his chest. Her white hand was entwined in his. She was wearing a small and sparkly catseye mask and her hair had been brushed over to one side in a soft and gleaming fall that seemed to pool in the valley between their touching shoulders. Her dress was fullskirted but he could feel her thighs against his legs from time to time and had become more and more sure that she was smoothandpowdered naked under her dress, (the better to feel your erection with, my dear) and he was sporting a regular railspike. If it offended her she concealed it well; she snuggled even closer to him. Nothing funny, honey, he said, and giggled again. I like you, she whispered, and he thought that her scent was like lilies, secret and hidden in cracks furred with green mossplaces where sunshine is short and shadows long. I like you, too. We could go upstairs, if you want. Im supposed to be with Harry, but hell never notice. Hes too busy teasing poor Roger. The number ended. There was a spatter of applause and then the band swung into Mood Indigo with scarcely a pause. Jack looked over her bare shoulder and saw Derwent standing by the refreshment table. The girl in the sarong was with him. There were bottles of champagne in ice buckets ranged along the white lawn covering the table, and Derwent held a foaming bottle in his hand. A knot of people had gathered, laughing. In front of Derwent and the girl in the sarong, Roger capered grotesquely on all fours, his tail dragging limply behind him. He was barking. Speak, boy, speak! Harry Derwent cried. Rowf! Rowf! Roger responded. Everyone clapped; a few of the men whistled. Now sit up. Sit up, doggy! Roger clambered up on his haunches. The muzzle of his mask was frozen in its eternal snarl. Inside the eyeholes, Rogers eyes rolled with frantic, sweaty hilarity. He held his arms out, dangling the paws. Rowf! Rowf! Derwent upended the bottle of champagne and it fell in a foamy Niagara onto the upturned mask. Roger made frantic slurping sounds, and everyone applauded again. Some of the women screamed with laughter. Isnt Harry a card? his partner asked him, pressing close again. Everyone says so. Hes ACDC, you know. Poor Rogers only DC. He spent a weekend with Harry in Cuba once  oh, months ago. Now he follows Harry everywhere, wagging his little tail behind him. She giggled. The shy scent of lilies drifted up. But of course Harry never goes back for seconds  not on his DC side, anyway  and Roger is just wild. Harry told him if he came to the masked ball as a doggy, a cute little doggy, he might reconsider, and Roger is such a silly that he  The number ended. There was more applause. The band members were filing down for a break. Excuse me, sweetness, she said. Theres someone I just must  Darla! Darla, you dear girl, where have you been? She wove her way into the eating, drinking throng and he gazed after her stupidly, wondering how they had happened to be dancing together in the first place. He didnt remember. Incidents seemed to have occurred with no connections. First here, then there, then everywhere. His head was spinning. He smelled lilies and juniper berries. Up by the refreshment table Derwent was now holding a tiny triangular sandwich over Rogers head and urging him, to the general merriment of the onlookers, to do a somersault. The dogmask was turned upward. The silver sides of the dog costume bellowsed in and out. Roger suddenly leaped, tucking his head under, and tried to roll in midair. His leap was too low and too exhausted; he landed awkwardly on his back, rapping his head smartly on the tiles. A hollow groan drifted out of the dogmask. Derwent led the applause. Try again, doggy! Try again! The onlookers took up the chanttry again, try againand Jack staggered off the other way, feeling vaguely ill. He almost fell over the drinks cart that was being wheeled along by a lowbrowed man in a white mess jacket. His foot rapped the lower chromed shelf of the cart; the bottles and siphons on top chattered together musically. Sorry, Jack said thickly. He suddenly felt closed in and claustrophobic; he wanted to get out. He wanted the Overlook back the way it had been  free of these unwanted guests. His place was not honored, as the true opener of the way; he was only another of the ten thousand cheering extras, a doggy rolling over and sitting up on command. Quite all right, the man in the white mess jacket said. The polite, clipped English coming from that thugs face was surreal. A drink? Martini. From behind him, another comber of laughter broke; Roger was howling to the tune of Home on the Range. Someone was picking out accompaniment on the Steinway baby grand. Here you are. The frosty cold glass was pressed into his hand. Jack drank gratefully, feeling the gin hit and crumble away the first inroads of sobriety. Is it all right, sir? Fine. Thank you, sir. The cart began to roll again. Jack suddenly reached out and touched the mans shoulder. Yes, sir? Pardon me, but  whats your name? The other showed no surprise. Grady, sir. Delbert Grady. But you  I mean that  The bartender was looking at him politely. Jack tried again, although his mouth was mushed by gin and unreality; each word felt as large as an ice cube. Werent you once the caretaker here? When you  when  But he couldnt finish. He couldnt say it. Why no, sir. I dont believe so. But your wife  your daughters  My wife is helping in the kitchen, sir. The girls are asleep, of course. Its much too late for them. You were the caretaker. You Oh say it! You killed them. Gradys face remained blankly polite. I dont have any recollection of that at all, sir. His glass was empty. Grady plucked it from Jacks unresisting fingers and set about making another drink for him. There was a small white plastic bucket on his cart that was filled with olives. For some reason they reminded Jack of tiny severed heads. Grady speared one deftly, dropped it into the glass, and handed it to him. But you Youre the caretaker, sir, Grady said mildly. Youve always been the caretaker. I should know, sir. Ive always been here. The same manager hired us both, at the same time. Is it all right, sir? Jack gulped at his drink. His head was swirling. Mr. Ullman I know no one by that name, sir. But he The manager, Grady said. The hotel, sir. Surely you realize who hired you, sir. No, he said thickly. No, I I believe you must take it up further with your son, Mr. Torrance, sir. He understands everything, although he hasnt enlightened you. Rather naughty of him, if I may be so bold, sir. In fact, hes crossed you at almost every turn, hasnt he? And him not yet six. Yes, Jack said. He has. There was another wave of laughter from behind them. He needs to be corrected, if you dont mind me saying so. He needs a good talkingto, and perhaps a bit more. My own girls, sir, didnt care for the Overlook at first. One of them actually stole a pack of my matches and tried to burn it down. I corrected them. I corrected them most harshly. And when my wife tried to stop me from doing my duty, I corrected her. He offered Jack a bland, meaningless smile. I find it a sad but true fact that women rarely understand a fathers responsibility to his children. Husbands and fathers do have certain responsibilities, dont they, sir? Yes, Jack said. They didnt love the Overlook as I did, Grady said, beginning to make him another drink. Silver bubbles rose in the upended gin bottle. Just as your son and wife dont love it  not at present, anyway. But they will come to love it. You must show them the error of their ways, Mr. Torrance. Do you agree? Yes. I do. He did see. He had been too easy with them. Husbands and fathers did have certain responsibilities. Father Knows Best. They did not understand. That in itself was no crime, but they were willfully not understanding. He was not ordinarily a harsh man. But he did believe in punishment. And if his son and his wife had willfully set themselves against his wishes, against the things he knew were best for them, then didnt he have a certain duty? A thankless child is sharper than a serpents tooth, Grady said, handing him his drink. I do believe that the manager could bring your son into line. And your wife would shortly follow. Do you agree, sir? He was suddenly uncertain. I  but  if they could just leave  I mean, after all, its me the manager wants, isnt it? It must be. Because Because why? He should know but suddenly he didnt. Oh, his poor brain was swimming. Bad dog! Derwent was saying loudly, to a counterpoint of laughter. Bad dog to piddle on the floor. Of course you know, Grady said, leaning confidentially over the cart, your son is attempting to bring an outside party into it. Your son has a very great talent, one that the manager could use to even further improve the Overlook, to further  enrich it, shall we say? But your son is attempting to use that very talent against us. He is willful, Mr. Torrance, sir. Willful. Outside party? Jack asked stupidly. Grady nodded. Who? A nigger, Grady said. A nigger cook. Hallorann? I believe that is his name, sir, yes. Another burst of laughter from behind them was followed by Roger saying something in a whining, protesting voice. Yes! Yes! Yes! Derwent began to chant. The others around him took it up, but before Jack could hear what they wanted Roger to do now, the band began to play againthe tune was Tuxedo Junction, with a lot of mellow sax in it but not much soul. (Soul? Soul hasnt even been invented yet. Or has it?) (A nigger  a nigger cook.) He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what might come out. What did was I was told you hadnt finished high school. But you dont talk like an uneducated man. Its true that I left organized education very early, sir. But the manager takes care of his help. He finds that it pays. Education always pays, dont you agree, sir? Yes, Jack said dazedly. For instance, you show a great interest in learning more about the Overlook Hotel. Very wise of you, sir. Very noble. A certain scrapbook was left in the basement for you to find By whom? Jack asked eagerly. By the manager, of course. Certain other materials could be put at your disposal, if you wished them  I do. Very much. He tried to control the eagerness in his voice and failed miserably. Youre a true scholar, Grady said. Pursue the topic to the end. Exhaust all sources. He dipped his lowbrowed head, pulled out the lapel of his white mess jacket, and buffed his knuckles at a spot of dirt that was invisible to Jack. And the manager puts no strings on his largesse, Grady went on. Not at all. Look at me, a tenthgrade dropout. Think how much further you yourself could go in the Overlooks organizational structure. Perhaps  in time  to the very top. Really? Jack whispered. But thats really up to your son to decide, isnt it? Grady asked, raising his eyebrows. The delicate gesture went oddly with the brows themselves, which were bushy and somehow savage. Up to Danny? Jack frowned at Grady. No, of course not. I wouldnt allow my son to make decisions concerning my career. Not at all. What do you take me for? A dedicated man, Grady said warmly. Perhaps I put it badly, sir. Let us say that your future here is contingent upon how you decide to deal with your sons waywardness. I make my own decisions, Jack whispered. But you must deal with him. I will. Firmly. I will. A man who cannot control his own family holds very little interest for our manager. A man who cannot guide the courses of his own wife and son can hardly be expected to guide himself, let alone assume a position of responsibility in an operation of this magnitude. He I said Ill handle him! Jack shouted suddenly, enraged. Tuxedo Junction had just concluded and a new tune hadnt begun. His shout fell perfectly into the gap, and conversation suddenly ceased behind him. His skin suddenly felt hot all over. He became fixedly positive that everyone was staring at him. They had finished with Roger and would now commence with him. Roll over. Sit up. Play dead. If you play the game with us, well play the game with you. Position of responsibility. They wanted him to sacrifice his son. (Now he follows Harry everywhere, wagging his little tail behind him) (Roll over. Play dead. Chastise your son.) Right this way, sir, Grady was saying. Something that might interest you. The conversation had begun again, lifting and dropping in its own rhythm, weaving in and out of the band music, now doing a swing version of Lennon and McCartneys Ticket to Ride. (Ive heard better over supermarket loudspeakers.) He giggled foolishly. He looked down at his left hand and saw there was another drink in it, halffull. He emptied it at a gulp. Now he was standing in front of the mantelpiece, the heat from the crackling fire that had been laid in the hearth warming his legs. (a fire?  in August?  yes  and no  all times are one) There was a clock under a glass dome, flanked by two carved ivory elephants. Its hands stood at a minute to midnight. He gazed at it blearily. Had this been what Grady wanted him to see? He turned around to ask, but Grady had left him. Halfway through Ticket to Ride, the band wound up in a brassy flourish. The hour is at hand! Horace Derwent proclaimed. Midnight! Unmask! Unmask! He tried to turn again, to see what famous faces were hidden beneath the glitter and paint and masks, but he was frozen now, unable to look away from the clockits hands had come together and pointed straight up. Unmask! Unmask! the chant went up. The clock began to chime delicately. Along the steel runner below the clockface, from the left and right, two figures advanced. Jack watched, fascinated, the unmasking forgotten. Clockwork whirred. Cogs turned and meshed, brass warmly glowing. The balance wheel rocked back and forth precisely. One of the figures was a man standing on tiptoe, with what looked like a tiny club clasped in his hands. The other was a small boy wearing a dunce cap. The clockwork figures glittered, fantastically precise. Across the front of the boys dunce cap he could read the engraved word FOOLE. The two figures slipped onto the opposing ends of a steel axis bar. Somewhere, tinkling on and on, were the strains of a Strauss waltz. An insane commercial jingle began to run through his mind to the tune Buy dog food, rowfrowf, rowfrowf, buy dog food  The steel mallet in the clockwork daddys hands came down on the boys head. The clockwork son crumbled forward. The mallet rose and fell, rose and fell. The boys upstretched, protesting hands began to falter. The boy sagged from his crouch to a prone position. And still the hammer rose and fell to the light, tinkling air of the Strauss melody, and it seemed that he could see the mans face, working and knotting and constricting, could see the clockwork daddys mouth opening and closing as he berated the unconscious, bludgeoned figure of the son. A spot of red flew up against the inside of the glass dome. Another followed. Two more splattered beside it. Now the red liquid was spraying up like an obscene rain shower, striking the glass sides of the dome and running, obscuring what was going on inside, and flecked through the scarlet were tiny gray ribbons of tissue, fragments of bone and brain. And still he could see the hammer rising and falling as the clockwork continued to turn and the cogs continued to mesh the gears and teeth of this cunningly made machine. Unmask! Unmask! Derwent was shrieking behind him, and somewhere a dog was howling in human tones. (But clockwork cant bleed clockwork cant bleed) The entire dome was splashed with blood, he could see clotted bits of hair but nothing else thank God he could see nothing else, and still he thought he would be sick because he could hear the hammerblows still falling, could hear them through the glass just as he could hear the phrases of The Blue Danube. But the sounds were no longer the mechanical tinktinktink noises of a mechanical hammer striking a mechanical head, but the soft and squashy thudding sounds of a real hammer slicing down and whacking into a spongy, muddy ruin. A ruin that once had been UNMASK! (the Red Death held sway over all!) With a miserable, rising scream, he turned away from the clock, his hands outstretched, his feet stumbling against one another like wooden blocks as he begged them to stop, to take him, Danny, Wendy, to take the whole world if they wanted it, but only to stop and leave him a little sanity, a little light. The ballroom was empty. The chairs with their spindly legs were upended on tables covered with plastic dust drops. The red rug with its golden tracings was back on the dance floor, protecting the polished hardwood surface. The bandstand was deserted except for a disassembled microphone stand and a dusty guitar leaning stringless against the wall. Cold morning light, winterlight, fell languidly through the high windows. His head was still reeling, he still felt drunk, but when he turned back to the mantelpiece, his drink was gone. There were only the ivory elephants  and the clock. He stumbled back across the cold, shadowy lobby and through the dining room. His foot hooked around a table leg and he fell fulllength, upsetting the table with a clatter. He struck his nose hard on the floor and it began to bleed. He got up, snuffling back blood and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He crossed to the Colorado Lounge and shoved through the batwing doors, making them fly back and bang into the walls. The place was empty  but the bar was fully stocked. God be praised! Glass and the silver edging on labels glowed warmly in the dark. Once, he remembered, a very long time ago, he had been angry that there was no backbar mirror. Now he was glad. Looking into it he would have seen just another drunk fresh off the wagon bloody nose, untucked shirt, hair rumpled, cheeks stubbly. (This is what its like to stick your whole hand into the nest.) Loneliness surged over him suddenly and completely. He cried out with sudden wretchedness and honestly wished he were dead. His wife and son were upstairs with the door locked against him. The others had all left. The party was over. He lurched forward again, reaching the bar. Lloyd, where the fuck are you? he screamed. There was no answer. In this wellpadded (cell) room, his words did not even echo back to give the illusion of company. Grady! No answer. Only the bottles, standing stiffly at attention. (Roll over. Play dead. Fetch. Play dead. Sit up. Play dead.) Never mind, Ill do it myself, goddammit. Halfway over the bar he lost his balance and pitched forward, hitting his head, a muffled blow on the floor. He got up on his hands and knees, his eyeballs moving disjointed from side to side, fuzzy muttering sounds coming from his mouth. Then he collapsed, his face turned to one side, breathing in harsh snores. Outside, the wind whooped louder, driving the thickening snow before it. It was 830 A.M. CHAPTER FORTYFIVE STAPLETON AIRPORT, DENVER At 831 A.M., MST, a woman on TWAs Flight 196 burst into tears and began to bugle her own opinion, which was perhaps not unshared among some of the other passengers (or even the crew, for that matter), that the plane was going to crash. The sharpfaced woman next to Hallorann looked up from her book and offered a brief character analysis Ninny, and went back to her book. She had downed two screwdrivers during the flight, but they seemed not to have thawed her at all. Its going to crash! the woman was crying out shrilly. Oh, I just know it is! A stewardess hurried to her seat and squatted beside her. Hallorann thought to himself that only stewardesses and very young housewives seemed able to squat with any degree of grace; it was a rare and wonderful talent. He thought about this while the stewardess talked softly and soothingly to the woman, quieting her bit by bit. Hallorann didnt know about anyone else on 196, but he personally was almost scared enough to shit peachpits. Outside the window there was nothing to be seen but a buffeting curtain of white. The plane rocked sickeningly from side to side with gusts that seemed to come from everywhere. The engines were cranked up to provide partial compensation and as a result the floor was vibrating under their feet. There were several people moaning in Tourist behind them, one stew had gone back with a handful of fresh airsick bags, and a man three rows in front of Hallorann had whoopsed into his National Observer and had grinned apologetically at the stewardess who came to help him clean up. Thats all right, she comforted him, thats how I feel about the Readers Digest. Hallorann had flown enough to be able to surmise what had happened. They had been flying against bad headwinds most of the way, the weather over Denver had worsened suddenly and unexpectedly, and now it was just a little late to divert for someplace where the weather was better. Feets dont fail me now. (Buddyboy, this is some fuckedup cavalry charge.) The stewardess seemed to have succeeded in curbing the worst of the womans hysterics. She was snuffling and honking into a lace handkerchief, but had ceased broadcasting her opinions about the flights possible conclusion to the cabin at large. The stew gave her a final pat on the shoulder and stood up just as the 747 gave its worst lurch yet. The stewardess stumbled backward and landed in the lap of the man who had whoopsed into his paper, exposing a lovely length of nyloned thigh. The man blinked and then patted her kindly on the shoulder. She smiled back, but Hallorann thought the strain was showing.


It had been one hell of a hard flight this morning. There was a little ping as the NO SMOKING light reappeared. This is the captain speaking, a soft, slightly southern voice informed them. Were ready to begin our descent to Stapleton International Airport. Its been a rough flight, for which I apologize. The landing may be a bit rough also, but we anticipate no real difficulty. Please observe the FASTEN SEAT BELTS and NO SMOKING signs, and we hope you enjoy your stay in the Denver metro area. And we also hope Another hard bump rocked the plane and then dropped her with a sickening elevator plunge. Halloranns stomach did a queasy hornpipe. Several peoplenot all women by any meansscreamed. that well see you again on another TWA flight real soon. Not bloody likely, someone behind Hallorann said. So silly, the sharpfaced woman next to Hallorann remarked, putting a matchbook cover into her book and shutting it as the plane began to descend. When one has seen the horrors of a dirty little war  as you have  or sensed the degrading immorality of CIA dollardiplomacy intervention  as I have  a rough landing pales into insignificance. Am I right, Mr. Hallorann? As rain, maam, he said, and looked bleakly out into the wildly blowing snow. How is your steel plate reacting to all of this, if I might inquire? Oh, my heads fine, Hallorann said. Its just my stomach thats a mite queasy. A shame. She reopened her book. As they descended through the impenetrable clouds of snow, Hallorann thought of a crash that had occurred at Bostons Logan Airport a few years ago. The conditions had been similar, only fog instead of snow had reduced visibility to zero. The plane had caught its undercarriage on a retaining wall near the end of the landing strip. What had been left of the eightynine people aboard hadnt looked much different from a Hamburger Helper casserole. He wouldnt mind so much if it was just himself. He was pretty much alone in the world now, and attendance at his funeral would be mostly held down to the people he had worked with and that old renegade Masterton, who would at least drink to him. But the boy  the boy was depending on him. He was maybe all the help that child could expect, and he didnt like the way the boys last call had been snapped off. He kept thinking of the way those hedge animals had seemed to move  A thin white hand appeared over his. The woman with the sharp face had taken off her glasses. Without them her features seemed much softer. It will be all right, she said. Hallorann made a smile and nodded. As advertised the plane came down hard, reuniting with the earth forcefully enough to knock most of the magazines out of the rack at the front and to send plastic trays cascading out of the galley like oversized playing cards. No one screamed, but Hallorann heard several sets of teeth clicking violently together like gypsy castanets. Then the turbine engines rose to a howl, braking the plane, and as they dropped in volume the pilots soft southern voice, perhaps not completely steady, came over the intercom system. Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed at Stapleton Airport. Please remain in your seats until the plane has come to a complete stop at the terminal. Thank you. The woman beside Hallorann closed her book and uttered a long sigh. We live to fight another day, Mr. Hallorann. Maam, we arent done with this one, yet. True. Very true. Would you care to have a drink in the lounge with me? I would, but I have an appointment to keep. Pressing? Very pressing, Hallorann said gravely. Something that will improve the general situation in some small way, I hope. I hope so too, Hallorann said, and smiled. She smiled back at him, ten years dropping silently from her face as she did so. Because he had only the flight bag hed carried for luggage, Hallorann beat the crowd to the Hertz desk on the lower level. Outside the smokedglass windows he could see the snow still falling steadily. The gusting wind drove white clouds of it back and forth, and the people walking across to the parking area were struggling against it. One man lost his hat and Hallorann could commiserate with him as it whirled high, wide, and handsome. The man stared after it and Hallorann thought (Aw, just forget it, man. That homburg aint comin down until it gets to Arizona.) On the heels of that thought (If its this bad in Denver, whats it going to be like west of Boulder?) Best not to think about that, maybe. Can I help you, sir? a girl in Hertz yellow asked him. If you got a car, you can help me, he said with a big grin. For a heavierthanaverage charge he was able to get a heavierthanaverage car, a silverandblack Buick Electra. He was thinking of the winding mountain roads rather than style; he would still have to stop somewhere along the way and get chains put on. He wouldnt get far without them. How bad is it? he asked as she handed him the rental agreement to sign. They say its the worst storm since 1969, she answered brightly. Do you have far to drive, sir? Farther than Id like. If youd like, sir, I can phone ahead to the Texaco station at the Route 270 junction. Theyll put chains on for you. That would be a great blessing, dear. She picked up the phone and made the call. Theyll be expecting you. Thank you much. Leaving the desk, he saw the sharpfaced woman standing on one of the queues that had formed in front of the luggage carousel. She was still reading her book. Hallorann winked at her as he went by. She looked up, smiled at him, and gave him a peace sign. (shine) He turned up his overcoat collar, smiling, and shifted his flight bag to the other hand. Only a little one, but it made him feel better. He was sorry hed told her that fish story about having a steel plate in his head. He mentally wished her well and as he went out into the howling wind and snow, he thought she wished him the same in return. The charge for putting on the chains at the service station was a modest one, but Hallorann slipped the man at work in the garage bay an extra ten to get moved up a little way on the waiting list. It was still quarter of ten before he was actually on the road, the windshield wipers clicking and the chains clinking with tuneless monotony on the Buicks big wheels. The turnpike was a mess. Even with the chains he could go no faster than thirty. Cars had gone off the road at crazy angles, and on several of the grades traffic was barely struggling along, summer tires spinning helplessly in the drifting powder. It was the first big storm of the winter down here in the lowlands (if you could call a mile above sea level low), and it was a mother. Many of them were unprepared, common enough, but Hallorann still found himself cursing them as he inched around them, peering into his snowclogged outside mirror to be sure nothing was (Dashing through the snow ) coming up in the lefthand lane to cream his black ass. There was more bad luck waiting for him at the Route 36 entrance ramp. Route 36, the DenverBoulder turnpike, also goes west to Estes Park, where it connects with Route 7. That road, also known as the Upland Highway, goes through Sidewinder, passes the Overlook Hotel, and finally winds down the Western Slope and into Utah. The entrance ramp had been blocked by an overturned semi. Brightburning flares had been scattered around it like birthday candles on some idiot childs cake. He came to a stop and rolled his window down. A cop with a fur Cossack hat jammed down over his ears gestured with one gloved hand toward the flow of traffic moving north on I25. You cant get up here! he bawled to Hallorann over the wind. Go down two exits, get on 91, and connect with 36 at Broomfield! I think I could get around him on the left! Hallorann shouted back. Thats twenty miles out of my way, what youre rappin! Ill rap your friggin head! the cop shouted back. This ramps closed! Hallorann backed up, waited for a break in traffic, and continued on his way up Route 25. The signs informed him it was only a hundred miles to Cheyenne, Wyoming. If he didnt look out for his ramp, hed wind up there. He inched his speed up to thirtyfive but dared no more; already snow was threatening to clog his wiper blades and the traffic patterns were decidedly crazy. Twentymile detour. He cursed, and the feeling that time was growing shorter for the boy welled up in him again, nearly suffocating with its urgency. And at the same time he felt a fatalistic certainty that he would not be coming back from this trip. He turned on the radio, dialed past Christmas ads, and found a weather forecast. six inches already, and another foot is expected in the Denver metro area by nightfall. Local and state police urge you not to take your car out of the garage unless its absolutely necessary, and warn that most mountain passes have already been closed. So stay home and wax up your boards and keep tuned to Thanks, Mother, Hallorann said, and turned the radio off savagely. CHAPTER FORTYSIX WENDY Around noon, after Danny had gone into the bathroom to use the toilet, Wendy took the towelwrapped knife from under her pillow, put it in the pocket of her bathrobe, and went over to the bathroom door. Danny? What? Im going down to make us some lunch. Kay? Okay. Do you want me to come down? No, Ill bring it up. How about a cheese omelet and some soup? Sure. She hesitated outside the closed door a moment longer. Danny, are you sure its okay? Yeah, he said. Just be careful. Wheres your father? Do you know? His voice came back, curiously flat No. But its okay. She stifled an urge to keep asking, to keep picking around the edges of the thing. The thing was there, they knew what it was, picking at it was only going to frighten Danny more  and herself. Jack had lost his mind. They had sat together on Dannys cot as the storm began to pick up clout and meanness around eight oclock this morning and had listened to him downstairs, bellowing and stumbling from one place to another. Most of it had seemed to come from the ballroom. Jack singing tuneless bits of song, Jack holding up one side of an argument, Jack screaming loudly at one point, freezing both of their faces as they stared into one anothers eyes. Finally they had heard him stumbling back across the lobby, and Wendy thought she had heard a loud banging noise, as if he had fallen down or pushed a door violently open. Since eightthirty or sothree and a half hours nowthere had been only silence. She went down the short hall, turned into the main firstfloor corridor, and went to the stairs. She stood on the firstfloor landing looking down into the lobby. It appeared deserted, but the gray and snowy day had left much of the long room in shadow. Danny could be wrong. Jack could be behind a chair or couch  maybe behind the registration desk  waiting for her to come down  She wet her lips. Jack? No answer. Her hand found the handle of the knife and she began to go down. She had seen the end of her marriage many times, in divorce, in Jacks death at the scene of a drunken car accident (a regular vision in the dark two oclock of Stovington mornings), and occasionally in daydreams of being discovered by another man, a soap opera Galahad who would sweep Danny and her onto the saddle of his snowwhite charger and take them away. But she had never envisioned herself prowling halls and staircases like a nervous felon, with a knife clasped in one hand to use against Jack. A wave of despair struck through her at the thought and she had to stop halfway down the stairs, holding the railing, afraid her knees would buckle. (Admit it. It isnt just Jack, hes just the one solid thing in all of this you can hang the other things on, the things you cant believe and yet are being forced to believe, that thing about the hedges, the party favor in the elevator, the mask) She tried to stop the thought but it was too late. (and the voices.) Because from time to time it had not seemed that there was a solitary crazy man below them, shouting at and holding conversations with the phantoms in his own crumbling mind. From time to time, like a radio signal fading in and out, she had heardor thought she hadother voices, and music, and laughter. At one moment she would hear Jack holding a conversation with someone named Grady (the name was vaguely familiar to her but she made no actual connection), making statements and asking questions into silence, yet speaking loudly, as if to make himself heard over a steady background racket. And then, eerily, other sounds would be there, seeming to slip into placea dance band, people clapping, a man with an amused yet authoritative voice who seemed to be trying to persuade somebody to make a speech. For a period of thirty seconds to a minute she would hear this, long enough to grow faint with terror, and then it would be gone again and she would only hear Jack, talking in that commanding yet slightly slurred way she remembered as his drunkspeak voice. But there was nothing in the hotel to drink except cooking sherry. Wasnt that right? Yes, but if she could imagine that the hotel was full of voices and music, couldnt Jack imagine that he was drunk? She didnt like that thought. Not at all. Wendy reached the lobby and looked around. The velvet rope that had cordoned off the ballroom had been taken down; the steel post it had been clipped to had been knocked over, as if someone had carelessly bumped it going by. Mellow white light fell through the open door onto the lobby rug from the ballrooms high, narrow windows. Heart thumping, she went to the open ballroom doors and looked in. It was empty and silent, the only sound that curious subaural echo that seems to linger in all large rooms, from the largest cathedral to the smallest hometown bingo parlor. She went back to the registration desk and stood undecided for a moment, listening to the wind howl outside. It was the worst storm so far, and it was still building up force. Somewhere on the west side a shutter latch had broken and the shutter banged back and forth with a steady flat cracking sound, like a shooting gallery with only one customer. (Jack, you really should take care of that. Before something gets in.) What would she do if he came at her right now, she wondered. If he should pop up from behind the dark, varnished registration desk with its pile of triplicate forms and its little silverplated bell, like some murderous jackinthebox, pun intended, a grinning jackinthebox with a cleaver in one hand and no sense at all left behind his eyes. Would she stand frozen with terror, or was there enough of the primal mother in her to fight him for her son until one of them was dead? She didnt know. The very thought made her sickmade her feel that her whole life had been a long and easy dream to lull her helplessly into this waking nightmare. She was soft. When trouble came, she slept. Her past was unremarkable. She had never been tried in fire. Now the trial was upon her, not fire but ice, and she would not be allowed to sleep through this. Her son was waiting for her upstairs. Clutching the haft of the knife tighter, she peered over the desk. Nothing there. Her relieved breath escaped her in a long, hitching sigh. She put the gate up and went through, pausing to glance into the inner office before going in herself. She fumbled through the next door for the bank of kitchen light switches, coldly expecting a hand to close over hers at any second. Then the fluorescents were coming on with minuscule ticking and humming sounds and she could see Mr. Halloranns kitchenher kitchen now, for better or worsepale green tiles, gleaming Formica, spotless porcelain, glowing chrome edgings. She had promised him she would keep his kitchen clean, and she had. She felt as if it was one of Dannys safe places. Dick Halloranns presence seemed to enfold and comfort her. Danny had called for Mr. Hallorann, and upstairs, sitting next to Danny in fear as her husband ranted and raved below, that had seemed like the faintest of all hopes. But standing here, in Mr. Halloranns place, it seemed almost possible. Perhaps he was on his way now, intent on getting to them regardless of the storm. Perhaps it was so. She went across to the pantry, shot the bolt back, and stepped inside. She got a can of tomato soup and closed the pantry door again, and bolted it. The door was tight against the floor. If you kept it bolted, you didnt have to worry about rat or mouse droppings in the rice or flour or sugar. She opened the can and dropped the slightly jellied contents into a saucepanplop. She went to the refrigerator and got milk and eggs for the omelet. Then to the walkin freezer for cheese. All of these actions, so common and so much a part of her life before the Overlook had been a part of her life, helped to calm her. She melted butter in the frying pan, diluted the soup with milk, and then poured the beaten eggs into the pan. A sudden feeling that someone was standing behind her, reaching for her throat. She wheeled around, clutching the knife. No one there. (! Get ahold of yourself, girl !) She grated a bowl of cheese from the block, added it to the omelet, flipped it, and turned the gas ring down to a bare blue flame. The soup was hot. She put the pot on a large tray with silverware, two bowls, two plates, the salt and pepper shakers. When the omelet had puffed slightly, Wendy slid it off onto one of the plates and covered it. (Now back the way you came. Turn off the kitchen lights. Go through the inner office. Through the desk gate, collect two hundred dollars.) She stopped on the lobby side of the registration desk and set the tray down beside the silver bell. Unreality would stretch only so far; this was like some surreal game of hideandseek. She stood in the shadowy lobby, frowning in thought. (Dont push the facts away this time, girl. There are certain realities, as lunatic as this situation may seem. One of them is that you may be the only responsible person left in this grotesque pile. You have a fivegoingonsix son to look out for. And your husband, whatever has happened to him and no matter how dangerous he may be  maybe hes part of your responsibility, too. And even if he isnt, consider this Today is December second. You could be stuck up here another four months if a ranger doesnt happen by. Even if they do start to wonder why they havent heard from us on the CB, no one is going to come today  or tomorrow  maybe not for weeks. Are you going to spend a month sneaking down to get meals with a knife in your pocket and jumping at every shadow? Do you really think you can avoid Jack for a month? Do you think you can keep Jack out of the upstairs quarters if he wants to get in? He has the passkey and one hard kick would snap the bolt.) Leaving the tray on the desk, she walked slowly down to the dining room and looked in. It was deserted. There was one table with the chairs set up around it, the table they had tried eating at until the dining rooms emptiness began to freak them out. Jack? she called hesitantly. At that moment the wind rose in a gust, driving snow against the shutters, but it seemed to her that there had been something. A muffled sort of groan. Jack? No returning sound this time, but her eyes fell on something beneath the batwing doors of the Colorado Lounge, something that gleamed faintly in the subdued light. Jacks cigarette lighter. Plucking up her courage, she crossed to the batwings and pushed them open. The smell of gin was so strong that her breath snagged in her throat. It wasnt even right to call it a smell; it was a positive reek. But the shelves were empty. Where in Gods name had he found it? A bottle hidden at the back of one of the cupboards? Where? There was another groan, low and fuzzy, but perfectly audible this time. Wendy walked slowly to the bar. Jack? No answer. She looked over the bar and there he was, sprawled out on the floor in a stupor. Drunk as a lord, by the smell. He must have tried to go right over the top and lost his balance. A wonder he hadnt broken his neck. An old proverb recurred to her God looks after drunks and little children. Amen. Yet she was not angry with him; looking down at him she thought he looked like a horribly overtired little boy who had tried to do too much and had fallen asleep in the middle of the living room floor. He had stopped drinking and it was not Jack who had made the decision to start again; there had been no liquor for him to start with  so where had it come from? Resting at every five or six feet along the horseshoeshaped bar there were wine bottles wrapped in straw, their mouths plugged with candles. Supposed to look bohemian, she supposed. She picked one up and shook it, halfexpecting to hear the slosh of gin inside it (new wine in old bottles) but there was nothing. She set it back down. Jack was stirring. She went around the bar, found the gate, and walked back on the inside to where Jack lay, pausing only to look at the gleaming chromium taps. They were dry, but when she passed close to them she could smell beer, wet and new, like a fine mist. As she reached Jack he rolled over, opened his eyes, and looked up at her. For a moment his gaze was utterly blank, and then it cleared. Wendy? he asked. That you? Yes, she said. Do you think you can make it upstairs? If you put your arms around me? Jack, where did you His hand closed brutally around her ankle. Jack! What are you Gotcha! he said, and began to grin. There was a stale odor of gin and olives about him that seemed to set off an old terror in her, a worse terror than any hotel could provide by itself. A distant part of her thought that the worst thing was that it had all come back to this, she and her drunken husband. Jack, I want to help. Oh yeah. You and Danny only want to help. The grip on her ankle was crushing now. Still holding on to her, Jack was getting shakily to his knees. You wanted to help us all right out of here. But now  I  gotcha! Jack, youre hurting my ankle Ill hurt more than your ankle, you bitch. The word stunned her so completely that she made no effort to move when he let go of her ankle and stumbled from his knees to his feet, where he stood swaying in front of her. You never loved me, he said. You want us to leave because you know thatll be the end of me. Did you ever think about my re  res  responsbilities? No, I guess to fuck you didnt. All you ever think about is ways to drag me down. Youre just like my mother, you milksop bitch! Stop it, she said, crying. You dont know what youre saying. Youre drunk. I dont know how, but youre drunk. Oh, I know. I know now. You and him. That little pup upstairs. The two of you, planning together. Isnt that right? No, no! We never planned anything! What are you You liar! he screamed. Oh, I know how you do it! I guess I know that! When I say, Were going to stay here and Im going to do my job, you say, Yes, dear, and he says, Yes, Daddy, and then you lay your plans. You planned to use the snowmobile. You planned that. But I knew. I figured it out. Did you think I wouldnt figure it out? Did you think I was stupid? She stared at him, unable to speak now. He was going to kill her, and then he was going to kill Danny. Then maybe the hotel would be satisfied and allow him to kill himself. Just like that other caretaker. Just like (Grady.) With almost swooning horror, she realized at last who it was that Jack had been conversing with in the ballroom. You turned my son against me. That was the worst. His face sagged into lines of selfpity. My little boy. Now he hates me, too. You saw to that. That was your plan all along, wasnt it? Youve always been jealous, havent you? Just like your mother. You couldnt be satisfied unless you had all the cake, could you? Could you? She couldnt talk. Well, Ill fix you, he said, and tried to put his hands around her throat. She took a step backward, then another, and he stumbled against her. She remembered the knife in the pocket of her robe and groped for it, but now his left arm had swept around her, pinning her arm against her side. She could smell sharp gin and the sour odor of his sweat. Have to be punished, he was grunting. Chastised. Chastised  harshly. His right hand found her throat. As her breath stopped, pure panic took over. His left hand joined his right and now the knife was free to her own hand, but she forgot about it. Both of her hands came up and began to yank helplessly at his larger, stronger ones. Mommy! Danny shrieked from somewhere. Daddy, stop! Youre hurting Mommy! He screamed piercingly, a high and crystal sound that she heard from far off. Red flashes of light leaped in front of her eyes like ballet dancers. The room grew darker. She saw her son clamber up on the bar and throw himself at Jacks shoulders. Suddenly one of the hands that had been crushing her throat was gone as Jack cuffed Danny away with a snarl. The boy fell back against the empty shelves and dropped to the floor, dazed. The hand was on her throat again. The red flashes began to turn black. Danny was crying weakly. Her chest was burning. Jack was shouting into her face Ill fix you! Goddam you, Ill show you who is boss around here! Ill show you But all sounds were fading down a long dark corridor. Her struggles began to weaken. One of her hands fell away from his and dropped slowly until the arm was stretched out at right angles to her body, the hand dangling limply from the wrist like the hand of a drowning woman. It touched a bottleone of the strawwrapped wine bottles that served as decorative candleholders. Sightlessly, with the last of her strength, she groped for the bottles neck and found it, feeling the greasy beads of wax against her hand. (and O God if it slips) She brought it up and then down, praying for aim, knowing that if it only struck his shoulder or upper arm she was dead. But the bottle came down squarely on Jack Torrances head, the glass shattering violently inside the straw. The base of it was thick and heavy, and it made a sound against his skull like a medicine ball dropped on a hardwood floor. He rocked back on his heels, his eyes rolling up in their sockets. The pressure on her throat loosened, then gave way entirely. He put his hands out, as if to steady himself, and then crashed over on his back. Wendy drew a long, sobbing breath. She almost fell herself, clutched the edge of the bar, and managed to hold herself up. Consciousness wavered in and out. She could hear Danny crying, but she had no idea where he was. It sounded like crying in an echo chamber. Dimly she saw dimesized drops of blood falling to the dark surface of the barfrom her nose, she thought. She cleared her throat and spat on the floor. It sent a wave of agony up the column of her throat, but the agony subsided to a steady dull press of pain  just bearable. Little by little, she managed to get control of herself. She let go of the bar, turned around, and saw Jack lying fulllength, the shattered bottle beside him. He looked like a felled giant. Danny was crouched below the lounges cash register, both hands in his mouth, staring at his unconscious father. Wendy went to him unsteadily and touched his shoulder. Danny cringed away from her. Danny, listen to me No, no, he muttered in a husky old mans voice. Daddy hurt you  you hurt Daddy  Daddy hurt you  I want to go to sleep. Danny wants to go to sleep. Danny Sleep, sleep. Nightynight. No! Pain ripping up her throat again. She winced against it. But he opened his eyes. They looked at her warily from bluish, shadowed sockets. She made herself speak calmly, her eyes never leaving his. Her voice was low and husky, almost a whisper. It hurt to talk. Listen to me, Danny. It wasnt your daddy trying to hurt me. And I didnt want to hurt him. The hotel has gotten into him, Danny. The Overlook has gotten into your daddy. Do you understand me? Some kind of knowledge came slowly back into Dannys eyes. The Bad Stuff, he whispered. There was none of it here before, was there? No. The hotel put it here. The  She broke off in a fit of coughing and spat out more blood. Her throat already felt puffed to twice its size. The hotel made him drink it. Did you hear those people he was talking to this morning? Yes  the hotel people  I heard them too. And that means the hotel is getting stronger. It wants to hurt all of us. But I think  I hope  that it can only do that through your daddy. He was the only one it could catch. Are you understanding me, Danny? Its desperately important that you understand. The hotel caught Daddy. He looked at Jack and groaned helplessly. I know you love your daddy. I do too. We have to remember that the hotel is trying to hurt him as much as it is us. And she was convinced that was true. More, she thought that Danny might be the one the hotel really wanted, the reason it was going so far  maybe the reason it was able to go so far. It might even be that in some unknown fashion it was Dannys shine that was powering it, the way a battery powers the electrical equipment in a car  the way a battery gets a car to start. If they got out of here, the Overlook might subside to its old semisentient state, able to do no more than present pennydreadful horror slides to the more psychically aware guests who entered it. Without Danny it was not much more than an amusement park haunted house, where a guest or two might hear rappings or the phantom sounds of a masquerade party, or see an occasional disturbing thing. But if it absorbed Danny  Dannys shine or life force or spirit  whatever you wanted to call it  into itselfwhat would it be then? The thought made her cold all over. I wish Daddy was all better, Danny said, and the tears began to flow again. Me too, she said, and hugged Danny tightly. And honey, thats why youve got to help me put your daddy somewhere. Somewhere that the hotel cant make him hurt us and where he cant hurt himself. Then  if your friend Dick comes, or a park ranger, we can take him away. And I think he might be all right again. All of us might be all right. I think theres still a chance for that, if were strong and brave, like you were when you jumped on his back. Do you understand? She looked at him pleadingly and thought how strange it was; she had never seen him when he looked so much like Jack. Yes, he said, and nodded. I think  if we can get away from here  everything will be like it was. Where could we put him? The pantry. Theres food in there, and a good strong bolt on the outside. Its warm. And we can eat up the things from the refrigerator and the freezer. There will be plenty for all three of us until help comes. Do we do it now? Yes, right now. Before he wakes up. Danny put the bar gate up while she folded Jacks hands on his chest and listened to his breathing for a moment. It was slow but regular. From the smell of him she thought he must have drunk a great deal  and he was out of the habit. She thought it might be liquor as much as the crack on the head with the bottle that had put him out. She picked up his legs and began to drag him along the floor. She had been married to him for nearly seven years, he had lain on top of her countless timesin the thousandsbut she had never realized how heavy he was. Her breath whistled painfully in and out of her hurt throat. Nevertheless, she felt better than she had in days. She was alive. Having just brushed so close to death, that was precious. And Jack was alive, too. By blind luck rather than plan, they had perhaps found the only way that would bring them all safely out. Panting harshly, she paused a moment, holding Jacks feet against her hips. The surroundings reminded her of the old seafaring captains cry in Treasure Island after old blind Pew had passed him the Black Spot Well do em yet! And then she remembered, uncomfortably, that the old seadog had dropped dead mere seconds later. Are you all right, Mommy? Is he  is he too heavy? Ill manage. She began to drag him again. Danny was beside Jack.