The first dream is usually a lucid dream, meaning the dreamer knows he is dreaming Yes! Dan cried. But the second one The dreamer believes he is awake, Kemmer said. Jung made much of this, even ascribing precognitive powers to these dreams . . . but of course we know better, dont we, Dan? Of course, Dan had agreed. The poet Edgar Allan Poe described the false awakening phenomenon long before Carl Jung was born. He wrote, All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. Have I answered your question? I think so. Thanks. Youre welcome. Now I believe I could drink a little juice. Apple, please. 14 Precognitive powers . . . but of course we know better. Even if he hadnt kept the shining almost entirely to himself over the years, Dan would not have presumed to contradict a dying man . . . especially one with such coldly inquisitive blue eyes. The truth, however, was that one or both of his double dreams were often predictive, usually in ways he only half understood or did not understand at all. But as he sat on the toilet seat in his underwear, now shivering (and not just because the room was cold), he understood much more than he wanted to. Tommy was dead. Murdered by his abusive uncle, most likely. The mother had committed suicide not long after. As for the rest of the dream . . . or the phantom hat hed seen earlier, spinning down the sidewalk . . . Stay away from the woman in the hat. Shes the Queen Bitch of Castle Hell. I dont care, Dan said. If you mess with her, shell eat you alive. He had no intention of meeting her, let alone messing with her. As for Deenie, he wasnt responsible for either her shortfused brother or her child neglect. He didnt even have to carry around the guilt about her lousy seventy dollars anymore; she had sold the cocainehe was sure that part of the dream was absolutely trueand they were square. More than square, actually. What he cared about was getting a drink. Getting drunk, not to put too fine a point on it. Standingup, fallingdown, pissyassed drunk. Warm morning sunshine was good, and the pleasant feeling of muscles that had been worked hard, and waking up in the morning without a hangover, but the priceall these crazy dreams and visions, not to mention the random thoughts of passing strangers that sometimes found their way past his defenseswas too high. Too high to bear. 15 He sat in the rooms only chair and read his John Sandford novel by the light of the rooms only lamp until the two town churches with bells rang in seven oclock. Then he pulled on his new (new to him, anyway) boots and duffel coat. He headed out into a world that had changed and softened. There wasnt a sharp edge anywhere. The snow was still falling, but gently now. I should get out of here. Go back to Florida. Fuck New Hampshire, where it probably even snows on the Fourth of July in oddnumbered years. Halloranns voice answered him, the tone as kind as he remembered from his childhood, when Dan had been Danny, but there was hard steel underneath. You better stay somewhere, honey, or you wont be able to stay anywhere. Fuck you, oldtimer, he muttered. He went back to the Red Apple because the stores that sold hard liquor wouldnt be open for at least another hour. He walked slowly back and forth between the wine cooler and the beer cooler, debating, and finally decided if he was going to get drunk, he might as well do it as nastily as possible. He grabbed two bottles of Thunderbird (eighteen percent alcohol, a good enough number when whiskey was temporarily out of reach), started up the aisle to the register, then stopped. Give it one more day. Give yourself one more chance. He supposed he could do that, but why? So he could wake up in bed with Tommy again? Tommy with half of his skull caved in? Or maybe next time it would be Deenie, who had lain in that tub for two days before the super finally got tired of knocking, used his passkey, and found her. He couldnt know that, if Emil Kemmer had been here he would have agreed most emphatically, but he did. He did know. So why bother? Maybe this hyperawareness will pass. Maybe its just a phase, the psychic equivalent of the DTs. Maybe if you just give it a little more time . . . But time changed. That was something only drunks and junkies understood. When you couldnt sleep, when you were afraid to look around because of what you might see, time elongated and grew sharp teeth. Help you? the clerk asked, and Dan knew ( fucking shining fucking thing) that he was making the clerk nervous. Why not? With his bed head, darkcircled eyes, and jerky, unsure movements, he probably looked like a meth freak who was deciding whether or not to pull out his trusty Saturday night special and ask for everything in the register. No, Dan said. I just realized I left my wallet home. He put the green bottles back in the cooler. As he closed it, they spoke to him gently, as one friend speaks to another See you soon, Danny. 16 Billy Freeman was waiting for him, bundled up to the eyebrows. He held out an oldfashioned ski hat with ANNISTON CYCLONES embroidered on the front. What the hell are the Anniston Cyclones? Dan asked. Annistons twenty miles north of here. When it comes to football, basketball, and baseball, theyre our archrivals. Someone sees that on ya, youll probably get a snowball upside your head, but its the only one Ive got. Dan hauled it on. Then go, Cyclones. Right, fuck you and the hoss you rode in on. Billy looked him over. You all right, Danno? Didnt get much sleep last night. I hear that. Damn wind really screamed, didnt it? Sounded like my ex when I suggested a little Monday night lovin might do us good. Ready to go to work? Ready as Ill ever be. Good. Lets dig in. Gonna be a busy day. 17 It was indeed a busy day, but by noon the sun had come out and the temperature had climbed back into the midfifties. Teenytown was filled with the sound of a hundred small waterfalls as the snow melted. Dans spirits rose with the temperature, and he even caught himself singing (Young man! I was once in your shoes!) as he followed his snowblower back and forth in the courtyard of the little shopping center adjacent to the common. Overhead, flapping in a mild breeze far removed from the shrieking wind of the night before, was a banner reading HUGE SPRING BARGAINS AT TEENYTOWN PRICES! There were no visions. After they clocked out, he took Billy to the Chuck Wagon and ordered them steak dinners. Billy offered to buy the beer. Dan shook his head. Staying away from alcohol. Reason being, once I start, its sometimes hard to stop. You could talk to Kingsley about that, Billy said. He got himself a booze divorce about fifteen years ago. Hes all right now, but his daughter still dont talk to him. They drank coffee with the meal. A lot of it. Dan went back to his thirdfloor Eliot Street lair tired, full of hot food and glad to be sober. There was no TV in his room, but he had the last part of the Sandford novel, and lost himself in it for a couple of hours. He kept an ear out for the wind, but it did not rise. He had an idea that last nights storm had been winters final shot. Which was fine with him. He turned in at ten and fell asleep almost immediately. His early morning visit to the Red Apple now seemed hazy, as if he had gone there in a fever delirium and the fever had now passed. 18 He woke in the small hours, not because the wind was blowing but because he had to piss like a racehorse. He got up, shuffled to the bathroom, and turned on the light inside the door. The tophat was in the tub, and full of blood. No, he said. Im dreaming. Maybe double dreaming. Or triple. Quadruple, even. There was something he hadnt told Emil Kemmer he was afraid that eventually he would get lost in a maze of phantom nightlife and never be able to find his way out again. All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. Only this was real. So was the hat. No one else would see it, but that changed nothing. The hat was real. It was somewhere in the world. He knew it. From the corner of his eye, he saw something written on the mirror over the sink. Something written in lipstick. I must not look at it. Too late. His head was turning; he could hear the tendons in his neck creaking like old doorhinges. And what did it matter? He knew what it said. Mrs. Massey was gone, Horace Derwent was gone, they were securely locked away in the boxes he kept far back in his mind, but the Overlook was still not done with him. Written on the mirror, not in lipstick but in blood, was a single word REDRUM Beneath it, lying in the sink, was a bloodstained Atlanta Braves tshirt. It will never stop, Danny thought. The Overlook burned and the most terrible of its revenants went into the lockboxes, but I cant lock away the shining, because it isnt just inside me, it is me. Without booze to at least stun it, these visions will go on until they drive me insane. He could see his face in the mirror with REDRUM floating in front of it, stamped on his forehead like a brand. This was not a dream. There was a murdered childs shirt in his washbasin and a hatful of blood in his tub. Insanity was coming. He could see its approach in his own bulging eyes. Then, like a flashlight beam in the dark, Halloranns voice Son, you may see things, but theyre like pictures in a book. You werent helpless in the Overlook when you were a child, and youre not helpless now. Far from it. Close your eyes and when you open them, all this crap will be gone. He closed his eyes and waited. He tried to count off the seconds, but only made it to fourteen before the numbers were lost in the roaring confusion of his thoughts. He half expected handsperhaps those of whoever owned the hatto close around his neck. But he stood there. There was really nowhere else to go. Summoning all his courage, Dan opened his eyes. The tub was empty. The washbasin was empty. There was nothing written on the mirror. But it will be back. Next time maybe itll be her shoesthose cork sandals. Or Ill see her in the tub. Why not? Thats where I saw Mrs. Massey, and they died the same way. Except I never stole Mrs. Masseys money and ran out on her. I gave it a day, he told the empty room. I did that much. Yes, and although it had been a busy day, it had also been a good day, hed be the first to admit it. The days werent the problem. As for the nights . . . The mind was a blackboard. Booze was the eraser. 19 Dan lay awake until six. Then he dressed and once more made the trek to the Red Apple. This time he did not hesitate, only instead of extracting two bottles of Bird from the cooler, he took three. What was it they used to say? Go big or go home. The clerk bagged the bottles without comment; he was used to early wine purchasers. Dan strolled to the town common, sat on one of the benches in Teenytown, and took one of the bottles out of the bag, looking down at it like Hamlet with Yoricks skull. Through the green glass, what was inside looked like rat poison instead of wine. You say that like its a bad thing, Dan said, and loosened the cap. This time it was his mother who spoke up. Wendy Torrance, who had smoked right to the bitter end. Because if suicide was the only option, you could at least choose your weapon. Is this how it ends, Danny? Is this what it was all for? He turned the cap widdershins. Then tightened it. Then back the other way. This time he took it off. The smell of the wine was sour, the smell of jukebox music and crappy bars and pointless arguments followed by fistfights in parking lots. In the end, life was as stupid as one of those fights. The world wasnt a hospice with fresh air, the world was the Overlook Hotel, where the party never ended. Where the dead were alive forever. He raised the bottle to his lips. Is this why we fought so hard to get out of that damned hotel, Danny? Why we fought to make a new life for ourselves? There was no reproach in her voice, only sadness. Danny tightened the cap again. Then loosened it. Tightened it. Loosened it. He thought If I drink, the Overlook wins. Even though it burned to the ground when the boiler exploded, it wins. If I dont drink, I go crazy. He thought All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. He was still tightening the cap and loosening it when Billy Freeman, who had awakened early with the vague, alarmed sense that something was wrong, found him. Are you going to drink that, Dan, or just keep jerking it off ? Drink it, I guess. I dont know what else to do. So Billy told him. 20 Casey Kingsley wasnt entirely surprised to see his new hire sitting outside his office when he arrived at quarter past eight that morning. Nor was he surprised to see the bottle Torrance was holding in his hands, first twisting the cap off, then putting it back on and turning it tight againhed had that special look from the start, the thousandyard Kappys Discount Liquor Store stare. Billy Freeman didnt have as much shine as Dan himself, not even close, but a bit more than just a twinkle. On that first day he had called Kingsley from the equipment shed as soon as Dan headed across the street to the Municipal Building. There was a young fella looking for work, Billy said. He wasnt apt to have much in the way of references, but Billy thought he was the right man to help out until Memorial Day. Kingsley, whod had experiencesgood oneswith Billys intuitions before, had agreed. I know weve got to have someone, he said. Billys reply had been peculiar, but then Billy was peculiar. Once, two years ago, he had called an ambulance five minutes before that little kid had fallen off the swings and fractured his skull. He needs us more than we need him, Billy had said. And here he was, sitting hunched forward as if he were already riding his next bus or barstool, and Kingsley could smell the wine from twelve yards down the hallway. He had a gourmets nose for such scents, and could name each one. This was Thunderbird, as in the old saloon rhyme Whats the word? Thunderbird! . . . Whats the price? Fifty twice! But when the young guy looked up at him, Kingsley saw the eyes were clear of everything but desperation. Billy sent me. Kingsley said nothing. He could see the kid gathering himself, struggling with it. It was in his eyes; it was in the way his mouth turned down at the corners; mostly it was the way he held the bottle, hating it and loving it and needing it all at the same time. At last Dan brought out the words he had been running from all his life. I need help. He swiped an arm across his eyes. As he did, Kingsley bent down and grasped the bottle of wine. The kid held on for a moment . . . then let go. Youre sick and youre tired, Kingsley said. I can see that much. But are you sick and tired of being sick and tired? Dan looked up at him, throat working. He struggled some more, then said, You dont know how much. Maybe I do. Kingsley produced a vast key ring from his vast trousers. He stuck one in the lock of the door with FRAZIER MUNICIPAL SERVICES painted on the frosted glass. Come on in. Lets talk about it. CHAPTER TWO BAD NUMBERS 1 The elderly poet with the Italian given name and the absolutely American surname sat with her sleeping greatgranddaughter in her lap and watched the video her granddaughters husband had shot in the delivery room three weeks before. It began with a title card ABRA ENTERS THE WORLD! The footage was jerky, and David had kept away from anything too clinical (thank God), but Concetta Reynolds saw the sweatplastered hair on Lucias brow, heard her cry out I am! when one of the nurses exhorted her to push, and saw the droplets of blood on the blue drapenot many, just enough to make what Chettas own grandmother would have called a fair show. But not in English, of course. The picture jiggled when the baby finally came into view and she felt gooseflesh chase up her back and arms when Lucy screamed, She has no face! Sitting beside Lucy now, David chuckled. Because of course Abra did have a face, a very sweet one. Chetta looked down at it as if to reassure herself of that. When she looked back up, the new baby was being placed in the new mothers arms. Thirty or forty jerky seconds later, another title card appeared HAPPY BIRTHDAY ABRA RAFAELLA STONE! David pushed STOP on the remote. Youre one of the very few people who will ever get to see that, Lucy announced in a firm, takenoprisoners voice. Its embarrassing. Its wonderful, Dave said. And theres one person who gets to see it for sure, and thats Abra herself. He glanced at his wife, sitting next to him on the couch. When shes old enough. And if she wants to, of course. He patted Lucys thigh, then grinned at his grannyinlaw, a woman for whom he had respect but no great love. Until then, it goes in the safe deposit box with the insurance papers, the house papers, and my millions in drug money. Concetta smiled to show she got the joke but thinly, to show she didnt find it particularly funny. In her lap, Abra slept and slept. In a way, all babies were born with a caul, she thought, their tiny faces drapes of mystery and possibility. Perhaps it was a thing to write about. Perhaps not. Concetta had come to America when she was twelve and spoke perfect idiomatic Englishnot surprising, since she was a graduate of Vassar and professor (now emeritus) of that very subjectbut in her head every superstition and old wives tale still lived. Sometimes they gave orders, and they always spoke Italian when they did. Chetta believed that most people who worked in the arts were highfunctioning schizophrenics, and she was no different. She knew superstition was shit; she also spat between her fingers if a crow or black cat crossed her path. For much of her own schizophrenia she had the Sisters of Mercy to thank. They believed in God; they believed in the divinity of Jesus; they believed mirrors were bewitching pools and the child who looked into one too long would grow warts. These were the women who had been the greatest influence on her life between the ages of seven and twelve. They carried rulers in their beltsfor hitting, not measuringand never saw a childs ear they did not desire to twist in passing. Lucy held out her arms for the baby. Chetta handed her over, not without reluctance. The kid was one sweet bundle. 2 Twenty miles southeast of where Abra slept in Concetta Reynoldss arms, Dan Torrance was attending an AA meeting while some chick droned on about sex with her ex. Casey Kingsley had ordered him to attend ninety meetings in ninety days, and this one, a nooner in the basement of Frazier Methodist Church, was his eighth. He was sitting in the first row, because Caseyknown in the halls as Big Caseyhad ordered him to do that, too. Sick people who want to get well sit in front, Danny. We call the back row at AA meetings the Denial Aisle. Casey had given him a little notebook with a photo on the front that showed ocean waves crashing into a rock promontory. Printed above the picture was a motto Dan understood but didnt much care for NO GREAT THING IS CREATED SUDDENLY. You write down every meeting you go to in that book. And anytime I ask to see it, you better be able to haul it out of your back pocket and show me perfect attendance. Dont I even get a sick day? Casey laughed. Youre sick every day, my friendyoure a drunkass alcoholic. Want to know something my sponsor told me? I think you already did. You cant turn a pickle back into a cucumber, right? Dont be a smartass, just listen. Dan sighed. Listening.  Get your ass to a meeting, he said. If your ass falls off, put it in a bag and take it to a meeting.  Charming. What if I just forget? Casey had shrugged. Then you find yourself another sponsor, one who believes in forgetfulness. I dont. Dan, who felt like some breakable object that has skittered to the edge of a high shelf but hasnt quite fallen off, didnt want another sponsor or changes of any kind. He felt okay, but tender. Very tender. Almost skinless. The visions that had plagued him following his arrival in Frazier had ceased, and although he often thought of Deenie and her little boy, the thoughts were not as painful. At the end of almost every AA meeting, someone read the Promises. One of these was We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. Dan thought he would always regret the past, but he had quit trying to shut the door. Why bother, when it would just come open again? The fucking thing had no latch, let alone a lock. Now he began to print a single word on the current page of the little book Casey had given him. He made large, careful letters. He had no idea why he was doing it, or what it meant. The word was . Meanwhile, the speaker reached the end of her qualification and burst into tears, through them declaring that even though her ex was a shit and she loved him still, she was grateful to be straight and sober. Dan applauded along with the rest of the Lunch Bunch, then began to color in the letters with his pen. Fattening them. Making them stand out. Do I know this name? I think I do. As the next speaker began and he went to the urn for a fresh cup of coffee, it came to him. Abra was the name of a girl in a John Steinbeck novel. East of Eden. Hed read it . . . he couldnt remember where. At some stop along the way. Some somewhere. It didnt matter. Another thought (did you save it) rose to the top of his mind like a bubble and popped. Save what? Frankie P., the Lunch Bunch oldtimer who was chairing the meeting, asked if someone wanted to do the Chip Club. When no one raised a hand, Frankie pointed. How about you, lurking back there by the coffee? Feeling selfconscious, Dan walked to the front of the room, hoping he could remember the order of the chips. The firstwhite for beginnershe had. As he took the battered cookie tin with the chips and medallions scattered inside it, the thought came again. Did you save it? 3 That was the day the True Knot, which had been wintering at a KOA campground in Arizona, packed up and began meandering back east. They drove along Route 77 toward Show Low in the usual caravan fourteen campers, some towing cars, some with lawn chairs or bicycles clamped to the backs. There were Southwinds and Winnebagos, Monacos and Bounders. Roses EarthCruiserseven hundred thousand dollars worth of imported rolling steel, the best RV money could buyled the parade. But slowly, just doublenickeling it. They were in no hurry. There was plenty of time. The feast was still months away. 4 Did you save it? Concetta asked as Lucy opened her blouse and offered Abra the breast. Abby blinked sleepily, rooted a little, then lost interest. Once your nipples get sore, you wont offer until she asks, Chetta thought. And at the top of her lungs. Save what? David asked. Lucy knew. I passed out right after they put her in my arms. Dave says I almost dropped her. There was no time, Momo. Oh, that goop over her face. David said it dismissively. They stripped it off and threw it away. Damn good thing, if you ask me. He was smiling, but his eyes challenged her. You know better than to go on with this, they said. You know better, so just drop it. She did know better . . . and didnt. Had she been this twominded when she was younger? She couldnt remember, although it seemed she could remember every lecture on the Blessed Mysteries and the everlasting pain of hell administered by the Sisters of Mercy, those banditti in black. The story of the girl who had been struck blind for peeping at her brother while he was naked in the tub and the one about the man who had been struck dead for blaspheming against the pope. Give them to us when theyre young and it doesnt matter how many honors classes theyve taught, or how many books of poetry theyve written, or even that one of those books won all the big prizes. Give them to us when theyre young . . . and theyre ours forever. You should have saved il amnio. Its good luck. She spoke directly to her granddaughter, cutting David out entirely. He was a good man, a good husband to her Lucia, but fuck his dismissive tone. And doublefuck his challenging eyes. I would have, but I didnt have a chance, Momo. And Dave didnt know. Buttoning her blouse again. Chetta leaned forward and touched the fine skin of Abras cheek with the tip of her finger, old flesh sliding across new. Those born with il amnio are supposed to have double sight. You dont actually believe that, do you? David asked. A caul is nothing but a scrap of fetal membrane. It . . . He was saying more, but Concetta paid no attention. Abra had opened her eyes. In them was a universe of poetry, lines too great to ever be written. Or even remembered. Never mind, Concetta said. She raised the baby and kissed the smooth skull where the fontanelle pulsed, the magic of the mind so close beneath. Whats done is done. 5 One night about five months after the notquiteargument over Abras caul, Lucy dreamed her daughter was cryingcrying as if her heart would break. In this dream, Abby was no longer in the master bedroom of the house on Richland Court but somewhere down a long corridor. Lucy ran in the direction of the weeping. At first there were doors on both sides, then seats. Blue ones with high backs. She was on a plane or maybe an Amtrak train. After running for what seemed like miles, she came to a bathroom door. Her baby was crying behind it. Not a hungry cry, but a frightened cry. Maybe (oh God, oh Mary) a hurt cry. Lucy was terribly afraid the door would be locked and she would have to break it downwasnt that the kind of thing that always happened in bad dreams?but the knob twisted and she opened it. As she did, a new fear struck her What if Abra was in the toilet? You read about that happening. Babies in toilets, babies in Dumpsters. What if she were drowning in one of those ugly steel bowls they had on public conveyances, up to her mouth and nose in disinfected blue water? But Abra lay on the floor. She was naked. Her eyes, swimming with tears, stared at her mother. Written on her chest in what looked like blood was the number 11. 6 David Stone dreamed he was chasing his daughters cries up an endless escalator that was runningslowly but inexorablyin the wrong direction. Worse, the escalator was in a mall, and the mall was on fire. He should have been choking and out of breath long before he reached the top, but there was no smoke from the fire, only a hell of flames. Nor was there any sound other than Abras cries, although he saw people burning like kerosenesoaked torches. When he finally made it to the top, he saw Abby lying on the floor like someones castoff garbage. Men and women ran all around her, unheeding, and in spite of the flames, no one tried to use the escalator even though it was going down. They simply sprinted aimlessly in all directions, like ants whose hill has been torn open by a farmers harrow. One woman in stilettos almost stepped on his daughter, a thing that would almost surely have killed her. Abra was naked. Written on her chest was the number 175. 7 The Stones woke together, both initially convinced that the cries they heard were a remnant of the dreams they had been having. But no, the cries were in the room with them. Abby lay in her crib beneath her Shrek mobile, eyes wide, cheeks red, tiny fists pumping, howling her head off. A change of diapers did not quiet her, nor did the breast, nor did what felt like miles of laps up and down the hall and at least a thousand verses of The Wheels on the Bus. At last, very frightened nowAbby was her first, and Lucy was at her wits endshe called Concetta in Boston. Although it was two in the morning, Momo answered on the second ring. She was eightyfive, and her sleep was as thin as her skin. She listened more closely to her wailing greatgranddaughter than to Lucys confused recital of all the ordinary remedies they had tried, then asked the pertinent questions. Is she running a fever? Pulling at one of her ears? Jerking her legs like she has to make merda? No, Lucy said, none of that. Shes a little warm from crying, but I dont think its a fever. Momo, what should I do? Chetta, now sitting at her desk, didnt hesitate. Give her another fifteen minutes. If she doesnt quiet and begin feeding, take her to the hospital. What? Brigham and Womens? Confused and upset, it was all Lucy could think of. It was where she had given birth. Thats a hundred and fifty miles! No, no. Bridgton. Across the border in Maine. Thats a little closer than CNH. Are you sure? Am I looking at my computer right now? Abra did not quiet. The crying was monotonous, maddening, terrifying. When they arrived at Bridgton Hospital, it was quarter of four, and Abra was still at full volume. Rides in the Acura were usually better than a sleeping pill, but not this morning. David thought about brain aneurysms and told himself he was out of his mind. Babies didnt have strokes . . . did they? Davey? Lucy asked in a small voice as they pulled up to the sign reading EMERGENCY DROPOFF ONLY. Babies dont have strokes or heart attacks . . . do they? No, Im sure they dont. But a new idea occurred to him then. Suppose the kiddo had somehow swallowed a safety pin, and it had popped open in her stomach? Thats stupid, we use Huggies, shes never even been near a safety pin. Something else, then. A bobby pin from Lucys hair. An errant tack that had fallen into the crib. Maybe even, God help them, a brokenoff piece of plastic from Shrek, Donkey, or Princess Fiona. Davey? What are you thinking? Nothing. The mobile was fine. He was sure of it. Almost sure. Abra continued to scream. 8 David hoped the doc on duty would give his daughter a sedative, but it was against protocol for infants who could not be diagnosed, and Abra Rafaella Stone seemed to have nothing wrong with her. She wasnt running a fever, she wasnt showing a rash, and ultrasound had ruled out pyloric stenosis. An Xray showed no foreign objects in her throat or stomach, or a bowel obstruction. Basically, she just wouldnt shut up. The Stones were the only patients in the ER at that hour on a Tuesday morning, and each of the three nurses on duty had a try at quieting her. Nothing worked. Shouldnt you give her something to eat? Lucy asked the doctor when he came back to check. The phrase Ringers lactate occurred to her, something shed heard on one of the doctor shows shed watched ever since her teenage crush on George Clooney. But for all she knew, Ringers lactate was foot lotion, or an anticoagulant, or something for stomach ulcers. She wont take the breast or the bottle. When she gets hungry enough, shell eat, the doctor said, but neither Lucy nor David was much comforted. For one thing, the doctor looked younger than they were. For another (this was far worse), he didnt sound completely sure. Have you called your pediatrician? He checked the paperwork. Dr. Dalton? Left a message with his service, David said. We probably wont hear from him until midmorning, and by then this will be over. One way or the other, he thought, and his mindmade ungovernable by too little sleep and too much anxietypresented him with a picture as clear as it was horrifying mourners standing around a small grave. And an even smaller coffin. 9 At seven thirty, Chetta Reynolds blew into the examining room where the Stones and their ceaselessly screaming baby daughter had been stashed. The poet rumored to be on the short list for a Presidential Medal of Freedom was dressed in straightleg jeans and a BU sweatshirt with a hole in one elbow. The outfit showed just how thin shed become over the last three or four years. No cancer, if thats what youre thinking, shed say if anyone commented on her runwaymodel thinness, which she ordinarily disguised with billowing dresses or caftans. Im just in training for the final lap around the track. Her hair, as a rule braided or put up in complicated swoops arranged to showcase her collection of vintage hair clips, stood out around her head in an unkempt Einstein cloud.


She wore no makeup, and even in her distress, Lucy was shocked by how old Concetta looked. Well, of course she was old, eightyfive was very old, but until this morning she had looked like a woman in her late sixties at most. I would have been here an hour earlier if Id found someone to come in and take care of Betty. Betty was her elderly, ailing boxer. Chetta caught Davids reproachful glance. Bets is dying, David. And based on what you could tell me over the phone, I wasnt all that concerned about Abra. Are you concerned now? David asked. Lucy flashed him a warning glance, but Chetta seemed willing to accept the implied rebuke. Yes. She held out her hands. Give her to me, Lucy. Lets see if shell quiet for Momo. But Abra would not quiet for Momo, no matter how she was rocked. Nor did a soft and surprisingly tuneful lullabye (for all David knew, it was The Wheels on the Bus in Italian) do the job. They all tried the walking cure again, first squiring her around the small exam room, then down the hall, then back to the exam room. The screaming went on and on. At some point there was a commotion outsidesomeone with actual visible injuries being wheeled in, David assumedbut those in exam room 4 took little notice. At five to nine, the exam room door opened and the Stones pediatrician walked in. Dr. John Dalton was a fellow Dan Torrance would have recognized, although not by last name. To Dan he was just Doctor John, who made the coffee at the Thursday night Big Book meeting in North Conway. Thank God! Lucy said, thrusting her howling child into the pediatricians arms. Weve been left on our own for hours! I was on my way when I got the message. Dalton hoisted Abra onto his shoulder. Rounds here, then over in Castle Rock. Youve heard about whats happened, havent you? Heard what? David asked. With the door open, he was for the first time consciously aware of a moderate uproar outside. People were talking in loud voices. Some were crying. The nurse who had admitted them walked by, her face red and blotchy, her cheeks wet. She didnt even glance at the screaming infant. A passenger jet hit the World Trade Center, Dalton said. And no one thinks it was an accident. That was American Airlines Flight 11. United Airlines Flight 175 struck the Trade Centers South Tower seventeen minutes later, at 903 a.m. At 903, Abra Stone abruptly stopped crying. By 904, she was sound asleep. On their ride back to Anniston, David and Lucy listened to the radio while Abra slept peacefully in her car seat behind them. The news was unbearable, but turning it off was unthinkable . . . at least until a newscaster announced the names of the airlines and the flight numbers of the aircraft two in New York, one near Washington, one cratered in rural Pennsylvania. Then David finally reached over and silenced the flood of disaster. Lucy, I have to tell you something. I dreamed I know. She spoke in the flat tone of one who has just suffered a shock. So did I. By the time they crossed back into New Hampshire, David had begun to believe there might be something to that caul business, after all. 10 In a New Jersey town, on the west bank of the Hudson River, theres a park named for the towns most famous resident. On a clear day, it offers a perfect view of Lower Manhattan. The True Knot arrived in Hoboken on September eighth, parking in a private lot which they had fourwalled for ten days. Crow Daddy did the deal. Handsome and gregarious, looking about forty, Crows favorite tshirt read IM A PEOPLE PERSON! Not that he ever wore a tee when negotiating for the True Knot; then it was strictly suit and tie. It was what the rubes expected. His straight name was Henry Rothman. He was a Harvardeducated lawyer (class of 38), and he always carried cash. The True had over a billion dollars in various accounts across the worldsome in gold, some in diamonds, some in rare books, stamps, and paintingsbut never paid by check or credit card. Everyone, even Pea and Pod, who looked like kids, carried a roll of ten and twenties. As Jimmy Numbers had once said, Were a cashandcarry outfit. We pay cash and the rubes carry us. Jimmy was the Trues accountant. In his rube days he had once ridden with an outfit that became known (long after their war was over) as Quantrills Raiders. Back then he had been a wild kid who wore a buffalo coat and carried a Sharps, but in the years since, he had mellowed. These days he had a framed, autographed picture of Ronald Reagan in his RV. On the morning of September eleventh, the True watched the attacks on the Twin Towers from the parking lot, passing around four pairs of binoculars. They would have had a better view from Sinatra Park, but Rose didnt need to tell them that gathering early might attract suspicion . . . and in the months and years ahead, America was going to be a very suspicious nation if you see something, say something. Around ten that morningwhen crowds had gathered all along the riverbank and it was safethey made their way to the park. The Little twins, Pea and Pod, pushed Grampa Flick in his wheelchair. Grampa wore his cap stating I AM A VET. His long, babyfine white hair floated around the caps edges like milkweed. There had been a time when hed told folks he was a veteran of the SpanishAmerican War. Then it was World War I. Nowadays it was World War II. In another twenty years or so, he expected to switch his story to Vietnam. Verisimilitude had never been a problem; Grampa was a military history buff. Sinatra Park was jammed. Most folks were silent, but some wept. Apron Annie and BlackEyed Sue helped in this respect; both were able to cry on demand. The others put on suitable expressions of sorrow, solemnity, and amazement. Basically, the True Knot fit right in. It was how they rolled. Spectators came and went, but the True stayed for most of the day, which was cloudless and beautiful (except for the thick billows of dreck rising in Lower Manhattan, that is). They stood at the iron rail, not talking among themselves, just watching. And taking long slow deep breaths, like tourists from the Midwest standing for the first time on Pemaquid Point or Quoddy Head in Maine, breathing deep of the fresh sea air. As a sign of respect, Rose took off her tophat and held it by her side. At four oclock they trooped back to their encampment in the parking lot, invigorated. They would return the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. They would return until the good steam was exhausted, and then they would move on again. By then, Grampa Flicks white hair would have become iron gray, and he would no longer need the wheelchair. CHAPTER THREE SPOONS 1 It was a twentymile drive from Frazier to North Conway, but Dan Torrance made it every Thursday night, partly because he could. He was now working at Helen Rivington House, making a decent salary, and he had his drivers license back. The car hed bought to go with it wasnt much, just a threeyearold Caprice with blackwall tires and an iffy radio, but the engine was good and every time he started it up, he felt like the luckiest man in New Hampshire. He thought if he never had to ride another bus, he could die happy. It was January of 2004. Except for a few random thoughts and imagesplus the extra work he sometimes did at the hospice, of coursethe shining had been quiet. He would have done that volunteer work in any case, but after his time in AA, he also saw it as making amends, which recovering people considered almost as important as staying away from the first drink. If he could manage to keep the plug in the jug another three months, he would be able to celebrate three years sober. Driving again figured large in the daily gratitude meditations upon which Casey K. insisted (because, he saidand with all the dour certainty of the Program longtimera grateful alcoholic doesnt get drunk), but mostly Dan went on Thursday nights because the Big Book gathering was soothing. Intimate, really. Some of the open discussion meetings in the area were uncomfortably large, but that was never true on Thursday nights in North Conway. There was an old AA saying that went, If you want to hide something from an alcoholic, stick it in the Big Book, and attendance at the North Conway Thursday night meeting suggested that there was some truth in it. Even during the weeks between the Fourth of July and Labor Daythe height of the tourist seasonit was rare to have more than a dozen people in the Amvets hall when the gavel fell. As a result, Dan had heard things he suspected would never have been spoken aloud in the meetings that drew fifty or even seventy recovering alkies and druggies. In those, speakers had a tendency to take refuge in the platitudes (of which there were hundreds) and avoid the personal. Youd hear Serenity pays dividends and You can take my inventory if youre willing to make my amends, but never I fucked my brothers wife one night when we were both drunk. At the Thursday night We Study Sobriety meetings, the little enclave read Bill Wilsons big blue howto manual from cover to cover, each new meeting picking up where the last meeting had left off. When they got to the end of the book, they went back to The Doctors Statement and started all over again. Most meetings covered ten pages or so. That took about half an hour. In the remaining half hour, the group was supposed to talk about the material just read. Sometimes they actually did. Quite often, however, the discussion veered off in other directions, like an unruly planchette scurrying around a Ouija board beneath the fingers of neurotic teenagers. Dan remembered a Thursday night meeting hed attended when he was about eight months sober. The chapter under discussion, To Wives, was full of antique assumptions that almost always provoked a hot response from the younger women in the Program. They wanted to know why, in the sixtyfive years or so since the Big Books original publication, no one had ever added a chapter called To Husbands. When Gemma T.a thirtysomething whose only two emotional settings seemed to be Angry and Profoundly Pissed Offraised her hand on that particular night, Dan had expected a femlib tirade. Instead she said, much more quietly than usual, I need to share something. Ive been holding onto it ever since I was seventeen, and unless I let go, Ill never be able to stay away from coke and wine. The group waited. I hit a man with my car when I was coming home drunk from a party, Gemma said. This was back in Somerville. I left him lying by the side of the road. I didnt know if he was dead or alive. I still dont. I waited for the cops to come and arrest me, but they never did. I got away with it. She had laughed at this the way people do when the jokes an especially good one, then put her head down on the table and burst into sobs so deep that they shook her railthin body. It had been Dans first experience with how terrifying honesty in all our affairs could be when it was actually put into practice. He thought, as he still did every so often, of how he had stripped Deenies wallet of cash, and how the little boy had reached for the cocaine on the coffee table. He was a little in awe of Gemma, but that much raw honesty wasnt in him. If it came down to a choice between telling that story and taking a drink . . . Id take the drink. No question. 2 Tonight the reading was Gutter Bravado, one of the stories from the section of the Big Book cheerily titled They Lost Nearly All. The tale followed a pattern with which Dan had become familiar good family, church on Sundays, first drink, first binge, business success spoiled by booze, escalating lies, first arrest, broken promises to reform, institutionalization, and the final happy ending. All the stories in the Big Book had happy endings. That was part of its charm. It was a cold night but overwarm inside, and Dan was edging into a doze when Doctor John raised his hand and said, Ive been lying to my wife about something, and I dont know how to stop. That woke Dan up. He liked DJ a lot. It turned out that Johns wife had given him a watch for Christmas, quite an expensive one, and when she had asked him a couple of nights ago why he wasnt wearing it, John said hed left it at the office. Only its not there. I looked everywhere, and its just not. I do a lot of hospital rounds, and if I have to change into scrubs, I use one of the lockers in the doctors lounge. There are combo locks, but I hardly ever use them, because I dont carry much cash and I dont have anything else worth stealing. Except for the watch, I guess. I cant remember taking it off and leaving it in a lockernot at CNH or over in Bridgtonbut I think I must have. Its not the expense. It just brings back a lot of the old stuff from the days when I was drinking myself stupid every night and chipping speed the next morning to get going. There were nodding heads at this, followed by similar stories of guiltdriven deceit. No one gave advice; that was called crosstalk, and frowned on. They simply told their tales. John listened with his head down and his hands clasped between his knees. After the basket was passed (We are selfsupporting through our own contributions), he thanked everyone for their input. From the look of him, Dan didnt think said input had helped a whole hell of a lot. After the Lords Prayer, Dan put away the leftover cookies and stacked the groups tattered Big Books in the cabinet marked FOR AA USE. A few people were still hanging around the buttcan outsidethe socalled meeting after the meetingbut he and John had the kitchen to themselves. Dan hadnt spoken during the discussion; he was too busy having an interior debate with himself. The shining had been quiet, but that didnt mean it was absent. He knew from his volunteer work that it was actually stronger than it had been since childhood, though now he seemed to have a greater degree of control over it. That made it less frightening and more useful. His coworkers at Rivington House knew he had something, but most of them called it empathy and let it go at that. The last thing he wanted, now that his life had begun to settle down, was to get a reputation as some sort of parlor psychic. Best to keep the freaky shit to himself. Doctor John was a good guy, though. And he was hurting. DJ placed the coffee urn upside down in the dish drainer, used a length of towel hanging from the stove handle to dry his hands, then turned to Dan, offering a smile that looked as real as the Coffeemate Dan had stored away next to the cookies and the sugar bowl. Well, Im off. See you next week, I guess. In the end, the decision made itself; Dan simply could not let the guy go looking like that. He held his arms out. Give it up. The fabled AA manhug. Dan had seen many but never given a single one. John looked dubious for a moment, then stepped forward. Dan drew him in, thinking Therell probably be nothing. But there was. It came as quickly as it had when, as a child, he had sometimes helped his mother and father find lost things. Listen to me, Doc, he said, letting John go. You were worried about the kid with Goochers. John stepped back. What are you talking about? Im not saying it right, I know that. Goochers? Glutchers? Its some sort of bone thing. Johns mouth dropped open. Are you talking about Norman Lloyd? You tell me. Normies got Gauchers disease. Its a lipid disorder. Hereditary and very rare. Causes an enlarged spleen, neurologic disorders, and usually an early, unpleasant death. Poor kids basically got a glass skeleton, and hell probably die before hes ten. But how do you know that? From his parents? The Lloyds live way the hell down in Nashua. You were worried about talking to himthe terminal ones drive you crazy. Thats why you stopped in the Tigger bathroom to wash your hands even though your hands didnt need washing. You took off your watch and put it up on the shelf where they keep that dark red disinfectant shit that comes in the plastic squeeze bottles. I dont know the name. John D. was staring at him as though he had gone mad. Which hospital is this kid in? Dan asked. Elliot. The timeframes about right, and I did stop in the bathroom near the Pedes nursing station to wash my hands. He paused, frowning. And yeah, I guess there are Milne characters on the walls in that one. But if Id taken off my watch, Id remem . . . He trailed off. You do remember, Dan said, and smiled. Now you do. Dont you? John said, I checked the Elliot lost and found. Bridgton and CNH, too, for that matter. Nothing. Okay, so maybe somebody came along, saw it, and stole it. If so, youre shit out of luck . . . but at least you can tell your wife what happened. And why it happened. You were thinking about the kid, worrying about the kid, and you forgot to put your watch back on before you left the can. Simple as that. And hey, maybe its still there. Thats a high shelf, and hardly anybody uses whats in those plastic bottles, because theres a soap dispenser right beside the sink. Its Betadine on that shelf, John said, and up high so the kids cant reach it. I never noticed. But . . . Dan, have you ever been in Elliot? This wasnt a question he wanted to answer. Just check the shelf, Doc. Maybe youll get lucky. 3 Dan arrived early at the following Thursdays We Study Sobriety meeting. If Doctor John had decided to trash his marriage and possibly his career over a missing sevenhundreddollar watch (alkies routinely trashed marriages and careers over far less), someone would have to make the coffee. But John was there. So was the watch. This time it was John who initiated the manhug. An extremely hearty one. Dan almost expected to receive a pair of Gallic kisses on the cheeks before DJ let him go. It was right where you said it would be. Ten days, and still there. Its like a miracle. Nah, Dan said. Most people rarely look above their own eyeline. Its a proven fact. How did you know? Dan shook his head. I cant explain it. Sometimes I just do. How can I thank you? This was the question Dan had been waiting and hoping for. By working the Twelfth Step, dummocks. John D. raised his eyebrows. Anonymity. In words of one syllable, keep ya fuckin mouth shut. Understanding broke on Johns face. He grinned. I can do that. Good. Now make the coffee. Ill put out the books. 4 In most New England AA groups, anniversaries are called birthdays and celebrated with a cake and an aftermeeting party. Shortly before Dan was due to celebrate his third year of sobriety in this fashion, David Stone and Abras greatgrandmother came to see John Daltonknown in some circles as either Doctor John or DJand invite him to another third birthday party. This was the one the Stones were throwing for Abra. Thats very kind, John said, and Ill be more than happy to drop by if I can. Only why do I feel theres a little more to it? Because there is, Chetta said. And Mr. Stubborn here has decided that its finally time to talk about it. Is there a problem with Abra? If there is, fill me in. Based on her last checkup, shes fine. Fearsomely bright. Social skills terrific. Verbal skills through the roof. Reading, ditto. Last time she was here she read me Alligators All Around. Probably rote memory, but still remarkable for a child whos not yet three. Does Lucy know youre here? Lucy and Chetta are the ones who ganged up on me, David said. Lucys home with Abra, making cupcakes for the party. When I left, the kitchen looked like hell in a high wind. So what are we saying here? That you want me at her party in an observational capacity? Thats right, Concetta said. None of us can say for sure that something will happen, but its more likely to when shes excited, and shes very excited about her party. All her little pals from daycare are coming, and theres going to be a fellow who does magic tricks. John opened a desk drawer and took out a yellow legal pad. What kind of something are you expecting? David hesitated. Thats . . . hard to say. Chetta turned to face him. Go on, caro. Too late to back out now. Her tone was light, almost gay, but John Dalton thought she looked worried. He thought they both did. Begin with the night she started crying and wouldnt stop. 5 David Stone had been teaching American history and twentiethcentury European history to undergraduates for ten years, and knew how to organize a story so the interior logic was hard to miss. He began this one by pointing out that their infant daughters marathon crying spree had ended almost immediately after the second jetliner had struck the World Trade Center. Then he doubled back to the dreams in which his wife had seen the American Airlines flight number on Abras chest and he had seen the United Airlines number. In Lucys dream, she found Abra in an airplane bathroom. In mine, I found her in a mall that was on fire. Draw your own conclusions about that part. Or not. To me, those flight numbers seem pretty conclusive. But of what, I dont know. He laughed without much humor, raised his hands, then dropped them again. Maybe Im afraid to know. John Dalton remembered the morning of 911and Abras nonstop crying jagvery well. Let me get this straight. You believe your daughterwho was then only five months oldhad a premonition of those attacks and somehow sent word to you telepathically. Yes, Chetta said. Put very succinctly. Bravo. I know how it sounds, David said. Which is why Lucy and I kept it to ourselves. Except for Chetta, that is. Lucy told her that night. Lucy tells her momo everything. He sighed. Concetta gave him a cool look. You didnt get one of these dreams? John asked her. She shook her head. I was in Boston. Out of her . . . I dont know . . . transmitting range? Its been almost three years since 911, John said. I assume other stuff has happened since then. A lot of other stuff had happened, and now that he had managed to speak of the first (and most unbelievable) thing, Dave found himself able to talk about the rest easily enough. The piano. That was next. You know Lucy plays? John shook his head. Well, she does. Since she was in grammar school. Shes not great or anything, but shes pretty good. Weve got a Vogel that my parents gave her as a wedding present. Its in the living room, which is also where Abras playpen used to be. Well, one of the presents I gave Lucy for Christmas in 2001 was a book of Beatles tunes arranged for piano. Abra used to lie in her playpen, goofing with her toys and listening. You could tell by the way she smiled and kicked her feet that she liked the music. John didnt question this. Most babies loved music, and they had their ways of letting you know. The book had all the hitsHey Jude, Lady Madonna, Let It Bebut the one Abra liked best was one of the minor songs, a Bside called Not a Second Time. Do you know it? Not offhand, John said. I might if I heard it. Its upbeat, but unlike most of the Beatles fast stuff, its built around a piano riff rather than the usual guitar sound. It isnt a boogiewoogie, but close. Abra loved it. She wouldnt just kick her feet when Lucy played that one, shed actually bicycle them. Dave smiled at the memory of Abra on her back in her bright purple onesie, not yet able to walk but cribdancing like a disco queen. The instrumental break is almost all piano, and its simple as pie. The left hand just picks out the notes. There are only twentynineI counted. A kid could play it. And our kid did. John raised his eyebrows until they almost met his hairline. It started in the spring of 2002. Lucy and I were in bed, reading. The weather report was on TV, and that comes about halfway through the eleven p.m. newscast. Abra was in her roomfast asleep, as far as we knew. Lucy asked me to turn off the TV because she wanted to go to sleep. I clicked the remote, and thats when we heard it. The piano break of Not a Second Time, those twentynine notes. Perfect. Not a single miss, and coming from downstairs. Doc, we were scared shitless. We thought we had an intruder in the house, only what kind of burglar stops to play a little Beatles before grabbing the silverware? I dont have a gun and my golf clubs were in the garage, so I just picked up the biggest book I could find and went down to confront whoever was there. Pretty stupid, I know. I told Lucy to grab the phone and dial 911 if I yelled. But there was no one, and all the doors were locked. Also, the cover was down over the piano keys. I went back upstairs and told Lucy I hadnt found anything or anyone. We went down the hall to check the baby. We didnt talk about it, we just did it. I think we knew it was Abra, but neither of us wanted to say it right out loud. She was awake, just lying there in her crib and looking at us. You know the wise little eyes that they have? John knew. As if they could tell you all the secrets of the universe, if they were only able to talk. There were times when he thought that might even be so, only God had arranged things in such a way so that by the time they could get beyond googoogaga, they had forgotten it all, the way we forget even our most vivid dreams a couple of hours after waking. She smiled when she saw us, closed her eyes, and dropped off. The next night it happened again. Same time. Those twentynine notes from the living room . . . then silence . . . then down to Abras room and finding her awake. Not fussing, not even sucking her bink, just looking at us through the bars of her crib. Then off to sleep. This is the truth, John said. Not really questioning, only wanting to get it straight. Youre not pulling my leg. David didnt smile. Not even twitching the cuff of your pants. John turned to Chetta. Have you heard it yourself ? No. Let David finish. We got a couple of nights off, and . . . you know how you say that the secret of successful parenting is always make a plan? Sure. This was John Daltons chief sermon to new parents. How are you going to handle night feedings? Draw up a schedule so someones always on call and no one gets too ragged. How are you going to handle bathing and feeding and dressing and playtime so the kid has a regularand hence comfortingroutine? Draw up a schedule. Make a plan. Do you know how to handle an emergency? Anything from a collapsed crib to a choking incident? If you make a plan, you will, and nineteen times out of twenty, things will turn out fine. So thats what we did. For the next three nights I slept on the sofa right across from the piano. On the third night the music started just as I was snugging down for the night. The cover on the Vogel was closed, so I hustled over and raised it. The keys werent moving. Which didnt surprise me much, because I could tell the music wasnt coming from the piano. Beg pardon? It was coming from above it. From thin air. By then, Lucy was in Abras room. The other times we hadnt said anything, we were too stunned, but this time she was ready. She told Abra to play it again. There was a little pause . . . and then she did. I was standing so close I almost could have snatched those notes out of the air. Silence in John Daltons office. He had stopped writing on the pad. Chetta was looking at him gravely. At last he said, Is this still going on? No. Lucy took Abra on her lap and told her not to play anymore at night, because we couldnt sleep. And that was the end of it. He paused to consider. Almost the end. Once, about three weeks later, we heard the music again, but very soft and coming from upstairs this time. From her room. She was playing to herself, Concetta said. She woke up . . . she couldnt get back to sleep right away . . . so she played herself a little lullaby. 6 One Monday afternoon just about a year after the fall of the Twin Towers, Abrawalking by now and with recognizable words beginning to emerge from her allbutconstant gabbleteetered her way to the front door and plopped down there with her favorite doll in her lap. Whatcha doon, sweetheart? Lucy asked. She was sitting at the piano, playing a Scott Joplin rag. Dada! Abra announced. Honey, Dada wont be home until supper, Lucy said, but fifteen minutes later the Acura pulled up the drive and Dave got out, hauling his briefcase. There had been a watermain break in the building where he taught his MondayWednesdayFriday classes, and everything had been canceled. Lucy told me about that, Concetta said, and of course I already knew about the 911 crying jag and the phantom piano. I took a run up there a week or two later. I told Lucy not to say a word to Abra about my visit. But Abra knew. She planted herself in front of the door ten minutes before I showed up. When Lucy asked who was coming, Abra said, Momo.  She does that a lot, David said. Not every time someones coming, but if its someone she knows and likes . . . almost always. In the late spring of 2003, Lucy found her daughter in their bedroom, tugging at the second drawer of Lucys dresser. Mun! she told her mother. Mun, mun! I dont get you, sweetie, Lucy said, but you can look in the drawer if you want to. Its just some old underwear and leftover cosmetics. But Abra had no interest in the drawer, it seemed; didnt even look in it when Lucy pulled it out to show her what was inside. Hind! Mun! Then, drawing a deep breath. Mun hind, Mama! Parents never become absolutely fluent in Babytheres not enough timebut most learn to speak it to some degree, and Lucy finally understood that her daughters interest wasnt in the contents of the dresser but in something behind it. Curious, she pulled it out. Abra darted into the space immediately. Lucy, thinking that it would be dusty in there even if there werent bugs or mice, made a swipe for the back of the babys shirt and missed. By the time she got the dresser out far enough to slip into the gap herself, Abra was holding up a twentydollar bill that had found its way through the hole between the dressers surface and the bottom of the mirror. Look! she said gleefully. Mun! My mun! Nope, Lucy said, plucking it out of the small fist, babies dont get mun because they dont need mun. But you did just earn yourself an ice cream cone. Ikeem! Abra shouted. My ikeem! Now tell Doctor John about Mrs. Judkins, David said. You were there for that. Indeed I was, Concetta said. That was some Fourth of July weekend. By the summer of 2003, Abra had begun speaking inmore or lessfull sentences. Concetta had come to spend the holiday weekend with the Stones. On the Sunday, which happened to be July sixth, Dave had gone to the 7Eleven to buy a fresh canister of Blue Rhino for the backyard barbecue. Abra was playing with blocks in the living room. Lucy and Chetta were in the kitchen, one of them checking periodically on Abra to make sure she hadnt decided to pull out the plug on the TV and chew it or go climbing Mount Sofa. But Abra showed no interest in those things; she was busy constructing what looked like a Stonehenge made out of her plastic toddler blocks. Lucy and Chetta were unloading the dishwasher when Abra began to scream. She sounded like she was dying, Chetta said. You know how scary that is, right? John nodded. He knew. Running doesnt come naturally to me at my age, but I ran like Wilma Rudolph that day. Beat Lucy to the living room by half a length. I was so convinced the kid was hurt that for a second or two I actually saw blood. But she was okay. Physically, anyhow. She ran to me and threw her arms around my legs. I picked her up. Lucy was with me by then, and we managed to get her soothed a little. Wannie! she said. Help Wannie, Momo! Wannie fall down! I didnt know who Wannie was, but Lucy didWanda Judkins, the lady across the street. Shes Abras favorite neighbor, David said, because she makes cookies and usually brings one over for Abra with her name written on it. Sometimes in raisins, sometimes in frosting. Shes a widow. Lives alone. So we went across, Chetta resumed, me in the lead and Lucy holding Abra. I knocked. No one answered. Wannie in the dinner room! Abra said.


Help Wannie, Momo! Help Wannie, Mama! She hurted herself and blood is coming out! The door was unlocked. We went in. First thing I smelled was burning cookies. Mrs. Judkins was lying on the dining room floor next to a stepladder. The rag shed been using to dust out the moldings was still in her hand, and there was blood, all righta puddle of it around her head in a kind of halo. I thought she was finishedI couldnt see her breathingbut Lucy found a pulse. The fall fractured her skull, and there was a small brainbleed, but she woke up the next day. Shell be at Abras birthday party. You can say hello to her, if you come. She looked at Abra Stones pediatrician unflinchingly. The doctor at the ER said that if shed lain there much longer, she would have either died or ended up in a persistent vegetative state . . . far worse than death, in my humble opinion. Either way, the kid saved her life. John tossed his pen on top of the legal pad. I dont know what to say. Theres more, Dave said, but the other stuffs hard to quantify. Maybe just because Lucy and I have gotten used to it. The way, I guess, youd get used to living with a kid who was born blind. Except this is almost the opposite of that. I think we knew even before the 911 thing. I think we knew there was something almost from the time we brought her home from the hospital. Its like . . . He huffed out a breath and looked at the ceiling, as if for inspiration. Concetta squeezed his arm. Go on. At least he hasnt called for the men with the butterfly nets yet. Okay, its like theres always a wind blowing through the house, only you cant exactly feel it or see what its doing. I keep thinking the curtains are going to billow and the pictures are going to fly off the walls, but they never do. Other stuff does happen, though. Two or three times a weeksometimes two or three times a daythe circuit breakers trip. Weve had two different electricians out, on four different occasions. They check the circuits and tell us everything is hunkydory. Some mornings we come downstairs and the cushions from the chairs and the sofa are on the floor. We tell Abra to put her toys away before bed and unless shes overtired and cranky, shes very good about it. But sometimes the toybox will be open the next morning and some of the toys will be back on the floor. Usually the blocks. Theyre her favorites. He paused for a moment, now looking at the eye chart on the far wall. John thought Concetta would prod him to go on, but she kept silent. Okay, this is totally weird, but I swear to you it happened. One night when we turned on the TV, The Simpsons were on every channel. Abra laughed like it was the biggest joke in the world. Lucy freaked out. She said, Abra Rafaella Stone, if youre doing that, stop it right now! Lucy hardly ever speaks sharply to her, and when she does, Abra just dissolves. Which is what happened that night. I turned off the TV, and when I turned it on again, everything was back to normal. I could give you half a dozen other things . . . incidents . . . phenomena . . . but most of its so small youd hardly even notice. He shrugged. Like I say, you get used to it. John said, Ill come to the party. After all that, how can I resist? Probably nothing will happen, Dave said. You know the old joke about how to stop a leaky faucet, dont you? Call the plumber. Concetta snorted. If you really believe that, sonnyboy, I think you might get a surprise. And, to Dalton Just getting him here was like pulling teeth. Give it a rest, Momo. Color had begun to rise in Daves cheeks. John sighed. He had sensed the antagonism between these two before. He didnt know the cause of itsome kind of competition for Lucy, perhapsbut he didnt want it breaking out into the open now. Their bizarre errand had turned them into temporary allies, and that was the way he wanted to keep it. Save the sniping. He spoke sharply enough so they looked away from each other and back at him, surprised. I believe you. Ive never heard of anything remotely like this before . . . Or had he? He trailed off, thinking of his lost watch. Doc? David said. Sorry. Brain cramp. At this they both smiled. Allies again. Good. Anyway, no ones going to send for the men in the white coats. I accept you both as levelheaded folks, not prone to hysteria or hallucination. I might guess some bizarre form of Munchausen syndrome was at work if it was just one person claiming these . . . these psychic outbreaks . . . but its not. Its all three of you. Which raises the question, what do you want me to do? Dave seemed at a loss, but his grandmotherinlaw was not. Observe her, the way you would any child with a disease The color had begun to leave David Stones cheeks, but now it rushed back. Slammed back. Abra is not sick, he snapped. She turned to him. I know that! Cristo! Will you let me finish? Dave put on a longsuffering expression and raised his hands. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Just dont jump down my throat, David. John said, If you insist on bickering, children, Ill have to send you to the Quiet Room. Concetta sighed. This is very stressful. For all of us. Im sorry, Davey, I used the wrong word. No prob, cara. Were in this together. She smiled briefly. Yes. Yes, we are. Observe her as youd observe any child with an undiagnosed condition, Dr. Dalton. Thats all we can ask, and I think its enough for now. You may have some ideas. I hope so. You see . . . She turned to David Stone with an expression of helplessness that John thought was probably rare on that firm face. Were afraid, Dave said. Me, Lucy, Chettascared to death. Not of her, but for her. Because shes just little, do you see? What if this power of hers . . . I dont know what else to call it . . . what if it hasnt topped out yet? What if its still growing? What do we do then? She could . . . I dont know . . . He does know, Chetta said. She could lose her temper and hurt herself or someone else. I dont know how likely that is, but just thinking it could happen . . . She touched Johns hand. Its awful. 7 Dan Torrance knew he would be living in the turret room of the Helen Rivington House from the moment he had seen his old friend Tony waving to him from a window that on second look turned out to be boarded shut. He asked Mrs. Clausen, the Rivingtons chief supervisor, about the room six months or so after going to work at the hospice as janitororderly . . . and unofficial doctor in residence. Along with his faithful sidekick Azzie, of course. That rooms junk from one end to the other, Mrs. Clausen had said. She was a sixtysomething with implausibly red hair. She was possessed of a sarcastic, often dirty mouth, but she was a smart and compassionate administrator. Even better, from the standpoint of HRHs board of directors, she was a tremendously effective fundraiser. Dan wasnt sure he liked her, but he had come to respect her. Ill clean it out. On my own time. It would be better for me to be right here, dont you think? On call? Danny, tell me something. How come youre so good at what you do? I dont really know. This was at least half true. Maybe even seventy percent. He had lived with the shining all his life and still didnt understand it. Junk aside, the turrets hot in the summer and cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey in the winter. That can be rectified, Dan had said. Dont talk to me about your rectum. Mrs. Clausen peered sternly at him from above her halfglasses. If the board knew what I was letting you do, theyd probably have me weaving baskets in that assisted living home down in Nashua. The one with the pink walls and the pipedin Mantovani. She snorted. Doctor Sleep, indeed. Im not the doctor, Dan said mildly. He knew he was going to get what he wanted. Azzies the doctor. Im just his assistant. Azreels the fucking cat, she said. A raggedyass stray that wandered in off the street and got adopted by guests who have now all gone to the Great Who Knows. All he cares about is his twicedaily bowl of Friskies. To this Dan hadnt responded. There was no need, because they both knew it wasnt true. I thought you had a perfectly good place on Eliot Street. Pauline Robertson thinks the sun shines out of your asshole. I know because I sing with her in the church choir. Whats your favorite hymn? Dan asked.  What a Fucking Friend We Have in Jesus? She showed the Rebecca Clausen version of a smile. Oh, very well. Clean out the room. Move in. Have it wired for cable, put in quadraphonic sound, set up a wetbar. What the hell do I care, Im only the boss. Thanks, Mrs. C. Oh, and dont forget the space heater, okay? See if you cant find something from a yard sale with a nice frayed cord. Burn the fucking place down some cold February night. Then they can put up a brick monstrosity to match the abortions on either side of us. Dan stood up and raised the back of his hand to his forehead in a halfassed British salute. Whatever you say, boss. She waved a hand at him. Get outta here before I change my mind, doc. 8 He did put in a space heater, but the cord wasnt frayed and it was the kind that shut off immediately if it tipped over. There was never going to be any airconditioning in the thirdfloor turret room, but a couple of fans from Walmart placed in the open windows provided a nice crossdraft. It got plenty hot just the same on summer days, but Dan was almost never there in the daytime. And summer nights in New Hampshire were usually cool. Most of the stuff that had been stashed up there was disposable junk, but he kept a big grammar schoolstyle blackboard he found leaning against one wall. It had been hidden for fifty years or more behind an ironmongery of ancient and grievously wounded wheelchairs. The blackboard was useful. On it he listed the hospices patients and their room numbers, erasing the names of the folks who passed away and adding names as new folks checked in. In the spring of 2004, there were thirtytwo names on the board. Ten were in Rivington One and twelve in Rivington Twothese were the ugly brick buildings flanking the Victorian home where the famous Helen Rivington had once lived and written thrilling romance novels under the pulsating name of Jeannette Montparsse. The rest of the patients were housed on the two floors below Dans cramped but serviceable turret apartment. Was Mrs. Rivington famous for anything besides writing bad novels? Dan had asked Claudette Albertson not long after starting work at the hospice. They were in the smoking area at the time, practicing their nasty habit. Claudette, a cheerful African American RN with the shoulders of an NFL left tackle, threw back her head and laughed. You bet! For leaving this town a shitload of money, honey! And giving away this house, of course. She thought old folks should have a place where they could die with dignity. And in Rivington House, most of them did. Danwith Azzie to assistwas now a part of that. He thought he had found his calling. The hospice now felt like home. 9 On the morning of Abras birthday party, Dan got out of bed and saw that all the names on his blackboard had been erased. Written where they had been, in large and straggling letters, was a single word hEll Dan sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear for a long time, just looking. Then he got up and put one hand on the letters, smudging them a little, hoping for a shine. Even a little twinkle. At last he took his hand away, rubbing chalkdust on his bare thigh. Hello yourself, he said . . . and then Would your name be Abra, by any chance? Nothing. He put on his robe, got his soap and towel, and went down to the staff shower on two. When he came back, he picked up the eraser hed found to go with the board and began erasing the word. Halfway through, a thought (daddy says well have balloons) came to him, and he stopped, waiting for more. But no more came, so he finished erasing the board and then began replacing the names and room numbers, working from that Mondays attendance memo. When he came back upstairs at noon, he half expected the board to be erased again, the names and numbers replaced by hEll, but all was as he had left it. 10 Abras birthday party was in the Stones backyard, a restful sweep of green grass with apple and dogwood trees that were just coming into blossom. At the foot of the yard was a chainlink fence and a gate secured by a combination padlock. The fence was decidedly unbeautiful, but neither David nor Lucy cared, because beyond it was the Saco River, which wound its way southeast, through Frazier, through North Conway, and across the border into Maine. Rivers and small children did not mix, in the Stones opinion, especially in the spring, when this one was wide and turbulent with melting snows. Each year the local weekly reported at least one drowning. Today the kids had enough to occupy them on the lawn. The only organized game they could manage was a brief round of followtheleader, but they werent too young to run around (and sometimes roll around) on the grass, to climb like monkeys on Abras playset, to crawl through the Fun Tunnels David and a couple of the other dads had set up, and to bat around the balloons now drifting everywhere. These were all yellow (Abras professed favorite color), and there were at least six dozen, as John Dalton could attest. He had helped Lucy and her grandmother blow them up. For a woman in her eighties, Chetta had an awesome set of lungs. There were nine kids, counting Abra, and because at least one of every parental set had come, there was plenty of adult supervision. Lawn chairs had been set up on the back deck, and as the party hit cruising speed, John sat in one of these next to Concetta, who was dolled up in designer jeans and her WORLDS BEST GREATGRAMMA sweatshirt. She was working her way through a giant slice of birthday cake. John, who had taken on a few pounds of ballast during the winter, settled for a single scoop of strawberry ice cream. I dont know where you put it, he said, nodding at the rapidly disappearing cake on her paper plate. Theres nothing to you. Youre a stuffed string. Maybe so, caro, but Ive got a hollow leg. She surveyed the roistering children and fetched a deep sigh. I wish my daughter could have lived to see this. I dont have many regrets, but thats one of them. John decided not to venture out on this conversational limb. Lucys mother had died in a car accident when Lucy was younger than Abra was now. This he knew from the family history the Stones had filled out jointly. In any case, Chetta turned the conversation herself. Do you know what I like about em at this age? Nope. John liked them at all ages . . . at least until they turned fourteen. When they turned fourteen their glands went into hyperdrive, and most of them felt obliged to spend the next five years being boogersnots. Look at them, Johnny. Its the kiddie version of that Edward Hicks painting, The Peaceable Kingdom. Youve got six white onesof course you do, its New Hampshirebut youve also got two black ones and one gorgeous Korean American baby who looks like she should be modeling clothes in the Hanna Andersson catalogue. You know the Sunday school song that goes Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight? Thats what we have here. Two hours, and not one of them has raised a fist or given a push in anger. Johnwho had seen plenty of toddlers who kicked, pushed, punched, and bitgave a smile in which cynicism and wistfulness were exactly balanced. I wouldnt expect anything different. They all go to Lil Chums. Its the smartset daycare in these parts, and they charge smartset prices. That means their parents are all at least uppermiddle, theyre all college grads, and they all practice the gospel of Go Along to Get Along. These kids are your basic domesticated social animals. John stopped there because she was frowning at him, but he could have gone farther. He could have said that, until the age of seven or thereaboutsthe socalled age of reasonmost children were emotional echo chambers. If they grew up around people who got along and didnt raise their voices, they did the same. If they were raised by biters and shouters . . . well . . . Twenty years of treating little ones (not to mention raising two of his own, now away at good Go Along to Get Along prep schools) hadnt destroyed all the romantic notions hed held when first deciding to specialize in pediatric medicine, but those years had tempered them. Perhaps kids really did come into the world trailing clouds of glory, as Wordsworth had so confidently proclaimed, but they also shit in their pants until they learned better. 11 A silvery run of bellslike those on an ice cream trucksounded in the afternoon air. The kids turned to see what was up. Riding onto the lawn from the Stones driveway was an amiable apparition a young man on a wildly oversize red tricycle. He was wearing white gloves and a zoot suit with comically wide shoulders. In one lapel was a boutonniere the size of a hothouse orchid. His pants (also oversize) were currently hiked up to his knees as he worked the pedals. The handlebars were hung with bells, which he rang with one finger. The trike rocked from side to side but never quite fell over. On the newcomers head, beneath a huge brown derby, was a crazy blue wig. David Stone was walking behind him, carrying a large suitcase in one hand and a foldup table in the other. He looked bemused. Hey, kids! Hey, kids! the man on the trike shouted. Gather round, gather round, because the show is about to start! He didnt need to ask them twice; they were already flocking toward the trike, laughing and shouting. Lucy came over to John and Chetta, sat down, and blew hair out of her eyes with a comical foof of her lower lip. She had a smudge of chocolate frosting on her chin. Behold the magician. Hes a street performer in Frazier and North Conway during the summer season. Dave saw an ad in one of those freebie newspapers, auditioned the guy, and hired him. His name is Reggie Pelletier, but he styles himself The Great Mysterio. Lets see how long he can hold their attention once theyve all had a good close look at the fancy trike. Im thinking three minutes, tops. John thought she might be wrong about that. The guys entrance had been perfectly calculated to capture the imaginations of little ones, and his wig was funny rather than scary. His cheerful face was unmarked by greasepaint, and that was also good. Clowns, in Johns opinion, were highly overrated. They scared the shit out of kids under six. Kids over that age merely found them boring. My, youre in a bilious mood today. Maybe because hed come ready to observe some sort of freakydeaky, and nothing had transpired. To him, Abra seemed like a perfectly ordinary little kid. Cheerier than most, maybe, but good cheer seemed to run in the family. Except when Chetta and Dave were sniping at each other, that was. Dont underestimate the attention spans of the wee folk. He leaned past Chetta and used his napkin to wipe the smudge of frosting from Lucys chin. If he has an act, hell hold them for fifteen minutes, at least. Maybe twenty. If he does, Lucy said skeptically. It turned out that Reggie Pelletier, aka The Great Mysterio, did have an act, and a good one. While his faithful assistant, The NotSoGreat Dave, set up his table and opened the suitcase, Mysterio asked the birthday girl and her guests to admire his flower. When they drew close, it shot water into their faces first red, then green, then blue. They screamed with sugarfueled laughter. Now, boys and girls . . . ooh! Ahh! Yike! That tickles! He took off his derby and pulled out a white rabbit. The kids gasped. Mysterio passed the bunny to Abra, who stroked it and then passed it on without having to be told. The rabbit didnt seem to mind the attention. Maybe, John thought, it had snarked up a few Valiumlaced pellets before the show. The last kid handed it back to Mysterio, who popped it into his hat, passed a hand over it, and then showed them the inside of the derby. Except for the American flag lining, it was empty. Where did the bunny go? little Susie SoongBartlett asked. Into your dreams, darlin, Mysterio said. Itll hop there tonight. Now who wants a magic scarf ? There were cries of I do, I do from boys and girls alike. Mysterio produced them from his fists and passed them out. This was followed by more tricks in rapidfire succession. By Daltons watch, the kids stood around Mysterio in a bugeyed semicircle for at least twentyfive minutes. And just as the first signs of restiveness began to appear in the audience, Mysterio wrapped things up. He produced five plates from his suitcase (which, when he showed it, had appeared to be as empty as his hat) and juggled them, singing Happy Birthday to You as he did it. All the kids joined in, and Abra seemed almost to levitate with joy. The plates went back into the suitcase. He showed it to them again so they could see it was empty, then produced half a dozen spoons from it. These he proceeded to hang on his face, finishing with one on the tip of his nose. The birthday girl liked that one; she sat down on the grass, laughing and hugging herself with glee. Abba can do that, she said (she was currently fond of referring to herself in the third personit was what David called her Rickey Henderson phase). Abba can do spoongs. Good for you, honey, Mysterio said. He wasnt really paying attention, and John couldnt blame him for that; he had just put on one hell of a kiddie matinee, his face was red and damp with sweat in spite of the cool breeze blowing up from the river, and he still had his big exit to make, this time pedaling the oversize trike uphill. He bent and patted Abras head with one whitegloved hand. Happy birthday to you, and thank all you kids for being such a good aud From inside the house came a large and musical jangling, not unlike the sound of the bells hanging from the Godzillatrikes handlebars. The kids only glanced in that direction before turning to watch Mysterio pedal away, but Lucy got up to see what had fallen over in the kitchen. Two minutes later she came back outside. John, she said. You better look at this. I think its what you came to see. 12 John, Lucy, and Concetta stood in the kitchen, looking up at the ceiling and saying nothing. None of them turned when Dave joined them; they were hypnotized. What he began, then saw what. Holy shit. To this no one replied. David stared a little longer, trying to get the sense of what he was seeing, then left. A minute or two later he returned, leading his daughter by the hand. Abra was holding a balloon. Around her waist, worn like a sash, was the scarf shed received from The Great Mysterio. John Dalton dropped to one knee beside her. Did you do that, honey? It was a question to which he felt sure he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what she had to say. He wanted to know how much she was aware of. Abra first looked at the floor, where the silverware drawer lay. Some of the knives and forks had bounced free when the drawer shot from its socket, but they were all there. Not the spoons, however. The spoons were hanging from the ceiling, as if drawn upward and held by some exotic magnetic attraction. A couple swung lazily from the overhead light fixtures. The biggest, a serving spoon, dangled from the exhaust hood of the stove. All kids had their own selfcomforting mechanisms. John knew from long experience that for most it was a thumb socked securely in the mouth. Abras was a little different. She cupped her right hand over the lower half of her face and rubbed her lips with her palm. As a result, her words were muffled. John took the hand awaygently. What, honey? In a small voice she said, Am I in trouble? I . . . I . . . Her small chest began to hitch. She tried to put her comforthand back, but John held it. I wanted to be like Minstrosio. She began to weep. John let her hand go and it went to her mouth, rubbing furiously. David picked her up and kissed her cheek. Lucy put her arms around them both and kissed the top of her daughters head. No, honey, no. No trouble. Youre fine. Abra buried her face against her mothers neck. As she did it, the spoons fell. The clatter made them all jump. 13 Two months later, with summer just beginning in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, David and Lucy Stone sat in John Daltons office, where the walls were papered with smiling photographs of the children he had treated over the yearsmany now old enough to have kids of their own. John said, I hired a computersavvy nephew of mineat my own expense, and dont worry about it, he works cheapto see if there were any other documented cases like your daughters, and to research them if there were. He restricted his search to the last thirty years and found over nine hundred. David whistled. That many! John shook his head. Not that many. If it were a diseaseand we dont need to revisit that discussion, because its notit would be as rare as elephantiasis. Or Blaschkos lines, which basically turns those who have it into human zebras. Blaschkos affects about one in every seven million. This thing of Abras would be on that order. What exactly is Abras thing? Lucy had taken her husbands hand and was holding it tightly. Telepathy? Telekinesis? Some other tele? Those things clearly play a part. Is she telepathic? Since she knows when people are coming to visit, and knew Mrs. Judkins had been hurt, the answer seems to be yes. Is she telekinetic? Based on what we saw in your kitchen on the day of her birthday party, the answer is a hard yes. Is she psychic? A precognate, if you want to fancy it up? We cant be so sure of that, although the 911 thing and the story of the twentydollar bill behind the dresser are both suggestive. But what about the night your television showed The Simpsons on all the channels? What do you call that? Or what about the phantom Beatles tune? It would be telekinesis if the notes came from the piano . . . but you say they didnt. So whats next? Lucy asked. What do we watch out for? I dont know. Theres no predictive path to follow. The trouble with the field of psychic phenomena is that it isnt a field at all. Theres too much charlatanry and too many people who are just off their damn rockers. So you cant tell us what to do, Lucy said. Thats the long and short of it. John smiled. I can tell you exactly what to do keep on loving her. If my nephew is rightand you have to remember that A, hes only seventeen, and B, hes basing his conclusions on unstable datayoure apt to keep seeing weird stuff until shes a teenager. Some of it may be gaudy weird stuff. Around thirteen or fourteen, itll plateau and then start to subside. By the time shes in her twenties, the various phenomena shes generating will probably be negligible. He smiled. But shell be a terrific poker player all her life. What if she starts seeing dead people, like the little boy in that movie? Lucy asked. What do we do then? Then I guess youd have proof of life after death. In the meantime, dont buy trouble. And keep your mouths shut, right? Oh, you bet, Lucy said. She managed a smile, but given the fact shed nibbled most of her lipstick off, it didnt look very confident. The last thing we want is our daughter on the cover of Inside View. Thank God none of the other parents saw that thing with the spoons, David said. Heres a question, John said. Do you think she knows how special she is? The Stones exchanged a look. I . . . dont think so, Lucy said at last. Although after the spoons . . . we made sort of a big deal about it . . . A big deal in your mind, John said. Probably not hers. She cried a little, then went back out with a smile on her face. There was no shouting, scolding, spanking, or shaming. My advice is to let it ride for the time being. When she gets a little older, you can caution her about not doing any of her special tricks at school. Treat her as normal, because mostly she is. Right? Right, David said. And its not like shes got spots, or swellings, or a third eye. Oh yes she does, Lucy said. She was thinking of the caul. She does so have a third eye. You cant see itbut its there. John stood up. Ill get all my nephews printouts and send them to you, if youd like that. I would, David said. Very much. I think dear old Momo would, too. He wrinkled his nose a bit at this. Lucy saw it and frowned. In the meantime, enjoy your daughter, John told them. From everything Ive seen, shes a very enjoyable child. Youre going to get through this. For awhile, it seemed he was right. CHAPTER FOUR PAGING DOCTOR SLEEP 1 It was January of 2007. In the turret room of Rivington House, Dans space heater was running full blast, but the room was still cold. A noreaster, driven by a fiftymileanhour gale, had blown down from the mountains, piling five inches of snow an hour on the sleeping town of Frazier. When the storm finally eased the following afternoon, some of the drifts against the north and east sides of the buildings on Cranmore Avenue would be twelve feet deep. Dan wasnt bothered by the cold; nestled beneath two down comforters, he was warm as tea and toast. Yet the wind had found its way inside his head just as it found its way under the sashes and doorsills of the old Victorian he now called home. In his dream, he could hear it moaning around the hotel where he had spent one winter as a little boy. In his dream, he was that little boy. Hes on the second floor of the Overlook. Mommy is sleeping and Daddys in the basement, looking at old papers. Hes doing RESEARCH. The RESEARCH is for the book hes going to write. Danny isnt supposed to be up here, and hes not supposed to have the passkey thats clutched in one hand, but he hasnt been able to stay away. Right now hes staring at a firehose thats bolted to the wall. Its folded over and over on itself, and it looks like a snake with a brass head. A sleeping snake. Of course its not a snakethats canvas hes looking at, not scalesbut it sure does look like a snake. Sometimes it is a snake. Go on, he whispers to it in this dream. Hes trembling with terror, but something drives him on. And why? Because hes doing his own RESEARCH, thats why. Go on, bite me! You cant, can you? Because youre just a stupid HOSE! The nozzle of the stupid hose stirs, and all at once, instead of looking at it sideways, Danny is looking into its bore. Or maybe into its mouth. A single clear drop appears below the black hole, elongating. In it he can see his own wide eyes reflected back at him. A drop of water or a drop of poison? Is it a snake or a hose? Who can say, my dear Redrum, Redrum my dear? Who can say? It buzzes at him, and terror jumps up his throat from his rapidly beating heart. Rattlesnakes buzz like that. Now the nozzle of the hosesnake rolls away from the stack of canvas its lying on and drops to the carpet with a dull thud. It buzzes again and he knows he should step back before it can rush forward and bite him, but hes frozen he cant move and its buzzing Wake up, Danny! Tony calls from somewhere. Wake up, wake up! But he can wake up no more than he can move, this is the Overlook, they are snowed in, and things are different now. Hoses become snakes, dead women open their eyes, and his father . . . oh dear God WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE BECAUSE MY FATHER IS GOING CRAZY. The rattlesnake buzzes. It buzzes. It 2 Dan heard the wind howling, but not outside the Overlook. No, outside the turret of Rivington House. He heard snow rattle against the northfacing window. It sounded like sand. And he heard the intercom giving off its low buzz. He threw back the comforters and swung his legs out, wincing as his warm toes met the cold floor. He crossed the room, almost prancing on the balls of his feet. He turned on the desk lamp and blew out his breath. No visible vapor, but even with the space heaters element coils glowing a dull red, the room temperature tonight had to be in the midforties. Buzz.