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　　〃Another　time　we　were　in　the　park；〃　he　said。　〃Just　Danny　and　I。　Saturday　
afternoon。　He　was　sitting　on　a　swing；　coasting　back　and　forth。　He　collapsed　onto　
the　ground。　It　was　like　he'd　been　shot。　I　ran　over　and　picked　him　up　and　all　of　
a　sudden　he　just　came　around。　He　sort　of　blinked　at　me　and　said；　‘I　hurt　my　
tummy。　Tell　Mommy　to　close　the　bedroom　windows　if　it　rains。'　And　that　night　it　
rained　like　hell。〃　
　　〃Yes；　but　—　〃　
　　〃And　he's　always　ing　in　with　cuts　and　scraped　elbows。　His　shins　look　like　a　
battlefield　in　distress。　And　when　you　ask　him　how　he　got　this　one　or　that　one；　
he　just　says　‘Oh；　I　was　playing；'　and　that's　the　end　of　it。〃　
　　〃Jack；　all　kids　get　bumped　and　bruised　up。　With　little　boys　it's　almost　
constant　from　the　time　they　learn　to　walk　until　they're　twelve　or　thirteen。〃　
　　〃And　I'm　sure　Danny　gets　his　share；〃　Jack　responded。　〃He's　an　active　kid。　But　
I　remember　that　day　in　the　park　and　that　night　at　the　supper　table。　And　I　wonder　
if　some　of　our　kid's　bumps　and　bruises　e　from　just　keeling　over。　That　Dr。　
Edmonds　said　Danny　did　it　right　in　his　office；　for　Christ's　sake！〃　
　　〃All　right。　But　those　bruises　were　fingers。　I'd　swear　to　it。　He　didn't　get　
them　falling　down。〃　
　　〃He　goes　into　a　trance；〃　Jack　said。　〃Maybe　he　sees　something　that　happened　in　
that　room。　An　argument。　Maybe　a　suicide。　Violent　emotions。　It　isn't　like　
watching　a　movie；　he's　in　a　highly　suggestible　state。　He's　right　in　the　damn　
thing。　His　subconscious　is　maybe　visualizing　whatever　happened　in　a　symbolic　way　


　
　
。。。　as　a　dead　woman　who's　alive　again；　zombie；　undead；　ghoul；　you　pick　your　
term。〃　
　　〃You're　giving　me　goose…bumps；〃　she　said　thickly。　
　　〃I'm　giving　myself　a　few。　I'm　no　psychiatrist；　but　it　seems　to　fit　so　well。　
The　walking　dead　woman　as　a　symbol　for　dead　emotions；　dead　lives；　that　just　
won't　give　up　and　go　away　。。。　but　because　she's　a　subconscious　figure；　she's　
also　him。　In　the　trance　state；　the　conscious　Danny　is　submerged。　The　
subconscious　figure　is　pulling　the　strings。　So　Danny　put　his　hands　around　his　
own　neck　and　—　〃　
　　〃Stop；〃　she　said。　〃I　get　the　picture。　I　think　that's　more　frightening　than　
having　a　stranger　creeping　around　the　halls；　Jack。　You　can　move　away　from　a　
stranger。　You　can't　move　away　from　yourself。　You're　talking　about　
schizophrenia。〃　
　　〃Of　a　very　limited　type；〃　he　said；　but　a　trifle　uneasily。　〃And　of　a　very　
special　nature。　Because　he　does　seem　able　to　read　thoughts；　and　he　really　does　
seem　to　have　precognitive　flashes　from　time　to　time。　I　can't　think　of　that　as　
mental　illness　no　matter　how　hard　I　try。　We　all　have　schizo　deposits　in　us　
anyway。　I　think　as　Danny　gets　older；　he'll　get　this　under　control。〃　
　　〃If　you're　right；　then　it's　imperative　that　we　get　him　out。　Whatever　he　has；　
this　hotel　is　making　it　worse。〃　
　　〃I　wouldn't　say　that；〃　he　objected。　〃If　he'd　done　as　he　was　told；　he　never　
would　have　gone　up　to　that　room　in　the　first　place。　It　never　would　have　
happened。〃　
　　〃My　God；　Jack！　Are　you　implying　that　being　half…strangled　was　a　。。。　a　
fitting　punishment　for　being　off　limits？〃　
　　〃No　。。。　no。　Of　course　not。　But　—　〃　
　　〃No　buts；〃　she　said；　shaking　her　head　violently。　〃The　truth　is；　we're　
guessing。　We　don't　have　any　idea　when　he　might　turn　a　corner　and　run　into　one　of　
those　。。。　air　pockets；　one…reel　horror　movies；　whatever　they　are。　We　have　to　
get　him　away。〃　She　laughed　a　little　in　the　darkness。　〃Next　thing　we'll　be　seeing　
things。〃　
　　〃Don't　talk　nonsense；〃　he　said；　and　in　the　darkness　of　the　room　he　saw　the　
hedge　lions　bunching　around　the　path；　no　longer　flanking　it　but　guarding　it；　
hungry　November　lions。　Cold　sweat　sprang　out　on　his　brow。　
　　〃You　didn't　really　see　anything；　did　you？〃　she　was　asking。　〃I　mean；　when　you　
went　up　to　that　room。　You　didn't　see　anything？〃　
　　The　lions　were　gone。　Now　he　saw　a　pink　pastel　shower　curtain　with　a　dark　shape　
lounging　behind　it。　The　closed　door。　That　muffled；　hurried　thump；　and　sounds　
after　it　that　might　have　been　running　footsteps。　The　horrible；　lurching　beat　of　
his　own　heart　as　he　struggled　with　the　passkey。　
　　〃Nothing；〃　he　said；　and　that　was　true。　He　had　been　strung　up；　not　sure　of　
what　was　happening。　He　hadn't　had　a　chance　to　sift　through　his　thoughts　for　a　
reasonable　explanation　concerning　the　bruises　on　his　son's　neck。　He　had　been　
pretty　damn　suggestible　himself。　Hallucinations　could　sometimes　be　catching。　
　　〃And　you　haven't　changed　your　mind？　About　the　snowmobile；　I　mean？〃　
　　His　hands　clamped　into　sudden　tight　fists　
　　（Stop　nagging　me！　）　
　　by　his　sides。　〃I　said　I　would；　didn't　I？　I　will。　Now　go　to　sleep。　It's　been　a　


　
　
long　hard　day。〃　
　　〃And　how；〃　she　said。　There　was　a　rustle　of　bedclothes　as　she　turned　toward　him　
and　kissed　his　shoulder。　〃I　love　you；　Jack。〃　
　　〃I　love　you　too；〃　he　said；　but　he　was　only　mouthing　the　words。　His　hands　were　
still　clenched　into　fists。　They　felt　like　rocks　on　the　ends　of　his　arms。　The　
pulse　beat　prominently　in　his　forehead。　She　hadn't　said　a　word　about　what　was　
going　to　happen　to　them　after　they　got　down；　when　the　party　was　over。　Not　one　
word。　It　had　been　Danny　this　and　Danny　that　and　Jack　I'm　so　scared。　Oh　yes；　she　
was　scared　of　a　lot　of　closet　boogeymen　and　jumping　shadows；　plenty　scared。　But　
there　was　no　lack　of　real　ones；　either。　When　they　got　down　to　Sidewinder　they　
would　arrive　with　sixty　dollars　and　the　clothes　they　stood　up　in。　Not　even　a　
car。　Even　if　Sidewinder　bad　a　pawnshop；　which　it　didn't；　they　had　nothing　to　
hock　but　Wendy's　ninety…dollar　diamond　engagement　ring　and　the　Sony　AM/FM　radio。　
A　pawnbroker　might　give　them　twenty　bucks。　A　kind　pawnbroker。　There　would　be　no　
job；　not　even　part…time　or　seasonal；　except　maybe　shoveling　out　driveways　for　
three　dollars　a　shot。　The　picture　of　John　Torrance；　thirty　years　old；　who　had　
once　published　in　Esquire　and　who　had　harbored　dreams　—　not　at　all　unreasonable　
dreams；　he　felt；　of　being　a　major　American　writer　during　the　next　decade；　with　
a　shovel　from　the　Sidewinder　Western　Auto　on　his　shoulder；　ringing　doorbells。。。　
that　picture　suddenly　came　to　him　much　more　clearly　than　the　hedge　lions　and　
he　clenched　his　fists　tighter　still；　feeling　the　fingernails　sink　into　his　palms　
and　draw　blood　in　mystic　quarter…moon　shapes。　John　Torrance；　standing　in　line　
to　change　his　sixty　dollars　into　food　stamps；　standing　in　line　again　at　the　
Sidewinder　Methodist　Church　to　get　donated　modities　and　dirty　looks　from　the　
locals。　John　Torrance　explaining　to　Al　that　they'd　just　had　to　leave；　had　to　
shut　down　the　boiler；　had　to　leave　the　Overlook　and　all　it　contained　open　to　
vandals　or　thieves　on　snow　machines　because；　you　see；　Al；　attendez…vous；　Al；　
there　are　ghosts　up　there　and　they　have　it　in　for　my　boy。　Good…by；　Al。　Thoughts　
of　Chapter　Four；　Spring　es　for　John　Torrance。　What　then？　Whatever　then？　They　
might　be　able　to　get　to　the　West　Coast　in　the　VW；　he　supposed。　A　new　fuel　pump　
would　do　it。　Fifty　miles　west　of　here　and　it　was　all　downhill；　you　could　damn　
near　put　the　bug　in　neutral　and　coast　to　Utah。　On　to　sunny　California；　land　of　
oranges　and　opportunity。　A　man　with　his　sterling　record　of　alcoholism；　student…　
beating；　and　ghost…chasing　would　undoubtedly　be　able　to　write　his　own　ticket。　
Anything　you　like。　Custodial　engineer　—　swamping　out　Greyhound　buses。　The　
automotive　business　—　washing　cars　in　a　rubber　suit。　The　culinary　arts；　perhaps；　
washing　dishes　in　a　diner。　Or　possibly　a　more　responsible　position；　such　as　
pumping　gas。　A　job　like　that　even　held　the　intellectual　stimulation　of　making　
change　and　writing　out　credit　slips。　I　can　give　you　twenty…five　hours　a　week　at　
the　minimum　wage。　That　was　heavy　tunes　in　a　year　when　Wonder　bread　went　for　
sixty　cents　a　loaf。　
　　Blood　had　begun　to　trickle　down　from　his　palms。　Like　stigmata；　oh　yes。　He　
squeezed　tighter；　savaging　himself　with　pain。　His　wife　was　asleep　beside　him；　
why　not？　There　were　no　problems。　He　had　agreed　to　take　her　and　Danny　away　from　
the　big　bad　boogeyman　and　there　were　no　problems。　So　you　see；　Al；　I　thought　the　
best　thing　to　do　would　be　to　
　　（kill　her。）　
　　The　thought　rose　up　from　nowhere；　naked　and　unadorned。　The　urge　to　tumble　her　


　
　
out　of　bed；　naked；　bewildered；　just　beginning　to　wake　up；　to　pounce　on　her；　
seize　her　neck　like　the　green　limb　of　a　young　aspen　and　to　throttle　her；　thumbs　
on　windpipe；　fingers　pressing　against　the　top　of　her　spine；　jerking　her　head　up　
and　ramming　it　back　down　against　the　floorboards；　again　and　again；　whamming；　
whacking；　smashing；　crashing。　Jitter　and　jive；　baby。　Shake；　rattle；　and　roll。　He　
would　make　her　take　her　medicine。　Every　drop。　Every　last　bitter　drop。　
　　He　was　dimly　aware　of　a　muffled　noise　somewhere；　just　outside　his　hot　and　
racing　inner　world。　He　looked　across　the　room　and　Danny　was　thrashing　again；　
twisting　in　his　bed　and　rumpling　the　blankets。　The　boy　was　moaning　deep　in　his　
throat；　a　small；　caged　sound。　What　nightmare？　A　purple　woman；　long　dead；　
shambling　after　him　down　twisting　hotel　corridors？　Somehow　he　didn't　think　so。　
Something　else　chased　Danny　in　his　dreams。　Something　worse。　
　　The　bitter　lock　of　his　emotions　was　broken。　He　got　out　of　bed　and　went　across　
to　the　boy；　feeling　sick　and　ashamed　of　himself。　It　was　Danny　he　had　to　think　
of；　not　Wendy；　not　himself。　Only　Danny。　And　no　matter　what　shape　he　wrestled　the　
facts　into；　he　knew　in　his　heart　that　Danny　must　be　taken　out。　He　straightened　
the　boy's　blankets　and　added　the　quilt　from　the　foot　of　the　bed。　Danny　had　
quieted　again　now。　Jack　touched　the　sleeping　forehead　
　　（what　monsters　capering　just　behind　that　ridge　of　bone？）　
　　and　found　it　warm；　but　not　overly　so。　And　he　was　sleeping　peacefully　again。　
Queer。　
　　He　got　back　into　bed　and　tried　to　sleep。　It　eluded　him。　
　　It　was　so　unfair　that　things　should　turn　out　this　way　—　bad　luck　seemed　to　
stalk　them。　They　hadn't　been　able　to　shake　it　by　ing　up　here　after　all。　By　
the　time　they　arrived　in　Sidewinder　tomorrow　afternoon；　the　golden　opportunity　
would　have　evaporated　—　gone　the　way　of　the　blue　suede　shoe；　as　an　old　roommate　
of　his　had　been　wont　to　say。　Consider　the　difference　if　they　didn't　go　down；　if　
they　could　somehow　stick　it　out。　The　play　would　get　finished。　One　way　or　the　
other；　he　would　tack　an　ending　onto　it。　His　own　uncertainty　about　his　characters　
might　add　an　appealing　touch　of　ambiguity　to　his　original　ending。　Perhaps　it　
would　even　make　him　some　money；　it　wasn't　impossible。　Even　lacking　that；　Al　
might　well　convince　the　Stovington　Board　to　rehire　him。　He　would　be　on　pro　of　
course；　maybe　for　as　long　as　three　years；　but　if　he　could　stay　sober　and　keep　
writing；　he　might　not　have　to　stay　at　Stovington　for　three　years。　Of　course　he　
hadn't　cared　much　for　Stovington　before；　he　had　felt　stifled；　buried　alive；　but　
that　had　been　an　immature　reaction。　Furthermore；　how　much　could　a　man　enjoy　
teaching　when　he　went　through　his　first　three　classes　with　a　skull…busting　
hangover　every　second　or　third　day？　It　wouldn't　be　that　way　again。　He　would　be　
able　to　handle　his　responsibilities　much　better。　He　was　sure　of　it。　
　　Somewhere　in　the　midst　of　that　thought；　things　began　to　break　up　and　he　
drifted　down　into　sleep。　His　last　thought　followed　him　down　like　a　sounding　
bell：　
　　It　seemed　that　he　might　be　able　to　find　peace　here。　At　last。　If　they　would　
only　let　him。　
　
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*　*　*　
　
　　When　he　woke　up　he　was　standing　in　the　bathroom　of　217。　


　
　
　　（been　walking　in　my　sleep　again　—　why？　—　no　radios　to　break　up　here）　
　　The　bathroom　light　was　on；　the　room　behind　him　in　darkness。　The　shower　curtain　
was　drawn　around　the　long　claw…footed　tub。　The　bathmat　beside　it　was　wrinkled　
and　wet。　
　　He　began　to　feel　afraid；　but　the　very　dreamlike　quality　of　his　fear　told　him　
this　was　not　real。　Yet　that　could　not　contain　the　fear。　So　many　things　at　the　
Overlook　seemed　like　dreams。　
　　He　moved　across　the　floor　to　the　tub；　not　wanting　to　be　helpless　to　turn　his　
feet　back。　
　　He　flung　the　curtain　open。　
　　Lying　in　the　tub；　naked；　lolling　almost　weightless　in　the　water；　was　George　
Hatfield；　a　knife　stuck　in　his　chest。　The　water　around　him　was　stained　a　bright　
pink。　George's　eyes　were