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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 closed。 His penis floated limply； like kelp。
〃George — 〃 he heard himself say。
At the word； George's eyes snapped open。 They were silver； not human eyes at
all。 George's hands； fish…white； found the sides of the tub and he pulled
himself up to a sitting position。 The knife stuck straight out from his chest；
equidistantly placed between nipples。 The wound was lipless。
〃You set the timer ahead；〃 silver…eyed George told him。
〃No； George； I didn't。 I — 〃
〃I don't stutter。〃
George was standing now； still fixing him with that inhuman silver glare； but
his mouth had drawn back in a dead and grimacing smile。 He threw one leg over
the porcelained side of the tub。 One white and wrinkled foot placed itself on
the bathmat。
〃First you tried to run me over on my bike and then you set the timer ahead
and then you tried to stab me to death but I still don't stutter。〃 George was
ing for him； his hands out； the fingers slightly curled。 He smelled moldy and
wet； like leaves that had been rained on。
〃It was for your own good；〃 Jack said； backing up。 〃I set it ahead for your
own good。 Furthermore； I happen to know you cheated on your Final position。〃
〃I don't cheat 。。。 and I don't stutter。〃
George's hands touched his neck。
Jack turned and ran； ran with the floating； weightless slowness that is so
mon to dreams。
〃You did！ You did cheat！〃 he screamed in fear and anger as he crossed the
darkened bed/sitting room。 〃I'll prove it！〃
George's hands were on his neck again。 Jack's heart swelled with fear until he
was sure it would burst。 And then； at last； his hand curled around the doorknob
and it turned under his hand and he yanked the door open。 He plunged out； not
into the second…floor hallway； but into the basement room beyond the arch。 The
cobwebby light was on。 His campchair； stark and geometrical； stood beneath it。
And all around it was a miniature mountain range of boxes and crates and banded
bundles of records and invoices and God knew what。 Relief surged through him。
〃I'll find it！〃 he heard himself screaming。 He seized a damp and moldering
cardboard box； it split apart in his hands； spilling out a waterfall of yellow
flimsies。 〃It's here somewhere！ I will find it！〃 He plunged his hands deep into
the pile of papers and came up with a dry； papery wasps' nest in one hand and a
timer in the other。 The timer was ticking。 Attached to its back was a length of
electrical cord and attached to the other end of the cord was a bundle of
dynamite。 〃Here！〃 he screamed。 〃Here； take it！〃
His relief became absolute triumph。 He had done more than escape George； he
had conquered。 With these talismanic objects in his hands； George would never
touch him again。 George would flee in terror。
He began to turn so he could confront George； and that was when George's hands
settled around his neck； squeezing； stopping his breath； damming up his
respiration entirely after one final dragging gasp。
〃I don't stutter；〃 whispered George from behind him。
He dropped the wasps' nest and wasps boiled out of it in a furious brown and
yellow wave。 His lungs were on fire。 His wavering sight fell on the timer and
the sense of triumph returned； along with a cresting wave of righteous wrath。
Instead of connecting the timer to dynamite； the cord ran to the gold knob of a
stout black cane； like the one his father had carried after the accident with
the milk truck。
He grasped it and the cord parted。 The cane felt heavy and right in his hands。
He swung it back over his shoulder。 On the way up it glanced against the wire
from which the light bulb depended and the light began to swing back and forth；
making the room's hooded shadows rock monstrously against the floor and walls。
On the way down the cane struck something much harder。 George screamed。 The grip
on Jack's throatloosened。
He tore free of George's grip and whirled。 George was on his knees； his head
drooping； his hands laced together on top of it。 Blood welled through his
fingers。
〃Please；〃 George whispered humbly。 〃Give me a break； Mr。 Torrance；〃
〃Now you'll take your medicine；〃 Jack grunted。 〃Now by God； won't you。 Young
pup。 Young worthless cur。 Now by God； right now。 Every drop。 Every single damn
drop！〃
As the light swayed above him and the shadows danced and flapped； he began to
swing the cane； bringing it down again and again； his arm rising and falling
like a machine。 George's bloody protecting fingers fell away from his head and
Jack brought the cane down again and again； and on his neck and shoulders and
back and arms。 Except that the cane was no longer precisely a cane； it seemed to
be a mallet with some kind of brightly striped handle。 A mallet with a hard side
and soft side。 The business end was clotted with blood and hair。 And the flat；
whacking sound of the mallet against flesh had been replaced with a hollow
booming sound； echoing and reverberating。 His own voice had taken on this same
quality； bellowing； disembodied。 And yet； paradoxically； it sounded weaker；
slurred； petulant 。。。 as if he were drunk。
The figure on its knees slowly raised its head； as if in supplication。 There
was not a face； precisely； but only a mask of blood through which eyes peered。
He brought the mallet back for a final whistling downstroke and it was fully
launched before he saw that the supplicating face below him was not George's but
Danny's。 It was the face of his son。
〃Daddy — 〃
And then the mallet crashed home； striking Danny right between the eyes；
closing them forever。 And something somewhere seemed to be laughing —
（！ No ！）
* * *
He came out of it standing naked over Danny's bed； his hands empty； his body
sheened with sweat。 His final scream had only been in his mind。 He voiced it
again； this time in a whisper。
〃No。 No； Danny。 Never。〃
He went back to bed on legs that had turned to rubber。 Wendy was sleeping
deeply。 The clock on the nightstand said it was quarter to five。 He lay
sleepless until seven； when Danny began to stir awake。 Then he put his legs over
the edge of the bed and began to dress。 It was time to go downstairs and check
the boiler。
》
THE SNOWMOBILE
Sometime after midnight； while they all slept uneasily； the snow had stopped
after dumping a fresh eight inches on the old crust。 The clouds had broken； a
fresh wind had swept them away； and now Jack stood in a dusty ingot of sunlight；
which slanted through the dirty window set into the eastern side of the
equipment shed。
The place was about as long as a freight car； and about as high。 It smelled of
grease and oil and gasoline and — faint； nostalgic smell — sweet grass。 Four power
lawnmowers were ranked like soldiers on review against the south wall； two of
them the riding type that look like small tractors。 To their left were posthole
diggers； round…bladed shovels made for doing surgery on the putting green