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hurt us？〃
〃They'll try to make him；〃 Danny said。 〃I've been calling for Mr。 Hallorann。
He said if I ever needed him to just call。 And I have been。 But it's awful hard。
It makes me tired。 And the worst part is I don't know if he's hearing me or not。
I don't think he can call back because it's too far for him。 And I don't know if
it's too far for me or not。 Tomorrow — 〃
〃What about tomorrow？〃
He shook his head。 〃Nothing。〃
〃Where is he now？〃 she asked。 〃Your daddy？〃
〃He's in the basement。 I don't think he'll be up tonight。〃
She stood up suddenly。 〃Wait right here for me。 Five minutes。〃
* * *
The kitchen was cold and deserted under the overhead fluorescent bars。 She
went to the rack where the carving knives hung from their magnetized strips。 She
took the longest and sharpest； wrapped it in a dish towel； and left the kitchen；
turning off the lights as she went。
* * *
Danny sat on the stairs； his eyes following the course of his red rubber ball
from hand to hand。 He sang： 〃She lives on the twentieth floor uptown； the
elevator is broken down。 So I walk one…two flight three flight four。 。 ：'
（ — Lou； Lou； skip to m' Lou — ）
His singing broke off。 He listened。
（ — Skip to m' Lou my darlin' — ）
The voice was in his head； so much a part of him； so frighteningly close that
it might have been a part of his own thoughts。 It was soft and infinitely sly。
Mocking him。 Seeming to say：
（Oh yes； you'll like it here。 Try it； you'll like it。 Try it； you'll liiiiike
it — ）
Now his ears were open and he could hear them again； the gathering； ghosts or
spirits or maybe the hotel itself； a dreadful funhouse where all the sideshows
ended in death； where all the specially painted boogies were really alive； where
hedges walked； where a small silver key could start the obscenity。 Soft and
sighing； rustling like the endless winter wind that played under the eaves at
night； the deadly lulling wind the summer tourists never heard。 It was like the
somnolent hum of summer wasps in a ground nest； sleepy； deadly； beginning to
wake up。 They were ten thousand feet high。
（Why is a raven like a writing desk？ The higher the fewer； of course！ Have
another cup of tea！）
It was a living sound； but not voices； not breath。 A man of a philosophical
bent might have called it the sound of souls。 Dick Hallorann's Nana； who had
grown up on southern roads in the years before the turn of the century； would
have called it ha'ants。 A psychic investigator might have had a long name for
it — psychic echo； psychokinesis； a telesmic sport。 But to Danny it was only the
sound of the hotel； the old monster； creaking steadily and ever more closely
around them： halls that now stretched back through time as well as distance；
hungry shadows； unquiet guests who did not rest easy。
In the darkened ballroom the clock under glass struck seven…thirty with a
single musical note。
A hoarse voice； made brutal with drink； shouted： 〃Unmask and let's fuck！〃
Wendy； halfway across the lobby； jerked to a standstill。
She looked at Danny on the stairs； still tossing the ball from hand to hand。
〃Did you hear something？〃
Danny only looked at her and continued to toss the ball from hand to hand。
There would be little sleep for them that night； although they slept together
behind a locked door。
And in the dark； his eyes open； Danny thought：
（He wants to be one of them and live forever。 That's what he wants。）
Wendy thought：
（If I have to； I'll take him further up。 If we're going to die I'd rather do
it in the mountains。）
She had left the butcher knife； still wrapped in the towel； under the bed。 She
kept her hand close to it。 They dozed off and on。 The hotel creaked around them。
Outside snow had begun to spit down from the sky like lead。
》
IN THE BASEMENT
（！！！ The boiler the goddam boiler ！！！）
The thought came into Jack Torrance's mind full…blown； edged in bright；
warning red。 On its heels； the voice of Watson：
（If you forget it'll just creep an creep and like as not you an your fambly
wilt end up on the fuckin moon 。。。 she's rated for two…fifty but she'd blow
long before that now 。。。 I'd be scared to e down and stand next to her at a
hundred and eighty。）
He'd been down here all night； poring over the boxes of old records； possessed
by a frantic feeling that time was getting short and he would have to hurry。
Still the vital clues； the connections that would make everything clear； eluded
him。 His fingers were yellow and grimy with crumbling old paper。 And he'd bee
so absorbed he hadn't checked the boiler once。 He'd dumped it the previous
evening around six o'clock； when he first came down。 It was now。。。
He looked at his watch and jumped up； kicking over e stack of old invoices。
Christ； it was quarter of five in the morning。
Behind him； the furnace kicked on。 The boiler was making a groaning； whistling
sound。
He ran to it。 His face； which had bee thinner in the last month or so； was
now heavily shadowed with beardstubble and he had a hollow concentration…camp
look。
The boiler pressure gauge stood at two hundred and ten pounds per square inch。
He fancied he could almost see the sides of the old patched and welded boiler
heaving out with the lethal strain。
（She creeps 。。。 I'd be scared to e down and stand next to her at a
hundred and eighty 。。。）
Suddenly a cold and tempting inner voice spoke to him。
（Let it go。 Go get Wendy and Danny and get the fuck out of here。 Let it blow
sky…high。）
He could visualize the explosion。 A double thunderclap that would first rip
the heart from this place； then the soul。 The boiler would go with an orange…
violet flash that would rain hot and burning shrapnel all over the cellar。 In
his mind he could see the redhot trinkets of metal careening from floor to walls
to ceiling like strange billiard balls； whistling jagged death through the air。
Some of them； surely； would whizz right through that stone arch； light on the
old papers on the other side； and they would burn merry hell。 Destroy the
secrets； burn the clues； it's a mystery no living hand will ever solve。 Then the
gas explosion； a great rumbling crackle of flame； a giant pilot light that would
turn the whole center of the hotel into a broiler。 Stairs and hallways and
ceilings and rooms aflame like the castle in the last reel of a Frankenstein
movie。 The flame spreading into the wings； hurrying up the black…and…blue…twined
carpets like eager guests。 The silk wallpaper charring and curling。 There were
no sprinklers； only those outmoded hoses and no one to use them。 And there
wasn't a fire engine in the world that could get here before late March。 Burn；
baby； burn。 In twelve hours there would be nothing left but the bare bones。
The needle on the gauge had moved up to two…twelve。 The boiler was creaking
and groaning like an old woman trying to get out of bed。 Hissing jets of steam
had begun to play around the edges of old patches； beads of solder had begun to
sizzle。
He didn't see； he didn't hear。 Frozen with his hand on the valve that would
dump off the pressure and damp the fire； Jack's eyes glittered from their
sockets like sapphires。
（It's my last chance。）
The only thing not cashed in now was the life…insurance policy he had taken
out jointly with Wendy in the summer between his first and second years at
Stovington。 Forty…thousand…dollar death benefit； double indemnity if he or she
died in a train crash； a plane crash； or a fire。 Seven…e…eleven； die the
secret death and win a hundred dollars。
（A fire 。。。 eighty thousand dollars。）
They would have time to get out。 Even if they were sleeping； they would have
time to get out。 He believed that。 And he didn't think the hedges or anything
else would try to hold them back if the Overlook was going up in flames。
（Flames。）
The needle inside the greasy； almost opaque dial had danced up to two hundred
and fifteen pounds per square inch。
Another memory occurred to him； a childhood memory。 There had been a wasps'
nest in the lower branches of their apple tree behind the house。 One of his
older brothers — he couldn't remember which one now — had been stung while
swinging in the old tire Daddy had hung from one of the tree's lower branches。
It had been late summer； when wasps tend to be at their ugliest。
Their father； just home from work； dressed in his whites； the smell of beer
hanging around his face in a fine mist； had gathered all three boys； Brett；
Mike； and little Jacky； and told them he was going to get rid of the wasps。
〃Now watch；〃 he had said； smiling and staggering a little （he hadn't been
using the cane then； the collision with the milk truck was years in the future）。
〃Maybe you'll learn something。 My father showed me this。〃
He had raked a big pile of rain…dampened leaves under the branch where the
wasps' nest rested； a deadlier fruit than the shrunken but tasty apples their
tree usually produced in late September； which was then still half a month away。
He lit the leaves。 The day was clear and windless。 The leaves smoldered but
didn't really burn； and they made a smell — a fragrance that had echoed back to him
each fall when men in Saturday pants and light Windbreakers raked leaves
together and burned them。 A sweet smell with a bitter undertone； rich and
evocative。 The smoldering leaves produced great rafts of smoke that drifted up
to obscure the nest。
Their father had let the leaves smolder all that afternoon； drinking beer on
the porch and dropping the empty Black Label cans into his wife's plastic
floorbucket while his two older sons flanked him and little Jacky sat on the
steps at his feet； playing with his Bolo Bouncer and singing monotonously over
and over： 〃Your cheating heart 。。。 will make you weep 。。。 your cheating
heart 。。。 is gonna tell on you。〃
At quarter of six； just before supper； Daddy had gone out to the apple tree
with his sons grouped carefully behind him。 In one hand he had a garden hoe。 He
knocked the leaves apart； leaving little clots spread around to smolder and die。
Then he reached the hoe handle up； weaving and blinking； and after two or three
tries he knocked the nest to the ground。
The boys fled for the safety of the porch； but Daddy only stood over the nest；
swaying and blinking down at it。 Jacky crept back to see。 A few wasps were
crawling sluggishly over the paper terrain of their property； but they were not
trying to fly。 From the inside of the nest； the black and alien place； came a
never…to…be…forgotten sound： a low； somnolent buzz； like the sound of high…
tension wires。
〃Why don't they try to sting you； Daddy？〃 he had asked。
〃The smoke makes em drunk； Jacky。 Go get my gascan。〃
He ran to fetch it。 Daddy doused the nest with amber gasoline。
〃Now step away； Jacky； unless you want to lose your eyebrows。〃
He had stepped away。 From somewhere in the voluminous folds of his white
overblouse； Daddy had produced a wooden kitchen match。 He lit it with his
thumbnail and flung it onto the nest。 There had been a white…orange explosion；
almost soundless in its ferocity。 Daddy had stepped away； cackling wildly。 The
wasps' nest had gone up in no time。
〃Fire；〃 Daddy had said； turning to Jacky with a smile。 〃Fire will kill
anything。〃
After supper the boys had e out in the day's waning light to stand solemnly
around the charred and blackened nest。 From the hot interior had e the sound
of wasp bodies popping like corn。
The pressure gauge stood at two…twenty。 A low iron wailing sound was building
up in the guts of the thing。 Jets of steam stood out erect in a hundred places
like porcupine quills。
（Fire will kill anything。）
Jack suddenly started。 He had been dozing off 。。。 and he had almost dozed
himself right into kingdom cone。 What in God's name had he been thinking of？
Protecting the hotel was his job。 He was the caretaker。
A sweat of terror sprang to his hands so quickly that at first he missed his
grip on the large valve。 Then he curled his fingers around its spokes。 He
whirled it one turn； two； three。 There was a giant hiss of steam； dragon's
breath。 A warm tropical mist rose from beneath the boiler and veiled him。 For a
moment he could no longer see the dial but thought he must have waited too long；
the groaning； clanking sound inside the boiler increased； followed by a series
of heavy rattling sounds and the wrenching screech of metal。
When some of the steam blew away he saw that the pressure gauge had dropped
back to two hundred and was still sinking。 The jets of steam escaping around the
soldered patches began to lose their force。 The wrenching； grinding sounds began
to diminish。
One…ninety。。。 one…eighty 。。。 one seventy…five 。。。
（He was going downhill； going ninety miles an hour； when the whistle broke
into a scream — ）
But he didn't think it would blow now。 The press was down to one