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The mallet slammed down behind her and she threw herself forward； sobbing。
Over her shoulder she saw Jack stumble forward； overbalance； and bring the
mallet down just before he crashed to the carpet； expelling a bright splash of
blood onto the nap。
The mallet head struck her squarely between the shoulder blades and for a
moment the agony was so great that she could only writhe； hands opening and
clenching。 Something inside her had snapped — she had heard it clearly； and for a
few moments she was aware only in a muted； muffled way； as if she were merely
observing these things through a cloudy wrapping of gauze。
Then full consciousness came back； terror and pain with it。
Jack was trying to get up so he could finish the job。
Wendy tried to stand and found it was impossible。 Electric bolts seemed to
course up and down her back at the effort。 She began to crawl along in a
sidestroke motion。 Jack was crawling after her； using the roque mallet as a
crutch or a cane。
She reached the er and pulled herself around it； using her hands to yank at
the angle of the wall。 Her terror deepened — she would not have believed that
possible； but it was。 It was a hundred times worse not to be able to see him or
know how close he was getting。 She tore out fistfuls of the carpet napping
pulling herself along； and she was halfway down this short hall before she
noticed the bedroom door was standing wide open。
（Danny！ O Jesus）
She forced herself to her knees and then clawed her way to her feet； fingers
slipping over the silk wallpaper。 Her nails pulled little strips of it loose。
She ignored the pain and halfwalked； half…shambled through the doorway as Jack
came around the far corner and began to lunge his way down toward the open door；
leaning on the roque mallet。
She caught the edge of the dresser； held herself up against it； and grabbed
the doorframe。
Jack shouted at her： 〃Don't you shut that door！ Goddam you； don't you dare
shut it！〃
She slammed it closed and shot the bolt。 Her left hand pawed wildly at the
junk on the dresser； knocking loose coins onto the floor where they rolled in
every direction。 Her hand seized the key ring just as the mallet whistled down
against the door； making it tremble in its frame。 She got the key into the lock
on the second stab and twisted it to the right。 At the sound of the tumblers
falling； Jack screamed。 The mallet came down against the door in a volley of
booming blows that made her flinch and step back。 How could he be doing that
with a knife in his back？ Where was he finding the strength？ She wanted to
shriek Why aren't you dead？ at the locked door。
Instead she turned around。 She and Danny would have to go into the attached
bathroom and lock that door； too； in case Jack actually could break through the
bedroom door。 The thought of escaping down the dumb…waiter shaft crossed her
mind in a wild burst； and then she rejected it。 Danny was small enough to fit
into it； but she would be unable to control the rope pull。 He might go crashing
all the way to the bottom。
The bathroom it would have to be。 And if Jack broke through into there —
But she wouldn't allow herself to think of it。
〃Danny； honey； you'll have to wake up n — 〃
But the bed was empty。
When he had begun to sleep more soundly； she had thrown the blankets and one
of the quilts over him。 Now they were thrown back。
〃I'll get you！〃 Jack howled。 〃I'll get 。both of you！〃 Every other word was
punctuated with a blow from the roque hammer； yet Wendy ignored both。 All of her
attention was focused on that empty bed。
〃e out here！ Unlock this goddam door！〃
〃Danny？〃 she whispered。
Of course 。。。 when Jack had attacked her。 It had e through to him； as
violent emotions always seemed to。 Perhaps he'd even seen the whole thing in a
nightmare。 He was hiding。
She fell clumsily to her knees； enduring another bolt of pain from her swollen
and bleeding leg； and looked under the bed。 Nothing there but dustballs and
Jack's bedroom slippers。
Jack screamed her name； and this time when he swung the mallet； a long
splinter of wood jumped from the door and clattered off the hardwood planking。
The next blow brought a sickening； splintering crack； the sound of dry kindling
under a hatchet。 The bloody mallet head； now splintered and gouged in its own
right； bashed through the new hole in the door； was withdrawn； and came down
again； sending wooden shrapnel flying across the room。
Wendy pulled herself to her feet again using the foot of the bed； and hobbled
across the room to the closet。 Her broken ribs stabbed at her； making her groan。
〃Danny？〃
She brushed the hung garments aside frantically； some of them slipped their
hangers and ballooned gracelessly to the floor。 He was not in the closet。
She hobbled toward the bathroom and as she reached the door she glanced back
over her shoulder。 The mallet crashed through again； widening the hole； and then
a hand appeared； groping for the bolt。 She saw with horror that she had left
Jack's key ring dangling from the lock。
The hand yanked the bolt back； and as it did so it struck the bunched keys。
They jingled merrily。 The hand clutched them victoriously。
With a sob； she pushed her way into the bathroom and slammed the door just as
the bedroom door burst open and Jack charged through； bellowing。
Wendy ran the bolt and twisted the spring lock； looking around desperately。
The bathroom was empty。 Danny wasn't here； either。 And as she caught sight of
her own bloodsmeared； horrified face in the medicine cabinet mirror； she was
glad。 She had never believed that children should be witness to the little
quarrels of their parents。 And perhaps the thing that was now raving through the
bedroom； overturning things and smashing them； would finally collapse before it
could go after her son。 Perhaps； she thought； it might be possible for her to
inflict even more damage on it 。。。 kill it； perhaps。
Her eyes skated quickly over the bathroom's machine…produced porcelain
surfaces； looking for anything that might serve as a weapon。 There was a bar of
soap； but even wrapped in a towel she didn't think it would be lethal enough。
Everything else was bolted down。 God； was there nothing she could do？
Beyond the door； the animal sounds of destruction went on and on； acpanied
by thick shouts that they would 〃take their medicine〃 and 〃pay for what they'd
done to him。〃 He would 〃show them who's boss；〃 They were 〃worthless puppies；〃
the both of them。
There was a thump as her record player was overturned； a hollow crash as the
secondhand TV's picture tube was smashed； the tinkle of windowglass followed by
a cold draft under the bathroom door。 A dull thud as the mattresses were ripped
from the twin beds where they had slept together； hip to hip。 Boomings as Jack
struck the walls indiscriminately with the mallet。
There was nothing of the real Jack in that howling； maundering； petulant
voice； though。 It alternately whined in tones of selfpity and rose in lurid
screams； it reminded her chillingly of the screams that sometimes rose in the
geriatrics ward of the hospital where she had worked summers as a high school
kid。 Senile dementia。 Jack wasn't out there anymore。 She was hearing the
lunatic； raving voice of the Overlook itself。
The mallet smashed into the bathroom door； knocking out a huge chunk of the
thin paneling。 Half of a crazed and working face stared in at her。 The mouth and
cheeks and throat were lathered in blood； the single eye she could see was tiny
and piggish and glittering。
〃Nowhere left to run； you cunt；〃 it panted at her through its grin。 The mallet
descended again； knocking wood splinters into the tub and against the reflecting
surface of the medicine cabinet
（！！ The medicine cabinet ！！）
A desperate whining noise began to escape her as she whirled； pain temporarily
forgotten； and threw the mirror door of the cabinet back。 She began to paw
through its contents。 Behind her that hoarse voice bellowed： 〃Here I e now！
Here I e now； you pig！〃 It was demolishing the door in a machinelike frenzy。
Bottles and jars fell before her madly searching fingers — cough syrup； Vaseline；
Clairol Herbal Essence shampoo； hydrogen peroxide； benzocaine — they fell into
the sink and shattered。
Her hand closed over the dispenser of double…edged razor blades just as she
heard the hand again； fumbling for the bolt and the spring lock。
She slipped one of the razor blades out； fumbling at it； her breath ing in
harsh little gasps。 She had cut the ball of her thumb。 She whirled around and
slashed at the hand； which had turned the lock and was now fumbling for the
bolt。
Jack screamed。 The hand was jerked back。
Panting； holding the razor blade between her thumb and index finger； she
waited for him to try again。 He did； and she slashed。 He screamed again； trying
to grab her hand； and she slashed at him again。 The razor blade turned in her
hand； cutting her again； and dropped to the tile floor by the toilet。
Wendy slipped another blade out of the dispenser and waited。
Movement in the other room —
（？？ going away ？？）
And a sound ing through the bedroom window。 A motor。 A high； insectile
buzzing sound。
A roar of anger from Jack and then — yes； yes； she was sure of it — he was leaving
the caretaker's apartment； plowing through the wreckage and out into the hall。
（？？ Someone ing a ranger Dick Hallorann ？？）
〃Oh God；〃 she muttered brokenly through a mouth that seemed filled with broken
sticks and old sawdust。 〃Oh God； oh please。〃
She had to leave now； had to go find her son so they could face the rest of
this nightmare side by side。 She reached out and fumbled at the bolt。 Her arm
seemed to stretch for miles。 At last she got it to e free。 She pushed the
door open； staggered out； and was suddenly overe by the horrible certainty
that Jack had only pretended to leave； that he was lying in wait for her：
Wendy looked around。 The room was empty； the living room too。 Jumbled； broken
stuff everywhere。
The closet？ Empty。
Then the soft shades of gray began to wash over her and she fell down on the
mattress Jack had ripped from the bed； semiconscious。
》
HALLORANN LAID LOW
Hallorann reached the overturned snowmobile just as； a mile and a half away；
Wendy was pulling herself around the corner and into the short hallway leading
to the caretaker's apartment。
It wasn't the snowmobile he wanted but the gascan held onto the back by a pair
of elastic straps。 His hands； still clad in Howard Cottrell's blue mittens；
seized the top strap and pulled it free as the hedge lion roared behind him — a
sound that seemed to be more in his head than outside of it。 A hard； brambly
slap to his left leg； making the knee sing with pain as it was driven in a way
the joint had never been expected to bend。 A groan escaped Hallorann's clenched
teeth。 It would e for the kill any time now； tired of playing with him。
He fumbled for the second strap。 Sticky blood ran in his eyes。
（Roar！ Slap！）
That one raked across his buttocks； almost tumbling him over and away from the
snowmobile again。 He held on — no exaggeration — for dear life。
Then he had freed the second strap。 He clutched the gascan to him as the lion
struck again； rolling him over on his back。 He saw it again； only a shadow in
the darkness and falling snow； as nightmarish as a moving gargoyle。 Hallorann
twisted at the can's cap as the moving shadow stalked him； kicking up snowpuffs。
As it moved in again the cap spun free； releasing the pungent smell of the
gasoline。
Hallorann gained his knees and as it came at him； lowslung and incredibly
quick； he splashed it with the gas。
There was a hissing； spitting sound and it drew back。
〃Gas！〃 Hallorann cried； his voice shrill and breaking。 〃Gonna burn you； baby！
Dig on it awhile！〃
The lion came at him again； still spitting angrily。 Hallorann splashed it
again but this time the lion didn't give。 It charged ahead。 Hallorann sensed
rather than saw its head angling at his face and he threw himself backward；
partially avoiding it。 Yet the lion still hit his upper rib cage a glancing
blow； and a flare of pain struck there。 Gas gurgled out of the can； which he
still held； and doused his right hand and arm； cold as death。
Now he lay on his back in a snow angel； to the right of the snowmobile by
about ten paces。 The hissing lion was a bulking presence to his left； closing in
again。 Hallorann thought he could see its tail twitching。
He yanked Cottrell's mitten off his right hand； tasting sodden wool and
gasoline。 He ripped up the hem of the parka and jammed his hand into his pants
pocket。 Down in there； along with his keys and his change； was a very battered
old Zippo lighter。 He had bought it in Germany in 1954。 Once the hinge had
broken and he had returned it to the Zippo factory and they had repaired it
without charge； just as advertised。
A nightmare flood of thoughts flooding