A TREE LIMB YOU FUCKING JUNGLE…BUNNY COON AND THEN BURN THE BODY
THAT'S WHAT WE DO WITH NIGGERS SO TURN AROUND NOW）
Hallorann screamed in the close confines of the car。 The message did not e
to him in words but in a series of rebuslike images that were slammed into his
head with terrific force。 He took his hands from the steering wheel to blot the
pictures out。
Then the car smashed broadside into one of the embankments； rebounded； slewed
halfway around； and came to a stop。 The rear wheels spun uselessly。
Hallorann snapped the gearshift into park； and then covered his face with his
hands。 He did not precisely cry； what escaped him was an uneven huh…huh…huh
sound。 His chest heaved。 He knew that if that blast had taken him on a stretch
of road with a dropoff on one side or the other； he might well be dead now。
Maybe that had been the idea。 And it might hit him again； at any time。 He would
have to protect against it。 He was surrounded by a red force of immense power
that might have been memory。 He was drowning in instinct。
He took his hands away from his face and opened his eyes cautiously。 Nothing。
If there was something trying to scare him again； it wasn't getting through。 He
was closed off。
Had that happened to the boy？ Dear God； had that happened to the little boy？
And of all the images； the one that bothered him the roost was that dull
whacking sound； like a hammer splatting into thick cheese。 What did that mean？ 。
（Jesus； not that little boy。 Jesus； please。）
He dropped the gearshift lever into low range and fed the engine gas a little
at a time。 The wheels spun； caught； spun； and caught again。 The Buick began to
move； its headlights cutting weakly through the swirling snow。 He looked at his
watch。 Almost six…thirty now。 And he was beginning to feel that was very late
indeed。
》
REDRUM
Wendy Torrance stood indecisive in the middle of the bedroom； looking at her
son； who had fallen fast asleep。
Half an hour ago the sounds had ceased。 All of them； all at once。 The
elevator； the party； the sound of room doors opening and closing。 Instead of
easing her mind it made the tension that had been building in her even worse； it
was like a malefic hush before the storm's final brutal push。 But Danny had
dozed off almost at once； first into a light； twitching doze； and in the last
ten minutes or so a heavier sleep。 Even looking directly at him she could barely
see the slow rise and fall of his narrow chest。
She wondered when he had last gotten a full night's sleep； one without
tormenting dreams or long periods of dark wakefulness； listening to revels that
had only bee audible — and visible — to her in the last couple of days； as the
Overlook's grip on the three of them tightened。
（Real psychic phenomena or group hypnosis？）
She didn't know； and didn't think it mattered。 What had been happening was
just as deadly either way。 She looked at Danny and thought
（God grant he lie still）
that if he was undisturbed； he might sleep the rest of the night through。
Whatever talent he had； he was still a small boy and he needed his rest。
It was Jack she had begun to worry about。
She grimaced with sudden pain； took her hand away from her mouth； and saw she
had torn off one of her fingernails。 And her nails were one thing she'd always
tried to keep nice。 They weren't long enough to be called hooks； but still
nicely shaped and
（and what are you worrying about your fingernails for？）
She laughed a little； but it was a shaky sound； without amusement。
First Jack had stopped howling and battering at the door。 Then the party had
begun again
（or did it ever stop？ did it sometimes just drift into a slightly different
angle of time where they weren't meant to hear it？）
counterpointed by the crashing； banging elevator。 Then that had stopped。 In
that new silence； as Danny had been falling asleep； she had fancied she heard
low； conspiratorial voices ing from the kitchen almost directly below them。
At first she had dismissed it as the wind； which could mimic many different
human vocal ranges； from a papery deathbed whisper around the doors and window
frames to a full…out scream around the eaves 。。。 the sound of a woman fleeing
a murderer in a cheap melodrama。 Yet； sitting stiffly beside Danny； the idea
that it was indeed voices became more and more convincing。
Jack and someone else； discussing his escape from the pan try。
Discussing the murder of his wife and son。
It would be nothing new inside these walls； murder had been done here before。
She had gone to the heating vent and had placed her ear against it； but at
that exact moment the furnace had e on； and any sound was lost in the rush of
warm air ing up from the basement。 When the furnace had kicked off again；
five minutes ago； the place was pletely silent except for the wind； the
gritty spatter of snow against the building； and the occasional groan of a
board。
She looked down at her ripped fingernail。 Small beads of blood were oozing up
from beneath it。
（Jack's gotten out。）
（Don't talk nonsense。）
（Yes； he's out。 He's gotten a knife from the kitchen or maybe the meat
cleaver。 He's on his way up here right now； walking along the sides of the
risers so the stairs won't creak。）
（！ You're insane ！）
Her lips were trembling； and for a moment it seemed that she must have cried
the words out loud。 But the silence held。
She felt watched。
She whirled around and stared at the night…blackened window； and a hideous
white face with circles of darkness for eyes was gibbering in at her； the face
of a monstrous lunatic that had been hiding in these groaning walls all along…
It was only a pattern of frost on the outside of the glass。
She let her breath out in a long； susurrating whisper of fear； and it seemed
to her that she heard； quite clearly this time； amused titters from somewhere。
（You're jumping at shadows。 It's bad enough without that。 By tomorrow morning；
you'll be ready for the rubber room。）
There was only one way to allay those fears and she knew what it was。
She would have to go down and make sure Jack was still in the pantry。
Very simple。 Go downstairs。 Have a peek。 e back up。 Oh； by the way； stop
and grab the tray on the registration counter。 The omelet would be a washout；
but the soup could be reheated on the hotplate by Jack's typewriter。
（Oh yes and don't get killed if he's down there with a knife。）
She walked to the dresser； trying to shake off the mantle of fear that lay on
her。 Scattered across the dresser's top was a pile of change； a stack of
gasoline chits for the hotel truck； the two pipes Jack brought with him
everywhere but rarely smoked 。。。 and his key ring。
She picked it up； held it in her hand for a moment； and then put it back down。
The idea of locking the bedroom door behind her had occurred； but it just didn't
appeal。 Danny was asleep。 Vague thoughts of fire passed through her mind； and
something else nibbled more strongly； but she let it go。