Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Langoliers - THIS IS FOR JOE, ANOTHER WHITE-KNUCKLE FLIER.
CHAPTER ONE - BAD NEWS POR CAPTAIN ENGLE. THE LITTLE BLIND GIRL. THE LADY'S ...
CHAPTER TWO - DARKNESS AND MOUNTAINS. THE TREASURETROVE. CREW-NECK'S NOSE. THE ...
CHAPTER THREE - THE DEDUCTIVE METHOD. ACCIDENTS AND STATISTICS. SPECULATIVE ...
CHAPTER FOUR - IN THE CLOUDS. WELCOME TO BANGOR. A ROUND OF APPLAUSE. THE SLIDE ...
CHAPTER FIVE - A BOOK OF MATCHES. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SALAMI SANDWICH. ANOTHER ...
CHAPTER SIX - STRANDED. BETHANY'S MATCHES. TWO-WAY TRAFFIC AHEAD. ALBERT'S ...
CHAPTER SEVEN - DINAH IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. THE FASTEST TOASTER EAST OF ...
CHAPTER EIGHT - REFUELLING. DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT. THE APPROACH OF THE LANGOLIERS. ...
CHAPTER NINE - GOODBYE TO BANGOR. HEADING WEST THROUGH DAYS AND NIGHTS. SEEING ...
Secret Window, Secret Garden - THIS IS FOR CHUCK VERRILL.
The The Library Policeman - THIS IS FOR THE STAFF AND PATRONS OF THE PASADENA ...
CHAPTER ONE - THE STAND-IN
CHAPTER TWO - THE LIBRARY (1)
CHAPTER THREE - SAM'S SPEECH
CHAPTER FOUR - THE MISSING BOOKS
CHAPTER FIVE - ANGLE STREET(1)
CHAPTER SIX - THE LIBRARY (II)
CHAPTER SEVEN - NIGHT TERRORS
CHAPTER EIGHT - ANGLE STREET (II)
CHAPTER NINE - THE LIBRARY POLICEMAN (1)
CHAPTER TEN - CHRON-O-LODGE-ICK-A-LEE SPEAKING
CHAPTER ELEVEN - DAVE'S STORY
CHAPTER TWELVE - BY AIR TO DES MOINES
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE LIBRARY POLICEMAN (II)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE LIBRARY (III)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ANGLE STREET (III)
The Sun Dog - THIS IS IN MEMORY OF JOHN D. MACDONALD. I MISS YOU, OLD ...
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CRAFTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
Four Times Fear Equals Total Terror....
FOUR PAST MIDNIGHT
THE LANGOLIERS
You are strapped in an airplane seat on a flight beyond hell.
SECRET WINDOW, SECRET GARDEN
You are trapped in the demonic depths of a writer's worst nightmare.
THE LIBRARY POLICEMAN
You are forced into a hunt for the most horrifying secret a small town ever hid.
THE SUN DOG
You are focusing in on a beast bent on shedding your sanity.
You are in the hands of Stephen King at his mind-blowing best, with an extraordinary quartet of full-length novellas.
"King is a master storyteller, and you will never forget these stories."
--Seattle Times
AMERICA LOVES
THE BACHMAN BOOKS "Fascinating."
--Philadelphia Inquirer
CARRIE "Horrifying."
--Chicago Tribune
CHRISTINE "Riveting."
--Playboy
CUJO "Gut-wrenching."
--Newport News Daily Press
THE DARK HALF "Scary."
--Kirkus Reviews
THE DARK TOWER: THE GUNSLINGER "Brilliant."
--Booklist
THE DARK TOWER II: THE DRAWING OF THE THREE "Superb."
--Chicago Herald-Wheaton
THE DARK TOWER III: THE WASTE LANDS "Gripping."
--Chicago Sun-Times
THE DEAD ZONE "Frightening."
--Cosmopolitan
DIFFERENT SEASONS "Hypnotic."
--New York Times Book Review
DOLORES CLAIBORNE "Unforgettable."
--San Francisco Chronicle
THE EYES OF THE DRAGON "Masterful."
--Cincinnati Post
FIRESTARTER "Terrifying."
--Miami Herald
STEPHEN KING
FOUR PAST MIDNIGHT "Chilling."
--Milwaukee Journal
GERALD'S GAME "Terrific."
--USA Today IT
"Mesmerizing."
--Washington Post Book World
MISERY "Wonderful."
--Houston Chronicle
NEEDFUL THINGS "Demonic."
--Kirkus Reviews
NIGHT SHIFT "Macabre."
--Dallas Times-Herald
PET SEMATARY "Unrelenting."
--Pittsburgh Press
'SALEM'S LOT "Tremendous."
--Kirkus Reviews
THE SHINING "Spellbinding."
--Pittsburgh Press
SKELETON CREW "Diabolical."
--Associated Press
THE STAND "Great."
--New York Times Book Review
THINNER "Extraordinary."
--Booklist
THE TOMMYKNOCKERS "Marvelous."
--Boston Globe
WORKS BY STEPHEN KING
NOVELS
Carrie
'Salem's Lot
The Shining
The Stand
The Dead Zone
Firestarter
Cujo
THE DARK TOWER I:
The Gunslinger
Christine
Pet Sematary
Cycle of the Werewolf
The Talisman
(with Peter Straub)
It
Eyes of the Dragon
Misery
The Tommyknockers
THE DARK TOWER II:
The Drawing
of the Three
THE DARK TOWER III:
The Waste Lands
The Dark Half
Needful Things
Gerald's Game
Dolores Claiborne
Insomnia
Rose Madder
Desperation
The Green Mile
THE DARK TOWER IV:
Wizard and Glass
Bag of Bones
AS RICHARD BACHMAN
Rage
The Long Walk
Roadwork
The Running Man
Thinner
The Regulators
COLLECTIONS
Night Shift
Different Seasons
Skeleton Crew
Four Past Midnight
Nightmares and
Dreamscapes
NONFICTION
Danse Macabre
SCREENPLAYS
Creepshow
Cat's Eye
Silver Bullet
Maximum Overdrive
Pet Sematary
Golden Years
Sleepwalkers
The Stand
The Shining
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Viking edition.
First Signet Printing, September 1991
Copyright (c) Stephen King, 1990
Illustrations copyright (c) Viking, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 1990
Excerpt from Needful Things copyright (c) Stephen King, 1991
All rights reserved
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the following copyrighted works: "In the Midnight Hour" by Wilson Pickett and Steve Cropper. Copyright (c) Cotillion Music, Inc. & East/Memphis Music Corp., 1965. All rights on behalf of Cotillion Music, Inc., administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission. "Angel of the Morning" by Chip Taylor. Copyright (c) EMI Blackwood Music Inc., 1967. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE
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eISBN : 978-1-10113803-8
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In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter
And because it is my heart."
--Stephen Crane
I'm gonna kiss you, girl, and hold ya,
I'm gonna do all the things I told ya
In the midnight hour.
--Wilson Pickett
STRAIGHT UP MIDNIGHT
A N INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Well, look at this--we're all here. We made it back again. I hope you're half as happy to be here as I am. Just saying that reminds me of a story, and since telling stories is what I do for a living (and to keep myself sane), I'll pass this one along.
Earlier this year--I'm writing this in late July of 1989--I was crashed out in front of the TV, watching the Boston Red Sox play the Milwaukee Brewers. Robin Yount of the Brewers stepped to the plate, and the Boston commentators began marvelling at the fact that Yount was still in his early thirties. "Sometimes it seems that Robin helped Abner Doubleday lay down the first set of foul lines," Ned Martin said as Yount stepped into the box to face Roger Clemens.
"Yep," Joe Castiglione agreed. "He came to the Brewers right out of high school, I think--he's been playing for them since 1974."
I sat up so fast I nearly spilled a can of Pepsi-Cola all over myself. Wait a minute! I was thinking. Wait just a goddam minute! I published my first book in 1974! That wasn't so long ago! What's this shit about helping Abner Doubleday put down the first set of foul lines?
Then it occurred to me that the perception of how time passes--a subject which comes up again and again in the stories which follow--is a highly individual thing. It's true that the publication of Carrie in the spring of 1974 (it was published, in fact, just two days before baseball season began and a teenager named Robin Yount played his first game for the Milwaukee Brewers) doesn't seem like a long time ago to me subjectively--just a quick glance back over the shoulder, in fact--but there are other ways to count the years, and some of them suggest that fifteen years can be a long time, indeed.
In 1974 Gerald Ford was President and the Shah was still running the show in Iran. John Lennon was alive, and so was Elvis Presley. Donny Osmond was singing with his brothers and sisters in a high, piping voice. Home video cassette recorders had been invented but could be purchased in only a few test markets. Insiders predicted that when they became widely available, Sony's Beta-format machines would quickly stomp the rival format, known as VHS, into the ground. The idea that people might soon be renting popular movies as they had once rented popular novels at lending libraries was still over the horizon. Gasoline prices had risen to unthinkable highs: forty-eight cents a gallon for regular, fifty-five cents for unleaded.
The first white hairs had yet to make their appearance on my head and in my beard. My daughter, now a college sophomore, was four. My older son, who is now taller than I am, plays the blues harp, and sports luxuriant shoulder-length Sammy Hagar locks, had just been promoted to training pants. And my younger son, who now pitches and plays first base for a championship Little League team, would not be born for another three years.
Time has this funny, plastic quality, and everything that goes around comes around. When you get on the bus, you think it won't be taking you far--across town, maybe, no further than that--and all at once, holy shit! You're halfway across the next continent. Do you find the metaphor a trifle naive? So do I, and the hell of it is just this: it doesn't matter. The essential conundrum of time is so perfect that even such jejune observations as the one I have just made retain an odd, plangent resonance.
One thing hasn't changed during those years--the major reason, I suppose, why it sometimes seems to me (and probably to Robin Yount as well) that no time has passed at all. I'm still doing the same thing: writing stories. And it is still a great deal more than what I know; it is still what I love. Oh, don't get me wrong--I love my wife and I love my children, but it's still a pleasure to find these peculiar side roads, to go down them, to see who lives there, to see what they're doing and who they're doing it to and maybe even why. I still love the strangeness of it, and those gorgeous moments when the pictures come clear and the events begin to make a pattern. There is always a tail to the tale. The beast is quick and I sometimes miss my grip, but when I do get it, I hang on tight ... and it feels fine.
When this book is published, in 1990, I will have been sixteen years in the business of make-believe. Halfway through those years, long after I had become, by some process I still do not fully understand, America's literary boogeyman, I published a book called Different Seasons. It was a collection of four previously unpublished novellas, three of which were not horror stories. The publisher accepted this book in good heart but, I think, with some mental reservations as well. I know I had some. As it turned out, neither of us had to worry. Sometimes a writer will publish a book which is just naturally lucky, and Different Seasons was that way for me.
One of the stories, "The Body," became a movie (Stand By
Me) which enjoyed a successful run ... the first really successful film to be made from a work of mine since Carrie (a movie which came out back when Abner Doubleday and you-know-who were laying down those foul lines). Rob Reiner, who made Stand By Me, is one of the bravest, smartest filmmakers I have ever met, and I'm proud of my association with him. I am also amused to note that the company Mr. Reiner formed following the success of Stand By Me is Castle Rock Productions ... a name with which many of my long-time readers will be familiar.
The critics, by and large, also liked Different Seasons. Almost all of them would napalm one particular novella, but since each of them picked a different story to scorch, I felt I could disregard them all with impunity ... and I did. Such behavior is not always possible; when most of the reviews of Christine suggested it was a really dreadful piece of work, I came to the reluctant decision that it probably wasn't as good as I had hoped (that, however, did not stop me from cashing the royalty checks). I know writers who claim not to read their notices, or not to be hurt by the bad ones if they do, and I actually believe two of these individuals. I'm one of the other kind--I obsess over the possibility of bad reviews and brood over them when they come. But they don't get me down for long; I just kill a few children and old ladies, and then I'm right as a trivet again.
Most important, the readers liked Different Seasons. I don't remember a single correspondent from that time who scolded me for writing something that wasn't horror. Most readers, in fact, wanted to tell me that one of the stories roused their emotions in some way, made them think, made them feel, and those letters are the real payback for the days (and there are a lot of them) when the words come hard and inspiration seems thin or even nonexistent. God bless and keep Constant Reader; the mouth can speak, but there is no tale unless there is a sympathetic ear to listen.
1982, that was. The year the Milwaukee Brewers won their only American League pennant, led by--yes, you got it--Robin Yount. Yount hit .331 that year, bashed twenty-nine home runs, and was named the American League's Most Valuable Player.
It was a good year for both us old geezers.
Different Seasons was not a planned book; it just happened. The four long stories in it came out at odd intervals over a period of five years, stories which were too long to be published as short stories and just a little too short to be books on their own. Like pitching a no-hitter or batting for the cycle (getting a single, double, triple, and home run all in the same ball game), it was not so much a feat as a kind of statistical oddity. I took great pleasure in its success and acceptance, but I also felt a clear sense of regret when the manuscript was finally turned in to The Viking Press. I knew it was good; I also knew that I'd probably never publish another book exactly like it in my life.