A black hotel maid spins her tale to a coworker friend on the eve of her son's first published novel. Her story includes domestic abuse, black magic spells, and a possible reincarnation of a famous writer into her child. A trivia show addict is haunted by a finger which comes up through his bathroom sink drain and taps on the porcelain. His sanity is eventually broken, and he begins a homicidal assault on the mysterious being that lurks beneath the pipes.
A music producer lands a big opportunity that could make him a huge success. The good comes with bad when he starts seeing see-through sneakers under the bathroom stall, and who they're connected to poses a very personal danger. A married couple get lost trying to find the quickest route to their vacation destination, and end up in the eerily perfect town of "Rock and Roll Heaven". They soon realize it's filled with dead rock and roll legends who are persistent to gather an audience.
A pregnant woman and her isolated island town fight against a zombie outbreak which has taken over the rest of the world. After she comes face to face with her husband and the village with it's dead, she's hopeful and determined to give birth. A couple come into a dreary town and are warned to leave, because they arrive in the season where it rains toads. They think of the warning as madness and stay, eventually falling victim to the town's annual ritual.
A young boy remembers a touching talk with his beloved grandfather. This was originally a flashback in a scrapped full-length novel under King's pseudonym, in which a hardened and brutal criminal reflects on his childhood. In this screenplay, The wife of a horror novelist receives a distressing phone call. After unsuccessfully seeking out the caller, her husband has a fatal heart attack. Years later she fulfills a predestination paradox.
After witnessing a bat-headed creature, an irregular smoker is recruited into a secret society. They all share the same smoking habits, somehow allowing them to perceive certain people as monsters while others do not. An American woman wanders into a British police station to delivery a manic recollection of her strange experiences in their town of Crouch End.
Only two had stung. He took a pair of tweezers out of his jeans watch-pocket, and went over to my desk. He moved the pile of manuscript beside the Wang Micro I was using in those days and trained my Tensor lamp on the place where the pages had been-fiddling with it until it formed a tiny hard spotlight on the cherry wood.
When he was four? He was working carefully on his left hand with the tweezers. I saw him extract a tiny something that looked like a nostril hair and place it in my ashtray. I sat down beside him, took the tweezers, and pulled the bee stinger out of the red swelling near what in his case should have been the Bracelets of Doom, and while I did it he told me about the differences between bees and wasps, the difference between the water in La Plata and the water in New York, and how, goddam!
And oh shit, I ended up running at the football while my laughing, wildly intelligent brother held it, one last time. Shit , Howie, what are you doing? Their stingers are barbed, like fishhooks. They slide in easy. When they pull out, they disembowel themselves. They can shoot you up as many times as they like. Especially wall-wasps. Stuff called Noxon.
He looked at me somberly, and for the first time I saw the dark brown wheels of weariness under his eyes and realized my kid brother was more tired than I had ever seen him.
On and on and on. We got smooth stingers. Now watch this. He got up, went over to his tote-bag, rummaged in it, and came up with an eye-dropper. He opened the mayonnaise jar, put the dropper in, and drew up a tiny bubble of his distilled Texas water. With the wasps, he was taking no chances. He squeezed the black bulb. Two drops of water fell onto the nest, making a momentary dark spot that disappeared almost at once.
He held it in his hands. Wasps flew out and lit on his arms, his cheeks, his forehead. One flew across to me and landed on my forearm. I slapped it and it fell dead to the carpet.
My body was wired with adrenaline and I could feel my eyes trying to push their way out of their sockets. He lobbed it in the air. I watched, horrified, as wasps cruised the living room of my apartment like fighter planes on patrol.
Bobby lowered the nest carefully back into the box and sat down on my couch. He patted the place next to him and I went over, nearly hypnotized.
They were everywhere: on the rug, the ceiling, the drapes. Half a dozen of them were crawling across the front of my big-screen TV.
Before I could sit down, he brushed away a couple that were on the sofa cushion where my ass was aimed. They flew away quickly. They were all flying easily, crawling easily, moving fast.
There was nothing drugged about their behavior. As Bobby talked, they gradually found their way back to their spit-paper home, crawled over it, and eventually disappeared inside again through the hole in the top. Half the male population goes around armed.
Saturday night in the Fort Worth bars is like a shooting gallery where you get to plonk away at drunks instead of clay ducks. There are more NRA card-carriers than there are Methodists. Not that Texas is the only place where people shoot each other, or carve each other up with straight razors, or stick their kids in the oven if they cry too long, you understand, but they sure do like their firearms.
I just looked up at the clock and saw the time. The nonviolent atmosphere of the Waco area had been noticed and investigated before, mostly by sociologists.
He went to Waco accompanied by a trio of research assistants: two sociology grad-students and a full professor of geology who happened to be on sabbatical and ready for adventure. He had a slightly rumpled printout in his tote. He gave it to me. I was looking at a series of forty concentric rings. Waco was in the eighth, ninth, and tenth as you moved in toward the centre. More rings; but in each one there was a number.
Fortieth ring: Thirty-ninth: Thirty-eighth: And so on. In a couple of places the numbers went up instead of down, but only in a couple and only by a little. The computer assigns a number by a formula that takes population density into account. I saw that the numbers in the central circles dropped off radically: 85, 81, 70, 63, 40, 21,5.
To call it a sleepy little town seems more than fair. In short and it is now too late to be anything else , La Plata should have been a fertile breeding ground for the sort of casual violence you can read about in the Police Blotter section of the local newspaper every day. The local Sheriff was a fat old Republican who did a pretty fair Rodney Dangerfield imitation. He had been known, in fact, to spend whole days in the local coffee shop, tugging the knot in his tie and telling people to take his wife, please.
His only deputy was his nephew. Bobby told me the nephew looked quite a lot like Junior Samples on the old Hee-Haw show. He smiled. Anyway, we started geological tests, then microscopic analysis of the water. If there had been something obvious, it would have turned up a long time ago.
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An all-star cast of readers bring to life these timeless stories from the darkest places. One man's pursuit of world peace turns deadly in The End of the Whole Mess. In The Moving Finger , menace arrives poking out of the drain of a bathroom sink.
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