The Shining

at peace. She found it hard to believe they could be sharing the Overlook with a murderous stowaway.
“Jack?”
“Hmmmm?”
“What got at him?”
He didn’t answer her directly. “He does have something. Some talent the rest of us are missing. The most of us, beg pardon. And maybe the Overlook has something, too.”
“Ghosts?”
“I don’t know. Not in the Algernon Blackwood sense, that’s for sure. More like the residues of the feelings of the people who have stayed here. Good things and bad things. In that sense, I suppose that every big hotel has got its ghosts. Especially the old ones.”
“But a dead woman in the tub… Jack, he’s not losing his mind, is he?”
He gave her a brief squeeze. “We know he goes into… well, trances, for want of a better word… from time to time. We know that when he’s in them he sometimes… sees?… things he doesn’t understand. If precognitive trances are possible, they’re probably functions of the subconscious mind. Freud said that the subconscious never speaks to us in literal language. Only in symbols. If you dream about being in a bakery where no one speaks English, you may be worried about your ability to support your family. Or maybe just that no one understands you. I’ve read that the falling dream is a standard outlet for feelings of insecurity. Games, little games. Conscious on one side of the net, subconscious on the other, serving some cockamamie image back and forth. Same with mental illness, with hunches, all of that. Why should precognition be any different? Maybe Danny really did see blood all over the walls of the Presidential Suite. To a kid his age, the image of blood and the concept of death are nearly interchangeable. To kids, the image is always more accessible than the concept, anyway. William Carlos Williams knew that, he was a pediatrician. When we grow up, concepts gradually get easier and we leave the images to the poets… and I’m just rambling on.”
“I like to hear you ramble.”
“She said it, folks. She said it. You all heard it.”
“The marks on his neck, Jack. Those are real.”
“Yes.”
There was nothing else for a long time. She had begun to think he must have gone to sleep and she was slipping into a drowse herself when he said:
“I can think of two explanations for those. And neither of them involves a fourth party in the hotel.”
“What?” She came up on one elbow.
“Stigmata, maybe,” he said.
“Stigmata? Isn’t that when people bleed on Good Friday or something?”
“Yes. Sometimes people who believe deeply in Christ’s divinity exhibit bleeding marks on their hands and feet during the Holy Week. It was more common in the Middle Ages than now. In those days such people were considered blessed by God. I don’t think the Catholic Church proclaimed any of it as out-and-out miracles, which was pretty smart of them. Stigmata isn’t much different from some of the things the yogis can do. It’s better understood now, that’s all. The people who understand the interaction between the mind and the body-study it, I mean, no one understands it-believe we have a lot more control over our involuntary functions than they used to think. You can slow your heartbeat if you think about it enough. Speed up your own metabolism. Make yourself sweat more. Or make yourself bleed.”
“You think Danny thought those bruises onto his neck? Jack, I just can’t believe that.”
“I can believe it’s possible, although it seems unlikely to me, too. What’s more likely is that he did it to himself.”
“To himself?”
“He’s gone into these ‘trances’ and hurt himself in the past. Do you remember the time at the supper table? About two years ago, I think. We were super-pissed at each other. Nobody talking very much. Then, all at once, his eyes rolled up in his head and he went face-first into his dinner. Then onto the floor. Remember?”
“Yes,” she said. “I sure do. I thought he was having a convulsion.”
“Another time we were in the park,” he said. “Just Danny and I. Saturday afternoon. He was sitting on a swing, coasting back and forth. He collapsed onto the ground. It was like he’d been shot. I ran over and picked him up and all of a sudden he just came around. He sort of blinked at me and said, `I hurt my tummy. Tell Mommy to close the bedroom windows if it rains. ‘ And that night it rained like hell.”
“Yes, but-”
“And he’s always coming in with cuts and scraped elbows. His shins look like a battlefield in distress. And when you ask him how he got this one or that one, he just says `Oh, I was playing,’ and that’s the end of it.”
“Jack, all kids get bumped and bruised up. With little boys it’s almost constant from the time they learn to walk until they’re twelve or thirteen.”
“And I’m sure Danny gets his share,” Jack responded.