The Shining

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 become 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 coming 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 come on, and any sound was lost in the rush of warm air coming up from the basement. When the furnace had kicked off again, five minutes ago, the place was completely 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.
(lack’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. Come 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:
Wendy crossed the