Stephen King

Night shift(collection)

Preface

At parties (which I try to avoid as much as possible) I am often greeted with smiles and firm handshakes by all sorts of people who then say with a meaningfully mysterious air:

– You know, I always wanted to write.

I always tried to be polite to them.

But now, with the same triumphantly mysterious grin, I answer them:

– And you know, I always wanted to be a neurosurgeon.

Confusion immediately appears on their faces. But it is not important. There are a lot of strange, confused people around who don’t know where to put themselves and what to do.

If you want to write, then write.

And you can only learn to write through the process. Not a very suitable way to master the profession of a neurosurgeon.

Stephen King has always wanted to write, and he writes.

And he wrote "Carrie" and "The Lot" and "The Shining" and wonderful stories, which you can read in this book, and an incredible number of other stories, and novels, and excerpts, and poems, and essays, as well as other works that are not subject to classification, much less, for the most part, publication. The pictures described there are too repulsive and scary.

But that's how he wrote them.

Because there is simply no other way to write about it. Doesn't exist, that's all.

Diligence and hard work are wonderful qualities. But they are not enough. You must have a taste for words. To revel in, to gorge on words. Swim in them, roll them on your tongue. Re-read millions of words written by others.

And the most furious contempt should be reserved for people who hide their complete helplessness and mediocrity behind verbosity, rigid sentence structure inherent in Germanic languages, inappropriate symbols, and an absolute lack of understanding of what a plot is, historical context, rhythm and image.

Only when you begin to understand what you are, you will learn to understand other people. After all, in every first person you meet there is a piece of your own “I”.

Well, that's all. So again, what do we need? Diligence and hard work, plus a love of words, plus expressiveness - and from all this, partial objectivity hardly breaks through to the light of God.

Because absolute objectivity does not exist at all...

And here I, typing these words on my blue typewriter and having already reached the second page of this preface and having a completely clear idea at first of what I was going to say and how, suddenly became confused. And now I’m not at all sure whether I understand what exactly I wanted to say.

Having lived in the world twice as long as Stephen King, I have reason to believe that I evaluate my work more objectively than Stephen King evaluates his own.

Objectivity... oh, it is developed so slowly and painfully.

You write books, they are distributed throughout the world, and it is no longer possible to clear them of their inherent spirit, like husks. You are connected to them, as if to children who have grown up and chosen their own path, despite all the labels that you put on them. Oh, if only it were possible - to bring them home and give each book additional shine and strength!.. Clean up, correct page by page. Deepen, shovel, polish, get rid of excess...

But at thirty, Stephen King is where best writer than I was in my thirties and forties.

And I feel something like hatred towards him for this - just a little.

And I think I know by sight a dozen demons hiding in the bushes along the path he chose, but even if I had a way to warn him about it, he still wouldn’t listen. Here it’s who wins – either he is theirs, or they are his.

Everything is very simple.

OK. So what am I talking about?..

Hard work, love of words, expressiveness, objectivity... What else?

Story! Well, of course, history, what the hell else!

A story is something that happened to someone you watch and care about. It can happen in any dimension - physical, mental, spiritual. And also in a combination of all these three dimensions.

Another kind of intervention - clean water grotesque. Here's one of my favorite examples I read from last year's best-selling book: "His eyes slid down the front of her dress."

The image must be written accurately, contain an unexpected and apt observation and not break the charm of the story. This collection includes a short story called "Trucks," in which Stephen King depicts a tense scene in an auto repair shop and describes the people gathered there. “A traveling salesman, he never parted with his treasured suitcase with samples for a second. And now the suitcase lay at his feet, like a beloved dog who decided to take a nap.”

It seems to me a very accurate image.

In another story, he demonstrates impeccable hearing, giving the dialogue extraordinary liveliness and authenticity. A husband and wife went on a long journey. They are driving along some abandoned road. She says, “Yes, Burt, I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. And yet, where the hell are we going? skidded?“And he answers: “You have a road atlas. So look. Or have you forgotten how to read?”

Very good. And so simple and accurate. Just like in neurosurgery. The knife has a blade. You hold it accordingly. And you make an incision.

And finally, at the risk of being accused of iconoclasm, I must state with full responsibility that I absolutely do not care what topic Stephen King chooses for his work. The fact that he is in given time clearly revels in the description of various horrors from the life of ghosts, witches and other monsters living in basements and sewer hatches, it seems to me not the most important thing when it comes to the practice of his work.

After all, a lot of the most terrible things are happening around us. And we all - you and I - experience crazy stress every hour. And Disneyland can be filled with children with evil in their souls. But the main thing, I repeat, is still history.

Taking the reader by the hand, she leads him along. And it doesn’t leave you indifferent.

And further. The two most difficult areas for a writer are humor and mysticism. Under a clumsy pen, humor turns into a funeral song, and mysticism causes laughter.

But if the pen is skillful, you can write about anything.

And it seems that Stephen King is not at all going to limit himself to the sphere of his current interests.

Stephen King's goal is not to please the reader. He writes to please himself. Me too. And when this happens, everyone likes the result. The stories that make Stephen King happy make me happy too.

By a strange coincidence, while writing this introduction, I suddenly learned that King's novel The Shining and my novel Condominium were included in the bestseller list of the year. Don't get me wrong, King and I are not competing for the reader's attention. He and I, it seems to me, are competing with the helpless, pretentious and pseudo-sensational works of those who never bothered to learn their craft.

When it comes to the craftsmanship with which the story is crafted and the enjoyment you can get from reading it, we don't have many Stephen Kings.

And if you've read all this, I hope you have enough time. And you can start reading stories.

John D. Macdonald

To the reader

Let's talk. Let's talk to you about fear.

I am writing these lines and I am alone in the house. The cold February rain is drizzling outside. Night... Sometimes, when the wind howls like it does today, especially sadly, we lose all power over ourselves. But while it is not yet lost, let's still talk about fear. Let's talk calmly and judiciously about approaching the abyss called madness... about balancing on its very edge.

My name is Stephen King. I'm a grown man. I live with my wife and three children. I love them very much and believe that the feeling is mutual. My job is to write, and I really love my job. The novels “Carrie,” “The Lot,” and “The Shining” were such a success that now I can make a living exclusively by writing. And this makes me very happy. Currently, my health seems to be fine. Last year I got rid of bad habit smoked strong non-filter cigarettes, which he tarred from the age of eighteen, and switched to filter cigarettes with a low nicotine content. Over time, I hope to quit smoking completely. I live with my family in a very cozy and nice house next to a relatively clean lake in Maine; One day last fall, I woke up early in the morning and suddenly saw a deer in the backyard. He stood next to a plastic picnic table. We live well.

All week they were broadcasting on the radio that a strong north wind and heavy snowfall were about to begin. On Thursday, the forecast finally came true. And very quickly, by about four o’clock in the afternoon, about eight inches of snow had fallen, and the wind still did not subside. By that time, about five or six regulars had gathered in Henry's bar called NIGHT OWL. This establishment is an ordinary small eatery-shop on this side of Bangor, which is open to visitors around the clock.

Henry is not involved in big business - his clients are mainly students who pump him up with beer and cheap wine. This income, however, is enough for him to live a calm and completely comfortable existence. We come here too, the old fools from the Social Security Department, to chat a little about who died for Lately, or how humanity is steadily approaching the end of the world.

Henry himself was behind the counter that evening; Bill Pelham, Bertie Connors, Carl Littlefield and I sat around the fireplace with our legs extended towards the fire. Outside, on the street, there was almost no movement. There was not a single car along Ohio Street, only snowplows slowly clearing away the snow. There, where they had not yet reached, the wind blew up bizarre snow dunes, some of which, with their ribbing, resembled the long spines of some ancient dinosaurs.

During the entire afternoon, only three other visitors, besides us, entered the NIGHT OWL. One of them, if he could be considered a client, was blind Eddie. Eddie was already about seventy and was, in fact, not completely blind - just severe senile weakness of vision. He comes here once or twice a week and, after sitting for a while and quietly stealing a loaf of bread from the counter, leaves with dignity. At such moments, he is extremely pleased with himself and the expression of his “cunning” squinted face can be approximately conveyed in the following words: HERE YOU ARE, BRAINLESS CHILDREN OF BITCHES! I FOOLED YOU AGAIN!

Bertie once asked Henry why he never tried to stop it.

“I can answer you,” Henry said to this. - Several years ago, the Air Force asked the government (and in reality, of course, the taxpayers) for twenty million dollars to build a flying model of a new aircraft under development. The program ultimately cost seventy-five million dollars, but the aircraft never entered mass production. All this was ten years ago, when blind Eddie and I were younger than we are now, and I voted for one woman who was in favor of funding this program, and Eddie voted against her. In the end, there were more people like me and seventy-five million dollars were wasted, as it turned out later, down the drain. And since then I pretend not to notice Eddie stealing bread from me.

Verti did not immediately understand what was what in this funny story and with a puzzled look returned to his table, trying to digest what he had heard.

The door opened again and from the street, with clouds of cold air, a young boy, just a boy, burst in. It was Richie Greenedine's son. He brushed the snow off his boots and hurried straight towards Henry. He looked very excited, as if he had just witnessed something very, very scary. The Adam's apple on his thin neck, which was the color of a dirty, oily rag due to the frost, was nervously twitching up and down - just shaking with excitement.

Mr. Pameli,” he babbled excitedly, looking around fearfully with his googly eyes. - You should go there! Bring him the beer yourself, please! I can't go back there anymore! I'm scared!

Well, well, calm down,” Henry stopped him, taking off his white apron and leaving the counter. - Let's do it again from the very beginning and slow down. What happened there? Was your father drunk or what?

Hearing these words, I suddenly remembered that I had not seen Richie for quite some time. He usually came here at least once a day to buy a case of beer. As a rule, he took the cheapest beer. He was a huge and very fat man with sagging cheeks, a double chin and fat, fleshy arms. Richie always drank beer like a pig. When he worked at the sawmill in Clifton, he still somehow kept himself under control. But one day there was some kind of accident there - either due to substandard wood, or through the fault of Richie himself - but as a result he received a serious back injury and was fired for health reasons. Since then, Richie has not worked anywhere, he has become even fatter (maybe from the beer, or maybe from the injury), and the plant paid him a monthly disability pension. Lately, as I said, he has completely disappeared from view. Apparently, he just didn’t leave the house at all. But I regularly watched his son bring him his daily (or nightly) case of beer. Quite a cute little boy, it should be noted, is this fat pig. Henry always sold him beer, knowing that the boy would take it to his father and not drink it somewhere with his friends.

Yes, he got drunk,” the boy answered, “but that’s not the point.” The thing is... The thing is... Oh, God, how AWFUL this is!

Henry realized that the poor child was about to burst into tears and it would be even more difficult to get anything more or less intelligible from him.

“Karl, wait a little for me,” he said abruptly. - Fine?

Certainly.

“Well, now, Timmy, let’s go to the pantry and you can calmly tell me what happened there,” Henry said and, leaning towards the boy, put his arm around his shoulders reassuringly.

They left, and Karl important look walked behind the counter and took Henry's place. During all this time, none of those present uttered a word and the voices coming from the pantry were heard quite well - Henry's low, stentorian bass and the thin, pattering voice of Timmy Greenadine. A few minutes later he broke into a squeak, and the boy began to cry. Will Pelham cleared his throat loudly and began to fill his pipe.

“I haven’t seen Richie in a couple of months,” I noted out loud.

“Not a big loss,” Bill chuckled.

IN last time“I saw him... um, around the end of October,” Karl added. - I think it was on All Hallows' Eve. He also bought a case of Schlitz beer then. I could barely stand. And he was swollen like never before.

There was practically nothing to add to what was said about Richie. The boy was still crying, but at the same time he was trying to say something else. Meanwhile, the wind outside began to whistle and howl even more than before, and the radio said that by morning the thickness of the snow cover would increase by at least six inches. It was then mid-January and I was very surprised that no one had seen Richie since the end of October - with the possible exception of his son.

© Stephen King, 1976, 1977, 1978

© Russian edition AST Publishers, 2015

* * *

Preface

1
Introduction, by John D. MacDonald. © 1998. H. Rein. Translation from English.

At parties (which I try to avoid as much as possible) I am often greeted with smiles and firm handshakes by all sorts of people who then say with a meaningfully mysterious air:

– You know, I always wanted to write.

I always tried to be polite to them.

But now, with the same triumphantly mysterious grin, I answer them:

– And you know, I always wanted to be a neurosurgeon.

Confusion immediately appears on their faces. But it is not important. There are a lot of strange, confused people around who don’t know where to put themselves and what to do.

If you want to write, then write.

And you can only learn to write through the process. Not a very suitable way to master the profession of a neurosurgeon.

Stephen King has always wanted to write, and he writes.

And he wrote Carrie, and The Lot, and The Shining, and the wonderful stories that you can read in this book, and an incredible number of other stories, and novels, and passages, and poems, and essays, and others works that are not subject to classification, and even more so, for the most part, publication. The pictures described there are too repulsive and scary.

But that's how he wrote them.

Because there is simply no other way to write about it. Doesn't exist, that's all.

Diligence and hard work are wonderful qualities. But they are not enough. You must have a taste for words. To revel in, to gorge on words. Swim in them, roll them on your tongue. Re-read millions of words written by others.

And the fiercest contempt should be reserved for people who hide their complete helplessness and mediocrity behind verbosity, rigid sentence structure inherent in Germanic languages, inappropriate symbols, and an absolute lack of understanding of what there is a plot, historical context, rhythm and image.

Only when you begin to understand what you are, you will learn to understand other people. After all, in every first person you meet there is a piece of your own “I”.

Well, that's all. So again, what do we need? Diligence and hard work, plus a love of words, plus expressiveness - and from all this, partial objectivity hardly breaks through to the light of God.

Because absolute objectivity does not exist at all...

And here I, typing these words on my blue typewriter and having already reached the second page of this preface and having a completely clear idea at first of what I was going to say and how, suddenly became confused.

And now I’m not at all sure whether I understand what exactly I wanted to say.

Having lived in the world twice as long as Stephen King, I have reason to believe that I evaluate my work more objectively than Stephen King evaluates his own.

Objectivity... oh, it is developed so slowly and painfully.

You write books, they are distributed throughout the world, and it is no longer possible to clear them of their inherent spirit, like husks. You are connected to them, as if to children who have grown up and chosen their own path, despite all the labels that you put on them. Oh, if only it were possible - to bring them home and give each book additional shine and strength!.. Clean up, correct page by page. Deepen, shovel, polish, get rid of excess...

But at thirty, Stephen King is a much better writer than I was in my thirties and forties.

And I feel something like hatred towards him for this - just a little.

And I think I know by sight a dozen demons hiding in the bushes along the path he chose, but even if I had a way to warn him about it, he still wouldn’t listen. Here it’s who wins – either he is theirs, or they are his.

Everything is very simple.

OK. So what am I talking about?..

Hard work, love of words, expressiveness, objectivity... What else?

Story! Well, of course, history, what the hell else!

A story is something that happened to someone you watch and care about. It can happen in any dimension - physical, mental, spiritual. And also in a combination of all these three dimensions.

Any other kind of intervention is pure grotesque. Here's one of my favorite examples I read from last year's best-selling book: "His eyes slid down the front of her dress."

The image must be written accurately, contain an unexpected and apt observation and not break the charm of the story. This collection includes a short story called "Trucks," in which Stephen King depicts a tense scene in an auto repair shop and describes the people gathered there. “A traveling salesman, he never parted with his treasured suitcase with samples for a second. And now the suitcase lay at his feet, like a beloved dog who decided to take a nap.”

It seems to me a very accurate image.

In another story, he demonstrates impeccable hearing, giving the dialogue extraordinary liveliness and authenticity. A husband and wife went on a long journey. They are driving along some abandoned road. She says, “Yes, Burt, I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. And yet, where the hell are we going? skidded? And he answers: “You have a road atlas. So look. Or have you forgotten how to read?”

Very good. And so simple and accurate. Just like in neurosurgery. The knife has a blade. You hold it accordingly. And you make an incision.

And finally, at the risk of being accused of iconoclasm, I must state with full responsibility that I absolutely do not care what topic Stephen King chooses for his work. The fact that at this time he clearly revels in describing various horrors from the life of ghosts, witches and other monsters living in basements and sewer hatches does not seem to me the most important thing when it comes to the practice of his work.

After all, a lot of the most terrible things are happening around us. And we all - you and I - experience crazy stress every hour. And Disneyland can be filled with children with evil in their souls. But the main thing, I repeat, is still history.

Taking the reader by the hand, she leads him along. And it doesn’t leave you indifferent.

And further. The two most difficult areas for a writer are humor and mysticism. Under a clumsy pen, humor turns into a funeral song, and mysticism causes laughter.

But if the pen is skillful, you can write about anything.

And it seems that Stephen King is not at all going to limit himself to the sphere of his current interests.

Stephen King's goal is not to please the reader. He writes to please himself. Me too. And when this happens, everyone likes the result. The stories that make Stephen King happy make me happy too.

By a strange coincidence, while writing this introduction, I suddenly learned that King's novel The Shining and my novel Condominium were included in the bestseller list of the year. Don't get me wrong, King and I are not competing for the reader's attention. He and I, it seems to me, are competing with the helpless, pretentious and pseudo-sensational works of those who never bothered to learn their craft.

When it comes to the craftsmanship with which the story is crafted and the enjoyment you can get from reading it, we don't have many Stephen Kings.

And if you've read all this, I hope you have enough time. And you can start reading stories.

John D. Macdonald

To the reader

2
Foreword. © 1998. N. Rein. Translation from English.

Let's talk. Let's talk to you about fear.

I am writing these lines and I am alone in the house. The cold February rain is drizzling outside. Night... Sometimes, when the wind howls like it does today, especially sadly, we lose all power over ourselves. But while it is not yet lost, let's still talk about fear. Let's talk calmly and judiciously about approaching the abyss called madness... about balancing on its very edge.

My name is Stephen King. I'm a grown man. I live with my wife and three children. I love them very much and believe that the feeling is mutual. My job is to write, and I really love my job. The novels “Carrie,” “The Lot,” and “The Shining” were such a success that now I can make a living exclusively by writing. And this makes me very happy. Currently, my health seems to be fine. Last year, I got rid of the bad habit of smoking strong, unfiltered cigarettes, which I had tarred since I was eighteen, and switched to filtered cigarettes with a low nicotine content. Over time, I hope to quit smoking completely. I live with my family in a very cozy and nice house next to a relatively clean lake in Maine; One day last fall, I woke up early in the morning and suddenly saw a deer in the backyard. He stood next to a plastic picnic table. We live well.

And, however, let's talk about fear. Let us not raise our voices or cry out naively. Let's talk calmly and reasonably. Let's talk about that moment when the good fabric of your life suddenly begins to fall apart and completely different pictures and things open up before you.

At night, when I go to bed, I still adhere to one habit: before I turn off the light, I want to make sure that my legs are properly covered with the blanket. I’m no longer a child, but... but I’ll never fall asleep if even the edge of my foot sticks out from under the blanket. Because if a cold hand suddenly emerges from under the bed and grabs me by the ankle, you know, I might scream. Scream so loudly that the dead will wake up. Of course, nothing like this can happen to me, and we all understand this perfectly. In the stories collected in this book, you will meet a wide variety of night monsters - vampires, demons, the creature that lives in the closet, and other creepy creatures. They are all unreal. And the creature living under my bed and ready to grab my leg is also unreal. I know it. But I also know for sure that if I cover my legs properly with a blanket, she will not be able to grab my ankle.

Sometimes I have to speak in front of different people who are interested in literature and writing. Usually, when I finish answering questions, someone always stands up and asks the same question: “Why do you write about such terrible and dark things?”

And I always answer the same: Why do you think I have a choice?

Writing is an activity that can be summed up in these words: grab what you can.

In the depths of human consciousness there are certain filters. Filters different sizes, varying degrees of permeability. What gets stuck in my filter can easily pass through yours. What gets stuck in yours easily slips through mine. Each of us has some kind of built-in body protection system against dirt, which accumulates in these filters. And what we find there often turns into some kind of side line of behavior. An accountant suddenly begins to become interested in photography. An astronomer collects coins. The schoolteacher begins to make charcoal sketches of tombstones. Slag, sediment stuck in the filter, particles that refuse to pass through it, often turn into a mania, a kind of obsession. In civilized societies, by unspoken agreement, this mania is usually called a “hobby.”

Sometimes a hobby develops into a lifelong pursuit. An accountant suddenly discovers that he can freely feed his family by taking photographs; the teacher becomes a real expert on tombstones and can even give a whole series of lectures on this topic. But there are professions in the world that begin as a hobby and remain a hobby for life, even if the person doing them suddenly sees that he can earn his living from it. But since the very word “hobby” sounds petty and somehow undignified, we, again by unspoken agreement, begin to call our activities “art” in such cases.

Painting. Sculpture. Composing music. Singing. Acting. Game on musical instrument. Literature. So many books have been written on all these subjects that an entire flotilla of luxury liners could sink under their load. And the only thing on which the authors of these books agree is this: anyone who is a true adherent of any of the arts will practice it, even if he does not receive a penny for his labors and efforts; even if the reward for all his efforts is only severe criticism and scolding; even under the threat of suffering, deprivation, prison and death. Personally, it all seems to me classic example behavior under the influence of an obsession. And it can manifest itself with equal success in the most ordinary and ordinary hobbies, and in what we so pompously call “art.” The bumper of a gun collector's car might be decorated with a sticker that reads: YOU WILL ONLY TAKE MY GUN FROM MY GUN IF YOU MANAGE TO UNLOCK MY COLD DEAD FINGERS. And somewhere on the outskirts of Boston, housewives showing unprecedented political activity in an effort to combat planned high-rise development in their neighborhood, they often put stickers on the rear windows of their pickup trucks that read: I WOULD RATHER GO TO JAIL THAN YOU MANAGE TO GET MY CHILDREN OUT OF THIS AREA. Well, by analogy, if tomorrow a ban on numismatics is suddenly announced, then an astronomer-collector is unlikely to throw away his iron pennies and aluminum nickels. No, he will carefully put the coins in a plastic bag, hide them somewhere at the bottom of the toilet tank and admire his treasures at night.

We are somewhat distracted from our subject of discussion - fear. However, not by much. So, the dirt stuck in the filters of our subconscious is often the nature of fear. And my obsession is the terrible. I haven't written a single story for money, although many of them were published in magazines before they ended up in this book, and I never returned a check that was sent to me. I may be suffering from an obsession, but that's not yet... madness. Yes, I repeat: I did not write them for money. I wrote them simply because they came into my head. In addition, it suddenly became clear that my obsession was quite a hot commodity. And how many different madmen and madwomen are scattered across different parts of the world, who are much less fortunate with their obsession.

I don't consider myself a great writer, but I always felt that I was doomed to write. So, every day I re-filter all sorts of toxins through my filters, sort through fragments of various observations, memories and reasoning stuck in the subconscious, trying to do something with the particles that did not pass through the filter.

Louis Lamour, the Western writer, and I... both of us could find ourselves on the banks of some dam in Colorado, and we could both come up with the same idea at the same time. And then we, again at the same time, would experience an indomitable desire to sit down at the table and transfer our thoughts to paper. And he would write a story about the rise of water during the rainy season, and I would most likely write about the fact that somewhere in the depths, a terrible-looking creature is hiding under the water. From time to time it jumps to the surface and drags sheep... horses... a person, finally, to the bottom. Louis Lamour's obsession is the history of the American West; mine are creatures crawling out of their hiding places in the light of the stars. That’s why he writes westerns, and I write horror films. And we're both a little crazy.

Practicing any kind of art is dictated by an obsession, and obsessions are dangerous. It's like a knife stuck in the brain. In some cases - as was the case with Dylan Thomas, Ross Lockridge, Hart Crane and Sylvia Plath 3
Thomas, Dylan - English poet, symbolist; Lockridge, Ross - American writer, mystery writer; Crane, Hart - American poet; Plath, Sylvia - American poet. All these writers died prematurely and tragically. – Note here and below. lane.

– the knife can turn unsuccessfully and kill a person.

Art is an individual disease, terribly contagious, but not always fatal. After all, you also need to handle a real knife skillfully, you know. Otherwise you might cut yourself. And if you are wise enough, then you handle the particles lodged in the subconscious carefully enough - then the disease that affects you will not lead to death.

So, behind the question WHY ARE YOU WRITING ALL THIS Nonsense? – the next question inevitably arises: WHAT MAKES PEOPLE READ ALL THIS Nonsense? WHAT MAKES IT SELL? The very formulation of the question implies that any work from the category of horror films, including literary ones, appeals to bad taste. The letters I receive from readers often begin with the following words: “I suppose you will think I’m strange, but I really liked your novel.” Or: “I may be crazy, but I literally drank in every page of The Shining...”

I think I found a clue on the pages of the weekly Newsweek, in the film criticism section. The article was dedicated to a horror film, not a very good one, and it contained the following phrase: “...a wonderful film for those who like to slow down and stare at car accident" It's not a very deep statement, but if you think about it, it could easily be applied to all horror films and stories. “The Night of the Living Dead,” with its monstrous scenes of cannibalism and matricide, can certainly be classified as a movie for those who like to slow down and watch the results of a car accident. How about that scene in The Exorcist where the little girl vomits bean soup all over the priest's robe? Or take, for example, “Dracula” by Bram Stoker, which is, as it were, the standard of all modern novels horror, which, in fact, is fair, since this was the first work where the psycho-Freudian subtext was clearly heard. There, a maniac named Renfeld devours flies, spiders, and then a bird. And then he pukes up the bird, feathers and all. The novel also describes the impalement - a kind of ritual intercourse - of a young and beautiful witch and the murder of a baby and his mother.

And in great literature about the supernatural you can often find scenes from the same category - for those who like to slow down and gawk. Murder by Beowulf 4
Beowulf is the most significant surviving monument of the ancient Anglo-Saxon epic. The poem has reached us in the only handwritten version of the early 10th century.

Grendel's mother; the dismemberment of the cataract-stricken benefactor in The Tell-Tale Heart, after which the killer (who is also the author of the story) hides the body parts under the floorboards; the battle between the hobbit Sam and the spider Shelob in the final part of Tolkien's trilogy 5
Tolkien, John Ronald (1892 – 1973) – English writer, author of the fairy-tale-heroic epic “The Lord of the Rings”.

No, of course, there will be people who will vehemently object and cite Henry James as an example 6
James, Henry (1843 - 1916) - American writer, lived in Europe since 1875, master psychological novel. Among his works is the mystical and mysterious story “The Turn of the Screw” (“The Turn of the Serew”, 1898).

Who did not describe the horrors of the car accident in The Turn of the Screw; assert that in such tales of horror by Nathaniel Hawthorne 7
Hawthorne, Nathaniel (1804 - 1864) - American writer, author of the collections of stories "Legends of the Old Homestead" and "The Snow Maiden and Other Twice-Told Stories."

Like "Young Goodman Brown" and "The Minister's Black Veil", unlike "Dracula", there is no bad taste at all. This is a fallacy. They still show a "car crash" "- however, the bodies of the victims have already been removed, but we see crumpled debris and blood stains on the upholstery. And in a sense, the delicacy of the description, the absence of tragedy, the muted and measured tone of the narrative, the rational approach that prevails, for example, in “Black priest's robes" is even more terrible than the frank and detailed description executions in Edgar Allan Poe's novel The Pit and the Pendulum.

The thing is - and most people feel it in their hearts - that only a few of us can overcome the indomitable desire to even glance sideways, even out of the corner of our eyes, at the scene of the disaster surrounded by police cars with flashing lights. Older citizens have their own way: first thing in the morning they grab the newspaper and the first thing they do is look for the column with obituaries, to see who they managed to survive. We all experience, at least for a moment, a piercing feeling of awkwardness and anxiety - learning, for example, that Dan Blocker has died, or Freddie Prinze. 8
Prince, Freddie – young American comedian, whose career was cut short in 1977.

Or Janis Joplin 9
Joplin, Janis (1942 - 1969) - American singer.

We experience horror, mixed with a certain tinge of joy, when we hear the voice of Paul Harvey on the radio telling us about a woman who fell under the blades of a propeller during heavy rain at a small country airport; or about a man who was boiled alive in a huge industrial mixer when one of the workers mixed up the buttons on the control panel. There is no need to prove the obvious - life is full of fears, big and small, but since small fears are easier to comprehend, they are the first to invade our homes and fill our souls with a deadly, chilling sense of horror.

Our interest in “pocket” fears is obvious, but much the same can be said about disgust. These two sensations in a strange way intertwine and give rise to a feeling of guilt... guilt and awkwardness, similar to that experienced by a young man at the first signs of the awakening of sexuality...

And it’s not for me to convince you to cast aside your feelings of guilt, much less to make excuses for your stories and novels that you will read in this book. But there is clearly a very interesting parallel between sex and fear. With the onset of puberty and the opportunity to enter into sexual relationships, our interest in these relationships awakens. Interest, if it is not associated with sexual perversion, is usually aimed at mating and continuation of the species. As we realize the finitude of all living things, the inevitability of death, we also learn fear. And while mating is aimed at self-preservation, all our fears come from the awareness of the inevitability of the end, at least that’s how I see it.

You have decided to embark on a journey through the nooks and crannies of nightmares that lurk beyond reality, and this book is your guide to a world inhabited by utter horror.

Around the bend of the road is a world where Gray Evil lurks under the masks of people. Evil in which there is not even a spark of a human soul. A new twist - and here it is, a town where an ultra-modern meat grinder has acquired its own will and mind. The will to Evil and a mind aimed only at murder...

And again the road makes a turn - and Death comes to the small town. A terrible, many-tailed death, for which, alas, there is neither a pipe nor a Pied Piper...

Stephen King

Night shift

Introduction to the collection “Night Shift”

Let's talk. Let's talk to you about fear.

I am writing these lines and I am alone in the house. The cold February rain is drizzling outside. Night... Sometimes, when the wind howls like it does today, especially sadly, we lose all power over ourselves. But while it is not yet lost, let's still talk about fear. Let's talk calmly and judiciously about approaching the abyss called madness... about balancing on its very edge.

My name is Stephen King. I'm a grown man. I live with my wife and three children. I love them very much and believe that the feeling is mutual. My job is to write, and I really love my job. The novels “Carrie,” “The Lot,” and “The Shining” were such a success that now I can make a living exclusively by writing. And this makes me very happy. Currently, my health seems to be fine. Last year, I got rid of the bad habit of smoking strong, unfiltered cigarettes, which I had tarred since I was eighteen, and switched to filtered cigarettes with a low nicotine content. Over time, I hope to quit smoking completely. I live with my family in a very cozy and nice house next to a relatively clean lake in Maine: one day last fall, I woke up early in the morning and suddenly saw a deer in the backyard. He stood next to a plastic picnic table. We live well.

And yet let's talk about fear. Let us not raise our voices or cry out naively. Let's talk calmly and reasonably. Let's talk about that moment when the good fabric of your life suddenly begins to fall apart and completely different pictures and things open up before you.

At night, when I go to bed, I still adhere to one habit: before I turn off the light, I want to make sure that my legs are properly covered with the blanket. I’m no longer a child, but... but I’ll never fall asleep if even the edge of my foot sticks out from under the blanket. Because if a cold hand suddenly emerges from under the bed and grabs me by the ankle, you know, I might scream. Scream so loudly that the dead will wake up. Of course, nothing like this can happen to me, and we all understand this perfectly. In the stories collected in this book, you will meet a wide variety of night monsters - vampires, demons, the creature that lives in the closet, and other creepy creatures. They are all unreal. And the creature living under my bed and ready to grab my leg. also unrealistic. I know it. But I also know for sure that if I cover my legs properly with a blanket, she will not be able to grab my ankle.

Sometimes I have to speak to different people who are interested in literature and writing. Usually, when I finish answering questions, someone always stands up and asks the same question: “Why do you write about such terrible and dark things?”

And I always answer the same: Why do you think I have a choice?

Writing is an activity that can be summed up in these words: grab what you can.

In the depths of human consciousness there are certain filters. Filters of different sizes, varying degrees of permeability. What gets stuck in my filter can easily pass through yours. What gets stuck in yours easily slips through mine. Each of us has some kind of built-in body protection system against dirt, which accumulates in these filters. And what we find there often turns into some kind of side line of behavior. An accountant suddenly begins to become interested in photography. An astronomer collects coins. The schoolteacher begins to make charcoal sketches of tombstones. Slag, sediment stuck in the filter, particles that refuse to pass through it, often turn into a mania, a kind of obsession. In civilized societies, by unspoken agreement, this mania is usually called a “hobby.”

Sometimes a hobby develops into a lifelong pursuit. An accountant suddenly discovers that he can freely feed his family by taking photographs; the teacher becomes a real expert on tombstones and can even give a whole series of lectures on this topic. But there are professions in the world that begin as a hobby and remain a hobby for life, even if the person doing them suddenly sees that he can earn his living from it. But since the very word “hobby” sounds petty and somehow undignified, we, again by unspoken agreement, begin to call our activities “art” in such cases.