Night Shift
Stephen King
Language: English
Pages: 544
ISBN: 0307743640
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Night Shift—Stephen King’s first collection of stories—is an early showcase of the depths that King’s wicked imagination could plumb. In these 20 tales, we see mutated rats gone bad (“Graveyard Shift”); a cataclysmic virus that threatens humanity (“Night Surf,” the basis for The Stand); a smoker who will try anything to stop (“Quitters, Inc.”); a reclusive alcoholic who begins a gruesome transformation (“Gray Matter”); and many more. This is Stephen King at his horrifying best.
finding people and talking to them. The operative assigned to the case said he couldn't understand some of what he was getting. Neither do I. Some of it's scary.” “It better be,” Elizabeth said grimly. “Ed Hamner, Sr., was a compulsive gambler. He worked for a top-line advertising agency in New York and then moved to Bridgeport sort of on the run. The operative says that almost every big-money poker game and high-priced book in the city was holding his markers.” Elizabeth closed her eyes.
covered with chaff . . . as good as a signed confession. We agreed on one more turn each. Going up first, I felt the ladder moving beneath me and I could hear—very faintly—the whining rasp of old nails loosening up in the wood. And for the first time I was really, actively scared. I think if I'd been closer to the bottom I would have gone down and that would have been the end of it, but the beam was closer and seemed safer. Three rungs from the top the whine of pulling nails grew louder and I
that. It went streaky-white, and he tried to dye it back. The streaks went orange.” “Do you know what he's doing now?” “Career army man. Joined up in fifty-eight or -nine, after he got a local girl pregnant.” “Could I get in touch with him?” “His mother lives in Stratford. She'd know.” “Can you give me her address?” “I won't, Jimmy. Not until you tell me what's eating you.” “I can't, Mr. Nell. You'd think I was crazy.” “Try me.” “I can't.” “All right, son.” “Will you—” But the line was
Jimmy! Run! Run! Run!” Jim slipped to his knees and a hand slapped down on his back, groping for purchase, and found none. He looked up and saw Vinnie, his face stretched into a caricature of hatred, drive his knife into the Wayne-thing just below the breastbone . . . and then scream, his face collapsing in on itself, charring, blackening, becoming awful. Then he was gone. Garcia and Lawson struck a moment later, writhed, charred, and disappeared. Jim lay on the floor, breathing harshly. The
all he had to do was go to the closet door and yank it open. But he was too afraid of what he might find. He went back to bed but didn't sleep for a long time. In spite of how lousy he felt in the morning, breakfast tasted good. After a moment's hesitation, he followed his customary bowl of cornflakes with scrambled eggs. He was grumpily washing out the pan when Cindy came downstairs in her robe. “Richard Morrison! You haven't eaten an egg for breakfast since Hector was a pup.” Morrison