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Extract: Stephen King's The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

Extract: Stephen King's The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

You heard us - an extract from Stephen King's brand new book of short stories, The Bazaar of Bad Dreams. Ahead of publication, no less. Halloween may be over but you are still in for a scare...

Posted on 2nd November 2015 by Stephen King

The following is an extract from The Bazaar Of Bad Dreams by Stephen King, copyright © Stephen King, published by Hodder & Stoughton on 3 November, 2015. The extract is used by permission of Hodder and is not for sale, quotation or further distribution without prior written permission from the publisher.



 

 

An extract  from  Stephen  Kings introduction to THE  BAZAAR  OF  BAD  DREAMS:

 

 

 

Ive  made  some  things  for you, Constant  Reader; you  see them laid out before  you in the moonlight. But before  you look at the little handcrafted treasures I have  for sale . . . Come a little closer. I dont bite . . . Except . . . I suspect you know thats not entirely true.

Is it?

 

 

When  my stories  are collected, I always feel like a street vendor, one who sells only at midnight. I spread my assort- ment out on the pavement, inviting the reader thats you

to come and take your pick. But I always add the proper caveat: be careful, my dear, because some of these items are dangerous.They are the ones with bad dreams hidden inside, the ones you cant  stop thinking about when sleep is slow to  come  and you  wonder  why  the  closet door  is open, when you know perfectly well that you shut it . . .

 

                                                                                                                                                                                        

 

An extract  from  the  introduction  to

 

MILE 81

 

 

 

When  I  was  nineteen   years  old  and attending the  University of Maine, Id drive from Orono  to the little town  of Durham, which is usually represented as Harlow in my books. I made this trip every three weekends or so, to see my girlfriend . . . and, coincidentally, my mother. I drove a ’61 Ford station wagon: six in a row for more go and three on the tree (if you dont know, ask your dad). The car was a hand-me- down from my brother David.

I-95  was  less traveled in those days, and nearly deserted for long stretches once Labor Day passed and the summer people went back to their workaday lives. No  cell phones, either, of course. If you  broke down, your choices were two: fix it yourself or wait for some good Samaritan to stop and give you a lift to the nearest garage.

During those 150-mile drives, I conceived a special horror of Mile

85, which was in the absolute nowhere between Gardiner and Lewiston. I became convinced that if my old wagon did shit the bed, it would do so there. I could visualize it hunkered in the breakdown lane, lonely and abandoned. Would someone stop to make sure the driver was okay? That he was not, perchance, stretched out on the front seat, dying of a heart attack? Of course they would. Good Samaritans are everywhere, especially in the boondocks. People who live in the boonies take care of their own.

 

                   

MILE 81

 

 

1

 

 

PETE SIMMONS  (’07 Huffy).

 

  

You  cant come, his older brother said.

George spoke in a low voice, even though the rest of his friends a neighborhood group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who styled them- selves the Rip-Ass Raiders   were up at the end of the block, waiting for him. Not very patiently. ‘Its too dangerous.

Pete said, ‘I’m not afraid. He spoke stoutly enough, although he was afraid, a little. George and his friends were headed up to the sandpit behind the bowling alley. There theyd  play a game Normie Therriault had invented. Normie was the leader of the Rip-Ass Raiders, and the game was called Paratroops From Hell. There was a rutted track leading up to the edge of the gravel pit, and the game was to ride your bike along it at full speed, yelling  Raiders rule!’ at the top of your lungs and bailing from the seat of your bike as you went over. The usual drop was ten feet or so, and the approved landing area was  soft, but sooner or later someone would land on gravel instead of sand and probably break an arm or an ankle. Even Pete knew that (although he sort of understood why it added to the attraction). Then  the parents would find out and that would be the end of Paratroops From Hell. For now, however, the game played without helmets, of course continued.

George knew better than to allow his brother to play, however; he was supposed to be taking care of Pete while their parents were at work. If Pete wrecked his Huffy at the  gravel pit, George would likely be grounded for a week. If his little brother broke an arm, it would be for a month. And if God forbid! it was his neck, George guessed he might  be whiling away the  hours  in  his bedroom  until  he  went  to college.

Besides, he loved the little cock-knocker.

Just hang out here, George said. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.

‘Hang out with who?’ Pete asked morosely. It was spring vacation, and

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                   

THE  BAZAAR OF BAD DREAMS                   381

 

all of his friends, the ones his mother would have called ‘age appropriate,’ seemed to be somewhere else. A couple of them had gone to Disney World in Orlando, and when Pete thought of this, his heart filled with envy and jealousy a vile brew, but strangely tasty.

Just  hang out, George said. ‘Go to  the  store, or  something. He scrounged in his pocket and came out with two crumpled Washingtons.

‘Heres  some dough.

Pete looked at them. Jeez, I’ll buy a Corvette. Maybe two.

‘Hurry up, Simmons, or we’ll go withoutcha!’ Normie yelled.

‘Coming!’ George shouted back. Then, low, to Pete: Take the money and dont be a boogersnot.

Pete took the money. ‘I even brought my magnifying glass, he said.

‘I was gonna show em—’

‘Theyve all seen that baby trick a thousand times, George said, but when he saw the corners of Petes mouth tuck down, he tried to soften the blow. ‘Besides, look at the sky, numbo. You cant start fires with a magnifying glass on a cloudy day. Hang out.We’ll play computer Battleship or something when I come back.

‘Okay, chickenshit!’ Normie yelled. ‘Seeya later, masturbator!’

‘I gotta go, George said. ‘Do me a favor and dont get in trouble. Stay in the neighborhood.

You’ll probably break your spine and be fuckin’ paralyzed for life,Pete said . . . then hastily spat between his forked fingers  to take the curse off. Good luck!’ he shouted after his brother. Jump the farthest!’

George waved one hand in acknowledgment, but didnt look back. He stood on the pedals of his own bike, a big old Schwinn that Pete admired but couldnt ride (hed tried once and wiped out halfway down the driveway). Pete watched him put on speed as he raced up this block of suburban houses in Auburn, catching up with his homies.

Then Pete was alone.

 

He took his magnifying glass out of his saddlebag and held it over his fore-arm, but there was no spot of light and no heat. He looked glumly up at the low-hanging clouds and put the glass back. It was a good one, a Richforth. Hed  gotten it last Christmas, to help with his ant-farm science project.

‘It’ll wind up in the garage, gathering dust, his father had said, but although the ant-farm project had concluded in February (Pete and his partner, Tammy Witham, had gotten  an A), Pete  hadnt tired  of the

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                         

382                             STEPHEN  KING

 

magnifying  glass yet. He particularly enjoyed charring holes in pieces of paper in the backyard.

But not today. Today, the afternoon stretched ahead like a desert. He could go home and watch TV, but his father had put a block on all the interesting channels when  he discovered George had been DVR-ing Boardwalk Empire, which was full of gangsters and bare titties. There was a similar block on Petes computer, and he hadnt figured a workaround yet, although he would; it was only a matter of time.

So?

‘So what, he said in a low voice, and began to pedal slowly toward the end of Murphy Street. ‘So . . . fucking . . . what.

Tolittle to play Paratroops From Hell, because it was too dangerous. How sucky. He wished he could think of something that would show George and Normie and all of the Raiders that even little kids could face dan—

The idea came to him just like that. He could explore the abandoned rest area. Pete didnt think the big kids knew about it, because it was a kid Petes own age, Craig Gagnon, who had told him about it. He said hed  been up there with a couple of other kids, ten-year-olds, last fall. Of course the whole thing might have been a lie, but Pete didnt think so. Craig had given too many details, and he wasnt the kind of kid who was good at making things up. Sort of a dimbulb, actually.

With a destination in mind, Pete began to pedal faster. At the end of Murphy Street he banked left onto Hyacinth. There was no one on the sidewalk, and no cars. He heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner from the Rossignols’, but otherwise everyone might have been sleeping or dead. Pete supposed they were actually at work, like his own parents.

He swept right onto Rosewood Terrace, passing the yellow sign reading DEAD END. There were only a dozen or so houses on Rosewood. At the end of the street was a chainlink fence. Beyond it was a thick tangle of shrubbery and scraggly second-growth trees. As Pete drew closer to the chainlink (and the totally unnecessary sign mounteon it reading NOT  A THROUGH STREET), he stopped pedaling and coasted.

He understood vaguely that although he thought of George and his Raider  pals as  Big Kids (and certainly that was  how  the Raiders thought of themselves), they werent really Big Kids. The true Big Kids were badass teenagers who had drivers licenses and girlfriends. True Big Kids went to high school.They liked to drink, smoke pot, listen to heavy metal or hip-hop, and suck major face with their girlfriends.

Hence, the abandoned rest area.

                                 

 

THE  BAZAAR OF BAD DREAMS                   383

 

Pete got off his Huffy and looked around to  see if he was  being observed. There  was nobody. Even the annoying Crosskill twins, who liked to jump rope (in tandem) all over the neighborhood when there was no school, were not in evidence. A miracle, in Petes  opinion.

Not  too far away, Pete could hear the steady whoosh-whoosh-whoosh

of cars on I-95, headed south to Portland or north to Augusta.

Even if Craig  was  telling  the truth, they probably fixed  the fence,  Pete thought. Thats the way todays going.

But when he bent close, he could see that although the fence looked whole, it really wasnt. Someone (probably a Big Kid who had long since joined the ranks of Young Adults) had clipped the links in a straight line from top to bottom. Pete took another look around, then laced his hands in the metal diamonds and pushed. He  expected resistance, but there was none. The cut piece of chainlink swung open like a farmyard gate. The Really Big Kids had been using it, all right. Booya.

It stood to reason, when you thought about it. Maybe they had drivers’ licenses, but the entrance and exit to the Mile 81 rest area were now blocked off by those big orange barrels the highway crews used. Grass was growing up through the crumbling pavement in the deserted parking lot. Pete had seen this for himself thousands of times, because the school bus used I-95 to go the three exits from Laurelwood, where he got picked up, to Sabattus Street, home to Auburn Elementary School No. 3.

He could remember when the rest area had still been open. There had been a gas station, a Burger King, a TCBY, and a Sbarros. Then it got closed down. Petes dad said there were too many of those rest areas on the turnpike, and the state couldnt afford to keep them all open.

Pete rolled his bike through the gap in the chainlink, then carefully pushed the makeshift gate back until the diamond shapes matched up and the fence looked whole again. He walked toward the wall of bushes, being careful not to run the Huffys tires over any broken glass (there was a lot of it on this side of the fence). He began looking for what he knew must be here; the cut fence said it had to be.

And there it was, marked by stamped cigarette butts and a few discarded beer and soda bottles: a path leading deeper into the undergrowth. Still pushing his bike, Pete followed it. The high bushes swallowed  him up. Behind him, Rosewood Terrace dreamed through another overcast spring day.

It was  as if Pete Simmons had never been there at all.

The path between the chainlink fence and the Mile 81 rest area was,

 

 

384                                STEPHEN  KING

 

by Petes  estimation, about half a mile long, and there were Big Kid signposts all along the way: half a dozen small brown bottles (two with snot-caked coke spoons still attached), empty snack bags, a pair of lace- trimmed panties hanging from a thornbush (it looked to Pete like theyd been there for a while, like maybe fifty years), and jackpot! a half-full bottle of Popov vodka with the screw cap still on. After some interior debate, Pete put this into his saddlebag along with his magnifying glass, the latest issue of Locke & Key, and a few Double Stuf Oreos in a Baggie.

He pushed his bike across a sluggish little stream, and bingo-boingo, here he was at the back of the rest area. Therwas another chainlink fence, but this one was also cut, and Pete slipped right through. The path continued through high grass to the back parking lot.Where, he supposed, the delivery trucks used to pull up. Close to the building he could see darker rectangles on the pavement where the Dumpsters had been. Pete lowered the kickstand of his Huffy and parked it on one of these.

His heart was thumping as he thought about what came next. Breaking and entering, sugarbear.You could go to jail for that. But was it breaking and entering if he found an open door, or a loose board over one of the windows? He supposed it would still be entering, but was entering all by itself a crime?

In his heart he knew it was, but he guessed that without the breaking part, it wouldnt mean jail time. And after all, hadnt he come here to take a risk? Something he could brag about later to Normie and George and the other Rip-Ass Raiders?

And okay, he was scared, but at least he wasnt bored anymore.

He tried the door with the fading EMPLOYEES ONLY sign on it, and found it not only locked but seriously locked no give at all. There were two windows beside it, but he could tell just by looking that they were boarded down tight. Then he remembered the chainlink fence that looked whole but wasnt, and tested the boards anyway. No good. In a way, it was a relief. He could be off the hook if he wanted to be.

Only . . . the Really Big Kids did go in there. He was sure of it. So how did they do it? From the front? In full view of the turnpike? Maybe so, if they came at night, but Pete had no intention of checking it out in broad daylight. Not  when  any passing motorist with a cell phone could dial 911 and say, Just thought you might like to know that theres a little kid playing Freddy Fuckaround at the  Mile 81 rest area. You know, where the Burger King used to be?’

Id rather break my arm playing  Paratroops From Hell than have to call my

 

 

THE  BAZAAR OF BAD DREAMS                   385

 

folks  from the Gray State Police  Barracks. In fact, Id rather  break  both arms and get my dick caught in the zipper  of my jeans.

Well, maybe not that.

He wandered toward the loading dock, and there, once again: jackpot. There were dozens of stamped-out cigarette butts at the foot of the concrete island, plus a few more of those tiny brown bottles surrounding their king: a dark green NyQuil bottle. The surface of the dock, where the big semis backed up to unload, was eye-high to Pete, but the cement was crumbling and there were plenty of footholds for an agile kid in Chuck Taylor High Tops. Pete raised his arms over his head, snagged fingerholds in the docks pitted surface . . . and the rest, as they say, is history.

On the dock, in faded red, someone had sprayed EDWARD LITTLE ROCKS, RED EDDIES RULE. Not true, Pete thought. Rip-Ass Raiders rule. Then he looked around from his current high perch, grinned, and said, ‘Actually, I rule. And standing up here above the empty back lot of the rest area, he felt that he did. For the time being, anyway.

 

He climbed back down just to make sure it was no problem and then remembered the stuff in his saddlebag. Supplies, in case he decided to spend the afternoon here, exploring and shit. He  debated what to bring, then decided to unstrap the saddlebag and take everything. Even the magnifying glass  might come in handy. A vague fantasy  began to form in his brain: boy detective discovers a murder victim in a deserted rest area, and solves the crime before the police even know a crime has been committed. He  could see himself explaining to  the drop-jawed Raiders that it had actually been pretty easy. Elementary,  my dear fuck- sticks.

Bullshit, of course, but it would be fun to pretend.

He lifted his bag onto the loading dock (being especially careful on account of the half-full vodka bottle), then climbed back up. The cor- rugated metal door  leading inside was  at least twelve feet high and secured at the bottom with not one but two humongous padlocks, but there was a human-sized door set into it. Pete tried the knob. It wouldnt turn, nor  would  the  human-sized door  open  when  he  pushed and pulled, but there was some give. Quite a lot, actually. He looked down and saw that a wooden wedge had been pushed under the bottom of the door; a totally dope precaution if hed ever seen one. On the other hand, what more could you expect from kids who were stoned on coke and cough syrup?

 

 

 

386                                STEPHEN  KING

 

Pete pulled the wedge, and this time when he tried the inset door, it creaked open.

 

The big front windows of what had been the Burger King were covered with chickenwire instead of boards, so Pete had no trouble seeing what there was to see. All the eating tables and booths were gone from the restaurant part, and the kitchen part was just a dim hole with some wires sticking out of the walls and some of the ceiling tiles hanging down, but the place was not exactly unfurnished.

In the center, surrounded by folding chairs, two old card tables had been pushed together. On this double-wide surface were half a dozen filthy tin ashtrays, several decks of greasy Bicycle cards, and a caddy of poker chips. The walls were decorated with twenty or thirty magazine gatefolds. Pete inspected these with great interest. He knew about pussies, had glimpsed more than a few on HBO  and CinemaSpank (before his folks got wise and blocked the premium cable channels), but these were shaved pussies. Pete wasnt sure what the big deal was to him they looked sort of oogy

but he supposed he might get with the program when he was older. Besides, the bare titties made up for it. Bare titties were fuckin awesome.

In the corner three filthy mattresses had been pushed together like the card tables, but Pete was old enough to know it wasnt poker that was played here.

‘Let me see your pussy!’ he commanded one of the Hustler girls on the wall, and giggled. Then he said, ‘Let me see your shaved pussy!’ and giggled harder. He sort of wished Craig Gagnon was here, even though Craig was a dweeb. They could have laughed about the shaved pussies together.

He began to wander around, still snorting small carbonated bubbles of laughter. It was dank in the rest area, but not actually cold. The smell was the worst part, a combination of cigarette smoke, pot smoke, old booze, and creeping rot in the walls. Pete thought he could also smell rotting meat. Probably from sandwiches purchased at Rossellis or Subway.

Mounted on the wall beside the counter where people once ordered Whoppers and Whalers, Pete discovered another poster.This one was Justin Bieber when the Beeb had been maybe sixteen. The  Beebteeth had been blacked out, and someone had added a Notzi swat-sticker tattoo to one cheek. Red-ink  devil horns sprouted from the Beebs moptop. There were darts sticking out of his face. Magic Markered on the wall above the poster was MOUTH 15 PTS, NOSE 25 PTS, EYES 30 PTS ITCH.

 

 

THE  BAZAAR OF BAD DREAMS                   387

 

Pete pulled out the darts and backed across the big empty room until he came to a black mark on the floor. Printed here was BEEBER LINE. Pete stood behind it and shot the six darts ten or twelve times. On his last try, he got 125 points. He thought that was pretty good. He imag- ined George and Normie Therriault applauding.

He went over to one of the mesh-covered windows, staring out at the empty concrete islands where the gas pumps used to be, and the traffic beyond. Light traffic. He  supposed that when  summer came it would once more be bumper-to-bumper  with tourists and summer people, unless his dad was right and the price of gas went to seven bucks a gallon and everybody stayed home.

Now what? Hed played darts, hed looked at enough shaved pussies to last him . . . well, maybe not a lifetime but at least a few months, there were no murders  to solve, so now what?

Vodka, he decided. That was what came next. Hed try a few sips just to prove he could, and so future brags would have that vital ring of truth. Then, he supposed, he would pack up his shit and go back to Murphy  Street. He  would  do  his best to  make his adventure sound interesting thrilling, even but in truth, this place wasnt such of a much. Just a place where the Really Big Kids could come to play cards and make out with girls and not get wet when it rained.

But booze . . . that was something.

He took his saddlebag over to the mattresses  and sat down (being careful to avoid the stains, of which there were many). He took out the vodka bottle and studied it with a certain grim fascination. At ten-going- on-eleven, he had no particular longing to sample adult pleasures. The year before he had hawked one of his grandfathers cigarettes and smoked it behind the 7-Eleven. Smoked half of it, anyway. Then he had leaned over and spewed his lunch between his sneakers. He had obtained an interesting but not very valuable piece of information that day: beans and franks didnt look great when they went into your mouth, but at least they tasted good. When they came back out, they looked fucking horrible and tasted worse.

His bodys  instant and emphatic rejection of that American Spirit suggested to him that booze would be no better, and probably worse. But if he didnt drink at least some, any brag would be a lie. And his brother George had lie-radar, at least when it came to Pete.

I’ll probably puke again, he thought, then said: ‘Good news is I wont be the first in this dump.

                                                                                                                                      

 

 

388                             STEPHEN  KING

 

That made him laugh again. He was still smiling when he unscrewed the cap and held the mouth of the bottle to his nose. Some smell, but not much. Maybe it was water instead of vodka, and the smell was just a leftover. He raised the mouth of the bottle to his mouth, sort of hoping that was true and sort of hoping it wasnt. He didnt expect much, and he certainly didnt want to get drunk and maybe break his neck trying to climb back down  from the loading dock, but he was  curious. His parents loved this stuff.

‘Dares go first, he said for no reason at all, and took a small sip.

It wasnt water, that was for sure. It tasted like hot, light oil. He swal- lowed mostly in surprise. The vodka trailed heat down his throat, then exploded in his stomach.

‘Holy Jeezum!’ Pete yelled.

Tears sprang into his eyes. He held the bottle out at arms length, as if it had bitten him. But the heat in his stomach was already subsiding, and he felt pretty much okay. Not drunk, and not like he was going to puke, either. He tried another little sip, now that he knew what to expect. Heat in the mouth . . . heat in the throat . . . and then, boom in the stomach.

Now  he felt a tingling in his arms and hands. Maybe his neck, too. Not the pins-and-needles sensation you got when a limb went to sleep, but more like something was waking up.

Pete raised the bottle to his lips again, then lowered it.There was more to worry about than falling off the loading dock or crashing his bike on the way home (he wondered briefly if you could get arrested for drunk biking and guessed you could). Having a few swigs of vodka so you could brag on  it was  one  thing, but  if he drank enough  to  get loaded, his mother and father would know when they came home. It would only take one look.Trying to act sober wouldnt help.They drank, their friends drank, and sometimes they drank too much. They would know the signs.

Also, there  was  the  dreaded HANGOVER   to  consider. Pete  and George had seen their mom and dad dragging around the house with red eyes and pale faces on a good many Saturday and Sunday mornings. They took vitamin pills, they told you to turn the TV down, and music was  absolutely verboten. The  HANGOVER   looked  like the  absolute opposite of fun.

Still, maybe one more sip might not hurt.

Pete took a slightly larger swallow and shouted, Zoom, we have liftoff!’ This made him laugh. He felt a little light-headed, but it was a totally pleasant feeling. Smoking he didnt get. Drinking, he did.

 

 

THE  BAZAAR OF BAD DREAMS                   389

 

He got up, staggered a little, caught his balance, and laughed some more. Jump  into that fucking sandpit all you want, sugarbears, he told the empty restaurant. ‘I’m fuckin stinko, and fuckin stinko is better. This was very funny, and he laughed hard.

Am I really stinko?  On just three sips?

He  didnt think so, but he was  definitely high. No  more. Enough was enough.‘Drink responsibly, he told the empty restaurant, and laughed.

Hed hang out here for a while and wait for it to wear off. An hour should do  it, maybe two. Until  three  o’clock, say. He  didnt have a wristwatch, but hed be able to tell three o’clock from the chimes of St. Josephs, which was only a mile or so away. Then hed leave, first hiding the vodka (for possible further research) and putting the wedge back under the door. His first stop when he got back to the neighborhood was going to be the 7-Eleven, where hed buy some of that really strong Teaberry gum to take the smell of the booze off his breath. Hed heard kids say vodka was the thing to steal out of your parents’ liquor cabinet because it had no smell, but Pete was now a wiser child than hed been an hour ago.

‘Besides, he told the hollowed-out  restaurant in a lecturely tone, ‘I bet my eyes are red, just like Dads when he has too marny mantinis.’ He paused. That wasnt quite right, but what the fuck.

He gathered up the darts, went back to the Beeber Line, and shot them. He missed Justin with all but one, and this struck Pete as the most hilarious thing of all. He wondered if the Beeb could have a hit with a song called ‘My Baby Shaves Her Pussy, and this struck him so funny that he laughed until he had to bend over with his hands on his knees.

When  the laughter passed, he wiped double snot-hangers  from his nose, flicked them onto the floor (there goes your  Good Restaurant rating, he thought, sorry, Burger  King), and then trudged back to the Beeber Line. He had even worse luck the second time. He wasnt seeing double or anything, he just couldnt nail the Beeb.

Also, he felt a little sick, after all. Not  much, but  he was  glad he hadnt tried a fourth sip. ‘I would have popped my Popov, he said. He laughed, then uttered a ringing belch that burned coming up. Blick. He left the  darts where they were and went  back to  the  mattresses. He thought of using his magnifying glass to see if anything really small was crawling there, and decided he didnt want to know. He thought about eating some of his Oreos, but was afraid of what they might do to his stomach. It felt, lets face it, a little tender.

 

 

390                                STEPHEN  KING

 

He lay down and laced his hands behind his head. He had heard that when you got really drunk, everything started spinning around. Nothing like that was happening to him, so he guessed he was only a little high, but he wouldnt mind a little nap.

‘But not too long.

No, not too long. That would be bad. If he wasnt home when his folks came home, and if they couldnt find him, he would be in trouble. Probably George would be, too, for going off without him.The question was, could he wake himself up when the St. Josephs chimes struck?

Pete realized, in those last few seconds of consciousness, that hed just have to hope so. Because he was going.

He closed his eyes.

And slept in the deserted restaurant.

 

Outside, in the southbound travel lane of I-95, a station wagon of in- determinate make and vintage appeared. It was traveling well below the posted minimum turnpike speed. A fast-moving semi came up behind it and veered into the passing lane, blatting its air horn.

The  station wagon, almost coasting now, veered into  the entrance lane of  the  rest area, ignoring the  big  sign reading CLOSED  NO SERVICES NEXT  GAS AND  FOOD  27 MI. It struck four of the orange barrels blocking the lane, sent them rolling, and came to a stop about seventy yards from the abandoned restaurant building. The drivers side door opened, but nobody got out. There were no hey-stupid-your- doors-open  chimes. It just hung silently ajar.

If Pete Simmons had been watching instead of snoozing, he wouldnt have been able to see the driver. The station wagon was splattered with mud, and the windshield was smeared with it.Which was strange, because there had been no rain in northern New England for over a week, and the turnpike was perfectly dry.

The  car sat there  a little distance up  the  entrance ramp, under  a cloudy April sky. The barrels it had knocked over came to a stop. The drivers door hung open.

 

 

 

 

To  find out  more  about  Stephen  King  please visit www.hodder.co.uk, www.stephenkingbooks.co.uk and www.facebookcom/stephenkingbooks

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                         

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The Bazaar of Bad Dreams (Hardback)

The Bazaar of Bad Dreams (Hardback)

Stephen King, Stephen King




1 Review

The master storyteller at his best delivers a generous, thrilling new collection of stories featuring revelatory autobiographical comments on when, why and how he came to write each story.

£20.00 £15.99