Half an hour ago the sounds had ceased。 All of them； all at once。 The
elevator； the party； the sound of room doors opening and closing。 Instead of
easing her mind it made the tension that had been building in her even worse； it
was like a malefic hush before the storm's final brutal push。 But Danny had
dozed off almost at once； first into a light； twitching 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 bee 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 ing 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 e on； and any sound was lost in the rush of
warm air ing up from the basement。 When the furnace had kicked off again；
five minutes ago； the place was pletely 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。
（Jack'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。 e 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 room； stood indecisively by the door for a moment； then took
the knife from the pocket of her robe and curled her right hand around the
wooden haft。
She pulled the door open。
The short corridor leading to their quarters was bare。 The electric wall
flambeaux all shone brightly at their regular intervals； showing off the rug's
blue background and sinuous； weaving pattern。
（See？ No boogies here。）
（No； of course not。 They want you out。 They want you to do something silly and
womanish； and that is exactly what you are doing。）
She hesitated again； miserably caught； not wanting to leave Danny and the
safety of the apartment and at the same time needing badly to reassure herself
that Jack was still 。
safely packed away。
（Of course he is。）
（But the voices）
（There were no voices。 It was your imagination。 It was the wind。）
〃It wasn't the wind。〃
The sound of her own voice made her jump。 But the deadly certainty in it made
her go forward。 The knife swung by her side； catching angles of light and
throwing them on the silk wallpaper。 Her slippers whispered against the carpet's
nap。 Her nerves were singing like wires。
She reached the corner of the main corridor and peered around； her mind
stiffened for whatever she might see there。
There was nothing to see。
After a moment's hesitation she rounded the corner and began down the main
corridor。 Each step toward the shadowy stairwell increased her dread and made
her aware that she was leaving her sleeping son behind； alone and unprotected。
The sound of her slippers against the carpet seemed louder and louder in her
ears； twice she looked back over her shoulder to convince herself that someone
wasn't creeping up behind her。
She reached the stairwell and put her hand on the cold newel post at the top
of the railing。 There were nineteen wide steps down to the lobby。 She had
counted them enough times to know。 Nineteen carpeted stair risers； and nary a
Jack crouching on any one of them。 Of course not。 Jack was locked in the pantry
behind a hefty steel bolt and a thick wooden door。
But the lobby was dark and oh so full of shadows。
Her pulse thudded steadily and deeply in her throat。
Ahead and slightly to the left； the brass yaw of the elevator stood mockingly
open； inviting her to step in and take the ride of her life。
（No thank you）
The inside of the car had been draped with pink and white crepe streamers。
Confetti had burst from two tubular party favors。 Lying in the rear left corner
was an empty bottle of champagne。
She sensed movement above her and wheeled to look up the nineteen steps
leading to the dark second…floor landing and saw nothing； yet there was a
disturbing corner…of…the…eye sensation that things
（things）
had leaped back into the deeper darkness of the hallway up there just before
her eyes could register them。
She looked down the stairs again。
Her right hand was sweating against the wooden handle of the knife； she
switched it to her left； wiped her right palm against the pink terrycloth of her
robe； and switched the knife back。 Almost unaware that her mind had given her
body the mand to go forward； she began down the stairs； left foot then right；
left foot then right； her free hand trailing lightly on the banister。
（Where's the party？ Don't let me scare you away； you bunch of moldy sheets！
Not one scared woman with a knife！ Let's have a little music around here！ Let's
have a little life！）
Ten steps down； a dozen； a baker's dozen。
The light from the first…floor hall filtered a dull yellow down here； and she
remembered that she would have to turn on the lobby lights either beside the
entrance to the dining room or inside the manager's office。
Yet there was light ing from somewhere else； white and muted。
The fluorescents； of course。 In the kitchen。
She paused on the thirteenth step； trying to remember if she had turned them
off or left them on when she and Danny left。 She simply couldn't remember。
Below her； in the lobby； highbacked chairs hulked in pools of shadow。 The
glass in the lobby doors was pressed white with a uniform blanket of drifted
snow。 Brass studs in the sofa cushions gleamed faintly like cat's eyes。 There
were a hundred places to hide。
Her legs stilted with fear； she continued down。
Now seventeen； now eighteen； now nineteen。
（Lobby level； madam。 Step out carefully。）
The ballroom doors were thrown wide； only blackness spilling out。 From within
came a steady ticking； like a bomb。 She stiffened； then remembered the clock on
the mantel； the clock under glass。 Jack or Danny must have wound it 。。。 or
maybe it had wound itself up； like everything else in the Overlook。
She turned toward the reception desk meaning to go through the gate and the
manager's office and into the kitchen。 Gleaming dull silver； she could see the
intended lunch tray。
Then the clock began to strike； little tinkling notes。
Wendy stiffened； her t