The Book of the Dead (wörtlich: Das Buch der Toten) ist eine Kurzgeschichtensammlung aus dem Jahr , zu der Stephen King die Kurzgeschichte. The Book of the Dead (wörtlich: Das Buch der Toten) ist eine Kurzgeschichtensammlung aus dem Jahr , zu der Stephen King die Kurzgeschichte. THE DEAD ZONE / FIRESTARTER by King, Stephen and a great selection of similar Used, New and Collectible Books available now at jr-rally.se
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The knot on Johnny's head fades after a few days, and he thinks no more of it. A few months later, the adult is seriously injured while he tries to jump start a car.
Two years later, during an unconnected incident in Iowa , a young door to door Bible salesman, Greg Stillson, who suffers emotional issues and dreaming of greatness, vindictively kicks an aggressive dog to death.
By , Johnny is now a high school teacher in eastern Maine. After visiting a county fair with his girlfriend, Sarah, and eerily winning repeatedly at the wheel of fortune , Johnny is involved in a car accident on his way home which lands him in a coma for four and a half years.
Upon waking, Johnny finds that he has suffered neural injury, but when he touches people and objects, he is able to tell them things that they did not know.
For example, he knows that a nurse's son would have successful surgery; states that his doctor's mother, long believed dead, is living in Carmel, California ; warns his physical therapist that her house is about to burn down; tells Sarah that her lost wedding ring is in her suitcase pocket; and later recounts the story behind a St.
Christopher medallion that is owned by a skeptical reporter. Johnny shrugs off local media reports of his supposed psychic talents and accepts an offer to resume teaching, but he begins to suffer from severe headaches.
Richard Dees, a reporter for the national tabloid Inside View , makes an unsolicited visit to Johnny's house to offer him a lucrative position: When Dees explains that they would essentially be running only fake predictions under Johnny's name, Johnny violently ejects him from the property.
In retaliation, Inside View maliciously prints a story denouncing his clairvoyance as phony, but that brings Johnny relief, he now hopes to resume a normal life.
The hope is soon broken, however, when he is contacted by Sheriff George Bannerman who is desperate to solve a series of murders. Johnny is initially reluctant to publicize his abilities further but changes his mind after a nine-year-old becomes the killer's latest victim.
Johnny's extra sense provides enough detail to identify the killer; Bannerman's deputy Frank Dodd, a sexual sadist who commits suicide and leaves a confession after seeing Johnny at the scene.
The nationally-reported incident reignites the public's interest in Johnny's clairvoyance. Stillson, now a successful businessman and elected mayor of Ridgeway, New Hampshire, still suffers from his emotional problems.
Asked to "straighten out" a friend's teenaged nephew for wearing an obscene T-shirt, he sets the shirt on fire, terrorizes the youth with a broken bottle, and threatens to kill him if he tells anyone.
In , he decides to run an independent campaign for a seat in the House of Representatives and blackmails a local businessman into raising funds for him.
Johnny's offer to return to his teaching job is rescinded as he is considered "too controversial to be effective as a teacher.
He also takes up an interest in politics and becomes concerned when he watches a rally for Stillson. Both a homage and an opportunity, these 16 stories pull no punches, and hold back nothing.
Recommended for mature adult readers only, many of the themes developed in this anthology feature explicit sexual details and graphic violence on a scale rarely encountered anywhere in any form.
Necrophilia is a relatively passe concept by comparison to the material herin. Rest assured, there is literary merit in all this nasty titllation and gore, all this unvarnished exploitation and unchecked perversion.
These stories are the products of artists reflecting the unacknowledged base lusts that drive society. This book will do more than entertain; it will inform; it will edify; it will provide useful advice in the event the dead actually do renege.
Is something missing from this page? They bypassed each other, flickered around non-Euclidian angles, and seemed to disappear.
She made left turns, right turns, bumped her nose on panes of clear glass, and got giggling helplessly, partly in a nervous claustrophobic reaction.
One of the mirrors turned her into a squat Tolkien dwarf. Another created the apotheosis of teenage gangliness with shins a quarter of a mile long.
They passed a kooch joint. Three girls stood out front in sequined skirts and bras. They were shimmying to an old Jerry Lee Lewis tune while the barker hawked them through a microphone.
The barker used to swear the girls could take the glasses right off your nose with their hands tied behind their backs. I guess I can wait a while to get my Ph.
They had worked their way back to the main part of the midway. The crowd was thinning. The Tilt-A-Whirl had shut down for the evening.
Two workmen with unfiltered cigarettes jutting from the corners of their mouths were covering the Wild Mouse with a tarpaulin.
The man in the Pitch-Til-U-Win was turning off his lights. The voice in her mind, which was sometimes as real to her as the voice of another human being, suddenly spoke up.
She went up on tiptoe and kissed him quickly. She made herself go on before she could chicken out. Probably his last chore before closing up, she thought.
Behind him was his large spoked wheel, outlined by tiny electric bulbs. Her stomach did a slow roll-over that made her feel a bit nauseated with sudden sexual longing.
The midway behind them was almost completely empty now, and as the overcast had melted off above them it had turned chilly.
The three of them were puffing white vapor as they breathed. It came to a dollar eighty-five. The playing board was a strip of yellow plastic with numbers and odds painted on it in squares.
It looked a bit like a roulette board, but Johnny saw immediately that the odds here would have turned a Las Vegas roulette player gray. A trip combination paid off at only two to one.
There were two house numbers, zero and double zero. He pointed this out to the pitchman who only shrugged.
What can I say? Things had gotten off to a poor start with that mask, but it had been all upbeat from there.
In fact, it was the best night he could remember in years, maybe the best night ever. He looked at Sarah. Her color was high, her eyes sparkling.
What do you do? Or a ten-number series. They all pay differently. The pitchman stared at the single dime on his expanse of playboard and sighed.
He pushed one of his quarters onto the square reading The pitchman gave the Wheel a twist and it spun inside its circle of lights, red and black merging.
Johnny absently rubbed at his forehead. The Wheel began to slow and now they could hear the metronomelike tick-tock of the small wooden clapper sliding past the pins that divided the numbers.
It reached 8, 9, seemed about to stop on 10, and slipped into the 11 slot with a final click and came to rest. Sarah gave a little squeal, barely noticing as the pitchman swept the dime away.
Just as it is for me. Now the state inspects them and they just rely on their outrageous odds system.
A couple of teenagers on their way out paused to watch. The wooden clapper, moving very slowly now, passed 16 and 17, then came to a stop on A button on his jacket bore the face of Jimi Hendrix.
I love to see him take a beatin. He gave her the odd quarter off his stack of nine. Single numbers paid off ten to one on a hit, the board announced.
Suddenly he swept the quarters off the board and jingled them in his two cupped hands. Spin for the lady. It spun, slowed, and stopped. Five to seven hundred a night, two grand on a Saturday, easy.
It flashed past 0 and 00, through the first trip, slowing, through the second trip, still slowing. Sarah glanced at him, and his long, pleasant face looked oddly strained, his blue eyes darker than usual, far away, distant.
The pointer stopped on 30 and came to rest. The man who looked like a construction worker clapped Johnny on the back hard enough to make him stagger a bit.
He was brightening up now, getting his rhythm back. Step right up, you other folks. The man who looked like a construction worker, who introduced himself as Steve Bernhardt, put a dollar on the square marked EVEN.
Bernhardt gave Johnny a speculative glance and suddenly switched his dollar to his third trip. He switched the fifty cents he and his friend had come up with to the same trip.
A couple of roustabouts had drifted over to watch, one of them with a lady friend; there was now quite a respectable little knot of people in front of the Wheel of Fortune concession in the darkening arcade.
The pitchman gave the Wheel a mighty spin. Twelve pairs of eyes watched it revolve. Sarah found herself looking at Johnny again, thinking how strange his face was in this bold yet somehow furtive lighting.
She thought of the mask again—Jekyll and Hyde, odd and even. Her stomach turned over again, making her feel a little weak. The Wheel slowed, began to tick.
The teenagers began to shout at it, urging it onward. A cheer went up from the crowd again. The pitchman whistled through his teeth in disgust and paid off.
A dollar for the teenagers, two for Bernhardt, a ten and two ones for Johnny. He now had eighteen dollars in front of him on the board. His usually good-humored face was still and serious and composed.
He was looking at the Wheel in its cage of lights and his fingers worked steadily at the smooth skin over his right eye.
A little speculative murmur from the crowd. He glanced back at his wife, who shrugged to show her complete mystification.
Behind them Sarah heard one of the roustabouts bet the other five dollars against the third trip coming up again. Cold sweat stood out on her face.
The Wheel began to slow in the first trip, and one of the teenagers flapped his hands in disgust. It ticked past 11, 12, The pitchman looked happy at last.
Tick-tock-tick, 14, 15, There was awe in his voice. The pitchman looked at his Wheel as if he wished he could just reach out and stop it. It clicked past 20, 21, and settled to a stop in the slot marked There was another shout of triumph from the crowd, which had now grown almost to twenty.
All the people left at the fair were gathered here, it seemed. Her legs felt suddenly, horribly unsteady, the muscles trembling and untrustworthy.
She blinked her eyes rapidly several times and got only a nauseating instant of vertigo for her pains. The world seemed to tilt up at a skewed angle, as if they were still on the Whip, and then slowly settle back down.
I got a bad hot dog, she thought dismally. Two dollars for the teenagers, four for Steve Bernhardt, and then a bundle for Johnny—three tens, a five, and a one.
The pitchman was not overjoyed, but he was sanguine. If the tall, skinny man with the good-looking blonde tried the third trip again, the pitchman would almost surely gather back in everything he had paid out.
And if he walked? Well, he had cleared a thousand dollars on the Wheel just today, he could afford to pay out a little tonight.
A winner was a good ad. Several of the others had moved up to the board and were putting down dimes and quarters. But the pitchman looked only at his money player.
Want to shoot the moon? Can we go home? The warm concern for her that had been in them faded out. They seemed to darken again, become speculative in a cold way.
But she felt light-headed now as well as sick to her stomach. Not the backdoor trots, Lord. And then, with strange certainty: Johnny suddenly shoved bills and quarters up to the corner of the board.
Sarah wanted to moan and bit it back. He was staring at the Wheel with something like indifference. His eyes seemed almost violet.
There was a sudden jingling sound that Sarah at first thought must be in her own ears. Then she saw that the others who had put money down were sweeping it back off the board again, leaving Johnny to make his play alone.
She found herself wanting to shout. She bit down on her lips. She was afraid that she might throw up if she opened her mouth. Her stomach was very bad now.
Fifty-four dollars, and the single-number payoff was ten for one. The pitchman wet his lips. What is it, your balls starting to sweat?
The crowd looked back at him with hostile eyes. Let the guy do his headstand and lose his money so he could shut down for the night.
In her mind she begged Johnny to put his arm around her but he only stood quietly with his hands on the playing board and his eyes on the Wheel, which seemed determined to spin forever.
At last it slowed enough for her to be able to read the numbers and she saw 19, the 1 and 9 painted bright red on a black background.
Up and down, up and down. Now the numbers marched past the pointer with slowing deliberation. One of the roustabouts called out in wonder: Jekyll and Hyde, she thought, and was suddenly, senselessly, afraid of him.
With a final tick! The crowd held its breath. The Wheel revolved slowly, bringing the pointer up against the small pin between 19 and For a quarter of a second it seemed that the pin could not hold the pointer in the 19 slot; that the last of its dying velocity would carry it over to Then the Wheel rebounded, its force spent, and came to rest.
For a moment there was no sound from the crowd. No sound at all. Then one of the teenagers, soft and awed: Johnny was slapped on the back, pummeled.
People brushed by Sarah to get at him, to touch him, and for the moment they were separated she felt miserable, raw panic. Strengthless, she was butted this way and that, her stomach rolling crazily.
A dozen afterimages of the Wheel whirled blackly before her eyes. A moment later Johnny was with her and she saw with weak gladness that it really was Johnny and not the composed, mannequinlike figure that had watched the Wheel on its last spin.
He looked confused and concerned about her. The pitchman cleared his throat. The pitchman looked at Johnny. The lady here really is sick.
He suddenly reached over the playing board and groped beneath the counter. Her head was whirling. He brought up the Roi-Tan cigar box from under the counter, pushed it aside without even looking inside it, groped again, and this time came up with a steel lockbox painted industrial green.
He slammed it down on the play-board. He produced a key on a fine-link chain. Sarah could stay no longer. Her stomach felt bloated and suddenly as still as death.
Everything was going to come up, everything, and at express-train speed. The fluorescent mask seemed to hang sickly before her eyes in the midway dark as she hurried past the merry-go-round.
She struck a light pole with her shoulder, staggered, grabbed it, and threw up. It seemed to come all the way from her heels, convulsing her stomach like a sick, slick fist.