the end of her marriage many times； in divorce； in Jack's death at the scene of
a drunken car accident （a regular vision in the dark two o'clock of Stovington
mornings）； and occasionally in daydreams of being discovered by another man； a
soap opera Galahad who would sweep Danny and her onto the saddle of his snow…
white charger and take them away。 But she had never envisioned herself prowling
halls and staircases like a nervous felon； with a knife clasped in one hand to
use against Jack。
A wave of despair struck through her at the thought and she had to stop
halfway down the stairs and hold the railing； afraid her knees would buckle。
（Admit it。 It isn't just Jack； he's just the one solid thing in all of this
you can hang the other things on； the things you can't believe and yet are being
forced to believe； that thing about the hedges； the party favor in the elevator；
the mask）
She tried to stop the thought but it was too late。
（and the voices。）
Because from time to time it had not seemed that there was a solitary crazy
man below them； shouting at and holding conversations with the phantoms in his
own crumbling mind。 From time to time； like a radio signal fading in and out；
she had heard — or thought she had — other voices； and music； and laughter。 At one
moment she would hear Jack holding a conversation with someone named Grady （the
name was vaguely familiar to her but she made no actual connection）； making
statements and asking questions into silence； yet speaking loudly； as if to make
himself heard over a steady background racket。 And then； eerily； other sounds
would be there； seeming to slip into places — a dance band； people clapping； a man
with an amused yet authoritative voice who seemed to be trying to persuade
somebody to make a speech。 For a period of thirty seconds to a minute she would
hear this； long enough to grow faint with terror； and then it would be gone
again and she would only hear Jack； talking in that manding yet slightly
slurred way she remembered as his drunk…speak voice。 But there was nothing in
the hotel to drink except cooking sherry。 Wasn't that right？ Yes； but if she
could imagine that the hotel was full of voices and music； couldn't Jack imagine
that he was drunk？
She didn't like that thought。 Not at all。
Wendy reached the lobby and looked around。 The velvet rope that had cordoned
off the ballroom had been taken down； the steel post it had been clipped to had
been knocked over； as if someone had carelessly bumped it going by。 Mellow white
light fell through the open door onto the lobby rug from the ballroom's high；
narrow windows。 Heart thumping； she went to the open ballroom doors and looked
in。 It was empty and silent； the only sound that curious subaural echo that
seems to linger in all large rooms； from the largest cathedral to the smallest
hometown bingo parlor。
She went back to the registration desk and stood undecided for a moment；
listening to the wind howl outside。 It was the worst storm so far； and it was
still building up force。 Somewhere on the west side a shutter latch had broken
and the shutter banged back and forth with a steady flat cracking sound； like a
shooting gallery with only one customer。
（Jack； you really should take care of that。 Before something gets in。）
What would she do if he came at her right now； she wondered。 If he should pop
up from behind the dark； varnished registration desk with its pile of triplicate
forms and its little silver…plated bell； like some murderous jack…in…the…box；
pun intended； a grinning jack…in…the…box with a cleaver in one hand and no sense
at all left behind his eyes。 Would she stand frozen with terror； or was there
enough of the primal mother in her to fight him for her son until one of them
was dead？ She didn't know。 The very thought made her sick — made her feel that her
whole life had been a long and easy dream to lull her helplessly into this
waking nightmare。 She was soft。 When trouble came； she slept。 Her past was
unremarkable。 She had never been tried in fire。 Now the trial was upon her； not
fire but ice； and she would not be allowed to sleep through this。 Her son was
waiting for her upstairs。
Clutching the haft of the knife tighter； she peered over the desk。
Nothing there。
Her relieved breath escaped her in a long； hitching sigh。
She put the gate up and went through； pausing to glance into the inner office
before going in herself。 She fumbled through the next door for the bank of
kitchen light switches； coldly expecting a hand to close over hers at any
second。 Then the fluorescents were ing on with minuscule ticking and humming
sounds and she could see Mr。 Hallorann's kitchen — her kitchen now； for better or
worse — pale green tiles； gleaming Formica； spotless porcelain； glowing chrome
edgings。 She had promised him she would keep his kitchen clean； and she had。 She
felt as if it was one of Danny's safe places。 Dick Hallorann's presence seemed
to enfold and fort her。 Danny had called for Mr。 Hallorann； and upstairs；
sitting next to Danny in fear as her husband ranted and raved below； that had
seemed like the faintest of all hopes。 But standing here； in Mr。 Hallorann's
place； it seemed almost possible。 Perhaps he was on his way now； intent on
getting to them regardless of the storm。 Perhaps it was so。
She went across to the pantry； shot the bolt back； and stepped inside。 She got
a can of tomato soup and closed the pantry door again； and bolted it。 The door
was tight against the floor。 If you kept it bolted； you didn't have to worry
about rat or mouse droppings in the rice or flour or sugar。
She opened the can and dropped the slightly jellied contents into a saucepan —
plop。 She went to the refrigerator and got milk and eggs for the omelet。 Then to
the walk…in freezer for cheese。 All of these actions； so mon and so much a
part of her life before the Overlook had been a part of her life； helped to calm
her。
She melted butter in the frying pan； diluted the soup with milk； and then
poured the beaten eggs into the pan。
A sudden feeling that someone was standing behind her； reaching for her
throat。
She wheeled around； clutching the knife。 No one there。
（！ Get ahold of yourself； girl！）
She grated a bowl of cheese from the block； added it to the omelet； flipped
it； and turned the gas ring down to a bare blue flame。 The soup was hot。 She put
the pot on a large tray with silverware； two bowls； two plates； the salt and
pepper shakers。 When the omelet had puffed slightly； Wendy slid it off onto one
of the plates and covered it。
（Now back the way you came。 Turn off the kitchen lights。 Go through the inner
office。 Through the desk gate； collect two hundred dollars。）
She stopped on the lobby side of the registration desk and set the tray down
beside the silver bell。 Unreality would stretch only so far； this was like some
surreal game of hide…and…seek。
She stood in the shadowy lobby； frowning in thought。
（Don't push the facts away this time； girl。 There are certain realities； as
l