Stephen King: The Dead Zone

It really wasn’t her place.

It was a dream, he guessed.

He was in a dark, gloomy place – a hallway of some kind. The ceiling was too high to see.

It was lost in the shadows. The walls were dark chromed steel. They opened out as they went upward. He was alone, but a voice floated up to where he stood, as if from a great distance. A voice he knew, words that had been spoken to him in another place, at another time. The voice frightened him. It was groaning and lost, echoing back and forth between that dark chromed steel like a trapped bird he remembered from his childhood.

The bird had flown into his father’s toolshed and hadn’t the wit to get back out. It had panicked and had gone swooping back and forth, cheeping in desperate alarm, battering itself against the walls until it had battered itself to death. This voice had the same doomed quality as that long ago bird’s cheeping. It was never going to escape this place.

‘You plan all your life and you do what you can,’ this spectral voice groaned. ‘You never want nothing but the best, and the kid comes home with hair down to his ass-hole and says the president of the United States is a pig. A pig! Sheeyit, I don’t…

Look out, he wanted to say. He wanted to warn the voice, but he was mute. Look out for what? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know for sure who he was, although he had a suspicion that he had once been a teacher or a preacher.

‘Jeeeesus!’ The faraway voice screamed. Lost voice, doomed, drowned. ‘Jeeeee…

Silence then. Echoes dying. away. Then, in a little while, it would start again.

So after a while – he did not know how long, time seemed to have no meaning or relevance in this place – he began to grope his way down the hall, calling in return (or perhaps only calling in his mind), perhaps hoping that he and the owner of the voice could find their way out together, perhaps only hoping to give some comfort and receive some in return.

But the voice kept getting further and further away, dimmer and fainter

(far and wee)

until it was just an echo of an echo. And then it was gone. He was alone now, walking down this gloomy and deserted hall of shadows. And it began to seem to him that it wasn’t an illusion or a mirage or a dream – at least not of the ordinary kind. It was as if he had entered limbo, a weird conduit between the land of the living and that of the dead.

But toward which end was he moving?

Things began to come back. Disturbing things. They were like ghosts that joined him on his walk, fell in on either side of him, in front of him, behind him, until they circled him in an eldritch ring – weave a circle round him thrice and touch his eyes with holy dread, was that how it went? He could almost see them. All the whispering voices of purgatory.

There was a Wheel turning and turning in the night, a Wheel of the Future, red and black, life and death, slowing. Where had he laid his bet? He couldn’t remember and he should be able to, because the stakes were his existence. In and out? It had to be one or the other.

His girl was sick. He had to get her home.

After a while, the hallway began to seem brighter. At first he thought it was imagination, a sort of dream within a dream if that were possible, but after an unknown length of time the brightness became too marked to be an illusion. The whole experience of the corridor seemed to become less dreamlike. The walls drew back until he could barely see them, and the dull dark color changed to a sad and misty gray, the color of twilight on a warm and overcast March afternoon. It began to seem that he was not in a hallway at all anymore, but in a room – almost in a room, separated from it by the thinnest of membranes, a sort of placental sac, like a baby waiting to be born. Now he heard other voices, not echoey but dull and thudding, like the voices of nameless gods speaking in forgotten tongues. Little by little these voices came clearer, until he could nearly make out what they were saying.