The Talisman by Stephen King

nothing he had ever felt before.

He waited for a moment with Richard in his arms, hoping

the Talisman would call him again, or that the “Jason-side” of him would surface. But it was his mother’s voice that rasped in his head.

Has something or someone always got to push you,

Jack-O? Come on, big guy—you set this going by yourself; you can keep going if you really want to. Has that other guy got to do everything for you?

“Okay, Mom,” Jack said. He was smiling a little, but his

voice was trembling with fright. “Here’s one for you. I just hope someone remembered to pack the Solarcaine.”

He reached out and grasped one of the red-hot handles.

Except it wasn’t; the whole thing had been an illusion. The handle was warm, but that was all. As Jack turned it, the red glow died from all the handles. And as he pushed the glass

door inward, the Talisman sang out again, bringing gooseflesh out all over his body:

WELL DONE! JASON! TO ME! COME TO ME!

With Richard in his arms, Jack stepped into the dining

room of the black hotel.

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As he crossed the threshold, he felt an inanimate force—

something like a dead hand—try to shove him back out. Jack

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pushed against it, and a second or two later, that feeling of being repelled ceased.

The room was not particularly dark—but the soaped win-

dows gave it a monochrome whiteness Jack did not like. He

felt fogged in, blind. Here were yellow smells of decay inside walls where the plaster was slowly turning to a vile soup:

the smells of empty age and sour darkness. But there was

more here, and Jack knew it and feared it.

Because this place was not empty.

Exactly what manner of things might be here he did not

know—but he knew that Sloat had never dared to come in,

and he guessed that no one else would, either. The air was

heavy and unpleasant in his lungs, as if filled with a slow poison. He felt the strange levels and canted passageways and secret rooms and dead ends above him pressing down like the

walls of a great and complex crypt. There was madness here, and walking death, and gibbering irrationality. Jack might not have had the words to express these things, but he felt them, all the same . . . he knew them for what they were. Just as he knew that all the Talismans in the cosmos could not protect him from those things. He had entered a strange, dancing ritual whose conclusion, he felt, was not at all pre-ordained.

He was on his own.

Something tickled against the back of his neck. Jack swept

his hand at it and skittered to one side. Richard moaned

thickly in his arms.

It was a large black spider hanging on a thread. Jack

looked up and saw its web in one of the stilled overhead fans, tangled in a dirty snarl between the hardwood blades. The spider’s body was bloated. Jack could see its eyes. He couldn’t remember ever having seen a spider’s eyes before. Jack began to edge around the hanging spider toward the tables. The spider turned at the end of its thread, following him.

“Fushing feef! ” it suddenly squealed at him.

Jack screamed and clutched Richard against him with pan-

icky, galvanic force. His scream echoed across the high-

ceilinged dining room. Somewhere in the shadows beyond,

there was a hollow metallic clank, and something laughed.

“Fushing feef, fushing FEEF!” the spider squealed, and then suddenly it scuttled back up into its web below the

scrolled tin ceiling.

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Heart thumping, Jack crossed the dining room and put

Richard on one of the tables. The boy moaned again, very

faintly. Jack could feel the twisted bumps under Richard’s

clothes.

“Got to leave you for a little while, buddy,” Jack said.

From the shadows high above: “. . . I’ll take . . . take good . . . good care of him you fushing . . . fushing feef . . .”

There was a dark, buzzing little giggle.

There was a pile of linen underneath the table where Jack

had laid Richard down. The top two or three tablecloths were slimy with mildew, but halfway through the pile he found one that wasn’t too bad. He spread it out and covered Richard

with it to the neck. He started away.

The voice of the spider whispered thinly down from the

angle of the fan-blades, down from a darkness that stank of decaying flies and silk-wrapped wasps. “. . . I’ll take care of him, you fushing feef . . .”

Jack looked up, cold, but he couldn’t see the spider. He

could imagine those cold little eyes, but imagination was all it was. A tormenting, sickening picture came to him: that spider scuttling onto Richard’s face, burrowing its way between

Richard’s slack lips and into Richard’s mouth, crooning all the while fushing feef, fushing feef, fushing feef . . .

He thought of pulling the tablecloth up over Richard’s

mouth as well, and discovered he could not bring himself to turn Richard into something that would look so much like a

corpse—it was almost like an invitation.

He went back to Richard and stood there, indecisive,

knowing that his very indecision must make whatever forces

there were here very happy indeed—anything to keep him

away from the Talisman.

He reached into his pocket and came out with the large

dark green marble. The magic mirror in the other world. Jack had no reason to believe it contained any special power

against evil forces, but it came from the Territories . . . and, Blasted Lands aside, the Territories were innately good. And innate goodness, Jack reasoned, must have its own power over evil.

He folded the marble into Richard’s hand. Richard’s hand

closed, then fell slowly open again as soon as Jack removed his own hand.

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From somewhere overhead, the spider chuffed dirty

laughter.

Jack bent low over Richard, trying to ignore the smell of

disease—so like the smell of this place—and murmured,

“Hold it in your hand, Richie. Hold it tight, chum.”

“Don’t . . . chum,” Richard muttered, but his hand closed

weakly on the marble.

“Thanks, Richie-boy,” Jack said. He kissed Richard’s

cheek gently and then started across the dining room toward the closed double doors at the far end. It’s like the Alhambra, he thought. Dining room giving on the gardens there, dining room giving on a deck over the water here. Double doors in both places, opening on the rest of the hotel.

As he crossed the room, he felt that dead hand pushing

against him again—it was the hotel repelling him, trying to push him back out.

Forget it, Jack thought, and kept going.

The force seemed to fade almost at once.

We have other ways, the double doors whispered as he approached them. Again, Jack heard the dim, hollow clank of

metal.

You’re worried about Sloat, the double doors whispered; only now it wasn’t just them—now the voice Jack was hearing was the voice of the entire hotel. You’re worried about Sloat, and bad Wolfs, and things that look like goats, and basketball coaches who aren’t really basketball coaches; you’re worried about guns and plastic explosive and magic keys. We in here don’t worry about any of those things, little one. They are nothing to us. Morgan Sloat is no more than a scurrying ant. He has only twenty years to live, and that is less than the space between breaths to us. We in the Black Hotel care only for the Talisman—

the nexus of all possible worlds. You’ve come as a burglar to rob us of what is ours, and we tell you once more: we have other ways of dealing with fushing feeves like you. And if you persist, you’ll find out what they are—you’ll find out for yourself.

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Jack pushed open first one of the double doors, then the other.

The casters squealed unpleasantly as they rolled along their recessed tracks for the first time in years.

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Beyond the doors was a dark hallway. That’ll go to the

lobby, Jack thought. And then, if this place really is the same as the Alhambra, I’ll have to go up the main staircase one flight.

On the second floor he would find the grand ballroom. And

in the grand ballroom, he would find the thing he had come

for.

Jack took one look back, saw that Richard hadn’t moved,

and stepped into the hallway. He closed the doors behind him.

He began to move slowly along the corridor, his frayed and

dirty sneakers whispering over the rotting carpet.

A little farther down, Jack could see another set of double doors, with birds painted on them.

Closer by were a number of meeting-rooms. Here was the