史蒂芬·金《闪灵》：幻觉与音乐的恐怖寓言

1982

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《闪灵》(The Shining)是斯蒂芬·金（Stephen King）于1982年创作的一部恐怖小说，该书的文字版以其独特的故事情节和令人毛骨悚然的氛围而闻名。这部作品的灵感来源于作者对豪华酒店的想象，尤其是书中提到的虚构酒店——欧文峰酒店(The Overlook)，它并非基于现实中的任何一处具体地点。酒店内的场景和角色全由作者的想象力塑造，包括那座巨大的黑檀木钟，它的摆锤发出深沉且富有音乐性的钟声，每当报时，都会引起整个舞厅里的混乱，连乐队成员也必须暂停演奏来聆听这独特的声音。小说的主角杰克·托兰斯（Jack Torrance）作为一名作家，为了冬季看护这座被遗弃的酒店，带着妻子温蒂和儿子丹尼搬入其中。然而，随着时间推移，这家酒店的幽暗历史与超自然力量逐渐显现，导致托兰斯的行为变得异常，家庭生活陷入无法逃脱的恐怖之中。在威廉·汤普森先生的编辑协助下，斯蒂芬·金通过细腻的心理描绘和恐怖气氛的营造，构建了一部深入探讨人性、孤独和疯狂的故事。《闪灵》不仅是一部恐怖小说，也是一次对人性深处阴暗面的探索，以及环境如何影响人的精神状态的深刻剖析。读者在跟随故事的进程中，不仅能体验到惊悚的恐惧，还能感受到主人公内心世界的复杂变化。这部作品的文学价值和影响力使其成为了恐怖文学的经典之作，对于喜欢悬疑和恐怖元素的读者来说，是不容错过的阅读体验。

reputation this place has got. I expected some reporter would dig it all up

again and just sorta put Grady in it as an excuse to rake over the scandals."

"What scandals?"

Watson shrugged. "Any big hotels have got scandals," he said. "Just like every

big hotel has got a ghost. Why? Hell, people come and go. Sometimes one of em

will pop off in his room, heart attack or stroke or something like that. Hotels

are superstitious places. No thirteenth floor or room thirteen, no mirrors on

the back of the door you come in through, stuff like that. Why, we lost a lady

just this last July. Ullman had to take care of that, and you can bet your ass

he did. That's what they pay him twenty-two thousand bucks a season for, and as

much as I dislike the little prick, he earns it. It's like some people just come

here to throw up and they hire a guy like Ullman to clean up the messes. Here's

this woman, must be sixty fuckin years old — my age! — and her hair's dyed just as

red as a whore's stoplight, tits saggin just about down to her belly button on

account of she ain't wearin no brassy-ear, big varycoarse veins all up and down

her legs so they look like a couple of goddam roadmaps, the jools drippin off

her neck and arms an hangin out her ears. And she's got this kid with her, he

can't be no more than seventeen, with hair down to his asshole and his crotch

bulgin 'like he stuffed it with the funnypages. So they're here a week, ten days

maybe, and every night it's the same drill. Down in the Colorado Lounge from

five to seven, her suckin up singapore slings like they're gonna outlaw em

tomorrow and him with just the one bottle of Olympia, suckin it, makin it last.

And she'd be makin jokes and sayin all these witty things, and every time she

said one he'd grin just like a fuckin ape, like she had strings tied to the

corners of his mouth. Only after a few days you could see it was gettin harder

an harder for him to grin, and God knows what he had to think about to get his

pump primed by bedtime. Well, they'd go in for dinner, him walkin and her

staggerin, drunk as a coot, you know, and he'd be pinchin the waitresses and

grinnin at em when she wasn't lookin. Hell, we even had bets on how long he'd

last."

Watson shrugged.

"Then he comes down one night around ten, sayin his 'wife' is 'indisposed' —

which meant she was passed out again like every other night they was there — and

he's goin to get her some stomach medicine. So off he goes in the little Porsche

they come in, and that's the last we see of him. Next morning she comes down and

tries to put on this big act, but all day she's gettin paler an paler, and Mr.

Ullman asks her, sorta diplomatic-like, would she like him to notify the state

cops, just in case maybe he had a little accident or something. She's on him

like a cat. No-no-no, he's a fine driver, she isn't worried, everything's under

control, he'll be back for dinner. So that afternoon she steps into the Colorado

around three and never has no dinner at all. She goes up to her room around ten-

thirty, and that's the last time anybody saw her alive."

"What happened?"

"County coroner said she took about thirty sleepin pills on top of all the

booze. Her husband showed up the next day, some big-shot lawyer from New York.

He gave old Ullman four different shades of holy hell. I'll sue this an I'll sue

that an when I'm through you won't even be able to find a clean pair of

underwear, stuff like that. But Ullman's good, the sucker. Ullman got him

quieted down. Probably asked that bigshot how he'd like to see his wife splashed

all over the New York papers: Wife of Prominent New York Blah Blah Found Dead

With Bellyful of Sleeping Pills. After playing hide-the-salami with a kid young

enough to be her grandson.

"The state cops found the Porsche in the back of this allnight burger joint

down in Lyons, and Ullman pulled a few strings to get it released to that

lawyer. Then both of them ganged up on old Archer Houghton, which is the county

coroner, and got him to change the verdict to accidental death. Heart attack.

Now ole Archer's driving a Chrysler. I don't begrudge him. A man's got to take

it where he finds it, especially when he starts gettin along in years."

Out came the bandanna. Honk. Peek. Out of sight.

"So what happens? About a week later this stupid cunt of a chambermaid,

Delores Vickery by name, she gives out with a helluva shriek while she's makin

up the room where those two stayed, and she faints dead away. When she comes to

she says she seen the dead woman in the bathroom, layin naked in the tub. 'Her

face was all purple an puffy.' she says, 'an she was grinnin at me.' So Ullman

gave her two weeks' worth of walking papers and told her to get lost. I figure

there's maybe forty-fifty people died in this hotel since my grandfather opened

it for business in 1910."

He looked shrewdly at Jack.

"You know how most of em go? Heart attack or stroke, while they're bangin the

lady they're with. That's what these resorts get a lot of, old types that want

one last fling. They come up here to the mountains to pretend they're twenty

again. Sometimes somethin gives, and not all the guys who ran this place was as

good as Ullman is at keepin it out of the papers. So the Overlook's got a

reputation, yeah. I'll bet the fuckin Biltmore in New York City has got a

reputation, if you ask the right people."

"But no ghosts?"

"Mr. Torrance, I've worked here all my life. I played here when I was a kid no

older'n your boy in that wallet snapshot you showed me. I never seen a ghost

yet. You want to come out back with me, I'll show you the equipment shed."

"Fine."

As Watson reached up to turn off the light, Jack said, "There sure are a lot

of papers down here."

"Oh, you're not kiddin. Seems like they go back a thousand years. Newspapers

and old invoices and bills of lading and Christ knows what else. My dad used to

keep up with them pretty good when we had the old wood-burning furnace, but now

they've got all out of hand. Some year I got to get a boy to haul them down to

Sidewinder and burn em. If Ullman will stand the expense. I guess he will if I

holler `rat' loud enough."

"Then there are rats?"

"Yeah, I guess there's some. I got the traps and the poison Mr. Ullman wants

you to use up in the attic and down here. You keep a good eye on your boy, Mr.

Torrance. You wouldn't want nothing to happen to him."

"No, I sure wouldn't." Coming from Watson the advice didn't sting.

They went to the stairs and paused there for a moment while Watson blew his

nose again.

"You'll find all the tools you need out there and some you don't, I guess. And

there's the shingles. Did Ullman tell you about that?"

"Yes, he wants part of the west roof reshingled."

"Hell get all the for-free out of you that he can, the fat little prick, and

then whine around in the spring about how you didn't do the job half right. I

told him once right to his face, I said ..."

Watson's words faded away to a comforting drone as they mounted the stairs.

Jack Torrance looked back over his shoulder once into the impenetrable, musty-

smelling darkness and thought that if there was ever a place that should have

ghosts, this was it. He thought of Grady, locked in by the soft, implacable

snow, going quietly berserk and committing his atrocity. Did they scream? he

wondered. Poor Grady, feeling it close in on him more every day, and knowing at

last that for him spring would never come. He shouldn't have been here. And he

shouldn't have lost his temper.

As he followed Watson through the door, the words echoed back to him like a

knell, accompanied by a sharp snap-like a breaking pencil lead. Dear God, he

could use a drink. Or a thousand of them.

<< 4 >>

SHADOWLAND

Danny weakened and went up for his milk and cookies at quarter past four. He

gobbled them while looking out the window, then went in to kiss his mother, who

was lying down. She suggested that he stay in and watch "Sesame Street" — the

time would pass faster — but he shook his head firmly and went back to his place

on the curb.

Now it was five o'clock, and although he didn't have a watch and couldn't tell

time too well yet anyway, he was aware of passing time by the lengthening of the

shadows, and by the golden cast that now tinged the afternoon light.

Turning the glider over in his hands, he sang under his breath: "Skip to m

Lou, n I don't care ... skip to m Lou, n I don't care ... my master's gone

away ... Lou, Lou, skip to In Lou..."

They had sung that song all together at the Jack and Jill Nursery School he

had gone to back in Stovington. He didn't go to nursery school out here because

Daddy couldn't afford to send him anymore. He knew his mother and father worried

about that, worried that it was adding to his loneliness (and even more deeply,

unspoken between them, that Danny blamed them), but he didn't really want to go

to that old Jack and Jill anymore. It was for babies. He wasn't quite a big kid

yet, but he wasn't a baby anymore. Big kids went to the big school and got a hot

lunch. First grade. Next year. This year was someplace between being a baby and

a real kid. It was all right. He did miss Scott and Andy-mostly Scott-but it was

still all right. It seemed best to wait alone for whatever might happen next.

He understood a great many things about his parents, and he knew that many

times they didn't like his understandings and many other times refused to

believe them. But someday they would have to believe. He was content to wait.

It was too bad they couldn't believe more, though, especially at times like

now. Mommy was lying on her bed in the apartment, just about crying she was so

worried about Daddy. Some of the things she was worried about were too grown-up

for Danny to understand-vague things that had to do with security, with Daddy's

selfimage feelings of guilt and anger and the fear of what was to become of

them-but the two main things on her mind right now were that Daddy had had a

breakdown in the mountains (then why doesn't he call?) or that Daddy had gone

off to do the Bad Thing. Danny knew perfectly well what the Bad Thing was since

Scotty Aaronson, who was six months older, had explained it to him. Scotty knew

because his daddy did the Bad Thing, too. Once, Scotty told him, his daddy had

punched his mom right in the eye and knocked her down. Finally, Scotty's dad and

mom had gotten a DIVORCE over the Bad Thing, and when Danny had known him,

Scotty lived with his mother and only saw his daddy on weekends. The greatest

terror of Danny's life was DIVORCE, a word that always appeared in his mind as a

sign painted in red letters which were covered with hissing, poisonous snakes.

In DIVORCE, your parents no longer lived together. They had a tug of war over

you in a court (tennis court? badminton court? Danny wasn't sure which or if it

was some other, but Mommy and Daddy had played both tennis and badminton at

Stovington, so he assumed it could be either) and you had to go with one of them

and you practically never saw the other one, and the one you were with could

marry somebody you didn't even know if the urge came on them. The most

terrifying thing about DIVORCE was that he had sensed the word-or concept, or

whatever it was that came to him in his understandings-floating around in his

own parents' heads, sometimes diffuse and relatively distant, sometimes as thick

and obscuring and frightening as thunderheads. It had been that way after Daddy

punished him for messing the papers up in his study and the doctor had to put

his arm in a cast. That memory was already faded, but the memory of the DIVORCE

thoughts was clear and terrifying. It had mostly been around his mommy that

time, and he had been in constant terror that she would pluck the word from her

brain and drag it out of her mouth, making it real. DIVORCE. It was a constant

undercurrent in their thoughts, one of the few he could always pick up, like the

beat of simple music. But like a beat, the central thought formed only the spine

of more complex thoughts, thoughts he could not as yet even begin to interpret.

They came to him only as colors and moods. Mommy's DIVORCE thoughts centered

around what Daddy had done to his arm, and what had happened at Stovington when

Daddy lost his job. That boy. That George Hatfield who got pissed off at Daddy

and put the holes in their bug's feet. Daddy's DIVORCE thoughts were more

complex, colored dark violet and shot through with frightening veins of pure

black. He seemed to think they would be better off if he left. That things would

stop hurting. His daddy hurt almost all the time, mostly about the Bad Thing.

Danny could almost always pick that up too: Daddy's constant craving to go into

a dark place and watch a color TV and eat peanuts out of a bowl and do the Bad

Thing until his brain would be quiet and leave him alone.

But this afternoon his mother had no need to worry and he wished he could go

to her and tell her that. The bug had not broken down. Daddy was not off

somewhere doing the Bad Thing. He was almost home now, put-putting along the

highway between Lyons and Boulder. For the moment his daddy wasn't even thinking

about the Bad Thing. He was thinking about ...about...

Danny looked furtively behind him at the kitchen window. Sometimes thinking

very hard made something happen to him. It made things — real things — go away,

and then he saw things that weren't there. Once, not long after they put the

cast on his arm, this had happened at the supper table. They weren't talking

much to each other then. But they were thinking. Oh yes. The thoughts of DIVORCE

hung over the kitchen table like a cloud full of black rain, pregnant, ready to

burst. It was so bad he couldn't eat. The thought of eating with all that black

DIVORCE around made him want to throw up. And because it had seemed desperately

important, he had thrown himself fully into concentration and something had

happened. When he came back to real things, he was lying on the floor with beans

and mashed potatoes in his lap and his mommy was holding him and crying and

Daddy had been on the phone. He had been frightened, had tried to explain to

them that there was nothing wrong. that this sometimes happened to him when he

concentrated on understanding more than what normallv came to him. He tried to

explain about Tony, who they called his "invisible playmate."

His father had said: "He's having a Ha Loo Sin Nation. He seems okay, but I

want the doctor to look at him anyway."

After the doctor left, Mommy had made him promise to never do that again, to

never scare them that way, and Danny had agreed. He was frightened himself.

Because when he bad concentrated his mind, it had flown out to his daddy, and

for just a moment, before Tony had appeared (far away, as be always did, calling

distantly) and the strange things had blotted out their kitchen and the carved

roast on the blue plate, for just a moment his own consciousness had plunged

through his daddy's darkness to an incomprehensible word much more frightening

than DIVORCE, and that word was SUICIDE. Danny had never come across it again in

his daddy's mind, and he had certainly not gone looking for it. He didn't care

if he never found out exactly what that word meant.

But he did like to concentrate, because sometimes Tony would come. Not every

time. Sometimes things just got woozy and swimmy for a minute and then cleared —

most times, in fact — but at other times Tony would appear at the very limit of

his vision, calling distantly and beckoning ...

It had happened twice since they moved to Boulder, and he remembered how

surprised and pleased he had been to find Tony had followed him all the way from

Vermont. So all his friends hadn't been left behind after all.

The first time he had been out in the back yard and nothing much had happened.

Just Tony beckoning and then darkness and a few minutes later he had come back

to real things with a few vague fragments of memory, like a jumbled dream. The

second time, two weeks ago, had been more interesting. Tony, beckoning, calling

from four yards over: "Danny ... come see ..." It seemed that he was getting

up, then falling into a deep hole, like Alice into Wonderland. Then he had been

in the basement of the apartment house and Tony had been beside him, pointing

into the shadows at the trunk his daddy carried all his important papers in,

especially "THE PLAY."

"See?" Tony had said in his distant, musical voice. "It's under the- stairs.

Right under the stairs. The movers put it right ... under... the stairs."

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