RidingTheBullet-StephenKing

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KING

STEPHEN

RIDING

THE

BULLET

STEPHEN

KING

SCRIBNER/PHILTRUM PRESS

RIDING

THE

BULLET

scribner

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonSays.com

This book is a work of ﬁction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination

or are used ﬁctitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

or in part in any form.

scribner and design are trademarks

of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license

by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

cover illustration by shasti o’leary

cover design by john fontana

text design by erich hobbing

ISBN 0-7432-0467-0

I’ve never told anyone this story, and never thought I

would—not because I was afraid of being disbelieved,

exactly, but because I was ashamed . . . and because it

was mine. I’ve always felt that telling it would

cheapen both me and the story itself, make it smaller

and more mundane, no more than a camp counselor’s

ghost story told before lights-out. I think I was also

afraid that if I told it, heard it with my own ears, I

might start to disbelieve it myself. But since my

mother died I haven’t been able to sleep very well. I

doze off and then snap back again, wide awake and

shivering. Leaving the bedside lamp on helps, but not

as much as you might think. There are so many more

shadows at night, have you ever noticed that? Even

with a light on there are so many shadows. The long

ones could be the shadows of anything, you think.

Anything at all.

•••

I was a junior at the University of Maine when Mrs.

McCurdy called about ma. My father died when I was

too young to remember him and I was an only child,

so it was just Alan and Jean Parker against the world.

Mrs. McCurdy, who lived just up the road, called at

the apartment I shared with three other guys. She had

gotten the number off the magnetic minder-board ma

kept on her fridge.

“’Twas a stroke,” she said in that long and drawling

Yankee accent of hers. “Happened at the restaurant.

But don’t you go ﬂyin off all half-cocked. Doctor says

it wa’ant too bad. She’s awake and she’s talkin.”

“Yeah, but is she making sense?” I asked. I was try-

ing to sound calm, even amused, but my heart was

beating fast and the living room suddenly felt too

warm. I had the apartment all to myself; it was

Wednesday, and both my roomies had classes all day.

“Oh, ayuh. First thing she said was for me to call

you but not to scare you. That’s pretty sensible,

wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah.” But of course I was scared. When someone

calls and tells you your mother’s been taken from

work to the hospital in an ambulance, how else are

you supposed to feel?

“She said for you to stay right there and mind your

schoolin until the weekend. She said you could come

then, if you didn’t have too much studyin t’do.”

Sure, I thought. Fat chance. I’d just stay here in this

Riding the Bullet by STEPHEN KING

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KINGSTEPHENRIDINGTHEBULLETSTEPHENKINGSCRIBNER/PHILTRUMPRESSRIDINGTHEBULLETlscribner1230AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,NY10020www.SimonSays.comThisbookisaworkofﬁction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitherareproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedﬁctitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorlocalesorp...

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RidingTheBullet-StephenKing

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