"Well, I don't pass out. It's like I go with him. And he shows me things."
"What kind of things?"
"Well . . ." Danny debated for a moment and then told Edmonds about Daddy's trunk with all his writing in it, and about how the movers hadn't lost it between Vermont and Colorado after all. It had been right under the stairs all along.
"And your daddy found it where Tony said he would?"
"Oh yes, sir. Only Tony didn't tell me. He showed me."
"I understand. Danny, what did Tony show you last night? When you locked yourself in the bathroom?"
"I don't remember," Danny said quickly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"A moment ago I said you locked the bathroom door. But that wasn't right, was it? Tony locked the door."
"No, sir. Tony couldn't lock the door because he isn't real. He wanted me to do it, so I did. I locked it."
"Does Tony always show you where lost things are?"
"No, sir. Sometimes he shows me things that are going to happen."
"Really?"
"Sure. Like one time Tony showed me the amusements and wild animal park in Great Barrington. Tony said Daddy was going to take me there for my birthday. He did, too."
"What else does he show you?" Danny frowned. "Signs. He's always showing me stupid old signs. And I can't read them, hardly ever."
"Why do you suppose Tony would do that, Danny?"
"I don't know." Danny brightened. "But my daddy and mommy are teaching me to read, and I'm trying real hard."
"So you can read Tony's signs."
"Well, I really want to learn. But that too, yeah."
"Do you like Tony, Danny?" Danny looked at the tile floor and said nothing.
"Danny?"
"It's hard to tell," Danny said. "I used to. I used to hope he'd come every day, because he always showed me good things, especially since Mommy and Daddy don't think about DIVORCE anymore." Dr. Edmonds's gaze sharpened, but Danny didn't notice. He was looking hard at the floor, concentrating on expressing himself. "But now whenever he comes he shows me bad things. Awful things. Like in the bathroom last night. The things he shows me, they sting me like those wasps stung me. Only Tony's things sting me up here." He cocked a finger gravely at his temple, a small boy unconsciously burlesquing suicide.
"What things, Danny?"
"I can't remember!" Danny cried out, agonized. "I'd tell you if I could! It's like I can't remember because it's so bad I don't want to remember. All I can remember when I wake up is REDRUM."
"Red drum or red rum?"
"Rum.,'
"What's that, Danny?"
"I don't know."
"Danny?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Can you make Tony come now?"
"I don't know. He doesn't always come. I don't even know if I want him to come anymore."
"Try, Danny. I'll be right here." Danny looked at Edmonds doubtfully. Edmonds nodded encouragement.
Danny let out a long, sighing breath and nodded. "But I don't know if it will work. I never did it with anyone looking at me before. And Tony doesn't always come, anyway."
"If he doesn't, he doesn't," Edmonds said. "I just want you to try."
"Okay." He dropped his gaze to Edmonds's slowly swinging loafers and cast his mind outward toward his mommy and daddy. They were here someplace . . . right beyond that wall with the picture on it, as a matter of fact. In the waiting room where they had come in. Sitting side by side but not talking. Leafing through magazines. Worried. About him.
He concentrated harder, his brow furrowing, trying to get Into the feeling of his mommy's thoughts. It was always harder when they weren't right there in the room with him. Then he began to get it. Mommy was thinking about a sister. Her sister. The sister was dead. His mommy was thinking that was the main thing that turned her mommy into such a (hitch?) into such an old biddy. Because her sister had died. As a little girl she was (hit by a car oh god i could never stand anything like that again like aileen but what if he's sick really sick cancer spinal meningitis leukemia brain tumor like john gunther's son or muscular dystrophy oh jeez kids his age get leukemia all the time radium treatments chemotherapy we couldn't afford anything like that but of course they just can't turn you out to die on the street can they and anyway he's all right all right all right you really shouldn't let yourself think) (Danny—) (about aileen and) (Dannee—) (that car) (Dannee—) But Tony wasn't there. Only his voice. And as it faded, Danny followed it down into darkness, falling and tumbling down some magic hole between Dr. Bill's swinging loafers, past a loud knocking sound, further, a bathtub cruised silently by in the darkness with some horrible thing lolling in it, past a sound like sweetly chiming church bells, past a clock under a dome of glass.
Then the dark was pierced feebly by a single light, festooned with cobwebs.
The weak glow disclosed a stone floor that looked damp and unpleasant. Somewhere not far distant was a steady mechanical roaring sound, but muted, not frightening. Soporific. It was the thing that would be forgotten, Danny thought with dreamy surprise.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could see Tony just ahead of him, a silhouette. Tony was looking at something and Danny strained his eyes to see what it was.
(Your daddy. See your daddy?) Of course he did. How could he have missed him, even in the basement light's feeble glow? Daddy was kneeling on the floor, casting the beam of a flashlight over old cardboard boxes and wooden crates. The cardboard boxes were mushy and old; some of them had split open and spilled drifts of paper onto the floor.
Newspapers, books, printed pieces of paper that looked like bills. His daddy was examining them with great interest. And then Daddy looked up and shone his flashlight in another direction. Its beam of light impaled another book, a large white one bound with gold string. The cover looked like white leather. It was a scrapbook. Danny suddenly needed to cry out to his daddy, to tell him to leave that book alone, that some books should not be opened. But his daddy was climbing toward it.
The mechanical roaring sound, which he now recognized as the boiler at the Overlook which Daddy checked three or four times every day, had developed an ominous, rhythmic hitching. It began to sound like . . . like pounding. And the smell of mildew and wet, rotting paper was changing to something else-the high, junipery smell of the Bad Stuff. It hung around his daddy like a vapor as he reached for the book . . . and grasped it.
Tony was somewhere in the darkness (This inhuman place makes human monsters. This inhuman place) repeating the same incomprehensible thing over and over.
(makes human monsters.) Falling through darkness again, now accompanied by the heavy, pounding thunder that was no longer the boiler but the sound of a whistling mallet striking silk- papered walls, knocking out whiffs of plaster dust. Crouching helplessly on the blue-black woven jungle rug.
(Come out) (This inhuman place) (and take your medicine!) (makes human monsters.) With a gasp that echoed in his own head he jerked himself out of the darkness.
Hands were on him and at first he shrank back, thinking that the dark thing in the Overlook of Tony's world had somehow followed him back into the world of real things-and then Dr. Edmonds was saying: "You're all right, Danny. You're all right. Everything is fine." Danny recognized the doctor, then his surroundings in the office. He began to shudder helplessly. Edmonds held him.
When the reaction began to subside, Edmonds asked, "You said something about monsters, Danny-what was it?"
"This inhuman place," he said gutturally. "Tony told me. . . this inhuman place . . . makes . . . makes . . ." He shook his head. "Can't remember."
"Try!"
"I can't."
"Did Tony come?"
"Yes."
"What did he show you?"
"Dark. Pounding. I don't remember."
"Where were you?"
"Leave me alone! I don't remember! Leave me alone!" He began to sob helplessly in fear and frustration. It was all gone, dissolved into a sticky mess like a wet bundle of paper, the memory unreadable.
Edmonds went to the water cooler and got him a paper cup of water. Danny drank it and Edmonds got him another one.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Danny, I don't want to badger you . . . tease you about this, I mean. But can you remember anything about before Tony came?"
"My mommy," Danny said slowly. "She's worried about me."
"Mothers always are, guy."
"No . . . she had a sister that died when she was a little girl. Aileen. She was thinking about how Aileen got hit by a car and that made her worried about me. I don't remember anything else." Edmonds was looking at him sharply. "Just now she was thinking that? Out in the waiting room?"
"Yes, sir."
"Danny, how would you know that?"
"I don't know," Danny said wanly. "The shining, I guess."
"The what?" Danny shook his head very slowly. "I'm awful tired. Can't I go see my mommy and daddy? I don't want to answer any more questions. I'm tired. And my stomach hurts."
"Are you going to throw up?"
"No, sir. I just want to go see my mommy and daddy."
"Okay, Dan." Edmonds stood up. "You go on out and see them for a minute, then send them in so I can talk to them. Okay?','
"Yes, sir."
"There are books out there to look at. You like books, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," Danny said dutifully.
"You're a good boy, Danny." Danny gave him a faint smile.
* * *
"I can't find a thing wrong with him," Dr. Edmonds said to the Torrances. "Not physically. Mentally, he's bright and rather too imaginative. It happens.
Children have to grow into their imaginations like a pair of oversized shoes.
Danny's is still way too big for him. Ever had his IQ tested?"
"I don't believe in them," Jack said. "They straight-jacket the expectations of both parents and teachers." Dr. Edmonds nodded. "That may be. But if you did test him, I think you'd find he's right off the scale for his age group. His verbal ability, for a boy who is five going on six, is amazing."
"We don't talk down to him," Jack said with a trace of pride.
"I doubt if you've ever had to in order to make yourself understood." Edmonds paused, fiddling with a pen. "He went into a trance while I was with him. At my request. Exactly as you described him in the bathroom last night. All his muscles went lax, his body slumped, his eyeballs rotated outward. Textbook auto- hypnosis. I was amazed. I still am." The Torrances sat forward. "What happened?" Wendy asked tensely, and Edmonds carefully related Danny's trance, the muttered phrase from which Edmonds had only been able to pluck the word "monsters," the "dark," the "pounding." The aftermath of tears, near-hysteria, and nervous stomach.
"Tony again," Jack said.
"What does it mean?" Wendy asked. "Have you any idea?"
"A few. You might not like them."
"Go ahead anyway," Jack told him.
"From what Danny told me, his `invisible friend' was truly a friend until you folks moved out here from New England. Tony has only become a threatening figure since that move. The pleasant interludes have become nightmarish, even more frightening to your son because he can't remember exactly what the nightmares are about. That's common enough. We all remember our pleasant dreams more clearly than the scary ones. There seems to be a buffer somewhere between the conscious and the subconscious, and one hell of a bluenose lives in there. This censor only lets through a small amount, and often what does come through is only symbolic. That's oversimplified Freud, but it does pretty much describe what we know of the mind's interaction with itself."
"You think moving has upset Danny that badly?" Wendy asked.
"It may have, if the move took place under traumatic circumstances," Edmonds said. "Did it?" Wendy and Jack exchanged a glance.
"I was teaching at a prep school," Jack said slowly. "I lost my job."
"I see," Edmonds said. He put the pen he bad been playing with firmly back in its holder. "There's more here, I'm afraid. It may be painful to you. Your son seems to believe you two have seriously contemplated divorce. He spoke of it in an offhand way, but only because he believes you are no longer considering it." Jack's mouth dropped open, and Wendy recoiled as if slapped. The blood drained from her face.
"We never even discussed it!" she said. "Not in front of him, not even in front of each other! We—"
"I think it's best if you understand everything, Doctor," Jack said. "Shortly after Danny was born, I became an alcoholic. I'd had a drinking problem all the way through college, it subsided a little after Wendy and I met, cropped up worse than ever after Danny was born and the writing I consider to be my real work was going badly. When Danny was three and a half, he spilled some beer on a bunch of papers I was working on . . . papers I was shuffling around, anyway . .
. and I . . . well . . . oh shit." His voice broke, but his eyes remained dry and unflinching. "It sounds so goddam beastly said out loud. I broke his arm turning him around to spank him. Three months later I gave up drinking. I haven't touched it since."
"I see," Edmonds said neutrally. "I knew the arm had been broken, of course.
It was set well." He pushed back from his desk a little and crossed his legs.
"If I may be frank, it's obvious that he's been in no way abused since then.
Other than the stings, there's nothing on him but the normal bruises and scabs that any kid has in abundance."
