Publisher Description

The chilling novella featured in Stephen King's New York Times bestselling collection Full Dark, No Stars, 1922 is about a man who succumbs to the violence within--setting in motion a grisly train of murder and madness. Wilfred James owns eighty acres of farmland in Nebraska that have been in his family for generations. His wife, Arlette, owns an adjoining one hundred acres. She wants to sell her land but if she does, Wilfred will be forced to sell as well. James will do anything to hold onto his farm, and he'll get his son to go along. Betrayal, murder, madness, rats, 1922 is a breathtaking exploration into the dark side of human nature from the great American storyteller Stephen King.

Author Biography

Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes the short story collection You Like It Darker, Holly, Fairy Tale, Billy Summers, If It Bleeds, The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and a television series streaming on Peacock). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower, It, Pet Sematary, Doctor Sleep, and Firestarter are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest-grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2020 Audio Publishers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.

Review

"A quartet of previously unpublished tales that more than satisfy their prolific author's stated criteria for good fiction. Propulsive? Check. Assaultive? Don't ask. The stories in Full Dark, No Stars are for the most part only slightly supernatural and deal, instead, with the unlovelier aspects of merely human behavior...What's amazing, and maybe a little unsettling, about King is the consistency of his purpose and his manner over a long stretch of time. He's essentially the same grab-you-by-the-lapels literary showman he was...King still writes with the verve and glee and heedless ease of a very young man...When you're reading Full Dark, No Stars, carried along by his rollicking, vivid prose, you think (if you're thinking at all: 'God help him, this man is having fun.' This naked pleasure is King's secret ingredient: it makes his work weirdly irresistible, even addictive."--Terrence Rafferty, The New York Times Book Review
"Another collection of satisfying short stories... While not as subtle as some of King's other fiction, these novellas offer dark humor and to-the-point gore. This quick and more brutal King installment will be in high demand for horror/thriller readers and dedicated King fans."--Library Journal
"Eerie twists of fate drive the four longish stories in King's first collection since Just After Sunset...As in Different Seasons, King takes a mostly nonfantastic approach to grim themes. Now, as then, these tales show how a skilled storyteller with a good tale to tell can make unsettling fiction compulsively readable."--Publishers Weekly, Starred review
"For a writer whose books need a big stage, Stephen King also can turn out shorter stories just as gripping as his epic novels. All four stories in Full Dark, No Stars are about the dark turns taken in relationships between men and women. Uneven in length, they also are ambiguous in morality, which is one of the delights of this book...In all four of his stories, King leaves readers to think about how they might react under similar circumstances. And while we might do as the characters did, the suspense is in the uncertainty."--Amanda St. Amand, St. Louis Post-Dispatch
"Here's how King describes his latest offering: 'The stories in this book are harsh.' Believe him. The unifying theory is that we're all capable of horrific acts - like the farmer in '1922' who murders his wife to protect his property's value - and that we deny this grim reality at our own peril. Whether or not you agree, Full Dark is gripping storytelling."--People
"King begins his afterword by stating, 'The stories in this book are harsh.' The man ain't whistlin' Dixie. Returning to the novella--possibly his brightest canvas--King provides four raw looks at the limits of greed, revenge, and self-deception...Rarely has King gone this dark, but to say there are no stars here is crazy."--Booklist, Starred review
"King just keeps writing, and his stories don't suffer one bit. If anything, they're better, deepened by his maturity. Full Dark, No Stars, the latest offering from one of our great masters of popular fiction, is a prime example... All of these stories are a kind of tribute to some aspect of our culture, a dark snippet of something we've all thought about, but likely never lived... King's knack for storytelling is alive even amid these apparently predictable scenarios. Each of the stories finds a way to be surprising, even shocking. Each of them has something new to offer beyond the subgenres they appear to inhabit. All are woven together by tight, honest prose that is the stuff of great short fiction. Yes, King has written novels so thick that teams of oxen are needed pull them off the shelf, but he's also a master of briefer forms, and not a word is wasted here. Full Dark, No Stars is proof that King has not yet faded into the great literary beyond. He's still a great storyteller, and still a great read."--Matthew Jackson, The Hunstville Item
PRAISE FOR FULL DARK, NO STARS: "The master of horror is often at his scariest when writing stories of real life frights, like the ones in his new story collection, Full Dark, No Stars. Though these four, long stories probably won't cause too many nightmares - well, maybe about rats - it's still not a good idea to read these alone at night because they are very disturbing, and they will stay with the reader long after the lights are dimmed...King's characters are well-drawn in relatively few words, although the first two stories are long enough to stand on their own as short novels. Even Tess proves true, although it took a statistic quoted on the penultimate page of her tale to make her initial reactions to the pain she suffers seem logical. But as in his other novels and stories, the narrative is the star. King's writing keeps the reader eagerly turning pages, even while feeling horrified and disgusted by what's happening. And he always seems to sneak in a surprise at the end. King never disappoints."--Colleen O'Dea, Asbury Park Press

Review Quote

PRAISE FOR FULL DARK, NO STARS: "The master of horror is often at his scariest when writing stories of real life frights, like the ones in his new story collection, Full Dark, No Stars. Though these four, long stories probably won't cause too many nightmares - well, maybe about rats - it's still not a good idea to read these alone at night because they are very disturbing, and they will stay with the reader long after the lights are dimmed...King's characters are well-drawn in relatively few words, although the first two stories are long enough to stand on their own as short novels. Even Tess proves true, although it took a statistic quoted on the penultimate page of her tale to make her initial reactions to the pain she suffers seem logical. But as in his other novels and stories, the narrative is the star. King's writing keeps the reader eagerly turning pages, even while feeling horrified and disgusted by what's happening. And he always seems to sneak in a surprise at the end. King never disappoints."--Colleen O'Dea, Asbury Park Press

Excerpt from Book

1922 April 11, 1930 Magnolia Hotel Omaha, Nebraska TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: My name is Wilfred Leland James, and this is my confession. In June of 1922 I murdered my wife, Arlette Christina Winters James, and hid her body by tupping it down an old well. My son, Henry Freeman James, aided me in this crime, although at 14 he was not responsible; I cozened him into it, playing upon his fears and beating down his quite normal objections over a period of 2 months. This is a thing I regret even more bitterly than the crime, for reasons this document will show. The issue that led to my crime and damnation was 100 acres of good land in Hemingford Home, Nebraska. It was willed to my wife by John Henry Winters, her father. I wished to add this land to our freehold farm, which in 1922 totaled 80 acres. My wife, who never took to the farming life (or to being a farmer''s wife), wished to sell it to the Farrington Company for cash money. When I asked her if she truly wanted to live downwind from a Farrington''s hog butchery, she told me we could sell up the farm as well as her father''s acreage--my father''s farm, and his before him! When I asked her what we might do with money and no land, she said we could move to Omaha, or even St. Louis, and open a shop. "I will never live in Omaha," I said. "Cities are for fools." This is ironic, considering where I now live, but I will not live here for long; I know that as well as I know what is making the sounds I hear in the walls. And I know where I shall find myself after this earthly life is done. I wonder if Hell can be worse than the City of Omaha. Perhaps it is the City of Omaha, but with no good country surrounding it; only a smoking, brimstone-stinking emptiness full of lost souls like myself. We argued bitterly over that 100 acres during the winter and spring of 1922. Henry was caught in the middle, yet tended more to my side; he favored his mother in looks but me in his love for the land. He was a biddable lad with none of his mother''s arrogance. Again and again he told her that he had no desire to live in Omaha or any city, and would go only if she and I came to an agreement, which we never could. I thought of going to Law, feeling sure that, as the Husband in the matter, any court in the land would uphold my right to decide the use and purpose of that land. Yet something held me back. ''Twas not fear of the neighbors'' chatter, I had no care for country gossip; ''twas something else. I had come to hate her, you see. I had come to wish her dead, and that was what held me back. I believe that there is another man inside of every man, a stranger, a Conniving Man. And I believe that by March of 1922, when the Hemingford County skies were white and every field was a snow-scrimmed mudsuck, the Conniving Man inside Farmer Wilfred James had already passed judgment on my wife and decided her fate. ''Twas justice of the black-cap variety, too. The Bible says that an ungrateful child is like a serpent''s tooth, but a nagging and ungrateful Wife is ever so much sharper than that. I am not a monster; I tried to save her from the Conniving Man. I told her that if we could not agree, she should go to her mother''s in Lincoln, which is sixty miles west--a good distance for a separation which is not quite a divorce yet signifies a dissolving of the marital corporation. "And leave you my father''s land, I suppose?" she asked, and tossed her head. How I had come to hate that pert head-toss, so like that of an ill-trained pony, and the little sniff which always accompanied it. "That will never happen, Wilf." I told her that I would buy the land from her, if she insisted. It would have to be over a period of time--eight years, perhaps ten--but I would pay her every cent. "A little money coming in is worse than none," she replied (with another sniff and head-toss). "This is something every woman knows. The Farrington Company will pay all at once, and their idea of top dollar is apt to be far more generous than yours. And I will never live in Lincoln. ''Tis not a city but only a village with more churches than houses." Do you see my situation? Do you not understand the "spot" she put me in? Can I not count on at least a little of your sympathy? No? Then hear this. In early April of that year--eight years to this very day, for all I know--she came to me all bright and shining. She had spent most of the day at the "beauty salon" in McCook, and her hair hung around her cheeks in fat curls that reminded me of the toilet-rolls one finds in hotels and inns. She said she''d had an idea. It was that we should sell the 100 acres and the farm to the Farrington combine. She believed they would buy it all just to get her father''s piece, which was near the railway line (and she was probably right). "Then," said this saucy vixen, "we can split the money, divorce, and start new lives apart from each other. We both know that''s what you want." As if she didn''t. "Ah," I said (as if giving the idea serious consideration). "And with which of us does the boy go?" "Me, of course," she said, wide-eyed. "A boy of 14 needs to be with his mother." I began to "work on" Henry that very day, telling him his mother''s latest plan. We were sitting in the hay-mow. I wore my saddest face and spoke in my saddest voice, painting a picture of what his life would be like if his mother was allowed to carry through with this plan: how he would have neither farm nor father, how he would find himself in a much bigger school, all his friends (most since babyhood) left behind, how, once in that new school, he would have to fight for a place among strangers who would laugh at him and call him a country bumpkin. On the other hand, I said, if we could hold onto all the acreage, I was convinced we could pay off our note at the bank by 1925 and live happily debt-free, breathing sweet air instead of watching pig-guts float down our previously clear stream from sun-up to sun-down. "Now what is it you want?" I asked after drawing this picture in as much detail as I could manage. "To stay here with you, Poppa," he said. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. "Why does she have to be such a... such a..." "Go on," I said. "The truth is never cussing, Son." "Such a bitch !" "Because most women are," I said. "It''s an ineradicable part of their natures. The question is what we''re going to do about it." But the Conniving Man inside had already thought of the old well behind the cow barn, the one we only used for slop-water because it was so shallow and murky--only 20 feet deep and little more than a sluice. It was just a question of bringing him to it. And I had to, surely you see that; I could kill my wife but must save my lovely son. To what purpose the ownership of 180 acres--or a thousand--if you have no one to share them with and pass them on to? I pretended to be considering Arlette''s mad plan to see good cornland turned into a hog-butchery. I asked her to give me time to get used to the idea. She assented. And during the next 2 months I worked on Henry, getting him used to a very different idea. ''Twasn''t as hard as it might have been; he had his mother''s looks (a woman''s looks are the honey, you know, that lure men on to the stinging hive) but not her God-awful stubbornness. It was only necessary to paint a picture of what his life would be like in Omaha or St. Louis. I raised the possibility that even those two overcrowded antheaps might not satisfy her; she might decide only Chicago would do. "Then," I said, "you might find yourself going to high school with black niggers." He grew cold toward his mother; after a few efforts--all clumsy, all rebuffed--to regain his affections, she returned the chill. I (or rather the Conniving Man) rejoiced at this. In early June I told her that, after great consideration, I had decided I would never allow her to sell those 100 acres without a fight; that I would send us all to beggary and ruin if that was what it took. She was calm. She decided to take legal advice of her own (for the Law, as we know, will befriend whomever pays it). This I foresaw. And smiled at it! Because she couldn''t pay for such advice. By then I was holding tight to what little cash money we had. Henry even turned his pig-bank over to me when I asked, so she couldn''t steal from that source, paltry as it was. She went, of course, to the Farrington Company offices in Deland, feeling quite sure (as was I) that they who had so much to gain would stand good her legal fees. "They will, and she''ll win," I told Henry from what had become our usual place of conversation in the hay-mow. I was not entirely sure of this, but I had already taken my decision, which I will not go so far as to call "a plan." "But Poppa, that''s not fair!" he cried. Sitting there in the hay, he looked very young, more like 10 than 14. "Life never is," I said. "Sometimes the only thing to do is to take the thing that you must have. Even if someone gets hurt." I paused, gauging his face. "Even if someone dies." He went white. "Poppa!" "If she was gone," I said, "everything would be the way it was. All the arguments would cease. We could live here peacefully. I''ve offered her everything I can to make her go, and she won''t. There''s only one other thing I can do. That we can do." "But I love her!" "I love her, too," I said. Which, however little you might believe it, was true. The hate I felt toward her in that year of 1922 was greater than a man can feel for an

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