Publisher Description

A collection of twenty bone-chilling, nail-biting tales from the undisputed master of horror. NATIONAL BESTSELLER. ANCHOR MASS MARKET.#1 BESTSELLER.A collection of bone-chilling, nail-biting tales from the undisputed master of horrorthatshowcases the darkest depths of his brilliant imagination and will "chill the cockles of many a heart" (Chicago Tribune).. INCLUDES THE STORY"THE BOOGEYMAN"- NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE FROM 20th CENTURY STUDIOSOriginally published in 1978, Night Shift is the inspiration for over a dozen acclaimed horror movies and television series, including Children of the Corn, Chapelwaite, and Lawnmower Man.Night Shift is Stephen King's first collection of short stories--a perfect showcase of just how far King's dark imagination can go. Here we see mutated rats gone bad ("Graveyard Shift"); a cataclysmic virus that threatens humanity ("Night Surf," the basis for The Stand); a possessed, evil lawnmower ("The Lawnmower Man"); unsettling children from the heartland ("Children of the Corn"); a smoker who will try anything to stop ("Quitters, Inc."); a reclusive alcoholic who begins a gruesome transformation ("Gray Matter"); and many more. This is Stephen King at his horrifying best.

Author Biography

Stephen King is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. Among his most recent are Full Dark, No Stars; Under the Dome; Just After Sunset; Duma Key; Lisey's Story; Cell; and the concluding novels in the Dark Tower saga- Wolves of the Calla, Song of Susannah, and The Dark Tower. His acclaimed nonfiction book On Writing is also a bestseller. In 2003, he was awarded the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, and in 2007 he received the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Maine with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.

Review

"A master storyteller." —Los Angeles Times

"[King] probably knows more about scary goings-on in confined, isolated places than anybody since Edgar Allan Poe." —Entertainment Weekly

"Eerie. . . . Ought to chill the cockles of many a heart." —Chicago Tribune

"The most wonderfully gruesome man on the planet." —USA Today

"An undisputed master of suspense and terror." —The Washington Post

"He's the author who can always make the improbable so scary you'll feel compelled to check the locks on the front door." —The Boston Globe

"A master. . . . [King] will catch you in his web and reach you at an elemental level where there is no defense." —Palm Beach Post

"Peerless imagination." —The Observer (London)

Excerpt from Book

JERUSALEM''S LOT Oct. 2, 1850. DEAR BONES, How good it was to step into the cold, draughty hall here at Chapelwaite, every bone in an ache from that abominable coach, in need of instant relief from my distended bladder--and to see a letter addressed in your own inimitable scrawl propped on the obscene little cherry-wood table beside the door! Be assured that I set to deciphering it as soon as the needs of the body were attended to (in a coldly ornate downstairs bathroom where I could see my breath rising before my eyes). I''m glad to hear that you are recovered from the miasma that has so long set in your lungs, although I assure you that I do sympathize with the moral dilemma the cure has affected you with. An ailing abolitionist healed by the sunny climes of slave-struck Florida! Still and all, Bones, I ask you as a friend who has also walked in the valley of the shadow, to take all care of yourself and venture not back to Massachusetts until your body gives you leave. Your fine mind and incisive pen cannot serve us if you are clay, and if the Southern zone is a healing one, is there not poetic justice in that? Yes, the house is quite as fine as I had been led to believe by my cousin''s executors, but rather more sinister. It sits atop a huge and jutting point of land perhaps three miles north of Falmouth and nine miles north of Portland. Behind it are some four acres of grounds, gone back to the wild in the most formidable manner imaginable--junipers, scrub vines, bushes, and various forms of creeper climb wildly over the picturesque stone walls that separate the estate from the town domain. Awful imitations of Greek statuary peer blindly through the wrack from atop various hillocks--they seem, in most cases, about to lunge at the passer-by. My cousin Stephen''s tastes seem to have run the gamut from the unacceptable to the downright horrific. There is an odd little summer house which has been nearly buried in scarlet sumac and a grotesque sundial in the midst of what must once have been a garden. It adds the final lunatic touch. But the view from the parlour more than excuses this; I command a dizzying view of the rocks at the foot of Chapelwaite Head and the Atlantic itself. A huge, bellied bay window looks out on this, and a huge, toadlike secretary stands beside it. It will do nicely for the start of that novel which I have talked of so long [and no doubt tiresomely]. To-day has been gray with occasional splatters of rain. As I look out all seems to be a study in slate--the rocks, old and worn as Time itself, the sky, and of course the sea, which crashes against the granite fangs below with a sound which is not precisely sound but vibration--I can feel the waves with my feet even as I write. The sensation is not a wholly unpleasant one. I know you disapprove my solitary habits, dear Bones, but I assure you that I am fine and happy. Calvin is with me, as practical, silent, and as dependable as ever, and by midweek I am sure that between the two of us we shall have straightened our affairs and made arrangement for necessary deliveries from town--and a company of cleaning women to begin blowing the dust from this place! I will close--there are so many things as yet to be seen, rooms to explore, and doubtless a thousand pieces of execrable furniture to be viewed by these tender eyes. Once again, my thanks for the touch of familiar brought by your letter, and for your continuing regard. Give my love to your wife, as you both have mine. CHARLES. Oct. 6, 1850. DEAR BONES, Such a place this is! It continues to amaze me--as do the reactions of the townfolk in the closest village to my occupancy. That is a queer little place with the picturesque name of Preacher''s Corners. It was there that Calvin contracted for the weekly provisions. The other errand, that of securing a sufficient supply of cordwood for the winter, was likewise taken care of. But Cal returned with gloomy countenance, and when I asked him what the trouble was, he replied grimly enough: "They think you mad, Mr. Boone!" I laughed and said that perhaps they had heard of the brain fever I suffered after my Sarah died--certainly I spoke madly enough at that time, as you could attest. But Cal protested that no-one knew anything of me except through my cousin Stephen, who contracted for the same services as I have now made provision for. "What was said, sir, was that anyone who would live in Chapelwaite must be either a lunatic or run the risk of becoming one." This left me utterly perplexed, as you may imagine, and I asked who had given him this amazing communication. He told me that he had been referred to a sullen and rather besotted pulp-logger named Thompson, who owns four hundred acres of pine, birch, and spruce, and who logs it with the help of his five sons, for sale to the mills in Portland and to householders in the immediate area. When Cal, all unknowing of his queer prejudice, gave him the location to which the wood was to be brought, this Thompson stared at him with his mouth ajaw and said that he would send his sons with the wood, in the good light of the day, and by the sea road. Calvin, apparently misreading my bemusement for distress, hastened to say that the man reeked of cheap whiskey and that he had then lapsed into some kind of nonsense about a deserted village and cousin Stephen''s relations--and worms! Calvin finished his business with one of Thompson''s boys, who, I take it, was rather surly and none too sober or freshly-scented himself. I take it there has been some of this reaction in Preacher''s Corners itself, at the general store where Cal spoke with the shop-keeper, although this was more of the gossipy, behind-the-hand type. None of this has bothered me much; we know how rustics dearly love to enrich their lives with the smell of scandal and myth, and I suppose poor Stephen and his side of the family are fair game. As I told Cal, a man who has fallen to his death almost from his own front porch is more than likely to stir talk. The house itself is a constant amazement. Twenty-three rooms, Bones! The wainscotting which panels the upper floors and the portrait gallery is mildewed but still stout. While I stood in my late cousin''s upstairs bedroom I could hear the rats scuttering behind it, and big ones they must be, from the sound they make--almost like people walking there. I should hate to encounter one in the dark; or even in the light, for that matter. Still, I have noted neither holes nor droppings. Odd. The upper gallery is lined with bad portraits in frames which must be worth a fortune. Some bear a resemblance to Stephen as I remember him. I believe I have correctly identified my Uncle Henry Boone and his wife Judith; the others are unfamiliar. I suppose one of them may be my own notorious grandfather, Robert. But Stephen''s side of the family is all but unknown to me, for which I am heartily sorry. The same good humour that shone in Stephen''s letters to Sarah and me, the same light of high intellect, shines in these portraits, bad as they are. For what foolish reasons families fall out! A rifled escritoire , hard words between brothers now dead three generations, and blameless descendants are needlessly estranged. I cannot help reflecting upon how fortunate it was that you and John Petty succeeded in contacting Stephen when it seemed I might follow my Sarah through the Gates--and upon how unfortunate it was that chance should have robbed us of a face-to-face meeting. How I would have loved to hear him defend the ancestral statuary and furnishings! But do not let me denigrate the place to an extreme. Stephen''s taste was not my own, true, but beneath the veneer of his additions there are pieces [a number of them shrouded by dust-covers in the upper chambers] which are true masterworks. There are beds, tables, and heavy, dark scrollings done in teak and mahogany, and many of the bedrooms and receiving chambers, the upper study and small parlour, hold a somber charm. The floors are rich pine that glow with an inner and secret light. There is dignity here; dignity and the weight of years. I cannot yet say I like it, but I do respect it. I am eager to watch it change as we revolve through the changes of this northern clime. Lord, I run on! Write soon, Bones. Tell me what progress you make, and what news you hear from Petty and the rest. And please do not make the mistake of trying to persuade any new Southern acquaintances as to your views too forcibly --I understand that not all are content to answer merely with their mouths, as is our long-winded friend , Mr. Calhoun. Yr. affectionate friend, CHARLES. Oct. 16, 1850. DEAR RICHARD, Hello, and how are you? I have thought about you often since I have taken up residence here at Chapelwaite, and had half-expected to hear from you--and now I receive a letter from Bones telling me that I''d forgotten to leave my address at the club! Rest assured that I would have written eventually anyway, as it sometimes seems that my true and loyal friends are all I have left in the world that is sure and completely normal. And, Lord, how spread we''ve become! You in Boston, writing faithfully for The Liberator [to which I have also sent my address, incidentally], Hanson in England on another of his confounded jaunts , and poor old Bones in the very lions'' lair , recovering his lungs. It goes as well as can be expected here, Dick, and be assured I will render you a full account when I am not quite as

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