Category Archives: Literature

A Stir of Echoes by Richard Matheson

My Library, Book Reviews – 6AM Reviews

Title: A Stir of Echoes
Pages: 234
Author: Richard Matheson
Rating: 4/5 – A terrifying ghost story

One evening at a dinner party Tom Wallace is hypnotized by his wife’s brother. After which he gains some psychic abilities. He can read people’s mind and as the unfortunate experience of knowing what everyone is thinking. He is horrified at what is happening to him, but worst of all he keeps seeing something at night. He sees a spirit that won’t leave him alone. She has unfinished business in his house and needs Tom to help her find justice from the grave. You’ll never want to be hypnotized after reading this classic from the 1950’s!

Check back tomorrow morning, for another 6AM Review.

Stephen King’s “N.” (Graphic Novel)

My Library, Book Reviews – 6AM Reviews

Title: Stephen King’s “N.” – Download the comics
Comics: Four in the Series
Author: Stephen King and Marc Guggenheim
Rating: 5/5 – Near Perfect

This graphic novel is based on Stephen King’s short story “N.” It can be found in his 2008 book, “Just After Sunset.”  Wikipedia describes the book as, “a woman named Sheila writes to her friend Charlie about her brother Johnny, a psychiatrist who recently committed suicide. Sheila suspects it was due to a patient Johnny referred to in his notes only as of the eponymous “N.”

The graphic novel follows the story pretty close with amazing and terrifying images. You can buy physical hard copies at marvel.com for $4.00 each or you can download PDF versions of the comics here.

More information can be found: N. Is Here

Check back tomorrow morning, for another 6AM Review.

The Man in the Black Suite: 4 Dark Tales

My Library, Book Reviews – 6AM Reviews

Title: The Man in the Black Suite: 4 Dark Tales
Pages: Audiobook
Author: Stephen King
Rating: 3/5 – Good King, Not Great King

This audiobook features four stories from Stephen King’s “Everything’s Eventual.”

  1. The Man in the Black Suit, read by John Cullum. The story is one hour and seven minutes long. And is the weakest of the four tales.
  2. All That You Love Will Be Carried Away, read by Peter Gerety
  3. That Feeling, You Can Only Say What It Is in French, read by Becky Ann Baker
  4. The Death of Jack Hamilton, read by Arliss Howard

My favorite of the four stories is the final one. Jack Hamilton is a member of the infamous John Dillinger gang. We follow his life and death is told to us by his friend Homer. Stephen King said he wrote the novella after six months of researching the actual events.

Check back tomorrow morning, for another 6AM Review.

32 Most Commonly Misused Words and Phrases

The HELP! Educational Blog had a great list last year about “the 32 Most Commonly Misused Words and Phrases.” I had the article saved on my computer and wanted to link to it today. However, I just found out they are no longer online. Thankfully, I did save them:

1. Accept/Except- Although these two words sound alike (they’re homophones), they have two completely different meanings. “Accept” means to willingly receive something (accept a present.) “Except” means to exclude something (I’ll take all of the books except the one with the red cover.)

2. Affect/Effect- The way you “affect” someone can have an “effect” on them. “Affect” is usually a verb and “Effect” is a noun.

3. Alright- If you use “alright,” go to the chalkboard and write “Alright is not a word” 100 times.

4. Capital/Capitol- “Capitol” generally refers to an official building. “Capital” can mean the city which serves as a seat of government or money or property owned by a company. “Capital” can also mean “punishable by death.”

5. Complement/Compliment- I often must compliment my wife on how her love for cooking perfectly complements my love for grocery shopping.

6. Comprise/Compose- The article I’m composing comprises 32 parts.

7. Could Of- Of the 32 mistakes on this list, this is the one that bothers me most. It’s “could have” not
“could of.” When you hear people talking, they’re saying “could’ve.” Got it?

8. Desert/Dessert- A desert is a hot, dry patch of sand. Dessert, on the other hand, is the sweet, fatty substance you eat at the end of your meal.

9. Discreet/Discrete- We can break people into two discrete (separate) groups, the discreet (secretive) and indiscreet.

10. Emigrate/Immigrate- If I leave this country to move to Europe, the leaving is emigrating and the arriving is immigrating.

11. Elicit/Illicit- Some people post illicit things on message boards to elicit outrageous reactions from others.

12. Farther/Further- Farther is used for physical distance, whereas further means to a greater degree.

13. Fewer/Less- Use fewer when referring to something that can be counted one-by-one. Use less when it’s something that doesn’t lend itself to a simple numeric amount.

14. Flair/Flare- A flair is a talent, while a flare is a burst (of anger, fire, etc.)

15. i.e/e.g- I.e. is used to say “in other words.” E.g. is used in place of “for example.”

16. Inflammable- Don’t let the prefix confuse you, if something is inflammable it can catch on fire.

17. It’s/Its- It’s= it is. Its=a possessive pronoun meaning of it or belonging to. Whatever you do, please don’t use its’.

18. Imply/Infer- A reader infers what an author implies. In other words, when you imply something, you hint at it. When you infer something, you draw a conclusion based on clues.

19. Literally- If you say “His head literally exploded because he was so mad!” then we should see brains splattered on the ceiling.

20. Lose/Loose- If your pants are too loose you may lose them. That would be almost as embarrassing as misusing these two words.

21. Moral/Morale- Morals are something you want to teach your kids. If your team’s morale is low, you need to do something to boost their confidence.

22. Percent/Percentage- The word “percent” should only be used when a specific number is given. “Percentage” is more of a general term.

23. Stationary/Stationery- You are stationary when you aren’t moving. Stationery is something you write on.

24. Then/Than- “Then” is another word for “after.” Incidentally, the word “then” makes for boring writing. “Than” is a comparative word (e.g. I am smarter than you).

25. There/Their/They’re- There are few things as frustrating as when I look at my students’ writing and they’re misusing these words in their writing.

26. Unique- Something can’t be “kind of unique” or even “very unique.” It’s either one-of-a-kind or it isn’t. There is no in between when it comes to unique.

27. Your/You’re- If I had a nickel for every time I saw this one… yeah, you know the rest. “Your” shows ownership and you’re is a contraction meaning “you are.” Get it right.

28. To/Too/Two- Two is a number. “To” is used in instances such as, “I am going to the store.” If you are supposed to use the word “too,” try inserting the word “extra” or “also.” If one of those fits, you need to also add the extra “o” to make “too.”

29. Lie/Lay- After you lay the books on the table, go lie down on the couch.

30. Sit/Set- Set your drink on the table and sit in your chair. Got it?

31. Whose/Who’s- Whose is the possessive form of who. Who’s is a contraction meaning “who is.”

32. Allude/Elude- When someone alludes to something in conversation (indirectly references), if you aren’t paying attention the meaning may elude you (escape you).

The Killing of a President

My Library, Book Reviews – 6AM Reviews

  • Title: The Killing of a President – Amazon
  • Pages: 233
  • Author: Robert Groden
  • Rating: 5/5 – Perfect

One of my high school teachers first showed me this book when we talked about the assassination in class. I ended up buying it the following week. It presents complete photographic evidence for those who believe President Kennedy was killed by more than one person.

Robert Groden makes a pretty convincing case for the multi-shooter theory. It shows frame by frame footage of the infamous Zapruder film. As well as dozens of photos from the actual autopsy which show what looks like different entry wounds on the President.

The book is strong enough to make anyone question the Warren Commission. I thought it was much better than the questionable Oliver Stone movie, “JFK” which also presented the same theory. This book, however, deals with facts, not innuendo, and that was something I appreciated.

Check back tomorrow morning, for another 6AM Review. 

What Dreams May Come

My Library, Book Reviews – 6AM Reviews

  • Title: What Dreams May Come – B&N, Amazon, PBS, Google
  • Pages: 288
  • Author: Richard Matheson
  • Rating: 5/5 – Perfect

What Dreams May Come is one of my favorite books (one of my top five). When Chris Nielsen dies he has a hard time adjusting to his afterlife. His journey to Heaven and through Hell is something every reader should experience.

Matheson spent hours researching near-death experiences and includes all of his work in a detailed bibliography at the end of the book. While he says his book is fictional, he only means the characters and the plot. Everything else he believes is based on facts and hard evidence.

I was going through the death of a loved one when I first read this book, and it helped me beyond measure. Death is not the end, only a new beginning.

Check back tomorrow morning, for another 6AM Review. 

Stephen King’s UR

I finally got around to Stephen King’s “UR.” I listened to the audiobook version, as I don’t yet have a Kindle. As it turns out, you need one to read the story, as Stephen King released the book only on that platform.

It’s about an English teacher named Wesley Smith who receives someone else’s mail. He orders a Kindle from amazon.com and instead of the standard Kindle, the one he gets is pink and can access other dimensions.

In these other dimensions, he finds authors we know and love have written more books than they did in our world. He is lured into buying these new books and is shocked at what he finds. Ernest Hemingway, for example, lives longer and produces three or four more books! I wish King focused more on this, he spends a decent amount of time, but it’s over just as it gets interesting!

The first six chapters of the book are amazing and fast-paced. It’s just that last, seventh chapter where I draw my objections.

SPOILER WARNING

I’m assuming you’ve read the book if you are reading this spoiler section. I have several issues with the way King finished UR. And it comes down to this: It doesn’t make sense.

I accept everything that happens in the book at face value. Smith gets a Kindle, which can access different dimensions. I’m sold. My problem comes when the ridiculous “Paradox Police” show up and only give Wesley a slap on the wrist.

Why would these two monsters warn Wesley about this horrible thing he had done, only then to say, “We’re giving you a pass.” By all estimations, Wesley screwed up big time. They just want to come and get the Kindle and leave? And then there is the whole point, they are taking the Kindle. Why would they warn him not to do anything like this again, if he physically can’t without that pink little device?

One more thing, the monsters lecture Wesley that he should have realized about the importance of the “Paradox Laws.” But, why would he? He just got the Kindle a few days before – he’s still adjusting to the whole idea of everything.

These two paradox police officers are scary as hell, I wish Stephen King would have really socked it to Wesley. It would have been a great twist, if by saving the life of the one he loved (and breaking the law), the monsters would have taken him to a different dimension where she had originally died. Or something along those lines.

Far be it from me to accuse the great Stephen King for rushing to meet a deadline, but the last chapter of UR seems to have been written in a different dimension. A dimension where Stephen King writes children’s books with happy endings.

The first six chapters of the book are amazing. It’s just that last, seventh chapter I fear will leave readers with a nasty taste in their mouth.

END OF SPOILER SECTION

The book is worth buying. It’s a great deal at only about $3.00 in the Kindle Store on amazon.com. Many have accused King of writing UR as nothing but an advertisement for the Kindle Reading Device. I’m not as cynical to believe this, but the story does make the Kindle sound pretty darn awesome. Awesome enough to spend $250.00 on it? Maybe, especially if you get a pink one…

A side note about the audio book. It’s read by Holter Graham, and as usual, does a fantastic job. He captures the book perfectly and makes the listening experience a delight.

1408 (2007)

Swedish film director Mikael Håfström takes Stephen King’s unsettling story about a haunted hotel room and turned it into an amazing hour and forty six minute fright-fest!

This film is unique because the majority of it is Crusack alone in the hotel room. It’s virtually his very own one-man show. He takes command of the screen and doesn’t let go.

The film version of 1408 is vastly different and I dare say superior to the book. While King’s novella was good and spooky in its own right, the movie takes the story to a new level. In the book, we don’t really know what’s going on in the room. All we hear (read) is what Michel records in the cassette recorder. Other than that we are left to our imagination. And while this does work well for a novel, it obviously would not work for the theaters.

The story builds and plays on your anticipation of what is going to happen next. And when it does actually happen, it has you jumping out of your seats with fear. The pacing reminded me of M. Night Shyamalan’s work in Sightings, very slow and methodical.

When you get to watch this on DVD, be sure to watch the alternative version of the film too. I would say they are both equally good, while the alterative version is just slightly better. The ending is improved and makes more sense to me than the original.

Verdict: Buy the DVD

Audio and Text of Chapter One of – “I am Legend”

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“I think the author who influences me the most as a writer was Richard Matheson. Books like I Am Legend were an inspiration to me.” – Stephen King

I am Legend by Richard Matheson, 1956

PART ONE:

January 1976

CHAPTER ONE

On those cloudy days, Robert Neville was never sure when sunset came, and sometimes they were in the streets before he could get back.

If he had been more analytical, he might have calculated the approximate time of their arrival; but he still used the lifetime habit of judging nightfall by the sky, and on cloudy days that method didn’t work. That was why he chose to stay near the house on those days.

He walked around the house in the dull gray of afternoon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, trailing threadlike smoke over his shoulder. He checked each window to see if any of the boards had been loosened. After violent attacks, the planks were often split or partially pried off, and he had to replace them completely; a job he hated. Today only one plank was loose. Isn’t that amazing? he thought.

In the back yard he checked the hothouse and the water tank. Sometimes the structure around the tank might be weakened or its rain catchers bent or broken off. Sometimes they would lob rocks over the high fence around the hothouse, and occasionally they would tear through the overhead net and he’d have to replace panes.

Both the tank and the hothouse were undamaged today.

He went to the house for a hammer and nails. As he pushed open the front door, he looked at the distorted reflection of himself in the cracked mirror he’d fastened to the door a month ago. In a few days, jagged pieces of the silver-backed glass would start to fall off. Let ’em fall, he thought. It was the last damned mirror he’d put there; it wasn’t worth it. He’d put garlic there instead. Garlic always worked.

He passed slowly through the dim silence of the living room, turned left into the small hallway, and left again into his bedroom.

Once the room had been warmly decorated, but that was in another time. Now it was a room entirely functional, and since Neville’s bed and bureau took up so little space, he had converted one side of the room into a shop.

A long bench covered almost an entire wall, on its hardwood top a heavy band saw, a wood lathe, an emery wheel, and a vise. Above it, on the wall, were haphazard racks of the tools that Robert Neville used.

He took a hammer from the bench and picked out a few nails from one of the disordered bins. Then he went back outside and nailed the plank fast to the shutter. The unused nails he threw into the rubble next door.

For a while he stood on the front lawn looking up and down the silent length of Cimarron Street. He was a tall man, thirty-six, born of English-German stock, his features undistinguished except for the long, determined mouth and the bright blue of his eyes, which moved now over the charred ruins of the houses on each side of his. He’d burned them down to prevent them from jumping on his roof from the adjacent ones.

After a few minutes he took a long, slow breath and went back into the house. He tossed the hammer on the living-room couch, then lit another cigarette and had his midmorning drink.

Later he forced himself into the kitchen to grind up the five-day accumulation of garbage in the sink. He knew he should burn up the paper plates and utensils too, and dust the furniture and wash out the sinks and the bathtub and toilet, and change the sheets and pillowcase on his bed; but he didn’t feel like it.

For he was a man and he was alone and these things had no importance to him.

* * *

It was almost noon. Robert Neville was in his hothouse collecting a basketful of garlic.

In the beginning it had made him sick to smell garlic in such quantity; his stomach had been in a state of constant turmoil. Now the smell was in his house and in his clothes, and sometimes he thought it was even in his flesh. He hardly noticed it at all.

When he had enough bulbs, he went back to the house and dumped them on the drainboard of the sink. As he flicked the wall switch, the light flickered, then flared into normal brilliance. A disgusted hiss passed his clenched teeth. The generator was at it again. He’d have to get out that damned manual again and check the wiring. And, if it were too much trouble to repair, he’d have to install a new generator.

Angrily he jerked a high-legged stool to the sink, got a knife, and sat down with an exhausted grunt.

First, he separated the bulbs into the small, sickle-shaped cloves. Then he cut each pink, leathery clove in half, exposing the fleshy center buds. The air thickened with the musky, pungent odor. When it got too oppressive, he snapped on the air-conditioning unit and suction drew away the worst of it.

Now he reached over and took an icepick from its wall rack. He punched holes in each clove half, then strung them all together with wire until he had about twenty-five necklaces.

In the beginning he had hung these necklaces over the windows. But from a distance they’d thrown rocks until he’d been forced to cover the broken panes with plywood scraps. Finally one day he’d torn off the plywood and nailed up even rows of planks instead. It had made the house a gloomy sepulcher, but it was better than having rocks come flying into his rooms in a shower of splintered glass. And, once he had installed the three air-conditioning units, it wasn’t too bad. A man could get used to anything if he had to.

When he was finished stringing the garlic cloves, he went outside and nailed them over the window boarding, taking down the old strings, which had lost most of their potent smell.

He had to go through this process twice a week. Until he found something better, it was his first line of defense.

Defense? he often thought. For what?

All afternoon he made stakes.

He lathed them out of thick doweling, band-sawed into nineinch lengths. These he held against the whirling emery stone until they were as sharp as daggers.

It was tiresome, monotonous work, and it filled the air with hotsmelling wood dust that settled in his pores and got into his lungs and made him cough.

Yet he never seemed to get ahead. No matter how many stakes he made, they were gone in no time at all. Doweling was getting harder to find, too. Eventually he’d have to lathe down rectangular lengths of wood. Won’t that be fun? he thought irritably.

It was all very depressing and it made him resolve to find a better method of disposal. But how could he find it when they never gave him a chance to slow down and think?

As he lathed, he listened to records over the loudspeaker he’d set up in the bedroom—Beethoven’s Third, Seventh, and Ninth symphonies. He was glad he’d learned early in life, from his mother, to appreciate this kind of music. It helped to fill the terrible void of hours.

From four o’clock on, his gaze kept shifting to the clock on the wall. He worked in silence, lips pressed into a hard line, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his eyes staring at the bit as it gnawed away the wood and sent floury dust filtering down to the floor.

Four-fifteen. Four-thirty. It was a quarter to five.

In another hour they’d be at the house again, the filthy bastards. As soon as the light was gone.

* * *

He stood before the giant freezer, selecting his supper. His jaded eyes moved over the stacks of meats down to the frozen vegetables, down to the breads and pastries, the fruits and ice cream.

He picked out two lamb chops, string beans, and a small box of orange sherbet. He picked the boxes from the freezer and pushed shut the door with his elbow.

Next he moved over to the uneven stacks of cans piled to the ceiling. He took down a can of tomato juice, then left the room that had once belonged to Kathy and now belonged to his stomach.

He moved slowly across the living room, looking at the mural that covered the back wall. It showed a cliff edge, sheering off to greenblue ocean that surged and broke over black rocks. Far up in the clear blue sky, white sea gulls floated on the wind, and over on the right a gnarled tree hung over the precipice, its dark branches etched against the sky.

Neville walked into the kitchen and dumped the groceries on the table, his eyes moving to the clock. Twenty minutes to six. Soon now.

He poured a little water into a small pan and clanked it down on a stove burner. Next he thawed out the chops and put them under the broiler. By this time the water was boiling and he dropped in the frozen string beans and covered them, thinking that it was probably the electric stove that was milking the generator.

At the table he sliced himself two pieces of bread and poured himself a glass of tomato juice. He sat down and looked at the red second hand as it swept slowly around the clock face. The bastards ought to be here soon.

After he’d finished his tomato juice, he walked to the front door and went out onto the porch. He stepped off onto the lawn and walked down to the sidewalk.

The sky was darkening and it was getting chilly. He looked up and down Cimarron Street, the cool breeze ruffling his blond hair. That’s what was wrong with these cloudy days; you never knew when they were coming.

Oh, well, at least they were better than those damned dust storms. With a shrug, he moved back across the lawn and into the house, locking and bolting the door behind him, sliding the thick bar into place. Then he went back into the kitchen, turned his chops, and switched off the heat under the string beans.

He was putting the food on his plate when he stopped and his eyes moved quickly to the clock. Six-twenty-five today. Ben Cortman was shouting.

“Come out, Neville!”

Robert Neville sat down with a sigh and began to eat.

* * *

He sat in the living room, trying to read. He’d made himself a whisky and soda at his small bar and he held the cold glass as he read a physiology text. From the speaker over the hallway door, the music of Schönberg was playing loudly.

Not loudly enough, though. He still heard them outside, their murmuring and their walkings about and their cries, their snarling and fighting among themselves. Once in a while a rock or brick thudded off the house. Sometimes a dog barked.

And they were all there for the same thing.

Robert Neville closed his eyes a moment and held his lips in a tight line. Then he opened his eyes and lit another cigarette, letting the smoke go deep into his lungs.

He wished he’d had time to soundproof the house. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t that he had to listen to them. Even after five months, it got on his nerves.

He never looked at them any more. In the beginning he’d made a peephole in the front window and watched them. But then the women had seen him and had started striking vile postures in order to entice him out of the house. He didn’t want to look at that.

He put down his book and stared bleakly at the rug, hearing Verklärte Nacht play over the loud-speaker. He knew he could put plugs in his ears to shut off the sound of them, but that would shut off the music too, and he didn’t want to feel that they were forcing him into a shell.

He closed his eyes again. It was the women who made it so difficult, he thought, the women posing like lewd puppets in the night on the possibility that he’d see them and decide to come out.

A shudder ran through him. Every night it was the same. He’d be reading and listening to music. Then he’d start to think about sound-proofing the house, then he’d think about the women.

Deep in his body, the knotting heat began again, and he pressed his lips together until they were white. He knew the feeling well and it enraged him that he couldn’t combat it. It grew and grew until he couldn’t sit still any more. Then he’d get up and pace the floor, fists bloodless at his sides. Maybe he’d set up the movie projector or eat something or have too much to drink or turn the music up so loud it hurt his ears. He had to do something when it got really bad.

He felt the muscles of his abdomen closing in like tightening coils. He picked up the book and tried to read, his lips forming each word slowly and painfully.

But in a moment the book was on his lap again. He looked at the bookcase across from him. All the knowledge in those books couldn’t put out the fires in him; all the words of centuries couldn’t end the wordless, mindless craving of his flesh.

The realization made him sick. It was an insult to a man. All right, it was a natural drive, but there was no outlet for it any more. They’d forced celibacy on him; he’d have to live with it. You have a mind, don’t you? he asked himself. Well, use it!

He reached over and turned the music still louder, then forced himself to read a whole page without pause. He read about blood cells being forced through membranes, about pale lymph carrying the wastes through tubes blocked by lymph nodes, about lymphocytes and phagocytic cells.

“…to empty, in the left shoulder region, near the thorax, into a large vein of the blood circulating system.”

The book shut with a thud.

Why didn’t they leave him alone? Did they think they could all have him? Were they so stupid they thought that? Why did they keep coming every night? After five months, you’d think they’d give up and try elsewhere.

He went over to the bar and made himself another drink. As he turned back to his chair he heard stones rattling down across the roof and landing with thuds in the shrubbery beside the house. Above the noises, he heard Ben Cortman shout as he always shouted.

“Come out, Neville!”

Someday I’ll get that bastard, he thought as he took a big swallow of the bitter drink. Someday I’ll knock a stake right through his goddamn chest. I’ll make one a foot long for him, a special one with ribbons on it, the bastard.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d soundproof the house. His fingers drew into white-knuckled fists. He couldn’t stand thinking about those women. If he didn’t hear them, maybe he wouldn’t think about them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

The music ended and he took a stack of records off the turntable and slid them back into their cardboard envelopes. Now he could hear them even more clearly outside. He reached for the first new record he could get and put it on the turntable and twisted the volume up to its highest point.

“The Year of the Plague,” by Roger Leie, filled his ears. Violins scraped and whined, tympani thudded like the beats of a dying heart, flutes played weird, atonal melodies.

With a stiffening of rage, he wrenched up the record and snapped it over his right knee. He’d meant to break it long ago. He walked on rigid legs to the kitchen and flung the pieces into the trash box. Then he stood in the dark kitchen, eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched, hands clamped over his ears. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone!

No use, you couldn’t beat them at night. No use trying; it was their special time. He was acting very stupidly, trying to beat them. Should he watch a movie? No, he didn’t feel like setting up the projector. He’d go to bed and put the plugs in his ears. It was what he ended up doing every night, anyway.

Quickly, trying not to think at all, he went to the bedroom and undressed. He put on pajama bottoms and went into the bathroom. He never wore pajama tops; it was a habit he’d acquired in Panama during the war.

As he washed, he looked into the mirror at his broad chest, at the dark hair swirling around the nipples and down the center line of his chest. He looked at the ornate cross he’d had tattooed on his chest one night in Panama when he’d been drunk. What a fool I was in those days! he thought. Well, maybe that cross had saved his life.

He brushed his teeth carefully and used dental floss. He tried to take good care of his teeth because he was his own dentist now. Some things could go to pot, but not his health, he thought. Then why don’t you stop pouring alcohol into yourself? he thought. Why don’t you shut the hell up? he thought.

Now he went through the house, turning out lights. For a few minutes he looked at the mural and tried to believe it was really the ocean. But how could he believe it with all the bumpings and the scrapings, the howlings and snarlings and cries in the night?

He turned off the living-room lamp and went into the bedroom.

He made a sound of disgust when he saw that sawdust covered the bed. He brushed it off with snapping hand strokes, thinking that he’d better build a partition between the shop and the sleeping portion of the room. Better do this and better do that, he thought morosely. There were so many damned things to do, he’d never get to the real problem.

He jammed in his earplugs and a great silence engulfed him. He turned off the light and crawled in between the sheets. He looked at the radium-faced clock and saw that it was only a few minutes past ten. Just as well, he thought. This way I’ll get an early start.

He lay there on the bed and took deep breaths of the darkness, hoping for sleep. But the silence didn’t really help. He could still see them out there, the white-faced men prowling around his house, looking ceaselessly for a way to get in at him. Some of them, probably, crouching on their haunches like dogs, eyes glittering at the house, teeth slowly grating together; back and forth, back and forth.

And the women…

Did he have to start thinking about them again? He tossed over on his stomach with a curse and pressed his face into the hot pillow. He lay there, breathing heavily, body writhing slightly on the sheet. Let the morning come. His mind spoke the words it spoke every night. Dear God, let the morning come.

He dreamed about Virginia and he cried out in his sleep and his fingers gripped the sheets like frenzied talons.

COPYRIGHT © 1954 BY RICHARD MATHESON

O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

– Walt Whitman

Alone – Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood’s hour, I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source, I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov’d, I loved alone.

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that ‘round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.