Shivers 7 by Stephen King, Clive Barker, Bill Pronzini, Graham Masterton, Rio Youers, Ed Gorman, Rick Hautala, Norman Partridge, Norman Prentiss Page A
Authors: Stephen King, Clive Barker, Bill Pronzini, Graham Masterton, Rio Youers, Ed Gorman, Rick Hautala, Norman Partridge, Norman Prentiss
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steering post. Threats also, explaining what he might do to his friends once they got him out of there.
If he was really going to do those things, they’d be foolish to let him out.
Easier decided than done, anyway. When the ride had been operational, the main platform circled slowly, like a merry-go-round. There were a dozen or so cup-and-saucer compartments on the dilapidated ride, all attached to this metal platform. Their cup—the one they’d upended over their friend—had landed snug into the platform space between its vacated saucer and two other saucers. It was pinned in place at three separate points. The notched doorway had landed at an inconvenient angle, the opening mostly blocked by a saucer lip. Only a half-moon slot was visible, not big enough even for skinny Skates to limbo through. For Eddie, it was out of the question.
Skates retrieved his flashlight and shined it into the blocked opening. Eddie’s face slid into the light, a prisoner looking out from his dungeon. A cloud of breath came from his mouth like angry smoke. He blinked, then shifted back into darkness. “Done looking?”
Skates shrugged and set the flashlight on the ground. He gripped the lid of the opening and tested it. “Heavier than I thought. Help me, Craig.”
They couldn’t lift it, and couldn’t shift the cup to clear the opening. Eddie’s fingers suddenly appeared in the opening, an extra pair of hands that for some reason Craig hadn’t been expecting. They didn’t help.
“We need something,” Skates finally said, out of breath. “A crowbar or a log or something.”
Craig shouted into the dark opening. “You’ll be all right here?” As if Eddie had a choice.
“Leave me a flashlight.”
“Mine’s broken,” Craig said. “We need the other one for searching and stuff.”
Eddie sighed. He mentioned calling an ambulance or the police, then at once realized how stupid the idea was. What a humiliation it would be, caught trespassing in a kiddie park, and trapped under an upended, paint-flecked, fiberglass teacup.
Skates patted the side of the cup. “We won’t be long.”
“You better not be.”
* * *
Trouble was, the place really was a forest. Suburban property was plentiful when park designers conceived the idea for Storybook Forest, so they spread their attractions over a large area. Little kids would walk along park paths, discovering one presumably magical attraction after another. Hallie used to run from Jack Spratt’s pumpkin house to find the giant shoe around the next corner. Dad would read the placard for her, until she learned how to read it herself: “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.”
So Craig and Skates had a lot of ground to cover—especially since they didn’t exactly know what they were looking for.
They found the house for the three little pigs. Not a brick one, which would be too much like an ordinary house, but the one made of straw. A fiberglass wolf used to huff and puff outside the door; his feet remained, legs snapped off at the ankles, and a few other broken pieces stomped into the ground. Once upon a time, the straw was simulated with bright yellow paint, brown now and making it more like a house of wet, dirty rope. The place seemed menacing in a way unintended in the park’s heyday. It was smaller than a real house. Instead of sharp corners, the angles were rounded and out of alignment—a whimsical effect on sunny days when the house was fresh, but now it looked as if the place was melting. The windows were smashed. Craig imagined innocent children reaching across the empty frames, their soft wrists tearing over jagged glass.
The windows were too small to climb through. Craig shined a light inside, revealing plump, upright pigs that had been target practice for beer bottles. Ears and snouts were broken off, little pig hooves shattered into sharp claws. Judging from the smell, they’d also been pissed
If he was really going to do those things, they’d be foolish to let him out.
Easier decided than done, anyway. When the ride had been operational, the main platform circled slowly, like a merry-go-round. There were a dozen or so cup-and-saucer compartments on the dilapidated ride, all attached to this metal platform. Their cup—the one they’d upended over their friend—had landed snug into the platform space between its vacated saucer and two other saucers. It was pinned in place at three separate points. The notched doorway had landed at an inconvenient angle, the opening mostly blocked by a saucer lip. Only a half-moon slot was visible, not big enough even for skinny Skates to limbo through. For Eddie, it was out of the question.
Skates retrieved his flashlight and shined it into the blocked opening. Eddie’s face slid into the light, a prisoner looking out from his dungeon. A cloud of breath came from his mouth like angry smoke. He blinked, then shifted back into darkness. “Done looking?”
Skates shrugged and set the flashlight on the ground. He gripped the lid of the opening and tested it. “Heavier than I thought. Help me, Craig.”
They couldn’t lift it, and couldn’t shift the cup to clear the opening. Eddie’s fingers suddenly appeared in the opening, an extra pair of hands that for some reason Craig hadn’t been expecting. They didn’t help.
“We need something,” Skates finally said, out of breath. “A crowbar or a log or something.”
Craig shouted into the dark opening. “You’ll be all right here?” As if Eddie had a choice.
“Leave me a flashlight.”
“Mine’s broken,” Craig said. “We need the other one for searching and stuff.”
Eddie sighed. He mentioned calling an ambulance or the police, then at once realized how stupid the idea was. What a humiliation it would be, caught trespassing in a kiddie park, and trapped under an upended, paint-flecked, fiberglass teacup.
Skates patted the side of the cup. “We won’t be long.”
“You better not be.”
* * *
Trouble was, the place really was a forest. Suburban property was plentiful when park designers conceived the idea for Storybook Forest, so they spread their attractions over a large area. Little kids would walk along park paths, discovering one presumably magical attraction after another. Hallie used to run from Jack Spratt’s pumpkin house to find the giant shoe around the next corner. Dad would read the placard for her, until she learned how to read it herself: “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.”
So Craig and Skates had a lot of ground to cover—especially since they didn’t exactly know what they were looking for.
They found the house for the three little pigs. Not a brick one, which would be too much like an ordinary house, but the one made of straw. A fiberglass wolf used to huff and puff outside the door; his feet remained, legs snapped off at the ankles, and a few other broken pieces stomped into the ground. Once upon a time, the straw was simulated with bright yellow paint, brown now and making it more like a house of wet, dirty rope. The place seemed menacing in a way unintended in the park’s heyday. It was smaller than a real house. Instead of sharp corners, the angles were rounded and out of alignment—a whimsical effect on sunny days when the house was fresh, but now it looked as if the place was melting. The windows were smashed. Craig imagined innocent children reaching across the empty frames, their soft wrists tearing over jagged glass.
The windows were too small to climb through. Craig shined a light inside, revealing plump, upright pigs that had been target practice for beer bottles. Ears and snouts were broken off, little pig hooves shattered into sharp claws. Judging from the smell, they’d also been pissed
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