Danny thought about it. He looked at Edmonds and then, with a small effort of concentration, he tried to catch Edmonds's thoughts or at least the color of his mood. And suddenly he got an oddly comforting image in his head: file cabinets, their doors sliding shut one after another, locking with a click. Written on the small tabs in the center of each door was: A-C, SECRET; D-G, SECRET; and so on. This made Danny feel a little easier.

Cautiously he said: “I don't know who Tony is.”

“Is he your age?”

“No. He's at least eleven. I think he might be even older. I've never seen him right up close. He might be old enough to drive a car.”

“You just see him at a distance, huh?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And he always comes just before you pass out?”

“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 silkpapered walls, knocking out whiffs of plaster dust. Crouching helplessly on the blue-black woven jungle rug.

(Come out)

(This inhuman place)