The Collector (998 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.94 on 37 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2006-03-23 17:29:50 EST
It was the tenth of February, a Friday, chilling cold. It was the tenth of February and I was on the road alone.
I was walking down Route 1, near New Hampshire's embarrassing little parcel of coastline, walking as fast as I could to keep warm.
A cold front was driving the temperature below zero. If the breeze I was walking into grew any stronger the wind chill factor would push the temperature to the freezing point of skin. Then I'd be in serious trouble.
I was wearing two sweaters and a goose down parka, long underwear under my jeans, and thick wool socks inside my boots. It was my hands and face I was worried about. My cap was inadequate, my scarf shabby and my gloves cheap and thin. If it got any colder I'd soon loose an ear or a couple of fingers to frostbite.
I'd been on the road an hour, after hopping out of a warm pick-up driven by an old man who was taking a smaller county road to his home.
Every few minutes I looked over my shoulder, and then squinted into the distance ahead of me to see if there were any vehicles on the road, wondering what I had gotten myself into. I had to find some shelter soon.
I felt a bite of pain on my left ear and winced. It was like the nip of a small animal with needle teeth. The pain I was feeling was a warning that frostbite was setting in.
I walked down the road, late-afternoon light burning in patches of ice, my left hand over my ear, my self-directed curses trailing behind me in clouds of white vapor.
A few minutes later I saw the car. It was a couple of miles down the road, coming up behind me.
For a moment, in the distance, it looked like a drop of blood welling on the horizon.
As it came closer the sound of its engine grew, harsh in the chilled air. An old cherry red AMC Pacer, it looked like a goldfish bowl on wheels, trundling towards me. It was badly in need of a tune-up, the engine chopping, the right-hand wheels shimmying back and forth.
I stuck out my thumb and the car roared by without slowing, the driver bent over and peering at me thought the passenger window.
Fifty yards down the road the brake lights blazed red, and then the car backed up and stopped about ten feet away. The driver flashed his brakes again, and I approached the car.
The passenger door popped open and two empty soda cans clattered onto the blacktop. I stepped forward and looked inside. The interior of the car was dark, the big man behind the wheel made bigger by the bulky parka he wore with the hood up, his face hidden in that bowl of shadows.
"Get in, get in," he urged, "It's gettin' cold in here!" He sounded young.
"I appreciate this," I said, slipping my backpack off of my shoulders and squeezing into the passenger seat. "I thought I was going to freeze my ass off out there." I pulled the door shut.
"Toss your pack in the back," the driver said.
I looked into his hood for a moment, trying to see his face. It was like looking down a dark well. My pack went into the back seat, among a dumping ground for hamburger and milkshake containers, ringing soda cans, candy bar wrappers, and used facial tissues which had dried in strange, twisted bird-like shapes.
I faced ahead as the car pulled out onto the road. The hot air vents under the dash were wide open, and I welcomed the growing tingle and itch as my toes and fingers began to warm up. A minute later I began to sweat. The heat was tremendous, and I unzipped my coat.
A large, soft hand appeared on my left. "Name's Hubert Welles," the driver said. I shook his damp, warm hand and introduced myself. When the handshake ended I realized that Welles' hand was sticky as well. I fought down a grimace of distaste.
Hubert Welles pulled back the hood of his parka and peered at me. He was near my age, twenty-five or so. His head was huge and round, his nose and cheeks shiny and pink. He had limp brown hair and dull grey eyes. His skin, both face and hands, was pale and unlined, as if it hadn't been exposed to work or weather. His shoulders were half a foot higher than mine. His head was nestled against the Pacer's roof, knees jammed up under the dashboard. I guessed his weight at around three hundred pounds, the way the car was leaning to the left. That explained the shimmy in the right-hand tires.
"Where are you headed?" Welles asked, digging into the right-hand pocket of his parka. He retrieved a chocolate bar, and stripped the wrapper back with his teeth. He shoved the entire snack into his mouth, a log going into a fireplace.
"Just over the state line," I said. "Kittery. I didn't think it would get this damn cold."
Welles looked at the sky and smiled dreamily, chewing the chocolate bar. "Gonna get colder too," he said, facing me. "I listen to the radio. It's important."
That last had been said in a somber tone, as if imparting one of the secrets of life.
He exhaled in my direction, and the sickly-sweet smell of chocolate made my stomach do a slow roll. I figured I needed some fresh air. I took off my cap, and took a deep breath. Then I realized it was not just the heat and the chocolate that was making me nauseous.
There was another smell in the car, something earthy and rank, as if Welles had shit on the back seat. I cracked my window open a half-inch and took a breath.
Welles cleared his throat and glared at me. I took another gulp of cool air, and when my stomach settled I rolled the window up. Welles let that dreamy smile slip over his face again.
"How far down the road are you heading?" I was hoping Welles would get me within walking distance of Kittery.
"Not anywhere near the state line, or Portsmouth," he said. "I never go to town. Not that town."
Welles gripped the wheel in his big hands and stared at the road ahead. At first I thought he was goofing around, making a face. Then I realized that the childish, petulant frown was the real deal.
We drove in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Got a deep-freeze comin. Gonna be a cold snap last all weekend long. Not gonna see too many folks out on the road after the sun goes down. And that goes for the weekend too. Got anything lined up? Place to stay?"
I looked out the window, saw sunlight sizzling on ice and snow. Christ, not a faggot, I thought. Please Jesus, let the guy be normal. Fat and a little quirky, but no ass bandits. Not now. Not here.
"No," I replied. "I was hoping to make it to town before nightfall."
Welles shook his large head and laughed, releasing a strange, high-pitched titter. "That's an awful long way off. Awwful long."
I took a deep breath. Shit, I thought. Fuck. "Got any suggestions?" I asked.
Welles dull eyes suddenly lit up and he grinned at me. He had tiny, even teeth.
"Well, you could stay with me. Since mom and dad died it's been great having the house to myself, but it gets kind of boring. I have a couple spare rooms. You can take your pick. And I got cable and snacks."
It sounded like all I needed was a pair of pajamas with rocket ships on them.
"You can get on the road Monday," Welles said.
I could spend two days with a freak or risk freezing to death.
"Okay," I said. "I smoke though. Got a doorway where I can smoke?"
A little wave of distaste rippled across his face. "That's not a very nice habit. "But my dad had a study that he smoked in. You could use that."
Shit, I thought.
"Great," I said. "Where do I sign?"
Harold tittered again and slapped me on the shoulder, and that's when I realized that behind the soft façade, this guy was strong.
Two local roads and a long, winding lane took us to a large home on the coast, a once grand structure built near the edge of a gray cliff.
This place was in dire need of a little TLC. "Gothic revival?"
Welles shrugged. "I think so. I don't know. My gramma was born here, so the family has had it a long time. Just me, now. I own it all. The house and all the land within the fence.
I saw a few random pickets here and there, stripped of paint and worn smooth by salt air and blowing sand.
Behind the house clouds began rolling in off the sea.
Welles steered the Pacer toward a garage, a more recent addition to the old house. He activated a remote clipped to the sun visor and a door wide enough to accommodate three cars at once rolled up out of sight.
He parked and we got out of the car and both of us reached into the back seat, me for my pack, Welles for a plastic shopping bag. There was an inside door that seemed to lead toward the house but Welles ignored it. I looked closely at the jamb and saw that the garage had settled at some point and some of the straight edges were a little out of line. The door was probably stuck shut.
We stepped out into the wind and Welles paused to lower the door. I looked up and say dark gray clouds churning over parapets and pinnacles and felt like I'd stepped into a Poe story.
Welles trotted up granite stairs to the front door and applied keys to a series of locks.
I stepped into warm air coming from an old iron vent in the entryway.
"You must have one hell of a heating bill," I said.
Welles pulled off his parka and shrugged. "I don't worry much about money. Dad had a lot."
I hung my coat beside his and followed him through another door and across a wide hallway into a kitchen. Among my many odd jobs was fry cook, and I'd worked in places smaller than this.
Pinned to a cork board over a phone were business cards for every kind of service you could imagine. Safeway, a pizza place, a green grocer, a video store.
"I pay a little extra for delivery out here but it's worth it," Welles said. "I don't like being around most people."
"Glad I made the grade," I said.
"I don't see any wanting in you." Welles almost whispered this, looking me in the eye. "Most grown-ups are filled with wants I can't accommodate, you know?"
"Sure," I replied. What the fuck ever.
"Anyhow, let me show you to your room."
We went into the hall again, down past the sweeping staircase.
Welles opened a door and flicked on a light. "This is a nice guest room. Next door is my dad's study. You can smoke in there."
"Okay," I said, setting my pack on the bed. First thing I was going to do when he was gone was open a window. I felt like I'd stepped into a sauna.
I stuck out my hand, and Welles looked at it, then shook. "Thanks," I said.
Welles gave a little twitch of a smile and headed out into the hall.
"I have to perform my movements. There's lots of sandwich stuff in the refrigerators, and cold pizza and chicken and pop."
"Got it."
Welles trotted up the stairs. "I'm gonna watch a movie later in the family room. That's the big room across the hall from the kitchen. You can watch to if you want."
I heard floorboard creaking overhead, and a distant door closing.
The room had a small bathroom. I took a piss and washed my hands, and then went to the big bedroom window. The view was gray sky, gray sea, gray stone.
The window would not move when I tried to open it. I gave it everything I had and didn't hear so much as a creak from the old wood.
I sat on the edge of the bed and took off my boots. I pulled an old pair of Converse sneakers out of my pack and slipped them on.
I heard a muffled boom from upstairs, like the sound of a depth charge exploding in an old world war two movie. There were a few more booms, and then a minute of silence.
I squinted when I heard another sound. Was that a grunt? It came again. What the hell was Welles doing up there?
A toilet flushed, and I shook my head.
I went into the kitchen and bypassed the soda, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
Welles had left his plastic shopping bag on the central butch block table. I raised one side of the bag with a finger and peeked inside.
"What the f—"
"All settled in?" Welles came into the room and grabbed a Coke.
"Yeah," I said. "Cozy."
"Well, I'm gonna have a nap before dinner," Welles said. "I'm gonna watch Battlefield Earth tonight. I have the dvd. Wanna watch it with me?"
I would rather have spent the evening shoving fistfuls of snow up my ass, but if that was all it took to get a warm bed for the night...
"Sure. Travolta's in that, right?"
"Yeah," Welles replied, picking up the plastic bag. "And it is magnificent. It was assaulted by the critics, but then how many of them took the time to read Ron Hubbard's entire Battlefield Earth series? It is one of the greatest science-fiction works ever."
"Sure," I said again, forcing a smile.
"Okay. Later."
I went back to my room and sat back on the bed.
The plastic shopping bag had been holding a little girl's jump-rope. It was a few feet of rope, dyed pink. There were white plastic handles on each end.
If Welles had gone and bought the thing that wouldn't have bothered so me much. I'd seen a lot of the country in the last few years, and there were a lot of weird assholes out there.
However, Welles hadn't bought the jump-rope. The handles were a little grimy. And the center of the rope was abraded from striking a floor or a sidewalk countless times.
Welles hadn't purchased the rope. He had stolen it.
I went into the hall and opened the door across from my bedroom. I felt for a switch, and when the light came on I simply stared.
This was no study. I didn't know what it was.
The room was filled with things. I stepped inside and looked around. There were shelves and crates and cabinets, all of them full.
Toys clustered and piled in the dozens. Clothes. Two bikes. A canvas bag like the kind a kid would use to deliver newspapers. Bags of marbles. Comic books. A cardboard tube holding the dry remnants of cotton candy. A powder-blue hairbrush. A tiny pair of white underpants. And much more.
Some of the things, the bikes, the assorted toys, were older, near the back of the room, and I could see dust on some of the shelves. The more personal possessions looked as if they were recent additions to the room.
Get your coat, I told myself. Get your coat and your pack and leave now.
I turned around and Welles was standing in the doorway holding a tiny clock.
"I brought you an alarm clock," he said. "In case you want to nap as well."
I didn't know what to say. Welles stepped out of the way and held the door open for me.
"I said the study was next door to your room," Welles said, showing that petulant frown again, "Not across the hall."
"Sorry man. I got confused."
I crossed the hall and opened the study door. I breathed in musty air and took a pack of Marlboros out of my pocket.
"I'd prefer it if you smoke outside," Welles said stiffly. "You can use the servant's entrance at the end of the hall."
I went down the hall and opened the door, passed through a small vestibule, and opened another door, stepping down onto hardened snow and rock. I lit a smoke and walked to the cliff edge.
I looked toward the darkening horizon, raised my eyes to the red clouds illuminated by the setting sun behind me.
I leaned forward and looked down. Breakers threw ocean spray high into the air, and every once in a while I could taste the salt. That was one hell of a drop. I took a step back.
I smoked and shivered, and when I was nearly done I heard Welles coming up behind me.
"Hey," he said. He was holding my parka, wearing his own coat and boots. "Sorry I got so snippy back there. I'm just used to being alone."
I slipped into my coat and pulled another cigarette out of my pack.
"You mind?"
Welles shook his head and stepped to the cliff edge, looking out at the sea. "My dad used to smoke. He smoked a pipe. He was a smart guy. Smarter than me. At least, that's what he told me."
I felt a sudden chill that cut deeper than the winter chill. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff in more ways than one. I took a drag from my smoke and exhaled.
With his broad back to me Welles asked, "Are you a smart guy?"
I laughed and shook my head. "If I was a smart guy, I wouldn't need saving by you from stumbling down a country road in the middle of winter, would I?"
Welles turned his head, just a little, watching me out of the corner of his eye. He was thinking things over.
He turned away and I saw his shoulders shake for a moment. He let out a short high-pitched laugh.
"Yeah," he said. I sounded like a sigh.
"So, slap me if I'm prying, but what's with all the stuff in that room?"
"It's private," he said.
I took another drag. "That's cool with me. Want to head back inside?"
I turned to go, and Welles spoke up.
"It's just stuff I collect. I've been collecting a long time, you know?"
"Of course," I said, not having the slightest clue what he talking about.
"I just like that stuff. Kiddy stuff. Being a kid was great. I don't like being a grown up so much."
He had a point there. "The world does seem to change on you, doesn't it?"
"It doesn't seem to change," he hissed angrily. "It does change. It becomes... cold."
I was freezing my balls off, but I was afraid to turn my back on this guy.
"Anyhow," Welles said, "I like that kid stuff. It makes me feel like a kid. Being closer to them and all."
"Gotta be careful, pal. You don't want any angry parents chasing you down the street because you stole a toy."
Welles shrugged, staring out to sea again. "Nah... I'm good. And getting better. Been collecting that stuff for a while now."
He looked over his shoulder at me and grinned, showing those tiny white teeth. "That jump rope I grabbed, the handles were still warm from little girl who owned it. It made me feel so close to her."
I took a step forward, flicked my butt over the cliff edge, and immediately lit another.
"Watch that edge, man. That's a long way down."
Welles shuffled ahead and looked down, leaning forward a little so he could see past his gut. His toes poked out into space.
"I bet if someone fell or got pushed off of here, they'd scream all the way down. And I bet their body would just explode when it hit those jagged rocks."
I didn't say a thing. I was thinking.
Welles asked, "Wouldn't the colors be wonderful?"
Welles collection showed that he was getting closer and closer to the children he stole from. Sooner or later their possessions wouldn't be enough.
He hadn't actually done anything unforgivable yet. Not yet.
I gave him a push. Just a little one.
As he had predicted, Welles screamed all the way down, and his body did indeed explode when it hit the distant rocks with their glaze of ice.
The colors were not wonderful. Not at all.
I went back to the house and slept through the night.
The next day was the eleventh of February, a Saturday, chilling cold. It was the eleventh of February and I was on the road alone.
[Note: I tried to come up with another title for this then gave up, but The Collector is also the title of a fucking awesome 60's flick with a very young Terrence Stamp and a very cute Samantha Egger. No titties or shit blowing up, but still, a solid little psychological drama based on a novel by John Fowles.]
User Reviews
Submitted by hcp28 (user info) at 2006-03-28 17:14:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I thought he did because there could only be one child killer in town... and he was already there.
Submitted by Davros (user info) at 2006-03-25 21:51:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I was a little dissapointed in the ending although all the bases were covered, but you can build a scene exceptionally well.
-Dave
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2006-03-24 14:18:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
of course
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-24 14:06:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-03-24 13:33:24 (#)
Ranking: 2
btw.... where's redemption road?
--
Over the last few months I completed a move from SF to a new town, and then got involved in an office move at work. The last year has been a bitch.
My various series will continue/conclude soon.
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-03-24 13:33:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
loved this. good ending, didn't expect that till i got closer to the last words. also weird cuz i've been to kittery, more than once. creepier now.
btw.... where's redemption road? dick.
but a dick that writes well.
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2006-03-24 12:31:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Love your writing
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-24 11:24:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-03-24 09:43:40 (#)
Ranking: 2
You built this great tale and then all of a sudden the creeps tapped off the edge and it's over. kinda like forty minutes of foreplay and then spurting before you're ready.
--
Hell, that's normal.
Isn't it?
Submitted by Mike00295 (user info) at 2006-03-24 11:11:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This kicked ass.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-03-24 09:43:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this was good, I liked it a lot, until I got to the end. You built this great tale and then all of a sudden the creeps tapped off the edge and it's over. kinda like forty minutes of foreplay and then spurting before you're ready. still good though
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-03-24 09:17:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this was phenominal by the way.
check your email
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-24 09:17:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-03-24 01:59:01 (#)
Ranking: 1
Fuck you, trying to get into Uberbook....
--
As soon as I finish burning off this bowl you are, like, so fuckin dead, man.
Submitted by Nellypaal (user info) at 2006-03-24 05:43:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is more like it.
I felt it was slightly rushed right at the end but it's still infinitely more entertaining that someone ELSE calling Caulaincourt a fag or Method being a dick for the umpteenth time.
Keep it up.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2006-03-24 04:20:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Lately I dont' seem to have the energy to read these kickass stories people put out, my attention span has shrunk to the size of a commercial break.
I blame diesel fumes.
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-03-24 04:08:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Indoninja's a fucking toolbag.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-03-24 02:10:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-03-24 01:59:01 (#)
Ranking: 1
Fuck you, trying to get into Ube
--------------
fuck me i read two lines.
I was being a dick, now I realize I was being an asshole.
good shit.
this could be in a book.
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-03-24 01:59:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Fuck you, trying to get into Uberbook....
Submitted by MrCoffee (user info) at 2006-03-24 00:40:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
gems like this are becoming more and more rare amongst the shit.
its a shame
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-23 23:53:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-03-23 23:05:44 (#)
Ranking: 2
hey, drop me an email. i have an idea for a story that i'm not good enough to write but would like to see written
timdowning.at.gmail.com
--
You aren't bugging me again about that business where some guy named 'Tim Smith' discovers that he was a bastard child and is about to receive a most unusual inheritance from a deceased father after Hugh Hefner kicks off, is it?
Submitted by pragmatic (user info) at 2006-03-23 23:49:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Abso lutely fucking fantastic
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-03-23 23:36:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You are the reason I joined Ubersite.
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-03-23 23:20:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was really good.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-03-23 23:05:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
hey, drop me an email. i have an idea for a story that i'm not good enough to write but would like to see written
timdowning.at.gmail.com
Submitted by Average_Dan (user info) at 2006-03-23 21:52:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:26:41 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Average_Dan (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:25:24 (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus, this was amazing. I love the painting of the scenes, no corners cut.
Incredebly minor point: " I looked up and say dark gray clouds churning over parapets and pinnacles and felt like I'd stepped into a Poe story"
Saw, not say.
Fucking amazing!
--
There's gonna be a typo on my fucking headstone, I just know it.
------------------
Sorry, just doing my editing thing. It still Rawked my face off!
Submitted by fading_suns (user info) at 2006-03-23 21:08:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is the second amazing story that I've read on Uber today, I'm outta here. I'd like to add a comment on any way that it could be improved, but I can't. You got a little touch of the writing talent in ya. Wow. I'm gone.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-03-23 19:44:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Welles trotted up the stairs. "I'm gonna watch a movie later in the family room. That's the big room across the hall from the kitchen. You can watch to if you want."
----------
More nitpicking: this should have read "You can watch too if you want."
This did indeed read a lot like King, and I had the Fowles novel in the back of my mind the whole time. But in the good way, not the "this is a rip-off" way.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-03-23 19:10:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
geez, what's next, people will saying the Uber is a 'serious writing' site, or somepin
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:26:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Average_Dan (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:25:24 (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus, this was amazing. I love the painting of the scenes, no corners cut.
Incredebly minor point: " I looked up and say dark gray clouds churning over parapets and pinnacles and felt like I'd stepped into a Poe story"
Saw, not say.
Fucking amazing!
--
There's gonna be a typo on my fucking headstone, I just know it.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:25:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by icarus1987 (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:06:30 (#)
Ranking: 2
You must be a fan of King's earlier (and later) work.
--
Yeah. Fuck literature, man.
Two guys taught me how to write. King, and the incredible Richard Matheson.
No one, and I mean fucking NO ONE, writes a short story like Matheson. And the guy has had a hand in so much shit over the last few decades that a look at his published works always makes people say, "You mean HE wrote that?"
Matheson wrote The Incredible Shrinking Man in the 50's (the novel is actually very good), the screenplay for Spielberg's first flick, Duel, in the 70's... hell he even scripted the first Night Stalker flick. He wrote a great Star Trek episode (TOS The Enemy Within), sixteen motherfucking Twilight Zone episodes, yes, I said sixteen (including Steel, Nick of Time, The Invaders, and the classic Nightmare at 20,000 Feet... he gave Shatner at lot of work). Awesome guy. One of the characters in my quickie series Mendo Weekend (http://www.ubersite.com/m/47105) is based on him.
And he also wrote 'I Am Legend' in the 50's, the biggest influence behind the whole goddamn Pandemic series.
Submitted by Average_Dan (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:25:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus, this was amazing. I love the painting of the scenes, no corners cut.
Incredebly minor point: " I looked up and say dark gray clouds churning over parapets and pinnacles and felt like I'd stepped into a Poe story"
Saw, not say.
Fucking amazing!
Submitted by icarus1987 (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:06:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You must be a fan of King's earlier (and later) work.
Submitted by turkishblend (user info) at 2006-03-23 18:02:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-03-23 17:54:51 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it. was kinda worried that the gore factor would go over.. but no, you managed suspense and no gore.
Very good.
sigh. I wish I had a tenth of your talent
Submitted by precision (user info) at 2006-03-23 17:52:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it, good imagery
Submitted by Yes (user info) at 2006-03-23 17:48:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
good writing but the ending left me feeling very unfullfilled.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-23 17:35:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Make that Terence. Jesus Christ.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-03-23 17:34:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Make that Samantha Eggar.
Speaking of off the wall flicks Stamp was in before he became famous...
Anyone ever see a movie called 'The mind of Mr. Soames?' Made in 1970 or so, pretty good, kind of bizarre.
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2006-03-23 17:31:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wowzers.