"Collections\Different Seasons\Apt Pupil.txt" 61 53:The door stopped again. The old man’s pouched and PALLID face hung in the gap like a wrinkled, half-deflated balloon. Todd smiled.
"Collections\Different Seasons\Apt Pupil.txt" 587 71:Todd looked up, and for a single second Bowden thought he saw a wild, PALLID anger in his son’s eyes. His own eyes widened, his fingers clenched on Todd’s buff-colored report card . . . and then it was just Todd, looking at him openly if rather unhappily. Had that anger really been there? Surely not. But the moment had unsettled him, made it hard for him to know exactly how to proceed. Todd hadn’t been mad, and Dick Bowden didn’t want to make him mad. He and his son were friends, always had been friends, and Dick wanted things to stay that way. They had no secrets from each other, none at all (except for the fact that Dick Bowden was sometimes unfaithful with his secretary, but that wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you told your thirteen-year-old son, was it? . . . and besides, that had absolutely no bearing on his home life, his family life). That was the way it was supposed to be, the way it had to be in a cockamamie world where murderers went unpunished, high school kids skin-popped heroin, and junior high schoolers—kids Todd’s age—turned up with VD.
"Collections\Different Seasons\Apt Pupil.txt" 928 123:Dussander looked at Todd closely in the drizzling dark. The boy’s face was turned defiantly up to his, but the skin was PALLID, the sockets under the eyes dark and slightly hollowed—the skin-tones of someone who has brooded long while others are asleep.
"Collections\Different Seasons\Apt Pupil.txt" 1750 75:His hands balled helplessly into fists. His dream-climax recurred to him, PALLID now, senseless, frightening. But nerve-endings still tingled, retreating slowly from their spike-point. That final scene, fading now, was disgusting and yet somehow compulsive, like an unsuspecting bite into a piece of tropical fruit which, you realized (a second too late), had only tasted so amazingly sweet because it was rotten.
"Collections\Different Seasons\The Body.txt" 358 1431:He was buried in a closed coffin with the American flag on top (they took the flag off the box before they finally stuck it in the ground and folded it—the flag, not the box—into a cocked hat and gave it to my mom). My parents just fell to pieces. Four months hadn’t been long enough to put them back together again; I didn’t know if they’d ever be whole again. Mr. and Mrs. Dumpty. Denny’s room was in suspended animation just one door down from my room, suspended animation or maybe in a time-warp. The Ivy League college pennants were still on the walls, and the senior pictures of the girls he had dated were still tucked into the mirror where he had stood for what seemed like hours at a stretch, combing his hair back into a ducktail like Elvis’s. The stack of Trues and Sports Illustrated remained on his desk, their dates looking more and more antique as time passed. It’s the kind of thing you see in sticky-sentimental movies. But it wasn’t sentimental to me; it was terrible. I didn’t go into Dennis’s room unless I had to because I kept expecting that he would be behind the door, or under the bed, or in the closet. Mostly it was the closet that preyed on my mind, and if my mother sent me in to get Denny’s postcard album or his shoebox of photographs so she could look at them, I would imagine that door swinging slowly open while I stood rooted to the spot with horror. I would imagine him PALLID and bloody in the darkness, the side of his head walloped in, a gray-veined cake of blood and brains drying on his shirt. I would imagine his arms coming up, his bloody hands hooking into claws, and he would be croaking: It should have been you, Gordon. It should have been you.
"Collections\Everything�s Eventual\1408.txt" 452 427:The pictures on the living room wall were crooked again, and there were other changes, as well. The lady on the stairs had pulled down the top of her gown, baring her breasts. She held one in each hand. A drop of blood hung from each nipple. She was staring directly into Mike’s eyes and grinning ferociously. Her teeth were filed to cannibal points. At the rail of the sailing ship, the tars had been replaced by a line of PALLID men and women. The man on the far left, nearest the ship’s bow, wore a brown wool suit and held a derby hat in one hand. His hair was slicked to his brow and parted in the middle. His face was shocked and vacant. Mike knew his name: Kevin O’Malley, this room’s first occupant, a sewing machine salesman who had jumped from this room in October of 1910. To O’Malley’s left were the others who had died here, all with that same vacant, shocked expression. It made them look related, all members of the same inbred and cataclysmically retarded family.
"Collections\Everything�s Eventual\The Road Virus Heads North.txt" 242 425:It had changed yet again. The car was now parked in the driveway of the yard sale yard. The goods were still spread out everywhere—glassware and furniture and ceramic knickknacks (Scottie dogs smoking pipes, bare-assed toddlers, winking fish), but now they gleamed beneath the light of the same skullface moon that rode in the sky above Kinnell’s house. The TV was still there, too, and it was still on, casting its own PALLID radiance onto the grass, and what lay in front of it, next to an overturned lawn chair. Judy Diment was on her back, and she was no longer all there. After a moment, Kinnell saw the rest. It was on the ironing board, dead eyes glowing like fifty-cent pieces in the moonlight.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 1457 89:His hands stopped halfway down the page. He looked out the window and saw his own long, PALLID face superimposed over the darkness.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 2147 131:But she had walked on concrete in high heels before. She didn’t remember ever hearing a sound precisely like this. It was . . . PALLID, somehow. Strengthless.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 2650 68:Halfway across the room, his attention was once more snared by the PALLID light which fell through the windows, and he turned in that direction. He could feel them out there. The langoliers. They had eaten all the useless, lazy people, and now they were returning for him. He had to get to Boston. It was the only way he knew to save the rest of himself . . . because their death would be horrible. Their death would be horrible indeed.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 3716 448:A shrill, panicked scream drifted up to them, cutting across the low rattling background noise like a fork drawn across a slate blackboard. It was followed by running footfalls on the ladder. Nick turned in that direction and his hands came up in a gesture Albert recognized at once; he had seen some of the martial-arts freaks at school back home practicing the move. It was the classic Tae Kwan Do defensive position. A moment later Bethany’s PALLID, terrified face appeared in the doorway and Nick let his hands relax.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 4225 279:Albert took a step backward and felt a warm swoop of air in his face as Craig swung the blade through the spot where he had been only a second before. He flailed behind him with his free hand, terrified of backing into a corner where Craig could use the knife (in the Zippo’s PALLID, fading light, that was what he had thought it was) on him at will and his own weapon would be useless as well as stupid. His fingers found only empty space, and he backed through the door into the lobby. He did not feel cool; he did not feel like the fastest Hebrew on any side of the Mississippi; he did not feel faster than blue blazes. He felt like a scared kid who had foolishly chosen a childhood playtoy instead of a real weapon because he had been unable to believe—really, really believe—that it could come to this in spite of what the lunatic asshole had done to the little girl upstairs. He could smell himself. Even in the dead air he could smell himself. It was the rancid monkeypiss aroma of fear.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 4956 130:To the east of the airport, a large cracking, rending sound filled the freakish morning. Bob and Albert got to their feet, faces PALLID and filled with dreadful questions.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Langoliers.txt" 5677 62:Nick looked around at Brian. His eyes seemed to float in his PALLID face. “All my life,” he said, “I’ve thought of Australia when I heard people talk about the great bugger-all, but it’s not. That’s the great bugger-all, right down there.”
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Library Policeman.txt" 3905 512:Gasping and rocking, the Library Cop pounds what feels like a huge hot bar of steel in and out of Sam’s bum; Sam stares with wide eyes into the Library basement, which is in another universe, an orderly universe where gruesome things like this don’t ever happen. He watches the janitor nod, tuck his clipboard under his arm, and walk toward the door at the far end of the room. If the janitor turned his head just a little and raised his eyes slightly, he would see a face peering in the window at him, the PALLID, wide-eyed face of a little boy with red licorice on his lips. Part of Sam wants the janitor to do just that—to rescue him the way the woodcutter rescued Little Red Riding Hood—but most of him knows the janitor would only turn away, disgusted, at the sight of another bad little boy submitting to his just punishment at the hands of the Briggs Avenue Library Cop.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Library Policeman.txt" 4390 70:Then a single emergency bulb high up on one wall went on, throwing a PALLID sheaf of light over this section of the stacks and flinging shadows everywhere like tangles of black yarn. Sam could hear the light’s battery buzzing noisily. He made his way to where Naomi still knelt beside Dave, twice almost falling as his feet slid in piles of books which had spilled from the overturned case.
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Sun Dog.txt" 2598 154:And then Kevin actually said it: looked at him and said it. “It’s coming, Dad. Please. It’s my life.” He looked at his father, pleading with his PALLID face and his fey, floating eyes. “The dog is coming. It won’t do any good to just break in and take the camera. It’s gone way past that now. Please don’t stop me. Please don’t wake me up. It’s my life.”
"Collections\Four Past Midnight\The Sun Dog.txt" 3119 89:“I don’t know,” Mr. Delevan said, approaching the desk. Kevin stood behind him, a PALLID watcher. “I guess, if we had to—”
"Collections\Night Shift\Children of the Corn.txt" 55 16:Her face was a PALLID, cottage-cheese color. “A boy. A little boy. He just ran out of the corn and . . . congratulations, tiger.”
"Collections\Night Shift\Jerusalem's Lot.txt" 473 116:From beyond it something else moved, something I shall dream of until the day when all dreams cease: a girl with a PALLID, mouldering face and a corpse-grin; a girl whose head lolled at a lunatic angle.
"Collections\Night Shift\Jerusalem's Lot.txt" 699 54:Mr. Boone has slept nearly all this day. His face is PALLID and much thinner. I fear recurrence of his fever is inevitable.
"Collections\Night Shift\Jerusalem's Lot.txt" 777 185:How it heaves itself at the rocks, this sea! It throws clouds of sea-foam at the darkling sky in banners, making the floor beneath me tremble. In the window-glass I see my reflection, PALLID as any vampire's. I have been without nourishment since the twenty-seventh of October, and should have been without water, had not Calvin left the carafe beside my bed on that day.
"Collections\Night Shift\Night Surf.txt" 113 165:“Maybe we're the last people on earth, Bernie. Did you ever think of that?” In the faint moonlight he already looked half dead, with circles under his eyes and PALLID, unmoving fingers like pencils.
"Collections\Night Shift\Quitters, Inc.txt" 7 171:It was. A little heavier than when Morrison had seen him at the Atlanta Exhibition the year before, but otherwise he looked awesomely fit. In college he had been a thin, PALLID chain smoker buried behind huge horn-rimmed glasses. He had apparently switched to contact lenses.
"Collections\Night Shift\Strawberry Spring.txt" 75 56:“He got another one,” someone said to me, his face PALLID with excitement. “They had to let him go.”
"Collections\Night Shift\Strawberry Spring.txt" 87 5:The PALLID face wavered in front of me again. “Her head. Whoever killed her took her head with him.”
"Collections\Night Shift\The Boogeyman.txt" 227 14:Billings was PALLID and trembling.
"Collections\Night Shift\The Ledge.txt" 321 113:I caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror on the other side of the room. The hair was disheveled, the face PALLID except for two bright spots of color on the cheeks. The eyes looked insane.
"Collections\Night Shift\The Mangler.txt" 157 217:Mrs. Gillian was propped up in bed reading Screen Secrets when Hunton came into the four-bed hospital room. A large bandage blanketed one arm and the side of her neck. The room's other occupant, a young woman with a PALLID face, was sleeping.
"Collections\Night Shift\The Mangler.txt" 249 149:A deaf observer might have thought at first that Stanner was merely bent over the machine at an odd angle. Then even a deaf man would have seen the PALLID, eye-bulging rictus of his face, mouth twisted open in a continuous scream. The arm was disappearing under the safety bar and beneath the first roller; the fabric of his shirt had torn away at the shoulder seam and his upper arm bulged grotesquely as the blood was pushed steadily backward.
"Collections\Nightmares & Dreamscapes\Chattery Teeth.txt" 6 271:Hogan looked up at the fat woman behind the counter. She was wearing a tee-shirt that said NEVADA IS GOD’S COUNTRY on top (the words swelling and receding across her enormous breasts) and about an acre of jeans on the bottom. She was selling a pack of cigarettes to a PALLID young man whose long blonde hair had been tied back in a ponytail with a sneaker shoelace. The young man, who had the face of an intelligent lab-rat, was paying in small change, counting it laboriously out of a grimy hand.
"Collections\Nightmares & Dreamscapes\Home Delivery.txt" 466 332:Frank’s upraised left arm was wavering wildly now. Dave Eamons, with his rifle socked into the old geezer’s armpit, watched it as carefully as a logger would watch a big tree that looked like it meant to do evil and fall the wrong way. Every man on the island was watching now. Big beads of sweat had formed on the old man’s PALLID face. His lips had pulled back from the even, yellowy-white of his Roebuckers, and Dave had been able to smell the Polident on his breath.
"Collections\Nightmares & Dreamscapes\It Grows on You.txt" 4 492:New England autumn and the thin soil now shows in patches through the ragweed and goldenrod, waiting for snow still four weeks distant. The culverts are clogged with leaves, the sky has gone a perpetual gray, and cornstalks stand in leaning rows like soldiers who have found some fantastic way to die on their feet. Pumpkins, sagging inward now with softrot, are piled against crepuscular sheds, smelling like the breath of old women. There is no heat and no cold at this time of year, only PALLID air which is never still, beating through the bare fields under white skies where birds fly south in chevron shapes. That wind blows dust up from the soft shoulders of back roads in dancing dervishes, parts the played-out fields as a comb parts hair, and sniffs its way into junked cars up on blocks in back yards.
"Collections\Nightmares & Dreamscapes\It Grows on You.txt" 206 395:On August 14, 1923, while driving by the Newall house in his father’s farm truck, thirteen-year-old Gary Martin Paulson happened to observe Cora Leonard Newall turning away from her mailbox at the end of the driveway. She had the newspaper in one hand. She saw Gary and reached down with her free hand to grasp the hem of her housedress. She did not smile. That tremendous moon of a face was PALLID and empty as she raised the dress, revealing her sex to him—it was the first time he had ever seen that mystery so avidly discussed by the boys he knew. And, still not smiling but only looking at him gravely, she pistoned her hips at his gaping, amazed face as he passed her by. And as he passed, his hand dropped into his lap and moments later he ejaculated into his flannel pants.
"Collections\Nightmares & Dreamscapes\Popsy.txt" 96 192:He led the boy to the van, which was four years old and painted a nondescript blue. He opened the door and smiled at the kid, who looked up at him doubtfully, his green eyes swimming in that PALLID little face, as huge as the eyes of a waif in a velvet painting, the kind they advertised in the cheap weekly tabloids like The National Enquirer and Inside View.
"Collections\Nightmares & Dreamscapes\Rainy Season.txt" 116 272:“Come on,” John said to Elise, taking her arm above the elbow. He gave them a smile that felt as genuine as a six-dollar bill. “Nice to meet you folks.” He guided Elise down the porch steps, looking back over his shoulder at the old man and the slump-shouldered, PALLID woman two or three times as he did. It didn’t seem like a good idea to turn his back on them completely.
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\Here there be Tygers.txt" 68 76:Charles went around the corner after glancing morosely at his thin, rather PALLID face in one of the mirrors.
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\Nona.txt" 398 147:I went back across the road. Nona had already climbed into the pickup truck without having to be told which vehicle we would use. I could see the PALLID smear of her face, the dark holes of her eyes, but that was all. I got into Blanchette’s car, sitting in the streaks of his blood that had gathered on the nubby vinyl seat cover, and drove it onto the shoulder. I turned off the headlights, put on the four-way flashers, and got out. To anyone passing by, it would look like a motorist who had engine trouble and then walked into town to find a garage. I was very pleased with my improvisation. It was as if I had been murdering people all my life. I trotted back to the idling truck, got in behind the wheel, and pointed it toward the turnpike entrance ramp.
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\Survivor Type.txt" 156 455:The panic was almost total: it had run from the passengers to the crew like a disease. You must remember that the time elapsed from the first explosion to the actual sinking of the Callas was only about twenty minutes. Some of the lifeboat stations were clogged with screaming passengers, while others were absolutely empty. Mine, on the listing side of the ship, was almost deserted. There was no one there but myself and a common sailor with a pimply, PALLID face.
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet.txt" 630 87:“Clack-clack-clack, those tiny grunts and sobs of effort, and after every word that PALLID ink- and dirt-streaked fist would come out between the B and the N and hammer down on the space bar. I don’t know exactly how long it went on. Seven minutes, maybe. Maybe ten. Or maybe forever.
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\The Mist.txt" 924 544:“Aw, lady, listen—” the teenage kid who had shouted at Mrs. Carmody began. He held her arm. She looked down at his hand and he let her go, shamefaced. She slipped out into the fog. We watched her go and no one said anything. We watched the fog overlay her and make her insubstantial, not a human being anymore but a pencil-ink sketch of a human being done on the world’s whitest paper, and no one said anything. For a moment it was like the letters of the KEEP RIGHT sign that had seemed to float on nothingness; her arms and legs and PALLID blond hair were all gone and only the misty remnants of her red summer dress remained, seeming to dance in white limbo. Then her dress was gone, too, and no one said anything.
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\The Mist.txt" 1539 390:“I’ll have my say!” she cried. Her upper lip curled back, revealing snaggle teeth that were yellow with nicotine. I thought of the dusty stuffed animals in her shop, drinking eternally at the mirror that served as their creek. “Doubters will doubt to the end! Yet a monstrosity did drag that poor boy away! Things in the mist! Every abomination out of a bad dream! Eyeless freaks! PALLID horrors! Do you doubt? Then go on out! Go on out and say howdy-do!”
"Collections\Skeleton Crew\The Mist.txt" 2620 1:PALLID, frightened faces stared at us. Seven of us had gone out. Three of us had come back. Ollie leaned against the heavy glass door, barrel chest heaving. He began to reload Amanda’s gun. His white assistant manager’s shirt was plastered to his body, and large gray sweat-stains had crept out from under his arms.
"Collections\The Bazaar of Bad Dreams\The Dune.txt" 216 112:Judge Beecher looks momentarily startled, and then he smiles. It is a terrible smile, transforming his narrow, PALLID face into a death’s-head grin.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 4513 221:Ben had taken the crucifix off; now he poked at the glimmering heap of fine-link chain with a reflective finger. It was almost five o’clock and the eastern sky was rose with dawn. The fluorescent bar overhead had gone PALLID.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 5433 131:It fell outward into the night, going backward with its hands thrown out above its head, like a diver going off a high board. The PALLID body gleamed like marble, in hard and depthless contrast to the black stitches that crisscrossed the torso in a Y pattern.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 5439 189:He walked out the door holding his forearms crossed before his chest, the chain of the crucifix still caught in his right hand. The image of Mike Ryerson hanging in the dark air like some PALLID high-diver hung before him.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 5509 403:They don’t know that the Reverend John Groggins has sometimes awakened in the midnight hour with horrible dreams still vivid beneath his bald pate—dreams in which he preaches to the Little Misses’ Thursday Night Bible Class naked and slick, and they ready for him; or that Floyd Tibbits wandered around for all of that Friday in a sickly daze, feeling the sun lie hatefully against his strangely PALLID skin, remembering going to Ann Norton only cloudily, not remembering his attack on Ben Mears at all, but remembering the cool gratitude with which he greeted the setting of the sun, the gratitude and the anticipation of something great and good; or that Hal Griffen has six hot books hidden in the back of his closet which he masturbates over at every opportunity; or that George Middler has a suitcase full of silk slips and bras and panties and stockings and that he sometimes pulls down the shades of his apartment over the hardware store and locks the door with both the bolt and the chain and then stands in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom until his breath comes in short stitches and then he falls to his knees and masturbates; or that Carl Foreman tried to scream and was unable when Mike Ryerson began to tremble coldly on the metal worktable in the room beneath the mortuary and the scream was as sightless and soundless as glass in his throat when Mike opened his eyes and sat up; or that ten-month-old Randy McDougall did not even struggle when Danny Glick slipped through his bedroom window and plucked the baby from his crib and sank his teeth into a neck still bruised from a mother’s blows.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 6299 158:He got out of bed and almost fell down. It was only then that he realized fright was too mild a word for this. Even terror did not express what he felt. The PALLID face outside the window tried to smile, but it had lain in darkness too long to remember precisely how. What Mark saw was a twitching grimace—a bloody mask of tragedy.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 6337 233:His scream was horrible, unearthly…and silent. It echoed only in the corridors of his brain and the chambers of his soul. The smile of triumph on the Glick-thing’s mouth became a yawning grimace of agony. Smoke spurted from the PALLID flesh, and for just a moment, before the creature twisted away and half dived, half fell out the window, Mark felt the flesh yield like smoke.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 6377 408:Before drifting away entirely, he found himself reflecting—not for the first time—on the peculiarity of adults. They took laxatives, liquor, or sleeping pills to drive away their terrors so that sleep would come, and their terrors were so tame and domestic: the job, the money, what the teacher will think if I can’t get Jennie nicer clothes, does my wife still love me, who are my friends. They were PALLID compared to the fears every child lies cheek and jowl with in his dark bed, with no one to confess to in hope of perfect understanding but another child. There is no group therapy or psychiatry or community social services for the child who must cope with the thing under the bed or in the cellar every night, the thing which leers and capers and threatens just beyond the point where vision will reach. The same lonely battle must be fought night after night and the only cure is the eventual ossification of the imaginary faculties, and this is called adulthood.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 7007 34:The face of Marjorie Glick was a PALLID, moonlike circle in the semi-dark, punched only by the black holes of her eyes. She saw them, and her mouth juddered open in an awful, cheated snarl. The fading glow of daylight flashed against her teeth.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 9097 366:This woman wore only carpet slippers on her feet. Her legs were bare, and with no Supp-hose to mask them, the varicose veins bulged prominently (although not as prominently as before; some of the pressure had been taken off them). She was wearing a ragged yellow dressing gown over her negligee; her hair was blown in errant sheafs by the rising wind. Her face was PALLID, and heavy brown circles lay beneath her eyes.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 9745 90:He snapped back another piece of the cheap wooden crating and looked into the dead, moon-PALLID face of Mike Ryerson.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 9985 139:Matt’s eyes had grown very fixed. One hand gripped the top sheet of the bed. The other was pressed against his chest. His face had gone PALLID, and a pulse beat in the center of his forehead.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 10691 435:He did it now, holding it up before his eyes as he had as a boy, and it did its old, old trick. Through the floating snow you could see a little gingerbread house with a path leading up to it. The gingerbread shutters were closed, but as an imaginative boy (as Mark Petrie was now), you could fancy that one of the shutters was being folded back (as indeed, one of them seemed to be folding back now) by a long white hand, and then a PALLID face would be looking out at you, grinning with long teeth, inviting you into this house beyond the world in its slow and endless fantasyland of false snow, where time was a myth. The face was looking out at him now, PALLID and hungry, a face that would never look on daylight or blue skies again.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 10691 659:He did it now, holding it up before his eyes as he had as a boy, and it did its old, old trick. Through the floating snow you could see a little gingerbread house with a path leading up to it. The gingerbread shutters were closed, but as an imaginative boy (as Mark Petrie was now), you could fancy that one of the shutters was being folded back (as indeed, one of them seemed to be folding back now) by a long white hand, and then a PALLID face would be looking out at you, grinning with long teeth, inviting you into this house beyond the world in its slow and endless fantasyland of false snow, where time was a myth. The face was looking out at him now, PALLID and hungry, a face that would never look on daylight or blue skies again.
"Novels\'Salem's Lot.txt" 10827 247:The rains would have washed away the wafer with which Callahan had sealed it. It could be theirs again if they wanted it, a shrine, a dark lighthouse overlooking this shunned and deadly town. Did they meet up there? he wondered. Did they wander, PALLID, through its nighted halls and hold revels, twisted services to the Maker of their Maker?
Novels\11_22_63.txt 130 420:And it was. It was all good. His essay had been primitive art, but every bit as powerful and true as any painting by Grandma Moses. It was certainly better than the stuff I was currently reading. The spelling in the honors essays was mostly correct, and the diction was clear (although my cautious college-bound don’t-take-a-chancers had an irritating tendency to fall back on the passive voice), but the writing was PALLID. Boring. My honors kids were juniors—Mac Steadman, the department head, awarded the seniors to himself—but they wrote like little old men and little old ladies, all pursey-mouthed and ooo, don’t slip on that icy patch, Mildred. In spite of his grammatical lapses and painstaking cursive, Harry Dunning had written like a hero. On one occasion, at least.
"Novels\Bag of Bones.txt" 3690 579:She laughed, then leaned back on her haunches and stared at me. Her navel was a tiny black cup. There was something queerly, attractively snakelike in her posture. “Everything down there is death,” she said, and pressed her cold palms and white, pruney fingers to my cheeks. She turned my head and then bent it so I was looking into the lake. Under the water I saw decomposing bodies slipping by, pulled by some deep current. Their wet eyes stared. Their fish-nibbled noses gaped. Their tongues lolled between white lips like tendrils of waterweed. Some of the dead trailed PALLID balloons of jellyfish guts; some were little more than bone. Yet not even the sight of this floating charnel parade could divert me from what I wanted. I shrugged my head free of her hands, pushed her down on the boards, and finally cooled what was so hard and contentious, sinking it deep. Her moon-silvered eyes stared up at me, through me, and I saw that one pupil was larger than the other. That was how her eyes had looked on the TV monitor when I had identified her in the Derry County Morgue. She was dead. My wife was dead and I was fucking her corpse. Nor could even that realization stop me. “Who was he?” I cried at her, covering her cold flesh as it lay on the wet boards. “Who was he, Jo, for Christ’s sake tell me who he was!”
"Novels\Bag of Bones.txt" 6920 343:I went to the sink and turned on the water. When I reached for a glass I saw I was still wearing the ribbon from Ki’s straw hat on my wrist. I unwound it and put it on the counter between the coffee-maker and the kitchen TV. Then I drew myself some cold water, drank it down, and made my way cautiously along the north-wing corridor by the PALLID yellow glow of the bathroom nightlight. I peed (you-rinated, I could hear Ki saying), then went into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, but the bed didn’t have the orgiastic look of the morning after my dream of Sara, Mattie, and Jo. Why would it? I’d gotten out of it and had myself a little sleepwalk. An extraordinarily vivid dream of the Fryeburg Fair.
"Novels\Black House.txt" 4715 239:A number of heads turn as they walk slowly across the dusty wooden floor to the nearest row of benches; many pairs of eyes track their progress. Curiosity, indifference, confusion, suspicion, pleasure, and an impersonal anger show in the PALLID faces. To Jack, it seems as though every patient on the ward is inching toward them.
"Novels\Black House.txt" 5855 62:Teddy Runkleman, oddly silent (he is, in fact, afraid of the PALLID woman sitting beside him—her snarling mouth and her wide, unblinking eyes), brings his old truck to a halt in front of the FLPD parking lot entrance. Sumner Street is steep here, and he sets the parking brake. The other vehicles halt behind him, filling the street from side to side, rumbling through rusty mufflers and blatting through broken exhaust pipes. Misaligned headlights stab the fog like searchlight beams at a movie premiere. The night’s dank wet-fish smell has been overlaid with odors of burning gas, boiling oil, and cooking clutch lining. After a moment, doors begin to open and then clap shut. But there is no conversation. No yelling. No indecorous yee-haw whooping. Not tonight. The newcomers stand in clusters around the vehicles that brought them, watching as the people in the back of Teddy’s truck either jump over the sides or slip off the end of the tailgate, watching as Teddy crosses to the passenger door, at this moment as attentive as a young man arriving with his date at the junior prom, watching as he helps down the slim young woman who has lost her daughter. The mist seems to outline her somehow, and give her a bizarre electric aura, the same blue of the sodium lights on Beezer’s upper arms. The crowd gives out a collective (and weirdly amorous) sigh when it sees her. She is what connects them. All her life, Tansy Freneau has been the forgotten one—even Cubby Freneau forgot her eventually, running off to Green Bay and leaving her here to work odd jobs and collect the ADC. Only Irma remembered her, only Irma cared, and now Irma is dead. Not here to see (unless she’s looking down from heaven, Tansy thinks in some distant and ever-receding part of her mind) her mother suddenly idolized. Tansy Freneau has tonight become the dearest subject of French Landing’s eye and heart. Not its mind, because its mind is temporarily gone (perhaps in search of its conscience), but certainly of its eye and heart, yes. And now, as delicately as the girl she once was, Doodles Sanger approaches this woman of the hour. What Doodles spotted lying on the floor of Teddy’s truck bed was an old length of rope, dirty and oily but thick enough to do the trick. Below Doodles’s petite fist hangs the noose that her clever hands have fashioned on the ride into town. She hands it to Tansy, who holds it up in the misty light.
"Novels\Black House.txt" 8163 123:Parkus pulls the last grouse from its sizzling stick and tosses it between two of the stones, where Wendell sits with his PALLID, greasy face peering from between his knees. “Fresh prey for the news hawk,” he says. “Now do us a favor and shut up.”
"Novels\Black House.txt" 9773 90:Charles Burnside plods through Rebecca Vilas’s windowless cubicle, Poochie Flagler’s PALLID, deeply dimpled backside blazing in his mind. He places a hand on the next doorknob, takes a moment to calm himself, and noiselessly revolves the knob. The door opens just wide enough to reveal Chipper Maxton, only monarch of this realm, leaning over his desk, his head propped on one fist, and using a yellow pencil to make notations on two sets of papers. The trace of a smile softens the tight purse of his mouth; his damp eyes betray the suggestion of a gleam; the busy pencil glides back and forth between the two stacks of papers, making tiny marks. So happily absorbed in his task is Chipper that he fails to notice he is no longer alone until his visitor steps inside and gives the door a backward kick with his foot.
"Novels\Black House.txt" 10087 117:But the old man has been hurt somehow, too. His shirt is covered with blood; his wrinkled ogre’s face is waxy and PALLID. Behind him, the cell door is open. Ty measures the distance to the hallway, hoping he’s not being too obvious about it. But Burny has been in this game a long time. He has had more than one liddle one dry to esscabe on hiz bledding foodzies, oh ho.
"Novels\Black House.txt" 10527 37:Tears start to roll down his dirty, PALLID face again, and Ty begins to scream at the top of his voice.
Novels\Cell.txt 4943 27:Clay, Tom, and Jordan—a PALLID Jordan, a thoughtfully silent Jordan who now usually responded to questions only if asked a second or even a third time—arrived at the intersection of Main and Livery at just past midnight on a windy night during the second week of October. Clay stared wildly at the stop sign on the corner of his old street, where he had come as a visitor for the last four months. NUCLEAR POWER was still stenciled there in spray-paint, as it had been before he’d left for Boston. STOP . . . NUCLEAR POWER. STOP . . . NUCLEAR POWER. He couldn’t seem to get the sense of it. It wasn’t a question of meaning, that was clear enough, just someone’s clever little political statement (if he looked he’d probably find the same thing on stop signs all over town, maybe in Springvale and Acton, too), but the sense of how this could be the same when the whole world had changed—that eluded him. Clay felt somehow that if he stared at STOP . . . NUCLEAR POWER with enough desperate intensity, a wormhole would open, some kind of sci-fi time-tunnel, and he’d dive into the past, and all this would be undone. All this darkness.
Novels\Cell.txt 7091 47:Clay chose to hang on to that. To believe the PALLID, dirty, malnourished child clinging to his neck had called him Daddy.
Novels\Christine.txt 3038 204:Our fans, who had come up in buses specially laid on, sat huddled on the visitors’ bleachers in the blaring early September heat, looking blank. In the dressing room, Coach Puffer, looking stunned and PALLID, suggested we get down on our knees and pray for guidance in the weeks to come. I knew then that the hurting had not ended but was just beginning.
Novels\Christine.txt 5687 28:Arnie smiled gently at her PALLID, watchful face. “No, Mom,” he said.
Novels\Christine.txt 6429 550:“It’s the Heimlich Maneuver,” the hitchhiker said. “They make you learn it when you go to work in the cafeteria. At school. Make you practice on a rubber dummy. Daisy Mae, they call her. And you do it, but you don’t have any idea if it’ll—you know—work on a real person or not.” His voice was shaky, jumping in pitch from low to high and back to low again like the voice of a kid entering puberty. His voice seemed to want to laugh or cry—something—and even in the uncertain light and heavily falling snow, Leigh could see how PALLID his face was. “I never thought I’d actually have to use it. Works pretty good. Did you see that fucking piece of meat fly?” The hitchhiker wiped his mouth and looked blankly at the thin froth of blood on the palm of his hand.
Novels\Christine.txt 6803 339:He wasn’t there the night we trashed Cuntface’s car, Buddy thought. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Poor busted-luck sonofawhore. He did not really feel sorry for Bobby, but if he could have been sorry for anyone, it would have been for the little shit-for-brains freshman. On his right, Richie Trelawney sat bolt upright and as PALLID as a gravestone, his eyes eating up his face. Richie knew the score, all right.
Novels\Christine.txt 7223 37:He thought of his one girlfriend, a PALLID blonde named Wanda Haskins, whose white cheeks had been splattered with freckles which grew painfully profuse in the August sun. They almost surely would have been married—Wanda was one of four girls that Will Darnell had actually fucked (he excluded whores from his count). She was surely the only one he had ever loved (always assuming there was such a thing—and, like the supernatural events he had sometimes heard about but never witnessed, he could doubt its existence but not disprove it), but her father had been in the Army, and Wanda had been an Army brat. At the age of fifteen—perhaps only a year before the mystic shift in the balance of power from the hands of the old into those of the young—she and her family had moved to Wichita, and that had been the end of that.
Novels\Christine.txt 10512 376:There was a long, frozen moment. A little moan escaped Leigh’s throat. Arnie stood not quite halfway across the small parking lot, dressed in his high school jacket, faded jeans, boots. A plaid scarf was tied around his throat. The collar of his jacket was turned up, and its black wings framed a face that was slowly twisting from an expression of sick incredulity into a PALLID grimace of hate. The red-and-white-striped bag with the Colonel’s smiling face on it slipped out of one of his gloved hands and thumped onto the packed snow of the parking lot.
Novels\Cujo.txt 431 477:Vic sat silent, looking at his congealing sandwich and thinking. It was totally unfair, but he could live with unfairness. What really hurt was the whole situation’s crazed absurdity. It had blown up out of a clear sky like a killer tornado that lays a zigzagging trail of destruction and then disappears. He and Roger and Ad Worx itself were apt to be numbered among the fatalities no matter what they did; he could read it on Roger’s round face, which had not looked so PALLIDly serious since he and Althea had lost their boy, Timothy, to the crib-death syndrome when the infant was only nine days old. Three weeks after that happened, Roger had broken down and wept, his hands plastered to his fat face in a kind of terrible hopeless sorrow that had squeezed Vic’s heart into his throat. That had been bad. But the incipient panic he saw in Roger’s eyes now was bad, too.
"Novels\Dead Zone, The.txt" 8393 101:His father had been a domineering man who didn’t think much of his son. As a child, Greg had been PALLID and sickly. There was no evidence that his father had abused the boy either mentally or physically, but there was the suggestion that at the very least, Greg Stillson had lived in a disapproving shadow for the first nine years of his life. The one picture Johnny had of the father and son together was a happy one, however; it showed them together in the oil fields, the father’s arm slung around the son’s neck in a careless gesture of comradeship. But it gave Johnny a little chill all the same. Harry Stillson was dressed in working clothes, twill pants and a double-breasted khaki shirt, and his hard hat was cocked jauntily back on his head.
Novels\Desperation.txt 2496 225:“Want me to come in with you?” his father had asked outside the door of the room Brian was in. David had shaken his head. He was still powerfully in the grip of the feeling which had more or less swallowed him since his PALLID mother had given him the news about the accident: that feeling of being guided by someone more experienced than he was, someone who would be brave for him if his own courage faltered.
Novels\Desperation.txt 5710 232:They followed Billingsley out onto the stage, the group of people Johnny was coming to think of (and not entirely without affection) as The Collie Entragian Survival Society, their feet clumping and echoing, their shadows long and PALLID in the orchestra sidelights. Billingsley had turned these on from a box in the electrical closet by the stage-left entrance. Above the tatty red plush seats, the weak light petered out in a hurry and there was only darkness ascending to some unseen height. Above that—and on all sides as well—the desert wind howled. It was a sound that cooled Johnny’s blood . . . but he could not deny the fact that there was also something strangely attractive about it . . . although what that attraction might be, he didn’t know.
Novels\Desperation.txt 9487 264:It turned, glided out over the well of darkness which was the China Pit, turned again, and spiraled down toward the black square of the drift. It landed, uttering a single loud quowwwk! as its talons sorted the scree for a good grip. Thirty yards down the drift, PALLID reddish-pink light glowed. Tak looked at this for a moment, letting the light of the an tak fill and soothe the bird’s primitive marble of a brain, then hopped a short distance into the tunnel. Here was a little niche on the left side. The eagle worked its way into it and then stood quiet, wings tightly folded, waiting.
"Novels\Doctor Sleep.txt" 45 131:The woman from Room 217 was there, as he had known she would be. She was sitting naked on the toilet with her legs spread and her PALLID thighs bulging. Her greenish breasts hung down like deflated balloons. The patch of hair below her stomach was gray. Her eyes were also gray, like steel mirrors. She saw him, and her lips stretched back in a grin.
"Novels\Doctor Sleep.txt" 603 41:She turned to one of the other women, a PALLIDly pretty creature Rose called Silent Sarey, and nodded. Sarey nodded back and went into Rose’s monster RV. The others, meanwhile, began to form a circle around the lawn recliner. Andi didn’t like that. There was something sacrificial about it.
"Novels\Doctor Sleep.txt" 1196 587:A cowling surrounded the locomotive on both sides, but he spied a footstool standing beneath one low eave of the Teenytown Station, carried it over, and stood on it. The driver’s cockpit contained two sheepskin-covered bucket seats. It looked to Dan as if they had been scavenged from an old Detroit muscle car. The cockpit and controls also looked like modified Detroit stock, with the exception of an old-fashioned Z-shaped shifter jutting up from the floor. There was no shift pattern; the original knob had been replaced with a grinning skull wearing a bandanna faded from red to PALLID pink by years of gripping hands. The top half of the steering wheel had been cut off, so that what remained looked like the steering yoke of a light plane. Painted in black on the dashboard, fading but legible, was TOP SPEED 40 DO NOT EXCEED.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 4085 233:The gunships heeled around as briskly as a marching band doing a square turn on the fifty-yard line of the Rose Bowl, and the .50s opened up. The bullets plowed into the snow, struck dead branches from already wounded trees, struck PALLID little sparks from the edge of the great ship. They ripped into the bunched gray-boys standing with their arms upraised and tore them apart. Arms spun free of rudimentary bodies, spouting a kind of pink sap. Heads exploded like gourds, raining a reddish backsplash on their ship and their shipmates—not blood but that mossy stuff, as if their heads were full of it, not really heads at all but grisly produce baskets. Several of them were cut in two at the mid-section and went down with their hands still raised in surrender. As they fell, the gray bodies went a dirty white and seemed to boil.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 4314 398:He was sure he’d seen a few rug-remnants heaped up in one corner of the shed. Henry debated going out and getting them. He could lay them down on the bathroom floor, walk over them, and get a better look into the tub. But to what purpose? He knew that was Beaver, and he had no real desire to see his old friend, author of such witticisms as Kiss my bender, being overgrown by red fungus as the PALLID corpse in that long-ago medical offprint had been growing its own colony of toadstools. If it might have answered some of his questions about what had happened, yes, perhaps. But Henry didn’t think that likely.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 7055 915:Suddenly a terrible image came to her as she sat on Duddits’s bed with her hands folded in her lap. She saw herself opening the door to a knock that came at the empty hour of three in the morning, not wanting to open it but helpless to stop herself. And the dead ones were there instead of the living ones. Beaver and Pete were there, returned to the childhood in which they had been living on the day she had first met them, the day they had saved Duddie from God knew what nasty trick and then brought him home safe. In her mind’s eye Beaver was wearing his many-zippered motorcycle jacket and Pete was wearing the crewneck sweater of which he had been so proud, the one with NASA on the left breast. She saw them cold and pale, their eyes the lusterless grape-black glaze of corpses. She saw Beaver step forward—no smile for her now, no recognition of her now; when Joe “Beaver” Clarendon put out his PALLID starfish hands, he was all business. We’ve come for Duddits, Missus Cavell. We’re dead, and now he is, too.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 8540 84:He turned his head slightly and saw Perlmutter staring at him—big dark eyes in a PALLID, red-spotted face.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 8597 342:Beyond the showers was a locker room. Beyond the lockers was a hallway leading to the truckers’ dorm. The hall was deserted. On the far side of it was a door which opened on the rear of the building, where there was a snow-swirling cul-de-sac, now deeply drifted. Two large green Dumpsters emerged from the drifts. One hooded light cast a PALLID glow and tall, lunging shadows. Mr. Gray, who learned fast, searched the Trooper’s body for his car keys and found them. He also took the Trooper’s gun and put it in one of the zippered pockets of Jonesy’s parka. Mr. Gray used the bloodstained towel to keep the door to the cul-de-sac from latching shut, then dragged the body behind one of the Dumpsters.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 8723 108:Owen said nothing. He was squinting through the swirling snow, looking for the Dearborn Street sign in the PALLID gray light of early morning . . . and there it was, just up ahead. A plow passing along Kansas Street had plugged the end of Dearborn, but Owen thought the Humvee could beat its way past.
Novels\Dreamcatcher.txt 8799 189:It was her after-midnight fantasy made real, and when the knock came at the door, Roberta was unable to get up. Her legs felt like water. The night was gone, but it had been replaced by a PALLID, creepy morning light that wasn’t much better, and they were out there, Pete and Beav, the dead ones had come for her son.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 2056 430:That was spooky. I got up from my chair, and fast. Suddenly I didn’t want to be here, not in Little Pink, not in Big Pink, not on Duma Key, not in my stupid pointless limping retired retarded life. How many lies was I telling? That I was an artist? Ridiculous. Kamen could cry STUNNED and YOU MUST NOT STOP in his patented e-mail capitals, but Kamen specialized in tricking the victims of terrible accidents into believing the PALLID imitations of life they were living were as good as the real thing. When it came to positive reinforcement, Kamen and Kathi Green the Rehab Queen were a tag-steam. They were FUCKING BRILLIANT, and most of their grateful patients cried YOU MUST NOT STOP. Was I telling myself I was psychic? Possessed of a phantom arm capable of seeing into the unknown? That wasn’t ridiculous, it was pitiful and insane.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 2425 479:Tom Riley was standing at the head of the stairs. He was naked except for a pair of light blue pajama pants, darker at the crotch and down the inside of one leg, where he had wet them. His right eye was gone. There was a matted socket full of red and black gore where it had been. Dried blood streaked back along his right temple like war paint, disappearing into graying hair above his ear. His other eye stared out at the Gulf of Mexico. Carnival sunset swam over his narrow, PALLID face.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 4307 282:Three waiting rooms, one outside General Admitting, where Wireman refused to even take a clipboard with a form on it—possibly because he couldn’t read it (I filled in the necessary information), one outside Neurology, where I met both Gene Hadlock, Elizabeth’s doctor, and a PALLID, goateed fellow named Herbert Principe. Dr. Hadlock claimed that Principe was the best neurologist in Sarasota. Principe did not deny this, nor did he say shucks. The last waiting room was on the second floor, home of Big Fancy Equipment. Here Wireman was taken not to Magnetic Resonance Imaging, a process with which I was very familiar, but instead to X-Ray at the far end of the hall, a room I imagined to be dusty and neglected in this modern age. Wireman gave me his Mary medallion to hold and I was left to wonder why Sarasota’s best neurologist would resort to such old-fashioned technology. No one bothered to enlighten me.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 5522 704:A huge flash of lightning lit my window purple-white, and a great whooping gust of gale rode that electricity in from the Gulf, driving rain against the glass so hard I thought (in the part of my mind still capable of thought) that it must surely break. A munitions dump exploded directly overhead. And beneath me the murmur of the shells had become the gossip of dead things telling secrets in bone voices. How could I not have heard that before? Dead things, yes! A ship had come here, a ship of the dead with rotted sails, and it had offloaded living corpses. They were under this house, and the storm had brought them to life. I could see them pushing up through the boneyard blanket of the shells, PALLID jellies with green hair and seagull eyes, crawling over each other in the dark and talking, talking, talking. Yes! Because they had a lot to catch up on, and who knew when the next storm might come and bring them to life again?
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 8945 683:I flicked back the picture of the screaming man. Old dried watercolors rattled like bones. Beneath the screaming father was the ship again, only this time it really was my ship, my Perse. Elizabeth had painted it at night, and not with a brush—I could still see the ancient dried prints of her child’s fingers in the swirls of gray and black. This time it was as if she had finally seen through the Perse’s disguise. The boards were splintered, the sails drooping and full of holes. Around her, blue in the light of a moon that did not smile or send out happy-rays, hundreds of skeleton arms rose from the water in a dripping salute. And standing on the foredeck was a baggy, PALLID thing, vaguely female, wearing a decayed something that might have been a cloak, a winding shroud . . . or a robe. It was the red-robe, my red-robe, only seen from the front. Three empty sockets peered from its head, and its grin outran the sides of its face in a crazy jumble of lips and teeth. It was far more horrible than my Girl and Ship paintings, because it went straight to the heart of the matter without any pause for the mind to catch up. This is everything awful, it said. This is everything you ever feared to find waiting in the dark. See how its grin races off its face in the moonlight. See how the drowned salute it.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 11464 115:Wireman was perfectly still beside me. Only his eyes moved, sometimes looking at Noveen, sometimes looking at the PALLID arm that flickered in and out of view on the right side of my body.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 11979 209:Flying down the beach with her skirt belling out behind. Emery has gotten Adie in almost up to her waist. Adie is now fighting, but she’s also choking. Melda flounders toward them and throws herself on the PALLID corpse who has his wife by the throat. He screams when Melda’s left arm, the one with the bracelets on it, touches him. It is a bubbling sound, as if his throat is full of water. He writhes in Melda’s grip like a fish, and she rakes him with her fingernails. Flesh sloughs away beneath them with sickening ease, but no blood flows from the pale wounds. His eyes roll in their sockets, and they are like the eyes of a dead carp in the moonlight.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 12019 334:No time to think of that. She reaches out for the other undead, for Tessie, but her right hand isn’t like her left, there’s no silver to guard it, and Tessie turns with a snarl and bites. Melda is aware of thin shooting pain but not that two fingers and part of a third have been bitten off and now float in the water beside the PALLID child. There’s too much adrenaline whipping through her for that.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 12320 392:The fourth rung snapped. The ladder tilted, and I fell off with the flashlight still clamped between my side and my stump, first shining up at the darkening sky, then illuminating lumps of coral coated with moss. My head connected with one of these and I saw stars. A moment later I was lying on a jagged bed of bones and staring into Adriana Eastlake Paulson’s eternal grin. One of those PALLID toads leaped at me from between her mossy teeth and I batted at it with the barrel of the flashlight.
"Novels\Duma Key.txt" 12743 1:PALLID arms reached for me. Membranes of sand smoked off them in the wind. The moon shone through them. I held up the flashlight. It was short. And its barrel was plastic rather than stainless steel.
"Novels\End of Watch.txt" 128 139:Careful to keep the backboard perfectly horizontal, they lifted her into the ambo, placed her on the stretcher, and secured her. With her PALLID, disfigured face framed by the cervical collar, she looked like one of the ritual female victims in a horror movie . . . except those were always young and nubile, and this woman looked to be in her forties or early fifties. Too old to be job-hunting, you would have said, and Rob only had to look at her to know she would never go job-hunting again. Or walk, from the look of her. With fantastic luck, she might avoid quadriplegia—assuming she got through this—but Rob guessed that her life from the waist down was over.
"Novels\Eyes of the Dragon, The.txt" 1807 116:“Then I’ll put drops very carefully into the other two holes,” Flagg said. He spoke calmly, but his normally PALLID cheeks were flushed. “Water won’t stop Dragon Sand, it’s told, but it’ll hold it.” This was making things quite a bit worse than they were, but Flagg wanted them frightened.
"Novels\Eyes of the Dragon, The.txt" 2177 53:“Wait!” Thomas cried again, and in his pinched, PALLID face, Flagg saw all his ambitions about to be fulfilled. “If you were protected when my father was King, because you were his advisor, wouldn’t you be protected now that I am King, if you were my advisor?”
"Novels\Eyes of the Dragon, The.txt" 3623 189:At that sound, some of Dennis’s fear left him. He felt a great wonder, and a great pity for Thomas, who always seemed so unhappy, and who had grown fat and pimply as King—often he was PALLID and shaky-handed from too much wine the night before, and his breath was usually bad. Already Thomas’s legs were beginning to bow, and unless Flagg was with him, he had a tendency to walk with his head down and his hair hanging in his face.
"Novels\Eyes of the Dragon, The.txt" 4991 215:Impatiently, Naomi said: “Of course we do! What do you think—” Then she remembered that Dennis had left Peyna’s farmhouse six days ago, and that the butler had been skulking and hiding ever since. He had a PALLID, undernourished look, and his face was too narrow and too bony. “Oh, Dennis, I’m sorry, we’re idiots! When did you eat last?”
"Novels\Eyes of the Dragon, The.txt" 5156 133:At first, nothing. Then, little by little, the crystal began to glow from within. There was only a tiny light at first, diffuse and PALLID. Flagg touched the crystal again, this time with the tips of his fingers. It had grown warm.
"Novels\Eyes of the Dragon, The.txt" 5717 868:Thomas lit the fire, donned his dead father’s robe, and drew Roland’s chair close to the hearth. He felt that he would soon fall soundly asleep, and that was very good. But as he sat there, owlishly nodding, looking around at the trophies mounted on the walls with their glassy eyes sparkling eerily in the flames, it occurred to him that he wanted two more things—things that were almost sacred, things he would certainly never have dared touch when his father was alive. But Roland was dead, so Thomas had taken another chair to stand on, and from the wall he had taken down his father’s bow and his father’s great arrow, Foe-Hammer, from their places on the wall above Niner’s head. For a moment he stared directly into one of the dragon’s green-amber eyes. He had seen much through these eyes, but now, looking into them, he saw nothing but his own PALLID face, like the face of a prisoner looking out of a cell.
Novels\Firestarter.txt 1037 81:She got to her feet slowly, brushing the last of the tears away. Her face was a PALLID moonlet in the dark. Looking at her, he felt a sharp lance of guilt. She should be snugly tucked into a bed somewhere in a house with a shrinking mortgage, a teddy bear crooked under one arm, ready to go back to school the next morning and do battle for God, country, and the second grade. Instead, she was standing in the breakdown lane of a turnpike spur in upstate New York at one-fifteen in the morning, on the run, consumed with guilt because she had inherited something from her mother and father—something she herself had had no more part in determining than the direct blue of her eyes. How do you explain to a seven-year-old girl that Daddy and Mommy had once needed two hundred dollars and the people they had talked to said it was all right, but they had lied?
Novels\Firestarter.txt 3433 16:Charlie looked PALLID and listless and used up. She hadn’t asked him what would happen to them if the roadblocks had been shifted east. It was just as well, because if the roadblocks had been shifted, they would be caught, and that was simply all there was to it. There was no question of ditching the Willys, either; Charlie was in no shape to walk, and for that matter, neither was he.
Novels\Firestarter.txt 7210 400:The two of them attended only the graveside services, standing well back from the small group of friends and family, clustered under a bloom of black umbrellas. Andy discovered it was one thing to remember Pynchot’s arrogance, the little-Caesar power-tripping of a small man who had no real power; to remember his endless and irritating nervous tic of a smile. It was quite another to look at his PALLID, washed-out wife in her black suit and veiled hat, holding the hands of her two boys (the younger was about Charlie’s age, and they both looked utterly stunned and out of it, as if drugged), knowing—as she must—that the friends and relatives must all know how her husband was found, dressed in her underwear, his right arm vaporized nearly to the elbow, sharpened like a living pencil, his blood splattered in the sink and on the Wood-Mode cabinets, chunks of his flesh—
Novels\Firestarter.txt 9237 342:Startled, he turned around. What he saw caused him to step back involuntarily, knocking the ax to the ground, where it lay across the deep, indelible burn mark in the earth. At first he thought it was a ghost he was looking at, some gruesome specter of a child risen from the Dartmouth Crossing graveyard three miles up the road. She stood, PALLID and dirty and thin in the driveway, her eyes hollow and glistening in their sockets, her jumper ragged and torn. A scrape mark skidded up her right arm almost to the elbow. It looked infected. There were loafers on her feet, or what had once been loafers; now it was hard to tell.
Novels\Firestarter.txt 9402 170:“He’s dead,” a voice said from behind them, and Norma actually cried out as she turned and saw Charlie standing in the doorway, clean now and looking all the more PALLID for that. Her forehead shone like a lamp. She floated in one of Norma’s flannel nightgowns. “My daddy is dead. They killed him and now there’s nowhere I can go. Won’t you please help me? I’m sorry. It’s not my fault. I told them it wasn’t my fault . . . I told them . . . but that lady said I was a witch . . . she said . . .” The tears were coming now, streaming down her cheeks, and Charlie’s voice dissolved into incoherent sobs.
"Novels\From a Buick 8.txt" 425 88:The guy paused, though, and turned toward Brad a little. Just enough for Brad to see a PALLID, almost waxy crescent of cheek, a dark, almond-shaped eye with no discernible white in it, and a curl of lank black hair falling beside one oddly made ear. Brad remembered the ear best, remembered it with great clarity. Something about it disturbed him deeply, but he couldn’t explain just what it was. At this point, poesy failed him. Melted, kinda, like he’d been in a fire seemed to be the best he could do.
"Novels\From a Buick 8.txt" 1348 550:We gave it another two minutes and when there was still nothing, I opened my mouth to say we might as well go back and sit down, the Buick had exhausted its supply of fireworks for tonight. Before I could speak, there was a final monstrous flash. A wavering tendril of light, like a spark from some gigantic cyclotron, shot outward and upward from the Buick’s rear passenger window. It rose on a jagged diagonal to the back corner of the shed, where there was a high shelf loaded with old boxes, most filled with hardware oddments. These lit up a PALLID, somehow eldritch yellow, as if the boxes were filled with lighted candles instead of orphan nuts, bolts, screws, and springs. The hum grew louder, rattling my teeth and actually seeming to vibrate along the bridge of my nose. Then it quit. So did the light. To our dazzled eyes, the interior of the shed now looked pitch-black instead of just gloomy. The Buick was only a hulk with rounded corners and furtive gleams which marked the chrome facings around its headlights.
"Novels\From a Buick 8.txt" 3807 67:It wasn’t. The trumpet-shaped flowers—three of them—were as PALLID as the palms of a corpse, and almost translucent. Within each was a dab of dark blue stuff that looked like jelly. Hanging in the jelly were little pips. The stalks looked more like treebark than parts of a flowering plant, their green surfaces covered with a network of cracks and crenellations. There were brown spots that looked like some sort of fungoid growth, and these were spreading. The stems came together in a rooty clod of black soil. When he leaned toward this (none of them liked seeing Curt lean into the trunk that way, it was too much like watching a man stick his stupid head into a bear’s mouth), Curt said he could smell that cabbagey aroma again. It was faint but unmistakable.
"Novels\From a Buick 8.txt" 5772 290:“Sure.” I got up. “Is the temperature going down?” If so, it was news. It had been two years since the temp in there had dropped more than five degrees below the outside temperature. Sixteen months since the last lightshow, and that one had consisted of no more than eight or nine PALLID flickers.
"Novels\Gerald�s Game.txt" 1731 203:As if in answer, the figure bent forward in a kind of mocking bow, and for one moment its face—a face which seemed too real to doubt—slipped out of the shadows. Jessie uttered a rusty shriek as the PALLID rays falling through the skylight painted its features with tawdry carnival gilt. It wasn’t her father; compared with the evil and the lunacy she saw in the face of her visitor, she would have welcomed her father, even after twelve years in a cold coffin. Red-rimmed, hideously sparkling eyes regarded her from deep eyesockets wrapped in wrinkles. Thin lips twitched upward in a dry grin, revealing discolored molars and jagged canines which seemed almost as long as the stray dog’s fangs.
"Novels\Gerald�s Game.txt" 2385 330:She tried to pull herself up and was dismayed to find the mutiny in her arms had gone further than she had suspected. Not only did they refuse to move her; they refused to move themselves. Her brain’s order was totally ignored. She looked up at them again, and they no longer looked like furniture to her. Now they looked like PALLID cuts of meat hanging from butchers’ hooks, and she let out a hoarse cry of fear and anger.
"Novels\Gerald�s Game.txt" 4558 532:She moves away from him. He’s wrong; it’s not close enough. Brandon doesn’t have the slightest idea of what she’s thinking or feeling, but that’s okay; she knows. For the time being, all her voices have become one voice; she is basking in unexpected unanimity, and what she knows is this: if she doesn’t get closer to him now, if she doesn’t get just as close as she can, he will never be far enough away. He will always be in the closet, or just outside the window, or hiding under the bed at midnight, grinning his PALLID, wrinkled grin—the one that shows the glimmers of gold far back in his mouth.
"Novels\Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, The.txt" 261 550:brushed the backs of her knees. Just bushes, of course. More checkerberry bushes, the woods were full of em, yuck-yuck. And the bugs had found her again. They were re-forming their cloud, hundreds of tiny black spots dancing around her eyes, only this time the spots were bigger and seemed to be bursting open like the blooms of black roses. Trisha had just time enough to think, I’m fainting, this is fainting, and then she went down on her back in the bushes, her eyes rolled up to whites, the bugs hanging in a shimmering cloud above her small PALLID face. After a moment or two the first mosquitoes alit on her eyelids and began to feed.
"Novels\Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, The.txt" 830 129:There were lots of places to sit and think about it; tumbles of dead trees everywhere, many still bearing scorch-marks on their PALLID bodies. The first one she tried, however, gave beneath her weight and sent her spilling to the mucky ground. Trisha cried out as dampness soaked through the seat of her jeans—God, she hated having her seat get wet like that—and lurched upright again. The tree had rotted through in the damp; the freshly broken ends squirmed with woodlice. Trisha looked at them for a moment or two in revolted fascination, then walked to a second downed tree. This one she tested first. It seemed solid and she sat on it warily, looking out at the bog of broken trees, absently rubbing her sore neck and trying to decide what she should do.
"Novels\Green Mile, The.txt" 2031 98:That’s the way it was, too. The man we took back to his cell the next night at nine was quiet, PALLID, and seemingly chastened. He walked with his head down, made no effort to attack anyone when the straitjacket came off, and only stared listlessly at me when I told him it would go just the same the next time, and he just had to ask himself how much time he wanted to spend pissing in his pants and eating baby-food a spoonful at a time.
"Novels\Green Mile, The.txt" 3870 67:I found it sad that Percy had been in my office and pursuing such PALLID porn, and Harry—what I could see of him from over Percy’s straining shoulder—looked mildly disgusted, but Brutal hooted with laughter, and that took the fight out of Percy, at least for the time being.
Novels\Insomnia.txt 642 143:Davenport grunted, walked over to his neighbor’s display window, and peered at the bogus wanted poster. While he was looking at it, a tall, PALLID man with a goatee—the absolute antithesis of the Marlboro Man, Ralph would have said—materialized from the gloomy depths of Secondhand Rose like a vaudeville spook that has gotten a bit mouldy around the edges. He saw what Davenport was looking at, and a tiny disdainful smile dimpled the corners of his mouth. Ralph thought it was the kind of smile that could cost a man a couple of teeth, or a broken nose. Especially on a dog-hot day like this one.
Novels\Insomnia.txt 6948 8:Ed’s PALLID, frantic face rose before him like a ghost which returns to accuse its murderer, and Ralph, suddenly terrified, wrapped his arms around his knees and lowered his head to rest upon them.
Novels\Insomnia.txt 8541 5:The PALLID, unsmiling man standing next to Kirkland was Dan Dalton. The button on his shirt showed a scalpel descending toward an infant with its knees drawn up in the fetal position. This was surrounded by a red circle with a diagonal red line slashed across it. Ralph could see half a dozen police cars and two news trucks, one with the NBC logo on its side, in the background of the shot. A uniformed cop strolled across the lawn leading two dogs—a bloodhound and a German shepherd—on leashes.
Novels\Insomnia.txt 11503 159:He turned the scalpel’s blade inward, getting ready to slash. Ralph shook the forefinger of his right hand at it in a scolding gesture. A flash of light so PALLID it was almost invisible shot out from the nail and struck the scalpel’s tip, momentarily knocking it away from Lois’s balloon-string. And that was all there was; Ralph sensed that his personal armory was now empty.
Novels\Insomnia.txt 12808 28:For a moment he saw Ed’s PALLID, handsome face—the face of the highwayman who’d come riding up to the old inn door in the poem which had always made Carolyn cry—and his previous feeling of mingled pity and regret was replaced by anger. It was difficult to become really infuriated with Ed—he was, after all, just another chess-piece being moved across the board—and yet the building he had aimed his airplane at was full of real people. Innocent people. Ralph saw something balky, childish, and willful about the dopey expression of disassociation on Ed’s face, and as he passed through the thin skin of the cockpit wall, Ralph thought, I think that on some level, Ed, you knew the devil had come in. I think you might even have been able to put him out again . . . didn’t Mr. C. and Mr. L. say there’s always a choice? If there is, you have to own a piece of this, goddamn you.
Novels\IT.txt 3797 92:The Buck knife slid upward, smooth as butter. Blood welled in a bright red line on Ben’s PALLID skin.
Novels\IT.txt 4743 242:Now, on the night after meeting Ben Hanscom, Bill opened the door of George’s closet (steeling himself as always to meet the sight of Georgie himself, standing in his bloody slicker amid the hanging clothes, expecting as always to see one PALLID, fish-fingered hand come pistoning out of the dark to grip his arm) and took the album down from the top shelf.
Novels\IT.txt 5002 142:White hands appeared on the concrete lip of the Canal. There was a wet slapping sound. Drops of water flew upward in the moonlight from dead PALLID skin. Now Dorsey’s face appeared over the edge. Dim red sparks gleamed in his sunken eyes. His wet hair was plastered to his skull. Mud streaked his cheeks like warpaint.
Novels\IT.txt 11522 53:She leaned over the sink, catching a glimpse of her PALLID face and dark eyes in the mirror over the basin, and then she stared into that eye, waiting for the voices, the laughter, the groans, the blood.
Novels\IT.txt 14257 372:That coolness had allowed him to take an extra thirty seconds and pick up a handful of good-sized rocks. He threw one at Eddie as the Losers re-formed their rough skirmish line, and it struck Eddie on the chin. He fell down, crying, the blood already starting to flow. Ben turned toward him but Eddie was already getting up again, the blood gruesomely bright against his PALLID skin, his eyes slitted.
Novels\IT.txt 17172 1091:No one—not even Mike Hanlon—had the slightest idea of how crazy Patrick Hockstetter really was. He was twelve, the son of a paint salesman. His mother was a devout Catholic who would die of breast cancer in 1962, four years after Patrick was consumed by the dark entity which existed in and below Derry. Although his IQ tested out as low normal, Patrick had already repeated two grades, the first and third. He was taking summer classes this year so he would not have to repeat the fifth as well. His teachers found him an apathetic student (this several of them noted on the bare six lines of the Derry Elementary School’s report cards reserved for TEACHER’S COMMENTS) and a rather disturbing one as well (which none noted—their feelings were too vague, too diffuse, to be expressed in sixty lines, let alone six). If he had been born ten years later, a guidance counsellor might have steered him toward a child psychologist who might (or might not; Patrick was far more clever than his lackluster IQ results indicated) have realized the frightening depths behind that slack and PALLID moonface.
Novels\IT.txt 22851 425:He went to the next egg and repeated the process in the last of the dying light. Everything was repeated: the brittle snap, the squelch of liquid, the final coup de grace. The next. The next. The next. Making his way slowly toward the black arch into which his friends had gone. The darkness was complete now, Beverly and the decaying web somewhere behind him. He could still hear the whisper of its collapse. The eggs were PALLID stones in the dark. As he reached each one he struck a light from the matchbook and broke it open. In each case he was able to follow the course of the dazed spiderling and crush it before the light flickered out. He had no idea how he was going to proceed if his matches gave out before he had crushed the last of the eggs and killed each one’s unspeakable cargo.
"Novels\Lisey's Story.txt" 5251 560:“No. It might have helped if he’d taken me in his arms—like he did after the first time I tried—and told me it wasn’t my fault, wasn’t anybody’s fault, that it was just the bad-gunky, like cancer or cerebral palsy or something, but he never did that, either. He just hauled me away with one arm . . . I hung there like a puppet whose strings had been cut . . . and afterward we just . . .” In the brightening dimness, Scott explains all his silence about his past with one terrible gesture. He puts a finger to his lips for a second—it is a PALLID exclamation point below his wide eyes—and holds it there: Shhhhh.
Novels\Misery.txt 2226 242:He looked up, looked at his Misery, his darling. She stood lightly poised in the doorway, her chestnut hair with its mysterious deep-red glints like dying embers flowing over her shoulders in gorgeous profusion. Her complexion was still too PALLID, but in her cheeks Ian could see the first signs of returning color. Her eyes were dark and deep, and the glow of the kitchen lamps sparkled in each, like small and precious diamonds lying upon darkest jewellers’ felt.
"Novels\Mr. Mercedes.txt" 8723 297:The audience surges to its feet, and as the lights on the stage go completely dark, Tanya understands why the girls just had to have their phones. In her day, everyone held up matches or Bic lighters. These kids hold up their cell phones, the combined light of all those little screens casting a PALLID moonglow across the bowl of the auditorium.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 1598 118:Then he turned around and it wasn’t Miss Ratcliffe standing at his shoulder but Wilma Jerzyck with her large round PALLID face and her deep brown eyes, like two raisins pounded deep into a wad of dough.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 4274 60:He put his face against it, ignoring the reflection of his PALLID skin and bloodshot eyes. He cupped a hand to either cheek, cutting off the glare, narrowing his eyes, looking for a camera on the other side. Looking for Them.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 8156 109:Brian stood in the doorway, his heart thumping in his chest. Two big clown-spots of color now burned in his PALLID face.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 10582 47:Those eyes, looking up at him from that calm, PALLID face. Alan began to understand two things: this boy did want to tell him what had happened, but he was almost certainly not going to do so.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 14398 159:Others joined in. Soon the entire congregation had taken it up and they began to move faster, not just walking now but marching to the beat. Their faces were PALLID and angry and empty of all thought as they began not just to sing but to roar out the words. Rev. Rose sang along with them, although he lisped quite badly with his upper plate gone.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 15295 113:The composite formed by Todd’s and Sean’s and his wife’s faces retreated suddenly; it was replaced by the PALLID, shocked face of Brian Rusk as Alan had seen him just this afternoon.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 15309 61:Don’t do it, Sheriff, Brian Rusk whispered. Alan saw that PALLID, hurt, pre-suicidal face looking at him from above the cooler in his bike basket, the cooler filled with the baseball cards. Let the past sleep. It’s better that way. And he lies; you KNOW he lies.
"Novels\Needful Things.txt" 15317 244:They small green POWER light went on at once. The VCR worked just fine, power outage or no power outage, just as Alan had known it would. He turned on the sexy red Sony and in a moment the bright white glow of Channel 3 snow lit his face with PALLID light. Alan pushed the EJECT button and the VCR’s cassette-carrier popped up.
"Novels\Pet Sematary.txt" 1533 317:The deadfall from which Jud Crandall had called Ellie in alarm had become a heap of bones. The bones were moving. They writhed and clicked together, mandibles and femurs and ulnas and molars and incisors; he saw the grinning skulls of humans and animals. Fingerbones clittered. Here the remains of a foot flexed its PALLID joints.
"Novels\Pet Sematary.txt" 1869 363:It took a good deal longer than seven minutes to shut the machine down that night. Listening to Rachel draw the long, calm breaths of deep sleep beside him, the apparition of Victor Pascow seemed less dreamlike. He would close his eyes and see the door crashing open and there he was, Our Special Guest Star, Victor Pascow, standing there in his jogging shorts, PALLID under his summer tan, his collarbone poking up.
"Novels\Pet Sematary.txt" 2455 68:The shadows fell away and there was a feeling of space. Snow shone PALLIDly.
"Novels\Pet Sematary.txt" 4623 78:I’m so sorry, Missy was saying, brushing her dark blond hair back from her PALLID face. Such a dear sweet little boy. I loved him so much, Louis, I’m so sorry, it’s an awful road, I hope they put that truck driver in jail forever, he was going much too fast, he was so sweet, so dear, so bright, why would God take Gage, I don’t know, we can’t understand, can we, but I’m sorry, sorry, so sorry.
"Novels\Pet Sematary.txt" 4814 121:At home he led her up to bed and gave her another shot. Then he pulled the covers up to her chin and regarded her waxy, PALLID face.
"Novels\Pet Sematary.txt" 5940 160:He expected an argument, perhaps even an Ellie-style tantrum. He might even have welcomed it—a known quantity, as that look was not. But there was only that PALLID, disquieting silence which seemed so deep. He could have asked her more but found he didn’t dare; she had already told him more than he perhaps wanted to hear.
Novels\Revival.txt 5375 48:Astrid was a crone in a wheelchair, her face a PALLID pouch of flesh from which dark eyes stared listlessly down at food she obviously had no interest in. Her companion had put a large knitted cap—a kind of tam-o’-shanter—on her head, but it had slipped to one side, revealing a bald skull fuzzed with white stubble.
Novels\Revival.txt 5377 131:She picked up her spoon with a scrawny hand that was all tendons, then put it down again. The dark-haired woman exhorted her. The PALLID creature nodded. Her tam fell off when she did, but Astrid appeared not to notice. She dipped into her soup and raised the spoon slowly to her mouth. Most of its cargo fell off during the trip. She sipped what was left, pooching her lips out in a way that reminded me of how the late Bartleby would take a slice of apple from my hand.
"Novels\Rose Madder.txt" 4804 528:Norman couldn’t get entirely straight in his mind the fact that the man in the mirror was still him. He winked and the mirror-man winked, he smiled and the mirror-man smiled, he turned and the mirror-man turned, but it didn’t help. Before, he’d had the brow of a cop; now he had the brow of a mathematics professor, a brow that went into the stratosphere. He couldn’t get over the smooth, somehow sensuous curves of his bald skull. And its whiteness. He hadn’t thought he had anything like a tan, but compared to his PALLID skull, the rest of his skin was as brown as a lifeguard’s. His head looked strangely fragile, and too weirdly perfect to belong to the likes of him. To belong to any human being, especially a male. It looked like a piece of Delft china.
"Novels\Rose Madder.txt" 4828 212:A trio of teenagers, also black, were leaning against a fence near the Tempo, but they hadn’t bothered doing anything to the car, possibly because it was too much of a dog to bother with. They eyed Norman’s PALLID white head with interest, then glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. They were fourteen or so, boys without much trouble in them. The one in the middle started to say “You lookin at me?” like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. Norman seemed to sense this and stared at him—just at him, it seemed, ignoring the other two completely. The one in the middle decided that maybe his De Niro imitation needed a little more work and quit it.
"Novels\Rose Madder.txt" 7690 252:Just as the moon snagged in the trees to the left of the ruined temple, the pony raised its head again, and this time it gave voice to a low, pleased whinny. Rosie looked down the hill and saw Rose Madder coming. Strong, shapely thighs flashed in the PALLID light of the fading moon. Her plaited hair swung from side to side like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.
"Novels\Rose Madder.txt" 8024 48:Silent moonlight informed it. The temple was a PALLID sepulchre. The carrion-birds circled overhead. Will they dine on Norman’s flesh tomorrow, when the sun comes up? she wondered. She didn’t think so. Rose Madder had put Norman in a place where birds never went.
"Novels\Shining, The.txt" 936 101:Danny outside playing trucks in the sandpile, his arm still in the cast. Jack sitting at the table, PALLID and grizzled, a cigarette jittering between his fingers. She had decided to ask him for a divorce. She had pondered the question from a hundred different angles, had been pondering it in fact for the six months before the broken arm. She told herself she would have made the decision long ago if it hadn’t been for Danny, but not even that was necessarily true. She dreamed on the long nights when Jack was out, and her dreams were always of her mother’s face and of her own wedding.
"Novels\Shining, The.txt" 5387 57:Wendy stared back at him in stunned disbelief, her face PALLID. She shook her head.
"Novels\Shining, The.txt" 5631 23:The shower curtain, a PALLID pastel pink, was drawn protectively around the long claw-footed tub.
"Novels\Shining, The.txt" 5723 190:He stepped into the kitchen and looked at them, bouncing the passkey a few inches up off his left hand, making the chain on the white metal tongue jingle, then catching it again. Danny was PALLID and worn out. Wendy had been crying, he saw; her eyes were red and darkly circled. He felt a sudden burst of gladness at this. He wasn’t suffering alone, that was sure.
"Novels\Shining, The.txt" 7642 195:He looked back over his shoulder. They were all looking at him expectantly, silently. The man beside the woman in the sarong had removed his foxhead and Jack saw that it was Horace Derwent, his PALLID blond hair spilling across his forehead. Everyone at the bar was watching, too. The woman beside him was looking at him closely, as if trying to focus. Her dress had slipped off one shoulder and looking down he could see a loosely puckered nipple capping one sagging breast. Looking back at her face he began to think that this might be the woman from 217, the one who had tried to strangle Danny. On his other hand, the man in the sharp blue suit had removed a small pearl-handled .32 from his jacket pocket and was idly spinning it on the bar, like a man with Russian roulette on his mind.
"Novels\Shining, The.txt" 8702 294:Color was materializing out of the white now, snow-clotted orange. He could see the high cab, even the gesticulating figure of the driver behind the single long wiper blade. He could see the V shape of the plow’s wing blades, spewing more snow up onto the road’s left-hand embankment like PALLID, smoking exhaust.
"Novels\Sleeping Beauties.txt" 5299 1013:On the way back to the shoulder where he’d parked his truck, he cut alongside a fenced property. The fence was a mix of junk, decaying planks, hubcaps, and corrugated sheet metal so full of holes it did more to invite attention than to discourage intruders. Through the gaps, Frank took in the peeling white house and shabby yard beyond. A tire swing on a fraying rope hung from an oak tree, black tattered clothes surrounded by circling insects were piled at the base of the tree, a milk crate full of iron scraps stood guard by the porch steps, a (presumably empty) oil can was carelessly pitched aside to rest like a hat on top of an unruly growth of bougainvillea which was itself partially draped over the porch. Glass fragments from a smashed second-floor window were scattered over the bare tarpaper roof, and a brand new Toyota pickup, blue as the Pacific, stood waxed up and parked in the driveway. Littered around its rear tires were a dozen or so spent shotgun shells, once bright red, now faded to PALLID pink, as if they had been there a long time.
"Novels\Sleeping Beauties.txt" 10197 173:There was no question that she was. The purple pouches beneath her eyes had disappeared, but that was the least of it; her skin had tightened on her bones and her formerly PALLID cheeks had taken on a rosy glow. She turned to Garth, who was staring at her with slack-jawed amazement.
"Novels\Sleeping Beauties.txt" 14034 245:Don might not have done so if the plastic explosive hadn’t detonated at that instant on the other side of the prison. It was actually more of a fall than a duck, but it did the job; instead of grasping the soft meat of his face, Kayleigh’s PALLID fingers slapped off the hard plastic shell of the football helmet. There was a gunshot, amplified to monstrous levels in the empty gymnasium, and a point-blank round from the Weatherby—a gun that could literally stop an elephant—did the job on Kayleigh. Her throat simply exploded and her head lolled back, all the way back. Her body crumpled.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 3528 350:Billy and Mike were both standing at their cell doors. Both of them had been banging on the bars with their shoes … which just went to show you that people who can’t talk only made up a small percentage of the world’s dummies. Vince Hogan was lying down. He only turned his head and stared at Nick when he came to the door. Hogan’s face was PALLID except for a hectic flush on his cheeks, and there were dark patches under his eyes. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead. Nick met his apathetic, fevered gaze and realized that the man was sick. His uneasiness deepened.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 4679 239:“I’ll try the State Patrol,” she said, but put the phone back in the cradle after dialing a single number. “The long-distance is still out of service, I guess. After I dial 1, it just goes wah-wah-wah in my ear.” She gave him a PALLID smile and then the tears began to flow helplessly. “Poor Nick,” she said. “Poor me. Poor everybody. Could you help me upstairs? I feel so weak, and I can’t catch my breath. I think I’ll be with John soon.” He looked at her, wishing he could speak. “I think I’ll lie down, if you can help me.”
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 8824 120:Nick looked around. Yes—Tom was now sitting on the park bench, scratching his crow’s nest hair and goggling around PALLIDly. Nick suddenly remembered the Pepto-Bismol.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 8945 2285:So he’d sent the motorcycle crashing over the embankment and into a weed-choked gully and then he had peered at it with a kind of cautious terror, as if it could somehow rise up and smite him. Come on, he had thought, come on and stall out, ya sucker. But for a long time, the motorcycle wouldn’t. For a long time it raved and bellowed down there in that gully, the rear wheel spinning fruitlessly, the hungry chain gobbling up last fall’s leaves and spitting out clouds of brown, bitter-smelling dust. Blue smoke belched from the chromed exhaust-pipe. And even then he had been far enough gone to think there was something supernatural about it, that the cycle would right itself, rise out of its grave, and chew him up … either that or he would look back one afternoon at the rising sound of an engine and see his cycle, this damned cycle which wouldn’t just stall out and die decently, roaring straight down the highway at him, doing eighty, and bent over the handlebars would be that dark man, that hardcase, and riding pillion behind him, with her white silk deckpants rippling in the breeze, would be Rita Blakemoor, her face chalk white, her eyes slitted, her hair as dry and dead as a cornpatch in the wintertime. Then, at last, the cycle began to spit and chug and seizure and misfire, and when it finally stopped he had looked down at it and felt sad, as if it had been some part of himself he had killed. Without the cycle there was no way in which he could mount a serious assault on the silence, and the silence was, in a way, worse than his fears of dying or being seriously hurt in an accident. Since then he had been walking. He had gone through several small towns along Route 9 which had cycle shops, showroom models with the keys hanging right in them, but if he looked at them too long, the visions of himself lying beside the road in a pool of blood would rise up in vivid, unhealthy Technicolor, like something from one of those awful but somehow fascinating Charles Band horror movies, the ones where people kept dying under the wheels of large trucks or as a consequence of large, nameless bugs which had bred and grown in their warm vitals and finally burst free in a gut-busting display of flying flesh, and he would pass by, enduring the silence, PALLID, shivering. He would pass by with exquisite little clusters of perspiration growing on his upper lip and in the hollows of his temples.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 9437 1092:Larry was drawn two painful ways by these things. Part of him clamored at their sad and blatant ugliness and at the ugliness of the minds that had turned this section of a magnificent, savage coastline into one long highway amusement park for families in station wagons. But there was a more subtle, deeper part of him that whispered of the people who had filled these places and this road during other summers. Ladies in sunhats and shorts too tight for their large behinds. College boys in red-and-black-striped rugby shirts. Girls in beach shifts and thong sandals. Small screaming children with ice cream spread over their faces. They were American people and there was a kind of dirty, compelling romance about them whenever they were in groups—never mind if the group was in an Aspen ski lodge or performing their prosaic-arcane rites of summer along US 1 in Maine. And now all those Americans were gone. A thunderstorm had ripped a branch from a tree and it had knocked the gigantic plastic Dairy Treet sign into the ice cream stand’s parking lot, where it lay on its side like a PALLID duncecap. The grass was starting to get long on the mini-golf course. This stretch of highway between Portland and Portsmouth had once been a seventy-mile amusement park and now it was only a haunted funhouse where all the clockwork had run down.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 12177 1775:He stood about five feet three inches. His hair was piled and swirled and pomaded and brilliantined. The hair alone gave him another three inches of height. The swirls all met above his collar in what was not just a duck’s ass but the avatar of all the duck’s ass hairdos ever affected by the punks and hoods of the world. He was wearing black boots with pointed toes. The sides were elasticized. The heels, which gave The Kid another three inches, bringing him up to a respectable five-nine total, were stacked Cubans. His pegged and faded jeans were tight enough to read the dates of the coins in his pockets. They limned each nifty little buttock into a kind of blue sculpture and made his crotch look like he’d maybe stuffed a chamois bag full of Spalding golf-balls in there. He wore a Western-style silk shirt of an off-burgundy color. It was decorated with yellow trim and imitation sapphire buttons. The cufflinks looked like polished bone, and Trash later found out that was just what they were. The Kid had two sets, one made from a pair of human molars, the other from the incisors of a Doberman pinscher. Over this wonder of a shirt, in spite of the heat of the day, he wore a black leather motorcycle jacket with an eagle on the back. It was crisscrossed with zippers, the teeth glimmering like diamonds. From the shoulder-flaps and waistbelt three rabbits’ feet dangled. One was white, one brown, one bright St. Paddy’s Day green. This jacket, even more wonderful than the shirt, creaked smugly with rich oil. Above the eagle, this time written in white silk thread, were the words THE KID. The face now looking up at the Trashcan Man from between the high pile of gleaming hair and the upturned collar of the gleaming motorcycle jacket was tiny and PALLID, a doll’s face, with heavy but flawlessly sculpted pouting lips, dead gray eyes, a wide forehead without a mark or a seam, and strange full cheeks. He looked like Baby Elvis.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 14221 546:Harold sat in a chair on the lawn of the little house he had picked out for himself, looking up at the sky and thinking of an old rock and roll song. He hated rock, but he could remember this one almost line-for-line and even the name of the group that had sung it: Kathy Young and the Innocents. The lead singer, songstress, whatever, had a high, yearning, reedy voice that had somehow caught his full attention. A golden goody, the DJs called it. A Blast from the Past. A Platter that Matters. The girl singing lead sounded sixteen years old, PALLID, blond, and plain. She sounded as if she might be singing to a picture that spent most of its time buried in a dresser drawer, a picture that was taken out only late at night when everyone else in the house was asleep. She sounded hopeless. The picture she sang to had perhaps been clipped from her big sister’s yearbook, a picture of the local Big Jock—captain of the football team and president of the Student Council. The Big Jock would be slipping it to the head cheerleader on some deserted lovers’ lane while far away in suburbia this plain girl with no breasts and a pimple in the corner of her mouth sang:
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 16678 354:The girls had grown quiet. Their faces all wore a peculiar expression, an expression common to the faces of all people who have attended a séance where something unexpectedly genuine has occurred—when the table begins to rock, when unseen knuckles rap on the wall, or when the medium begins to extrude smoky-gray teleplasm from her nostrils. It is a PALLID waiting expression, half wanting whatever it is that has begun to stop, half wanting it to go on. It is an expression of dreadful, distracted excitement … and when it wears that particular look, the human face looks most like the skull which always rests half an inch below the skin.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 17604 41:The three of them stared at each other, PALLID as gravestones. Ralph had seized his hat from his head and was kneading it convulsively in his hands. Nick had put one hand over his eyes. Stu’s throat had turned to dry glass.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 19384 133:The words crackled and rolled away into the late afternoon. Her clothes clung soddenly to her skin, her hair lay lankly against her PALLID cheeks, and she began to shiver.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 19817 44:Suddenly Frannie was next to Stu, her face PALLID, her eyes huge. She clutched at him. “Stu … Nick’s still in there … something … something …”
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 23037 404:He crashed back down at the sound of that soft, uninflected voice. The jarring shock went up his legs and his spine all the way to his jaw, which clicked. He whirled around like a cat. But his blooming grin withered when he saw Nadine. She was dressed in a white nightgown, yards of gauzy material that billowed around her body. Her hair, as white as the gown, blew about her face. She looked like some PALLID deranged sibyl, and in spite of himself, Flagg was afraid. She took a delicate step closer. Her feet were bare.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 24731 83:Larry ran his eyes over them, and every eye he met turned away. Every face seemed PALLID, distant, marked for death and seeming to know it. Yet they were here.
"Novels\Stand, The.txt" 24811 255:He turned toward the cars, which were now idling, sending out small puffs of exhaust into the morning. As he did so, there was a commotion near the front of the crowd. Suddenly a man pushed through into the clearing. He was a big man, his face nearly as PALLID as his cook’s whites. The dark man had handed the scroll back to Lloyd, and Lloyd’s hands jerked convulsively when Whitney Horgan pushed into the clear. There was a clear ripping sound as the scroll tore in half.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 2486 52:“Dear-God,” Stephen said, all as one word. His PALLID face went two shades whiter.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 3212 174:“Up yours,” she said, and Smokey’s hand flickered out like lightning. There was a crack and suddenly the imprint of Smokey’s palm was printed red on one of Lori’s PALLID cheeks like a child’s Tattoodle. She began to snivel . . . but Jack was sickened and bewildered to see an expression in her eyes that was almost happy. It was the look of a woman who believed such treatment was a sign of caring.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 5611 116:Now Jack saw Morgan standing on the other bank, a tall, Puritanical figure in his black cloak. His hood framed his PALLID, vampirelike face with a kind of cheerless romance. Jack had time to think that the Territories had worked their magic even here, on behalf of his dreadful uncle. Over here, Morgan was not an overweight, hypertensive actuarial toad with piracy in his heart and murder in his mind; over here, his face had narrowed and found a frigid masculine beauty. He pointed the silver rod like a toy magic wand, and blue fire tore the air open.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 7586 383:It looked a lot like the cafeteria kitchen at his school in California. The floor and walls were tiled, the big sinks and counters stainless steel. The cupboards were nearly the size of vegetable bins. An old conveyor-belt dishwasher stood against one wall. Three boys were already operating this hoary antique under the supervision of a man in cook’s whites. The man was narrow, PALLID, and possessed of a ratlike little face. An unfiltered cigarette was pasted to his upper lip, and that identified him in Jack’s mind as a possible ally. He doubted if Sunlight Gardener would let any of his own people smoke cigarettes.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 7816 74:Terrified silence in the room. Behind the glass panel, even Casey looked PALLID and strange.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 8194 101:Hector Bast returned on Wednesday, his right arm in a cast up to the elbow, his big, doughy face so PALLID that the pimples on it stood out like garish dots of rouge.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 8202 131:Heck’s left fist flashed out. He was even clumsier with his left hand than with his right, but Jack, stunned by the big boy’s PALLID rage, never saw it coming. His lips spread into a weird smile under Heck’s fist and broke open. He reeled back against the wall.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 9411 45:“Let him out now!” Warwick’s face was PALLID, except for two red spots high on his cheekbones.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 9697 47:An hour later a trucker slowed for the tired, PALLID boy standing in the breakdown lane with his thumb cocked. Jack climbed in.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 10457 56:Jack shot a quick sideways glance at Richard—but his PALLID face and bulging eyes suggested to Jack that Richard was edging farther and farther into The Magical Land of Overload.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 10469 105:Richard didn’t reply; he was staring down at the grinning troll-version of Etheridge with drugged and PALLID interest.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 10737 39:Richard had joined him at the window, PALLID and distracted. “What are you two yelling about?” he asked. He looked fixedly at the grinning travesty below them and across the way. “How does Etheridge know your mother’s in New Hampshire?”
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 10807 25:He waits, trembling, as PALLID as day-old ashes in a cold stove, for three hours outside that damned closet, afraid to go back in, afraid of the green hand and the yellow eyes, more and more sure that his father must be dead. And when his father comes back into the room near the end of the fourth hour, not from the closet but from the door which communicates between the bedroom and the upstairs hall—the door BEHIND Richard—when that happens, Richard rejects fantasy for good and all; Richard negates fantasy; Richard refuses to deal with fantasy, or treat with it, or compromise with it. He has, quite simply, Had Enough, Forever. He jumps up, runs to his father, to the beloved Morgan Sloat, and hugs him so tightly that his arms will be sore all that week. Morgan lifts him up, laughs, and asks him why he looks so pale. Richard smiles, and tells him that it was probably something he ate for breakfast, but he feels better now, and he kisses his father’s cheek, and smells the beloved smell of mingled sweat and Raj cologne. And later that day, he takes all of his storybooks—the Little Golden Books, the pop-up books, the I-Can-Read books, the Dr. Seuss books, the Green Fairy Book for Young Folks, and he puts them in a carton, and he puts the carton down in the basement, and he thinks: “I would not care if an earthquake came now and opened a crack in the floor and swallowed up every one of those books. In fact, it would be a relief. In fact, it would be such a relief that I would probably laugh all day and most of the weekend.” This does not happen, but Richard feels a great relief when the books are shut in double darkness—the darkness of the carton and the darkness of the cellar. He never looks at them again, just as he never goes in his father’s closet with the folding door again, and although he sometimes dreams that there is something under his bed or in his closet, something with flat yellow eyes, he never thinks about that green, sucker-covered hand again until the strange time comes to Thayer School and he bursts into unaccustomed tears in his friend Jack Sawyer’s arms.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 13015 262:It was that, all right. A very bad business. Anders was right; it was devils all hurtled down together. Jack reached into the engine compartment, got one of the Uzis, slapped a fresh clip into it, and started back toward where Richard stood looking around with PALLID, contemplative interest.
"Novels\Talisman, The.txt" 16125 37:Morgan’s dark eyes gleamed in his PALLID face. It was the thought of Jack begging, perhaps. He leaned down until his face was almost touching Jack’s. Jack’s legs had drawn up in response to the pain. Now he pistoned them out and up. For a moment it felt as if a rusty blade were ripping up from his genitals and into his stomach, but the sound of his sandals striking Morgan’s face, splitting his lips and crunching his nose to one side, more than made up for the pain.
"Novels\Tommyknockers, The.txt" 1389 397:The fluorescents, embedded in pebbled rectangles overhead, seemed to be pulsing in cycles which perfectly matched the cycles of pain driving into his head. He could see Patricia McCardle. She was wearing a little black dress that surely hadn’t cost a penny more than three hundred dollars—distress-sale stuff from one of those tacky little shops on Newbury Street. Her face was as narrow and PALLID and unforgiving as that of any of her Puritan forebears, those wonderful, fun-loving guys who had been more than happy to stick you in some stinking gaol for three or four weeks if you had the bad luck to be spied going out on the Sabbath Day without a snotrag in your pocket. Patricia’s dark eyes lay upon him like dusty stones and Gard thought: She sees what’s happening and she couldn’t be more pleased. Look at her. She’s waiting for me to fall down. And when I do, you know what she’ll be thinking, don’t you?
"Novels\Tommyknockers, The.txt" 6178 45:The sun rose each day in a sky the color of PALLID china and then seemed to hang at the roof of the world. Behind the Haven Lunch, a line of dogs lay in the scant shade of the overhanging eave, panting, even too hot to scratch fleas. The streets were mostly deserted. Every now and then someone would travel through Haven on his way up to or back from Derry and Bangor. Not too many, though, because the turnpike was so much quicker.
"Novels\Tommyknockers, The.txt" 10826 176:Where does it all end, Dick? Newt had asked uneasily. The mirror in Dick’s hallway drew him like a magnet and he stared at himself, seeing his tongue behind and through his PALLID lips, seeing a tangled undergrowth of small pulsing capillaries in his forehead. He pressed the tips of his fingers against the shelf of bone over his eyebrows and saw faint finger indentations when he took them away. They were like fingermarks in hard wax, right down to the discernible loops and sworls of his fingertips sunk into the livid skin. Looking at that had made him feel sick.
"Novels\Tommyknockers, The.txt" 10873 37:She looked toward where Hester lay, PALLID as a wax cameo, breathing dryly, eyes closed. They could have—maybe should have—come back when they felt the headaches coming on, when their gums began to bleed, but they hadn’t even discussed it. And it wasn’t only their gums. Hester, who had been menstruating lightly all during the “becoming” (unlike older women, teenage girls didn’t ever seem to stop . . . or hadn’t yet, anyway), made Tommy stop at the Troy General Store so she could buy heavier sanitary napkins. She had begun to flow copiously. By the time they had bought three car batteries and a good used truck battery in the Newport-Derry Town Line Auto Supply on Route 7, she had soaked four Stayfree Maxi-Pads.
"Novels\Tommyknockers, The.txt" 11137 302:There were amphetamine capsules in her purse. Anne took one of them out, opened it, poured the white powder onto the mirror of her compact, made a line with one sensibly short nail, and snorted half of it. Her heart immediately began to jackrabbit in her narrow chest. A flush of color bloomed in her PALLID face. She left the rest for the morning. She had begun to use yellowjackets this way shortly after her father’s first stroke. Now she found she could not sleep without a snort of this stuff, which was the diametric opposite of a sedative. When she had been a little girl—a very little girl—her mother had once cried at Anne in utter exasperation, “You’re so contrary cheese’d physic ya!”
"Novels\Tommyknockers, The.txt" 12559 213:He felt his sanity tottering. His eyes were drawn relentlessly back to Peter, Peter with most of his skull peeled away, Peter with a bunch of wires plugged into what remained of his head. His brain looked like a PALLID veal roast with a bunch of temperature probes stuck into it.
"Novels\Under the Dome.txt" 1365 96:“I gotta go back,” Gendron said. He took off his Sea Dogs cap and wiped his bloody, grimy, PALLID face with it. His nose had swollen until it looked like a giant’s thumb. His eyes peered out of dark circles. “I’m sorry, but my schnozz is hurting like hell, and . . . well, I ain’t as young as I used to be. Also . . .” He raised his arms and dropped them. They were facing each other, and Barbie would have taken the guy in his arms and given him a pat on the back, if it were possible.
"Novels\Under the Dome.txt" 15656 381:But even away from the bear, the world smelled bad: smoky and heavy, as if the entire town of Chester’s Mill had become a large closed room. In addition to the odors of smoke and decaying animal, he could smell rotting plant life and a swampy stench that no doubt arose from the drying bed of the Prestile. If only there was a wind, he thought, but there was just an occasional PALLID puff of breeze that brought more bad smells. To the far west there were clouds—it was probably raining a bitch over in New Hampshire—but when they reached the Dome, the clouds parted like a river dividing at a large outcropping of rock. Rusty had become increasingly doubtful about the possibility of rain under the Dome. He made a note to check some meteorological websites . . . if he ever got a free moment. Life had become appallingly busy and unsettlingly unstructured.
"Novels\Bachman\Long Walk, The.txt" 1160 63:“You know what you can do with Rule 8,” Olson said with a PALLID smile.
"Novels\Bachman\Long Walk, The.txt" 1987 138:Garraty took a closer look at him. His hair was rumpled and clotty with dust and sweat. His clothes were limp and wrinkled. His face was PALLID and his eyes were deeply circled in their bloodshot orbs.
"Novels\Bachman\Long Walk, The.txt" 2825 353:“You saved him,” Olson said, turning it into a curse. “Why did you do that? Why did you do that?” His eyes were as shiny and as blank as doorknobs. “I’d kill you if I could. I hate you. You’re gonna die, McVries. You wait and see. God’s gonna strike you dead for what you did. God’s gonna strike you dead as dogshit.” His voice was PALLID and empty. Garraty could almost smell the shroud on him. He clapped his own hands over his mouth and moaned through them. The truth was that the smell of the shroud was on all of them.
"Novels\Bachman\Long Walk, The.txt" 3484 139:“She’s probably the Major’s mother,” Garraty said. It was supposed to be funny, but it fell flat. Baker’s face was strained and PALLID under the fading light in the rushing sky.
"Novels\Bachman\Long Walk, The.txt" 3496 14:Baker smiled PALLIDly. “Well, I was turnin’ over the idea of going to mortician’s school in a few years. Good job. Morticians go on eating even in a depression.”
"Novels\Bachman\Long Walk, The.txt" 4355 136:“Why ask them?” Scramm demanded. His former husky voice had been reduced to a mere whisper. The fever had broken, leaving his face PALLID and waxy.
"Novels\Bachman\Regulators, The.txt" 2423 528:He doesn’t walk toward Herbie and Audrey’s house; he is pulled toward it, reeled in. As he walks through the black, faceless figure, a crazy image fills his mind for just a moment: spaghetti, the unnaturally red kind that comes in a can, and hamburger. All mixed together in a white bowl with Warner Bros. cartoon figures—Bugs, Elmer, Daffy—dancing around the rim. Just thinking about that kind of food usually nauseates him, but for the moment the image holds in his mind, he is desperately hungry; he lusts for those PALLID strands of pasta and that unnatural red sauce. For that moment even the pain in his head ceases to exist.
"Novels\Bachman\Regulators, The.txt" 3366 122:He did. The green world was retreating from them and the desert was advancing. The foliage under their feet first became PALLID, as if something had sucked all the sap out of it, then disappeared as the dark, moist earth bleached and granulated. Beads. That was what he had been thinking a few moments ago, that the topsoil had been replaced by this weird round beadlike shit. To his right, one of the scrubby trees suddenly plumped out. This was accompanied by the sound you get when you stick your finger in your cheek and then pop it. The tree’s whitish trunk turned green and grew spines. Its branches melted together, the color in the leaves seeming to spread and blur as they became cactus arms.
"Novels\Bachman\Running Man, The.txt" 3627 9:She was PALLID but seemingly in control. Resigned, maybe. She applied the brakes evenly and the air car came to a neat stop in the middle of the road fifty feet from the checkpoint.
"Novels\Bachman\Running Man, The.txt" 3645 222:Mrs. Williams swung open the door and leaned out. “Don’t shoot, please,” she said, and for the first time Richards realized how cultured her voice was, how rich. She might have been in a drawing room except for the PALLID knuckles and the fluttering, birdlike pulse in her throat. With the door open he could smell the fresh, invigorating odor of pine and timothy grass.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower I The Gunslinger.txt" 289 268:There were people on the streets, but not many. Three ladies wearing black slacks and identical high-collared blouses passed by on the opposite boardwalk, not looking at him with pointed curiosity. Their faces seemed to swim above their all-but-invisible bodies like PALLID balls with eyes. A solemn old man with a straw hat perched firmly on top of his head watched him from the steps of a boarded-up mercantile store. A scrawny tailor with a late customer paused to watch him go by; he held up the lamp in his window for a better look. The gunslinger nodded. Neither the tailor nor his customer nodded back. He could feel their eyes resting heavily upon the low-slung holsters that lay against his hips. A young boy, perhaps thirteen, and a girl who might have been his sissa or his jilly-child crossed the street a block up, pausing imperceptibly. Their footfalls raised little hanging clouds of dust. Here in town most of the streetside lamps worked, but they weren’t electric; their isinglass sides were cloudy with congealed oil. Some had been crashed out. There was a livery with a just-hanging-on look to it, probably depending on the coach line for its survival. Three boys were crouched silently around a marble ring drawn in the dust to one side of the barn’s gaping maw, smoking cornshuck cigarettes. They made long shadows in the yard. One had a scorpion’s tail poked in the band of his hat. Another had a bloated left eye bulging sightlessly from its socket.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower I The Gunslinger.txt" 2929 397:The boy said nothing. He’d said nothing since they had passed from the daylight. The gunslinger, on the other hand, had talked hectically, feverishly, to fill the silence. He had not looked back at the light as they passed into the land beneath the mountains, but the boy had. The gunslinger had read the failing of day in the soft mirror of Jake’s cheek: now faint rose, now milk-glass, now PALLID silver, now the last dusk-glow touch of evening, now nothing. The gunslinger had struck a false light and they had gone on.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower I The Gunslinger.txt" 3847 33:The gunslinger stood drunkenly, PALLID as a ghost, eyes huge and swimming beneath his forehead, shirt smeared with the white dust of his final, lunging crawl. It came to him that there would be further degradations of the spirit ahead that might make this one seem infinitesimal, and yet he would still flee it, down corridors and through cities, from bed to bed; he would flee the boy’s face and try to bury it in cunts and killing, only to enter one final room and find it looking at him over a candle flame. He had become the boy; the boy had become him. He was become a werewolf of his own making. In deep dreams he would become the boy and speak the boy’s strange city tongue.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower I The Gunslinger.txt" 3927 450:The gunslinger looked at him silently. In a way, the face that the hood had hidden was an uneasy disappointment. It was handsome and regular, with none of the marks and twists which indicate a man who has been through awesome times and has been privy to great secrets. His hair was black and of a ragged, matted length. His forehead was high, his eyes dark and brilliant. His nose was nondescript. The lips were full and sensual. His complexion was PALLID, as was the gunslinger’s own.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three.txt" 49 175:The creature was crouched on the gunslinger’s boot, tearing at it as it asked its garbled questions. A wave rolled toward the beach, the foam which curdled its top looking PALLID and dead in the netted light of the half-moon. The lobstrosity stopped working on the boot and raised its claws in that boxer’s pose.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three.txt" 843 342:She lit another match and this time did the job right. She had only taken a single drag when the perfectly reasonable explanation occurred to her. He wore contacts. Of course. The kind that changed the color of your eyes. He had gone into the bathroom. He had been in there long enough for her to worry about him being airsick—he had that PALLID complexion, the look of a man who is not quite well. But he had only been taking out his contact lenses so he could nap more comfortably. Perfectly reasonable.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three.txt" 855 76:No. He wasn’t. Cute, maybe, but that was as far as it went, and with the PALLID complexion he only made it to cute by the skin of his teeth. So why the color-contacts?
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three.txt" 1381 39:“Never mind my fucking arms!” the PALLID apparition told him. “Take off your shirt and get rid of it!”
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three.txt" 1591 84:“Put your shirt on,” the gunslinger said. His face, which Eddie had thought as PALLID as the face of a living man could become, was now the color of ancient ashes. He held the girdle of tape (now sticking to itself in a meaningless tangle, the big bags of white stuff looking like strange cocoons) in his left hand, then tossed it aside. Eddie saw fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandage on the gunslinger’s right hand. “Do it fast.”
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower II The Drawing of the Three.txt" 3677 60:“That’s also cool,” Eddie keeps smiling. His face is PALLID, sharklike . . . but some of that ill look has gone now, and the smell of shit and death which has hung around him like a shroud seems to be going away.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass.txt" 6567 519:“You will make the most beautiful Reap-Girl that ever was,” he said, and the clear sincerity in his voice made her tingle with pleasure; her cheeks grew warm again. There were five changes of costume for the Reaping Girl between the noon feast and the bonfire at dusk, each more elaborate than the last (in Gilead there would have been nine; in that way, Susan didn’t know how lucky she was), and she would have worn all five happily for Will, had he been the Reaping Lad. (This year’s Lad was Jamie McCann, a PALLID and whey-faced stand-in for Hart Thorin, who was approximately forty years too old and gray for the job.) Even more happily would she have worn the sixth—a silvery shift with wisp-thin straps and a hem that stopped high on her thighs. This was a costume no one but Maria, her maid, Conchetta, her seamstress, and Hart Thorin would ever see. It was the one she would be wearing when she went to the old man’s couch as his gilly, after the feast was over.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass.txt" 7914 116:Now the Huntress “filled her belly,” as the old-timers said—even at noon she could be glimpsed in the sky, a PALLID vampire woman caught in bright autumn sunlight. In front of businesses such as the Travellers’ Rest and on the porches of such large ranch houses as Lengyll’s Rocking B and Renfrew’s Lazy Susan, stuffy-guys with heads full of straw above their old overalls began to appear. Each wore his sombrero; each held a basket of produce cradled in his arms; each looked out at the emptying world with stitched white-cross eyes.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass.txt" 10217 35:She fell silent. Alain turned his PALLID face to Roland. His lips were trembling, but still he held her hands.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass.txt" 12641 92:No good. It wasn’t the strong light of midmorning that her eyes opened upon, but the ash-PALLID glow of five o’clock. Not a woman’s voice but a man’s. And not a hand shaking her shoulder but the barrel of a gun against her neck.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass.txt" 13307 146:Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper on this last phrase; her listeners strained forward to hear, faces grim, eyes big. And now Rhea pulled the PALLID, skinny woman in the rusty black dress forward. She stood Cordelia in front of her like a doll or a ventriloquist’s dummy, and whispered in her ear . . . but the whisper travelled, somehow; they all heard it.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower IV Wizard and Glass.txt" 13558 746:Sheemie waited at the foot of the stairs which led down to the kitchen area, shifting uneasily from foot to foot and waiting for sai Thorin to come back, or to call him. He didn’t know how long she’d been in the kitchen, but it felt like forever. He wanted her to come back, and more than that—more than anything—he wanted her to bring Susan-sai with her. Sheemie had a terrible feeling about this place and this day; a feeling that darkened like the sky, which was now all obscured with smoke in the west. What was happening out there, or if it had anything to do with the thundery sounds he’d heard earlier, Sheemie didn’t know, but he wanted to be out of here before the smoke-hazed sun went down and the real Demon Moon, not its PALLID day-ghost, rose in the sky.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower V Wolves of the Calla.txt" 3427 74:It was late afternoon. Overhead, the clouds had thinned enough to turn a PALLID blue that was almost the color of sky. The Overholser party had returned to their camp. Susannah and Jake had gone back along the forest road to pick more muffin-balls. After the big meal they’d packed away, none of them wanted anything heavier. Eddie sat on a log, whittling. Beside him sat Roland, with all their guns broken down and spread out before him on a piece of deerskin. He oiled the pieces one by one, holding each bolt and cylinder and barrel up to the daylight for a final look before setting it aside for reassembly.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower V Wolves of the Calla.txt" 9620 76:The man in the robe—it’s black, his face within the hood nothing but a PALLID suggestion—stands about twenty paces from him. He titters. Callahan cares for the sound no more than for the waxy look of his fingers. It’s like the sound of mice scampering over bones. That makes no actual sense, but—
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower V Wolves of the Calla.txt" 9690 311:Then a great many things happen at exactly the same time. The water pump in the alcove goes on, starting its weary thudding cycle. And Callahan’s ass bumps into the heavy, smooth wood of the door. And the man in black thrusts the box forward, opening it as he does so. And his hood falls back, revealing the PALLID, snarling face of a human weasel. (It’s not Sayre, but upon Walter’s forehead like a Hindu caste-mark is the same welling red circle, an open wound that never clots or flows.) And Callahan sees what’s inside the box: he sees Black Thirteen crouched on its red velvet like the slick eye of a monster that grew outside God’s shadow. And Callahan begins to shriek at the sight of it, for he senses its endless power: it may fling him anywhere or to the farthest blind alley of nowhere. And the door clicks open. And even in his panic—or perhaps below his panic—Callahan is able to think Opening the box has opened the door. And he is stumbling backward into some other place. He can hear shrieking voices. One of them is Lupe’s, asking Callahan why Callahan let him die. Another belongs to Rowena Magruder and she is telling him this is his other life, this is it, and how does he like it? And his hands come up to cover his ears even as one ancient boot trips over the other and he begins to fall backward, thinking it’s Hell the man in black has pushed him into, actual Hell. And when his hands come up, the weasel-faced man thrusts the open box with its terrible glass ball into them. And the ball moves. It rolls like an actual eye in an invisible socket. And Callahan thinks, It’s alive, it’s the stolen eye of some awful monster from beyond the world, and oh God, oh dear God, it is seeing me.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 940 25:Guttenberg assessed her PALLID cheeks and set jaw. Then he retired without saying another word.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 3389 61:Deepneau shifted his feet under the table. He was extremely PALLID, with purple patches beneath his eyes and only a few wisps of hair, fine as dandelion fluff, on his head. Eddie remembered Tower’s telling him that Deepneau had been diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. He didn’t look great today, but Eddie had seen folks—especially in the City of Lud—who looked a lot worse. Jake’s old pal Gasher had been just one of them.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 6280 403:Callahan forgot about his bashed ankle and sizzling palms. He ran around the preacher’s little crowd (it had turned as one to the street and the preacher had quit his rant in mid-flow) and saw Jake standing in Second Avenue, in front of a Yellow Cab that had slewed to a crooked stop no more than an inch from his legs. Blue smoke was still drifting up from its rear tires. The driver’s face was a PALLID, craning O of shock. Oy was crouched between Jake’s feet. To Callahan the bumbler looked freaked out but otherwise all right.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 6282 141:The thud came again and yet again. It was Jake, bringing his balled-up fist down on the hood of the taxi. “Asshole!” Jake yelled at the PALLID O on the other side of the windshield. Thud! “Why don’t you—” Thud! “—watch where—” THUD! “—the fuck you’re GOING!” THUD-THUD!
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 7617 476:Beside the stand was a sai of about sixty with white hair combed back from a lean and rather predatory face. It was the face of an intelligent man, but his clothes—the blaring yellow sportcoat, the red shirt, the black tie—were those of a used-car salesman or a gambler who specializes in rooking small-town rubes. In the center of his forehead was a red hole about an inch across, as if he had been shot at close range. It swam with blood that never overflowed onto his PALLID skin.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 7621 154:There were also some dressed in more sober attire—jeans and plain white shirts seemed to be the costume of choice for this minority. These folken were PALLID and watchful, their eyes seemingly all pupil. Around their bodies, swirling so faintly that they sometimes disappeared, were blue auras. To Mia these PALLID, aura-enclosed creatures looked quite a bit more human than the low men and women. They were vampires—she didn’t have to observe the sharpened fangs which their smiles disclosed to know it—but still they looked more human than Sayre’s bunch. Perhaps because they once had been human. The others, though . . .
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VI Song of Susannah.txt" 7621 311:There were also some dressed in more sober attire—jeans and plain white shirts seemed to be the costume of choice for this minority. These folken were PALLID and watchful, their eyes seemingly all pupil. Around their bodies, swirling so faintly that they sometimes disappeared, were blue auras. To Mia these PALLID, aura-enclosed creatures looked quite a bit more human than the low men and women. They were vampires—she didn’t have to observe the sharpened fangs which their smiles disclosed to know it—but still they looked more human than Sayre’s bunch. Perhaps because they once had been human. The others, though . . .
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VII The Dark Tower.txt" 984 23:There were also three PALLID, watchful humanoid things standing beyond Mia. These, buried in dark blue auras, were vampires, Susannah was quite sure. Probably of the sort Callahan had called Type Threes. (The Pere had once referred to them as pilot sharks.) That made ten. Two of the vampires carried bahs, the third some sort of electrical sword now turned down to no more than a guttering core of light. If she managed to get Scowther’s gun (when you get it, sweetie, she amended—she’d read The Power of Positive Thinking and still believed every word the Rev. Peale had written), she would turn it on the man with the electric sword first. God might know how much damage such a weapon could inflict, but Susannah Dean didn’t want to find out.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VII The Dark Tower.txt" 1508 46:What he saw was a young man whose skin was a PALLID yellowish-gray under the brilliant kitchen lights. He looked both terrified and malnourished. Jake raised the plate in warning and the young man stopped. It wasn’t the ’Riza he was looking at, however, but Oy, who stood between Jake’s feet. The bumbler’s fur was bushed out around his body, seeming to double his size, and his teeth were bared.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Dark Tower VII The Dark Tower.txt" 3855 37:Roland glanced at Stanley, with his PALLID, stubbly face and his masses of curly dark hair. And the gunslinger almost smiled. “I think he can talk,” he said, and then: “Do’ee bear your father’s name, Stanley? I believe thee does.”
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Wind Through The Keyhole.txt" 2245 468:Late in the afternoon, while the swag-bellied clouds tumbled across the sky and the yellow cornstalks clattered in Nell’s garden-like teeth in a loose jaw, sai Covenanter nudged his tall black horse between gateposts Big Ross had set up himself (with Tim looking on and helping when asked). The horse paced slowly and solemnly up to the front steps. There it halted, nodding and blowing. Big Kells stood on the porch and still had to look up to see the visitor’s PALLID face. Kells held his hat crushed to his breast. His thinning black hair (now showing the first streaks of gray, for he was nearing forty and would soon be old) flew around his head. Behind him in the doorway stood Nell and Tim. She had an arm around her boy’s shoulders and was clutching him tightly, as if afraid (maybe ’twas a mother’s intuition) that the Covenant Man might steal him away.
"Novels\Dark Tower\The Wind Through The Keyhole.txt" 2297 63:Tim didn’t want to turn, didn’t want the Covenant Man’s PALLID face any closer than it already was, but he had a secret that had been poisoning him. So he did turn, and in the tax-man’s ear he whispered, “When he’s in drink, he beats my ma.”