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LIBRI IN ITALIANO DA SCARICARE OVVERO EBOOK ITA IN PDF Stephen King - La Bambina Che Amava Tom Gordon . scaricate: SUPER DOWNLOAD MANAGER PER UTENTI INESPERTI e/o SUPER DOWNLOAD MANAGER. Migliori siti per il download gratuito di ebook; I nuovi portali per il Ken Follett e Stephen King giusto per citare autori di un certo spessore). Buy, download and read It ebook online in format for iPhone, iPad, Android, Computer and Mobile readers. Author: Stephen King. Publisher.

King Stephen. William G. Thompson, a man of wit and good sense. His contribution to this book has been large, and for it, my thanks S. Some of the most beautiful resort hotels in the world are located in Colorado, but the hotel in these pages is based on none of them. The Overlook and the people associated with it exist wholly within the author's imagination.

But be knew they worried about Tony, Mommy especially, and he was careful about thinking the way that could make Tony come where she might see. But now he thought she was lying down, not moving about in the kitchen yet, and so he concentrated hard to see if he could understand what Daddy was thinking about.

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His brow furrowed and his slightly grimy hands clenched into tight fists on his jeans. He did not close his eyes-that wasn't necessary-but he squinched them down to slits and imagined Daddy's voice, Jack's voice, John Daniel Torrance's voice, deep and steady, sometimes quirking up with amusement or deepening even more with anger or just staying steady because he was thinking.

Thinking of. Thinking about. He was fully conscious; he saw the street and the girl and boy walking up the sidewalk on the other side, holding hands because they were? He saw autumn leaves blowing along the gutter, yellow cartwheels of irregular shape. He saw the house they were passing and noticed how the roof was covered with shingles.

So that's what he was thinking about. He had gotten the job and was thinking about shingles. Danny didn't know who Watson was, but everything else seemed clear enough.

And he might get to see a wasps' nest. Just as sure as his name was "Danny. Danny, as always, felt a warm burst of pleasure at seeing his old friend, but this time he seemed to feel a prick of fear, too, as if Tony had come with some darkness hidden behind his back. A jar-of wasps which when released would sting deeply. But there was no question of not going. He slumped further down on the curb, his hands sliding laxly from his thighs and dangling below the fork of his crotch.

His chin sank onto his chest. Then there was a dim, painless tug as part of him got up and ran after Tony into funneling darkness.

A coughing, whooping sound and bending, tortured shadows that resolved themselves into fir trees at night, being pushed by a screaming gale. Snow swirled and danced.

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Snow everywhere. Huge and rectangular. A sloping roof. Whiteness that was blurred in the stormy darkness. Many windows. A long building with a shingled roof. Some of the shingles were greener, newer.

His daddy put them on. With nails from the Sidewinder hardware store. Now the snow was covering the shingles. It was covering everything. A green witchlight glowed into being on the front of the building, flickered, and became a giant, grinning skull over two crossed bones: He understood none of them completely--he couldn't read! They faded.

Now he was in a room filled with strange furniture, a room that was dark. Snow spattered against the windows like thrown sand.

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His mouth was dry, his eyes like hot marbles, his heart triphammering in his chest. Outside there was a hollow booming noise, like a dreadful door being thrown wide. Across the room was a mirror, and deep down in its silver bubble a single word appeared in green fire and that word was: The room faded.

Another room. He knew would know this one. An overturned chair. A broken window with snow swirling in; already it had frosted the edge of the rug. The drapes had been pulled free and hung on their broken rod at an angle. A low cabinet lying on its face. More hollow booming noises, steady, rhythmic, horrible. Smashing glass.

Approaching destruction. A hoarse voice, the voice of a madman, made the more terrible by its familiarity: Come out! Came out, you little shit! Take your medicine! Splintering wood. A bellow of rage and satisfaction. Drifting across the room.

Pictures torn off the walls. A record player? Mommy's record player'! Broken into jagged black pie wedges. In the darkness the booming noises grew louder, louder still, echoing, file: And now he was crouched in a dark hallway, crouched on a blue rug with a riot of twisting black shapes woven into its pile, listening to the booming noises approach, and now a Shape turned the corner and began to come toward him, lurching, smelling of blood and doom. It had a mallet in one hand and it was swinging it REDRUM from side to side in vicious arcs, slamming it into the walls, cutting the silk wallpaper and knocking out ghostly bursts of plasterdust: Come on and take your medicine!

Take it like a man! The Shape advancing on him, reeking of that sweet-sour odor, gigantic, the mallet head cutting across the air with a wicked hissing whisper, then the great hollow boom as it crashed into the wall, sending the dust out in a puff you could smell, dry and itchy. Tiny red eyes glowed in the dark. The monster was upon him, it had discovered him, cowering here with a blank wall at his back. And the trapdoor in the ceiling was locked. In his ears he could still hear that huge, contrapuntal booming sound and smell his own urine as he voided himself in the extremity of his terror.

He could see that limp hand dangling over the edge of the tub with blood running down one finger, the third, and that inexplicable word so much more horrible than any of the others: And now sunshine. Real things. Except for Tony, now six blocks up, only a speck, standing on the corner, his voice faint and high and sweet. Danny was off the curb in a second, waving, jiving from one foot to the other, yelling: Hey, Dad!

Danny ran toward him and then froze, his eyes widening. His heart crawled up into the middle of his throat and froze solid.

Beside his daddy, in the other front seat, was a short-handled mallet, its head clotted with blood and hair. Then it was just a bag of groceries. I'm okay. Jack hugged him back, slightly bewildered. You're drippin sweat. I love you, Daddy. I been waiting.

I brought home some stuff. Think you're big enough to carry it upstairs? They were glad to see each other. Love came out of them the way love had come out of the boy and girl walking up the street and holding hands.

Danny was glad.

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The bag of groceries--just a bag of groceries--crackled in his arms. Everything was all right. Daddy was home. Mommy was loving him. There were no bad things. And not everything Tony showed him always happened. But fear had settled around his heart, deep and dreadful, around his heart and around that indecipherable word he had seen in his spirit's mirror.

He wondered again if he shouldn't go ahead and get the fuel pump replaced, and told himself again that they couldn't afford it. If the little car could keep running until November, it could retire with full honors anyway.

By November the snow up there in the mountains would be higher than the beetle's roof. I'll bring you a candy bar. It's private stuff. She had argued that with a small child--especially a boy like Danny, who sometimes suffered from fainting spells--they couldn't afford not to have one. So Jack had forked over the thirty-dollar installation fee, bad enough, and a ninety-dollar security deposit, which really hurt. And so far the phone had been mute except for two wrong numbers.

You sit still and don't play with the gearshift, right? I'll look at the maps. He loved road maps, loved to trace where the roads went with his finger. As far as he was concerned, new maps were the best part of moving West. Jack went to the drugstore counter, got Danny's candy bar, and newspaper, and a copy of the October Writer's Digest. He gave the girl a five and asked for his change in quarters.

With the silver in his hand he walked over to the telephone booth by the keymaking machine and slipped inside. From here he could see Danny in the bug through three sets of glass.

The boy's head was bent studiously over his maps. Jack felt a wave of nearly desperate love for the boy. The emotion showed on his face as a stony grimness. He supposed he could have made his obligatory thank-you call to Al from home; he certainly wasn't going to say anything Wendy would object to. It was his pride that said no. These days he almost always listened to what his pride told him to do, because along with his wife and son, six hundred dollars in a checking account, and one weary Volkswagen, his pride was all that was left.

The only thing that was his. Even the checking account was joint. A year ago he had been teaching English in one of the finest prep schools in New England. There had been friends--although not exactly the same ones he'd had before going on the wagon--some laughs, fellow faculty members who admired his deft touch in the classroom and his private dedication to writing.

Things had been very good six months ago. All at once there was enough money left over at the end of each two-week pay period to start a little savings account. In his drinking days there had never been a penny left over, even though Al Shockley had stood a great many of the rounds.

He and Wendy had begun to talk cautiously about finding a house and making a down payment in a year or so. A farmhouse in the country, take six or eight years to renovate it completely, what the hell, they were young, they had time. Then he had lost his temper. George Hatfield.

The smell of hope had turned to the smell of old leather in Crommert's office, the whole thing like some scene from his own play: April ivy had been rustling outside Crommert's slit window and the drowsy sound of steam heat came from the radiator. It was no set, he remembered thinking. It was real. His life. How could he have fucked it up so badly? Terribly serious. The Board has asked me to convey its decision to you. Under file: What had followed that interview in Crommert's office had been the darkest, most dreadful night of his life.

The wanting, the needing to get drunk had never been so bad. His hands shook. He knocked things over. And he kept wanting to take it out on Wendy and Danny.

His temper was like a vicious animal on a frayed leash. He had left the house in terror that he might strike them. Had ended up outside a bar, and the only thing that had kept him from going in was the knowledge that if he did, Wendy would leave him at last, and take Danny with her. He would be dead from the day they left.

Instead of going into the bar, where dark shadows sat sampling the tasty waters of oblivion, he had gone to Al Shockley's house. The Board's vote had been six to one. Al had been the one. Now he dialed the operator and she told him that for a dollar eighty-five he could be put in touch with Al two thousand miles away for three minutes. Time is relative, baby, he thought, and stuck in eight quarters. Faintly he could hear the electronic boops and beeps of his connection sniffing its way eastward.

Al's father had been Arthur Longley Shockley, the steel baron. He had left his only son, Albert, a fortune and a huge range of investments and directorships and chairs on various boards. One of these had been on the Board of Directors for Stovington Preparatory Academy, the old man's favorite charity.

Both Arthur and Albert Shockley were alumni and Al lived in Barre, close enough to take a personal interest in the school's affairs. For several years Al had been Stovington's tennis coach. Jack and Al had become friends in a completely natural and uncoincidental way: Shockley was separated from his wife, and Jack's own marriage was skidding slowly downhill, although he still loved Wendy and had promised sincerely and frequently to reform, for her sake and for baby Danny's.

The two of them went on from many faculty parties, hitting the bars until they closed, then stopping at some mom 'n' pot store for a case of beer they would drink parked at the end of some back road. There were mornings when Jack would stumble into their leased house with dawn seeping into the sky and find Wendy and the baby asleep on the couch, Danny always on the inside, a tiny fist curled under the shelf of Wendy's jaw. He would look at them and the self-loathing would back up his throat in a bitter wave, even stronger than the taste of beer and cigarettes and martinis--martians, as Al called them.

Those were the times that his mind would turn thoughtfully and sanely to the gun or the rope or the razor blade. If the bender had occurred on a weeknight, he would sleep for three hours, get up, dress, chew four Excedrins, and go off to teach his nine o'clock American Poets still drunk.

Good morning, kids, today the Red-Eyed Wonder is going to tell you about how Longfellow lost his wife in the big fire.

The classes he had missed or taught unshaven, still reeking of last night's martians. Not me, I can stop anytime. The nights he and Wendy had passed in separate beds. Listen, I'm fine. Mashed fenders. Sure I'm okay to drive. The tears she always shed in the bathroom. Cautious looks from his colleagues at any party where alcohol was served, even wine. The slowly dawning realization that he was being talked about. The knowledge that he was producing nothing at his Underwood but balls of mostly blank paper that ended up in the wastebasket.

He had been something of a catch for Stovington, a slowly blooming American writer perhaps, and certainly a man well qualified to teach that great mystery, creative writing. He had published two dozen short stories. He was working on a play, and thought there might be a novel incubating in some mental back room. But now he was not producing and his teaching had become erratic.

It had finally ended one night less than a month after Jack had broken his son's arm. That, it seemed to him, had ended his marriage. All that remained was for Wendy to gather her will. It was over. It had been a little past midnight. Jack and Al were coming into Barre on U. They were both very drunk; the martians had landed that night in force. They came around the last curve before the bridge at seventy, and there was a kid's bike in the road, and then the sharp, hurt squealing as rubber shredded from the Jag's tires, and Jack remembered seeing Al's face looming over the steering wheel like a round white moon.

Then the jingling crashing sound as they hit the bike at forty, and it had flown up like a bent and twisted bird, the handlebars striking the windshield, and then it was in the air again, leaving the starred safety glass in front of Jack's bulging eyes. A moment later he heard the final dreadful smash as it landed on the road behind them. Something thumped underneath them as the tires passed over it. The Jag drifted around broadside, Al still jockeying the wheel, and from far away Jack heard himself saying: We ran him down.

I felt it. Come on, Al. Be home. Let me get this over with. Al had brought the car to a smoking halt not more than three feet from a bridge stanchion. Two of the Jag's tires were flat. They had left zigzagging loops of burned rubber for a hundred and thirty feet. They looked at each other for a moment and then ran back in the cold darkness. The bike was completely ruined. One wheel was gone, and looking back over his shoulder Al had seen it lying in the middle of the road, half a dozen spokes sticking up like piano wire.

Al had said hesitantly: It had all happened with such crazy speed.

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Coming around the corner. The bike looming in the Jag's headlights. Al yelling something. Then the collision and the long skid. They moved the bike to one shoulder of the road. Al went back to the Jag and put on its four-way flashers. For the next two hours they searched the sides of the road, using a powerful four-cell flashlight. Although it was late, several cars passed the beached Jaguar and the two men with the bobbing flashlight.

None of them stopped. Jack thought later that some queer providence, bent on giving them both a last chance, had kept the cops away, had kept any of the passersby from calling them. At quarter past two they returned to the Jag, sober but queasy. Do you mind? Come on, Al! Al had hiked across the bridge to the nearest pay phone, called a bachelor friend and told him it would be worth fifty dollars if the friend would get the Jag's snow tires out of the garage and bring them down to the Highway 31 bridge outside of Barre.

The friend showed up twenty minutes later, wearing a pair of jeans and his pajama top. He surveyed the scene. Al was already jacking up the back of the car and Jack was loosening lug nuts. Pay me in the morning. The two of them had gotten the tires on without incident, and together they drove back to AI Shockley's house.

Al put the Jag in the garage and killed the motor.

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In the dark quiet he said: It's all over. I've slain my last martian. He had driven back to his own house in the VW with the radio turned up, and some disco group chanted over and over again, talismanic in the house before dawn: Do it anyway. No matter how loud he heard the squealing tires, the crash. When he blinked his eyes shut, he saw that single crushed wheel with its broken spokes pointing at the sky.

When he got in, Wendy was asleep on the couch. He looked in Danny's room and file: In the softly filtered glow from the streetlight outside he could see the dark lines on its plastered whiteness where all the doctors and nurses in pediatrics had signed it. It was an accident. He fell down the stairs. It didn't matter that Al had been driving. There had been other nights when he had been driving.

He pulled the covers up over Danny, went into their bedroom, and took the Spanish Llama. It was in a shoe box. He sat on the bed with it for nearly an hour, looking at it, fascinated by its deadly shine. It was dawn when he put it back in the box and put the box back in the closet. That morning he had called Bruckner, the department head, and told him to please post his classes.

He had the flu. Bruckner agreed, with less good grace than was common. Jack Torrance had been extremely susceptible to the flu in the last year. Wendy made him scrambled eggs and coffee. They ate in silence. The only sound came from the back yard, where Danny was gleefully running his trucks across the sand pile with his good hand.

She went to do the dishes. Her back to him, she said: I've been thinking. No hangover this morning, oddly enough. Only the shakes. He blinked. In the instant's darkness the bike flew up against the windshield, starring the glass. The tires shrieked. The flashlight bobbed. For you too, maybe. I don't know. We should have talked about it before, I guess.

He looked at her back. If you still want to.. You just go right on with--" She stopped, looking in his eyes, fascinated, suddenly uncertain.

His voice had lost all its strength and dropped to a whisper. I'm not promising anything. If you still want to talk then, file: About anything you want. God, he needed a drink. Just a little pick-me-up to put things in their true perspective-"Danny said he dreamed you had a car accident," she said abruptly. He said it this morning, when I got him dressed.

Did you, Jack? Did you have an accident? He went to Al's. Al looked horrible. You look like Lon Chaney in Phantom of the Opera. They didn't drink. A week passed. He and Wendy didn't speak much. But he knew she was watching, not believing.

He drank coffee black and endless cans of Coca-Cola. One night he drank a whole six-pack of Coke and then ran into the bathroom and vomited it up. The level of the bottles in the liquor cabinet did not go down. After his classes he went over to Al Shockley's-she hated Al Shockley worse than she had ever hated anyone-and when he came home she would swear she smelled scotch or gin on his breath, but he would talk lucidly to her before supper, drink coffee, play with Danny after supper, sharing a Coke with him, read him a bedtime story, then sit and correct themes with cup after cup of black coffee by his hand, and she would have to admit to herself that she had been wrong.

Weeks passed and the unspoken word retreated further from the back of her lips. Jack sensed its retirement but knew it would never retire completely. Things began to get a little easier. Then George Hatfield. He had lost his temper again, this time stone sober. I just called to say thanks. I got the job. It's perfect. If I can't finish that goddam play snowed in all winter, I'll never finish it. But I don't know how you stayed dry after that Hatfield thing, Jack.

That was above and beyond. I'll have the Board around by spring. Effinger's already saying they might have been too hasty. And if that play comes to something--" "Yes. Listen, my boy's out in the car, Al. He looks like he might be getting restless--" "Sure. You have a good winter up there, Jack. Glad to help. There had been a squib in the paper the next day, no more than a space-filler really, but the owner had not been named. Why it had been out there in the night would always be a mystery to them, and perhaps that was as it should be.

He went back out to the car and gave Danny his slightly melted Baby Ruth. Do you remember? When I fell asleep? Daddy's mind was someplace else, not with him. Thinking about the Bad Thing again. I dreamed that you hurt me, Daddy "What was the dream, doc?

He put the maps back into the glove compartment. Her man. She smiled a little in the darkness, his seed still trickling with slow warmth from between her slightly parted thighs, and her smile was both rueful and pleased, because the phrase her man summoned up a hundred feelings. Each feeling file: Together, in this darkness floating to sleep, they were like a distant blues tune heard in an almost deserted night club, melancholy but pleasing.

Lovin' you baby, is just like rollin' off a log, But if I can't be your woman, I sure ain't goin' to be your dog. Had that been Billie Holiday? Or someone more prosaic like Peggy Lee? Didn't matter. It was low and torchy, and in the silence of her head it played mellowly, as if issuing from one of those old-fashioned jukeboxes, a Wurlitzer, perhaps, half an hour before closing.

Now, moving away from her consciousness, she wondered how many beds she had slept in with this man beside her. They had met in college and had first made love in his apartment. That bad been in So long ago? A semester later they had moved in together, had found jobs for the summer, and had kept the apartment when their senior year began. She remembered that bed the most clearly, a big double that sagged in the middle.

When they made love, the rusty box spring had counted the beats. That fall she had finally managed to break from her mother. Jack had helped her. Il suo primo racconto tratta di animali magici che aiutano i bambini. Nel pubblica il romanzo horror Carrie che ha un enorme successo e grazie al compenso decide di dedicarsi solo alla scrittura. Anche Le notti di Salem e Shining verranno accolti favorevolmente.

Gli anni recenti sono molto produttivi: Nel sono stati pubblicati Joyland e Doctor Sleep. Mercedes , primo capitolo di una trilogia molto interessante. Stephen King ha ricevuto tantissimi premi e molti dei suoi scritti sono stati trasposti in opere cinematografiche. Innanzitutto, selezionando il primo link, " Google libri ", verrete redirezionati sulla pagina dell'ebook-store di Google dedicata proprio alle opere di Stephen King.

Avrete subito due vantaggi: Con i tool di conversione online potrete passare da un formato all'altro in un baleno e gratuitamente. Not in United States? Choose your country's store to see books available for purchase. A violence awakens inside a man when his wife proposes selling off the family homestead, setting in motion a grisly train of murder and madness. Strange Weather. Joe Hill. The Exile. James Patterson. Murder in Paradise. The Whispering Room.

Dean Koontz. Kill and Tell. A Noise Downstairs. Linwood Barclay. Lisa Jackson. Dark Screams: Volume Two. Brian James Freeman. Holy Ghost. John Sandford. Little Heaven. Nick Cutter. Nobody's Child. Victoria Jenkins. Night Moves. Jonathan Kellerman. You've Been Warned--Again. The Christmas Scorpion: A Jack Reacher Story. Lee Child. The Moores Are Missing. Crime Scene. Final Girls. Riley Sager. Twisted Prey. The Silent Corner. Killing Season Part 1.

Faye Kellerman. Red Alert. Liar Liar. Dolores Claiborne. Stephen King. The Store. Girl Last Seen. Nina Laurin. Last Light Novella. The Chalk Man. The Family Lawyer. The Dolls.

The Wolves of Winter. Tyrell Johnson. Parting Shot. Past Tense. Dragon Teeth. Michael Crichton. The Fallen. David Baldacci. Stealing Gulfstreams. Robin Cook. The 17th Suspect. Killing Season Part 3. Before I Let You Go. Kelly Rimmer. The Babysitter.

Sheryl Browne. Fierce Kingdom. Gin Phillips. Forget Me Not. Kierney Scott. Dark Sacred Night. Michael Connelly. The Fireman.