Ebook Free The Mist, by Stephen King
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The Mist, by Stephen King
Ebook Free The Mist, by Stephen King
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Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy, End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower and It are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
The Mist I. The Coming of the Storm This is what happened. On the night that the worst heat wave in northern New England history finally broke—the night of July 19—the entire western Maine region was lashed with the most vicious thunderstorms I have ever seen. We lived on Long Lake, and we saw the first of the storms beating its way across the water toward us just before dark. For an hour before, the air had been utterly still. The American flag that my father put up on our boathouse in 1936 lay limp against its pole. Not even its hem fluttered. The heat was like a solid thing, and it seemed as deep as sullen quarry-water. That afternoon the three of us had gone swimming, but the water was no relief unless you went out deep. Neither Steffy nor I wanted to go deep because Billy couldn’t. Billy is five. We ate a cold supper at five-thirty, picking listlessly at ham sandwiches and potato salad out on the deck that faces the lake. Nobody seemed to want anything but Pepsi, which was in a steel bucket of ice cubes. After supper Billy went out back to play on his monkey bars for a while. Steff and I sat without talking much, smoking and looking across the sullen flat mirror of the lake to Harrison on the far side. A few powerboats droned back and forth. The evergreens over there looked dusty and beaten. In the west, great purple thunderheads were slowly building up, massing like an army. Lightning flashed inside them. Next door, Brent Norton’s radio, tuned to that classical-music station that broadcasts from the top of Mount Washington, sent out a loud bray of static each time the lightning flashed. Norton was a lawyer from New Jersey and his place on Long Lake was only a summer cottage with no furnace or insulation. Two years before, we had a boundary dispute that finally wound up in county court. I won. Norton claimed I won because he was an out-of-towner. There was no love lost between us. Steff sighed and fanned the top of her breasts with the edge of her halter. I doubted if it cooled her off much but it improved the view a lot. “I don’t want to scare you,” I said, “but there’s a bad storm on the way, I think.” She looked at me doubtfully. “There were thunderheads last night and the night before, David. They just broke up.” “They won’t do that tonight.” “No?” “If it gets bad enough, we’re going to go downstairs.” “How bad do you think it can get?” My dad was the first to build a year-round home on this side of the lake. When he was hardly more than a kid he and his brothers put up a summer place where the house now stood, and in 1938 a summer storm knocked it flat, stone walls and all. Only the boathouse escaped. A year later he started the big house. It’s the trees that do the damage in a bad blow. They get old, and the wind knocks them over. It’s mother nature’s way of cleaning house periodically. “I don’t really know,” I said, truthfully enough. I had only heard stories about the great storm of thirty-eight. “But the wind can come off the lake like an express train.” Billy came back a while later, complaining that the monkey bars were no fun because he was “all sweated up.” I ruffled his hair and gave him another Pepsi. More work for the dentist. The thunderheads were getting closer, pushing away the blue. There was no doubt now that a storm was coming. Norton had turned off his radio. Billy sat between his mother and me, watching the sky, fascinated. Thunder boomed, rolling slowly across the lake and then echoing back again. The clouds twisted and rolled, now black, now purple, now veined, now black again. They gradually overspread the lake, and I could see a delicate caul of rain extending down from them. It was still a distance away. As we watched, it was probably raining on Bolster’s Mills, or maybe even Norway. The air began to move, jerkily at first, lifting the flag and then dropping it again. It began to freshen and grew steady, first cooling the perspiration on our bodies and then seeming to freeze it. That was when I saw the silver veil rolling across the lake. It blotted out Harrison in seconds and then came straight at us. The powerboats had vacated the scene. Billy stood up from his chair, which was a miniature replica of our director’s chairs, complete with his name printed on the back. “Daddy! Look!” “Let’s go in,” I said. I stood up and put my arm around his shoulders. “But do you see it? Dad, what is it?” “A water-cyclone. Let’s go in.” Steff threw a quick, startled glance at my face and then said, “Come on, Billy. Do what your father says.” We went in through the sliding glass doors that give on the living room. I slid the door shut on its track and paused for another look out. The silver veil was three-quarters of the way across the lake. It had resolved itself into a crazily spinning teacup between the lowering black sky and the surface of the water, which had gone the color of lead streaked with white chrome. The lake had begun to look eerily like the ocean, with high waves rolling in and sending spume up from the docks and breakwaters. Out in the middle, big whitecaps were tossing their heads back and forth. Watching the water-cyclone was hypnotic. It was nearly on top of us when lightning flashed so brightly that it printed everything on my eyes in negative for thirty seconds afterward. The telephone gave out a startled ting! and I turned to see my wife and son standing directly in front of the big picture window that gives us a panoramic view of the lake to the northwest. One of those terrible visions came to me—I think they are reserved exclusively for husbands and fathers—of the picture window blowing in with a low hard coughing sound and sending jagged arrows of glass into my wife’s bare stomach, into my boy’s face and neck. The horrors of the Inquisition are nothing compared to the fates your mind can imagine for your loved ones. I grabbed them both hard and jerked them away. “What the hell are you doing? Get away from there!” Steff gave me a startled glance. Billy only looked at me as if he had been partially awakened from a deep dream. I led them into the kitchen and hit the light switch. The phone ting-a-linged again. Then the wind came. It was as if the house had taken off like a 747. It was a high, breathless whistling, sometimes deepening to a bass roar before glissading up to a whooping scream. “Go downstairs,” I told Steff, and now I had to shout to make myself heard. Directly over the house thunder whacked mammoth planks together and Billy shrank against my leg. “You come too!” Steff yelled back. I nodded and made shooing gestures. I had to pry Billy off my leg. “Go with your mother. I want to get some candles in case the lights go off.” He went with her, and I started opening cabinets. Candles are funny things, you know. You lay them by every spring, knowing that a summer storm may knock out the power. And when the time comes, they hide. I was pawing through the fourth cabinet, past the half-ounce of grass that Steff and I bought four years ago and had still not smoked much of, past Billy’s wind-up set of chattering teeth from the Auburn Novelty Shop, past the drifts of photos Steffy kept forgetting to glue in our album. I looked under a Sears catalogue and behind a Kewpie doll from Taiwan that I had won at the Fryeburg...
Produktinformation
Taschenbuch: 176 Seiten
Verlag: Scribner (5. Juni 2018)
Sprache: Englisch
ISBN-10: 1982103523
ISBN-13: 978-1982103521
Größe und/oder Gewicht:
14 x 1 x 21,3 cm
Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung:
4.2 von 5 Sternen
15 Kundenrezensionen
Amazon Bestseller-Rang:
Nr. 42.849 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
Einmal angefangen, hat es zwei Tage überlebt bis ich damit durch war. Super detailierte und gut geschriebene Story, die wie bekanntlich bei King einfach überragend fesselnd ist. Nur zu empfehlen!
Die Geschichte ist fantastisch, man liest sie in einem Rutsch durch und kann nicht mehr aufhören. Wer allerdings den Film gesehen hat, kann sich das Buch sparen, denn die Storyline ist fast exakt identisch...
Typisch Stephen King, Spannung von Anfang bis zum Ende, ich habe das Buch regelrecht verschlungen. Er ist einfach der King of Horror :-)
Man könnte heulen wenn man einen alten Roman (Carrie, Feuerteufel, Christine, Shining) von Stephen King liest - denn so gut wird er nie mehr sein. Seine neueren Romane wie "Dreamcatcher" oder "Cell" sind bodenlos schlecht im Vergleich zu seinen früheren Werken. Besonders in Novellen zeigt es sich, wie gut ein Autor ist - und da war King unschlagbar.Subtil zeigt er auf, wie sich an einem gewöhnlichen Sommertag in Maine das Grauen in Form eines Sturms und von Nebel nähert, wie sich das Unbehagen und Grauen immer weiter steigert bis zur Eskalation im Supermarkt, in dem der Held der Geschichte und sein Sohn Zuflucht suchten.Eine Geschichte, die packt vom Anfang bis zum Schluß, ohne die Unmengen von Blut und Gedärmern, die Kings spätere, fast schon ungenießbare Werke, auszeichnet.Absolut empfehlenswert !
Listening to this recording gave me a mixed emotion: on one level, the special effects and sound quality were so outstanding, that the fact that i was merely listening to a CD was lost after time, which greatly added to the suspense and eeriness of the story. Yet, while listening purely to dialogue and noises, the beauty and lyricism of King's narrative was unfortunately squashed. The final scene, one of the best written ends in fiction (and greatly enunciated in the unabridged narrative audio version), lost much of its dramatic impact with the lack of seven simple words: "One is Hartford. The other is . . . hope." Still, the recording was very enjoyable, even though the kid sucked!!!
Imagine my suprise when I found "The Mist" on Amazon.com, I have been looking for this recording for years. I ordered it immediately. I got it today and couldn't wait to sit down and listen to it. Though the 3-D sound was incredible the story lacked substance and seemed to jump all over the place. In one part a man is trapped in a store with his son, his wife is at home miles away and probably dead, so he decides to sleep with another woman. What this had to do with the story or the plot is beyond me.Don't get me wrong, I've been a Stephen King fan since I first started reading thrillers, you could even say that he is my favorite writer. But, "The Mist" is nothing like anything by Mr. King that I have ever heard before. I was disappointed.Maybe it was the medium used to deliver the story that disappointed me? If it were in book form I might have been able to "crawl into" or "become part" of the story and then I may h! ave enjoyed it.
Imagine my suprise when I found "The Mist" on Amazon.com, I have been looking for this recording for years. I ordered it immediately. I got it today and couldn't wait to sit down and listen to it. Though the 3-D sound was incredible the story lacked substance and seemed to jump all over the place. In one part a man is trapped in a store with his son, his wife is at home miles away and probably dead, so he decides to sleep with another woman. What this had to do with the story or the plot is beyond me.Don't get me wrong, I've been a Stephen King fan since I first started reading thrillers, you could even say that he is my favorite writer. But, "The Mist" is nothing like anything by Mr. King that I have ever heard before. I was disappointed.Maybe it was the medium used to deliver the story that disappointed me? If it were in book form I might have been able to "crawl into" or "become part" of the story and then I may h! ave enjoyed it.
I am a big Stephen King fan, and have really enjoyed other audiobooks of his. So, I was excited when I saw a cassette of "The Mist," a novella which I thought was excellent. Well, I was doomed to be disappointed by this tape. It starts out by informing the listener that it was recorded in 3-D sound. Indeed, it does sound a little more textured than the usual audiobook. But I think it was a big mistake to read it as a play. I think the listener would have gotten a lot more out of it if it was read straight from the book. You see, in the process of rewriting it for the audio book, they changed the integrity of the story. In the cassette, David Drayton and his wife yell at each other like shrews, and their son sounds like somebody is pinching his nose shut while he talks. Another irritant: all the pitches for name brand foods. "Here, have some Post Toasties!" "How 'bout some Ruffles Potato Chips." I don't know if this was intentional or not, but it certainly wasn't in the book, and it was enough to make me want to gag. One more thing; true, the 3-D sound is neat, but it is not good to listen to while you're driving. Nobody in the car will be satisfied with how well they can hear. All in all, avoid this audiobook. Reading the story will let you absorb the atmosphere much, much better.
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