The Dead Zone
“on the morning of October 30, 1970, the telephone began to ring in the downstairs hall of a small house about a hundred and fifty miles south of Cleaves Mills.
Herb Smith sat up in bed, disoriented, dragged halfway across the threshold of sleep and left in its doorway, groggy and disoriented.
Vera’s voice beside him, muffled by the pillow. “Phone.”
“Yeah,” he said, and swung out of bed. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in his late forties, losing his hair, now dressed in blue pajama bottoms. ...He went out into the upstairs hall and turned on the light. Down below, the phone shrilled away.
He went down to what Vera liked to call “the phone nook.” It consisted of the phone and a strange little desk-table that she had gotten with Green Stamps about three years ago. Herb had refused from the first to slide his two-hundred-and-forty-pound bulk into it. When he talked on the phone, he stood up. The drawer of the desk-table was full of Upper Rooms, Reader’s Digests, and Fate magazine.MoreLess
Herb Smith sat up in bed, disoriented, dragged halfway across the threshold of sleep and left in its doorway, groggy and disoriented.
Vera’s voice beside him, muffled by the pillow. “Phone.”
“Yeah,” he said, and swung out of bed. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in his late forties, losing his hair, now dressed in blue pajama bottoms. ...He went out into the upstairs hall and turned on the light. Down below, the phone shrilled away.
He went down to what Vera liked to call “the phone nook.” It consisted of the phone and a strange little desk-table that she had gotten with Green Stamps about three years ago. Herb had refused from the first to slide his two-hundred-and-forty-pound bulk into it. When he talked on the phone, he stood up. The drawer of the desk-table was full of Upper Rooms, Reader’s Digests, and Fate magazine.MoreLess
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