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Bag of Bones Hardcover – Special Edition, September 4, 2018
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Four years after the sudden death of his wife, bestselling novelist Mike Noonan is still grieving. Unable to write and plagued by vivid nightmares set at the western Maine summerhouse he calls “Sara Laughs,” Mike reluctantly returns to the lakeside getaway. There, he finds his beloved Yankee town held in the grip of a powerful millionaire, Max Devore, whose vindictive purpose is to take his three-year-old granddaughter, Kyra, away from her widowed young mother, Mattie. As Mike is drawn into Mattie’s and Kyra’s struggle—and as he falls in love with both of them—he is also drawn into the mystery of Sara Laughs…now the site of ghostly visitations and escalating terrors. What are the forces that have been unleashed here—and just what do they want of Mike Noonan?
- Print length544 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherScribner
- Publication dateSeptember 4, 2018
- Dimensions6.13 x 1.6 x 9.25 inches
- ISBN-101982102497
- ISBN-13978-1982102494
- Lexile measure890L
Book recommendations, author interviews, editors' picks, and more. Read it now.
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"Bag of Bones is, hands down, King's most narratively subversive fiction. Whenever you're positive -- just positive! -- you know where this ghost story is heading, that's exactly when it gallops off in some jaw-dropping new direction." —Entertainment Weekly
"This is King at his clever, terrifying best."—Mademoiselle
"Contains some of [King's] best writing...This is King's most romantic book, and ghosts are up and about from the get-go....The big surprise here is the emotional wallop the story packs."— Newsweek
"Stephen King is so widely accepted as America's master of paranormal terrors that you can forget his real genius is for the everyday...This is a book about reanimation: the ghosts', of course, but also Mike's, his desire to re-embrace love and work after a long bereavement that King depicts with an eye for the kind of small but moving details that don't typically distinguish blockbuster horror novels." —The New York Times Book Review
"Bag of Bones proves that King is as seductive a storyteller as ever, pulling readers along as he explores the hidden evils of small-town America." —People
"King has honed his talent into a unique American voice, broader and more ambitious than most of his peers....[Bag of Bones] has depth....It's a ghost story, a love story, a story about race and power...One more thing: Yes, it's scary. Of course it's scary."— Minneapolis Star Tribune
"It may be that after thirty-one novels, Stephen King is just getting started....Bag of Bones may be Stephen King's most ambitious novel ...the effort has inspired a new directness and maturity in his work....Very few writers can convey the passive terrors of nightmares better than King, and he crafts one amazing dream sequence after another."—Atlanta Journal & Constitution
“…a thoroughly compelling thriller…”—Esquire
“…King orchestrates the rising tension with the deft touch of a maestro.”—Library Journal
“Showcases this master horror writer’s other skills – humor, deft characterizations, and a dead-on portrait of twentieth-century life.”—Elle
“It’s sometimes hard to tell what’s more threatening: the ghosts that rearrange the magnetic letters on Noonan’s refrigerator or the gossip and domestic violence festering in a rural New England town. But that’s the genius of King, a master of inserting the 'para' into normal, everyday life.”—Glamour
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
On a very hot day in August of 1994, my wife told me she was going down to the Derry Rite Aid to pick up a refill on her sinus medicine prescription—this is stuff you can buy over the counter these days, I believe. I’d finished my writing for the day and offered to pick it up for her. She said thanks, but she wanted to get a piece of fish at the supermarket next door anyway; two birds with one stone and all of that. She blew a kiss at me off the palm of her hand and went out. The next time I saw her, she was on TV. That’s how you identify the dead here in Derry—no walking down a subterranean corridor with green tiles on the walls and long fluorescent bars overhead, no naked body rolling out of a chilly drawer on casters; you just go into an office marked PRIVATE and look at a TV screen and say yep or nope.
The Rite Aid and the Shopwell are less than a mile from our house, in a little neighborhood strip mall which also supports a video store, a used-book store named Spread It Around (they do a very brisk business in my old paperbacks), a Radio Shack, and a Fast Foto. It’s on Up-Mile Hill, at the intersection of Witcham and Jackson.
She parked in front of Blockbuster Video, went into the drugstore, and did business with Mr. Joe Wyzer, who was the druggist in those days; he has since moved on to the Rite Aid in Bangor. At the checkout she picked up one of those little chocolates with marshmallow inside, this one in the shape of a mouse. I found it later, in her purse. I unwrapped it and ate it myself, sitting at the kitchen table with the contents of her red handbag spread out in front of me, and it was like taking Communion. When it was gone except for the taste of chocolate on my tongue and in my throat, I burst into tears. I sat there in the litter of her Kleenex and makeup and keys and half-finished rolls of Certs and cried with my hands over my eyes, the way a kid cries.
The sinus inhaler was in a Rite Aid bag. It had cost twelve dollars and eighteen cents. There was something else in the bag, too—an item which had cost twenty-two-fifty. I looked at this other item for a long time, seeing it but not understanding it. I was surprised, maybe even stunned, but the idea that Johanna Arlen Noonan might have been leading another life, one I knew nothing about, never crossed my mind. Not then.
* * *
Jo left the register, walked out into the bright, hammering sun again, swapping her regular glasses for her prescription sunglasses as she did, and just as she stepped from beneath the drugstore’s slight overhang (I am imagining a little here, I suppose, crossing over into the country of the novelist a little, but not by much; only by inches, and you can trust me on that), there was that shrewish howl of locked tires on pavement that means there’s going to be either an accident or a very close call.
This time it happened—the sort of accident which happened at that stupid X-shaped intersection at least once a week, it seemed. A 1989 Toyota was pulling out of the shopping-center parking lot and turning left onto Jackson Street. Behind the wheel was Mrs. Esther Easterling of Barrett’s Orchards. She was accompanied by her friend Mrs. Irene Deorsey, also of Barrett’s Orchards, who had shopped the video store without finding anything she wanted to rent. Too much violence, Irene said. Both women were cigarette widows.
Esther could hardly have missed the orange Public Works dump truck coming down the hill; although she denied this to the police, to the newspaper, and to me when I talked to her some two months later, I think it likely that she just forgot to look. As my own mother (another cigarette widow) used to say, “The two most common ailments of the elderly are arthritis and forgetfulness. They can be held responsible for neither.”
Driving the Public Works truck was William Fraker, of Old Cape. Mr. Fraker was thirty-eight years old on the day of my wife’s death, driving with his shirt off and thinking how badly he wanted a cool shower and a cold beer, not necessarily in that order. He and three other men had spent eight hours putting down asphalt patch out on the Harris Avenue Extension near the airport, a hot job on a hot day, and Bill Fraker said yeah, he might have been going a little too fast—maybe forty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. He was eager to get back to the garage, sign off on the truck, and get behind the wheel of his own F-150, which had air conditioning. Also, the dump truck’s brakes, while good enough to pass inspection, were a long way from tip-top condition. Fraker hit them as soon as he saw the Toyota pull out in front of him (he hit his horn, as well), but it was too late. He heard screaming tires—his own, and Esther’s as she belatedly realized her danger—and saw her face for just a moment.
“That was the worst part, somehow,” he told me as we sat on his porch, drinking beers—it was October by then, and although the sun was warm on our faces, we were both wearing sweaters. “You know how high up you sit in one of those dump trucks?”
I nodded.
“Well, she was looking up to see me—craning up, you’d say—and the sun was full in her face. I could see how old she was. I remember thinking, ‘Holy shit, she’s gonna break like glass if I can’t stop.’ But old people are tough, more often than not. They can surprise you. I mean, look at how it turned out, both those old biddies still alive, and your wife . . .”
He stopped then, bright red color dashing into his cheeks, making him look like a boy who has been laughed at in the schoolyard by girls who have noticed his fly is unzipped. It was comical, but if I’d smiled, it only would have confused him.
“Mr. Noonan, I’m sorry. My mouth just sort of ran away with me.”
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I’m over the worst of it, anyway.” That was a lie, but it put us back on track.
“Anyway,” he said, “we hit. There was a loud bang, and a crumping sound when the driver’s side of the car caved in. Breaking glass, too. I was thrown against the wheel hard enough so I couldn’t draw a breath without it hurting for a week or more, and I had a big bruise right here.” He drew an arc on his chest just below the collarbones. “I banged my head on the windshield hard enough to crack the glass, but all I got up there was a little purple knob . . . no bleeding, not even a headache. My wife says I’ve just got a naturally thick skull. I saw the woman driving the Toyota, Mrs. Easterling, thrown across the console between the front bucket seats. Then we were finally stopped, all tangled together in the middle of the street, and I got out to see how bad they were. I tell you, I expected to find them both dead.”
Neither of them was dead, neither of them was even unconscious, although Mrs. Easterling had three broken ribs and a dislocated hip. Mrs. Deorsey, who had been a seat away from the impact, suffered a concussion when she rapped her head on her window. That was all; she was “treated and released at Home Hospital,” as the Derry News always puts it in such cases.
My wife, the former Johanna Arlen of Malden, Massachusetts, saw it all from where she stood outside the drugstore, with her purse slung over her shoulder and her prescription bag in one hand. Like Bill Fraker, she must have thought the occupants of the Toyota were either dead or seriously hurt. The sound of the collision had been a hollow, authoritative bang which rolled through the hot afternoon air like a bowling ball down an alley. The sound of breaking glass edged it like jagged lace. The two vehicles were tangled violently together in the middle of Jackson Street, the dirty orange truck looming over the pale-blue import like a bullying parent over a cowering child.
Johanna began to sprint across the parking lot toward the street. Others were doing the same all around her. One of them, Miss Jill Dunbarry, had been window-shopping at Radio Shack when the accident occurred. She said she thought she remembered running past Johanna—at least she was pretty sure she remembered someone in yellow slacks—but she couldn’t be sure. By then, Mrs. Easterling was screaming that she was hurt, they were both hurt, wouldn’t somebody help her and her friend Irene.
Halfway across the parking lot, near a little cluster of newspaper dispensers, my wife fell down. Her purse-strap stayed over her shoulder, but her prescription bag slipped from her hand, and the sinus inhaler slid halfway out. The other item stayed put.
No one noticed her lying there by the newspaper dispensers; everyone was focused on the tangled vehicles, the screaming women, the spreading puddle of water and antifreeze from the Public Works truck’s ruptured radiator. (“That’s gas!” the clerk from Fast Foto shouted to anyone who would listen. “That’s gas, watch out she don’t blow, fellas!”) I suppose one or two of the would-be rescuers might have jumped right over her, perhaps thinking she had fainted. To assume such a thing on a day when the temperature was pushing ninety-five degrees would not have been unreasonable.
Roughly two dozen people from the shopping center clustered around the accident; another four dozen or so came running over from Strawford Park, where a baseball game had been going on. I imagine that all the things you would expect to hear in such situations were said, many of them more than once. Milling around. Someone reaching through the misshapen hole which had been the driver’s-side window to pat Esther’s trembling old hand. People immediately giving way for Joe Wyzer; at such moments anyone in a white coat automatically becomes the belle of the ball. In the distance, the warble of an ambulance siren rising like shaky air over an incinerator.
All during this, lying unnoticed in the parking lot, was my wife with her purse still over her shoulder (inside, still wrapped in foil, her uneaten chocolate-marshmallow mouse) and her white prescription bag near one outstretched hand. It was Joe Wyzer, hurrying back to the pharmacy to get a compress for Irene Deorsey’s head, who spotted her. He recognized her even though she was lying face-down. He recognized her by her red hair, white blouse, and yellow slacks. He recognized her because he had waited on her not fifteen minutes before.
“Mrs. Noonan?” he asked, forgetting all about the compress for the dazed but apparently not too badly hurt Irene Deorsey. “Mrs. Noonan, are you all right?” Knowing already (or so I suspect; perhaps I am wrong) that she was not.
He turned her over. It took both hands to do it, and even then he had to work hard, kneeling and pushing and lifting there in the parking lot with the heat baking down from above and then bouncing back up from the asphalt. Dead people put on weight, it seems to me; both in their flesh and in our minds, they put on weight.
There were red marks on her face. When I identified her I could see them clearly even on the video monitor. I started to ask the assistant medical examiner what they were, but then I knew. Late August, hot pavement, elementary, my dear Watson. My wife died getting a sunburn.
Wyzer got up, saw that the ambulance had arrived, and ran toward it. He pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed one of the attendants as he got out from behind the wheel. “There’s a woman over there,” Wyzer said, pointing toward the parking lot.
“Guy, we’ve got two women right here, and a man as well,” the attendant said. He tried to pull away, but Wyzer held on.
“Never mind them right now,” he said. “They’re basically okay. The woman over there isn’t.”
The woman over there was dead, and I’m pretty sure Joe Wyzer knew it . . . but he had his priorities straight. Give him that. And he was convincing enough to get both paramedics moving away from the tangle of truck and Toyota, in spite of Esther Easterling’s cries of pain and the rumbles of protest from the Greek chorus.
When they got to my wife, one of the paramedics was quick to confirm what Joe Wyzer had already suspected. “Holy shit,” the other one said. “What happened to her?”
“Heart, most likely,” the first one said. “She got excited and it just blew out on her.”
But it wasn’t her heart. The autopsy revealed a brain aneurysm which she might have been living with, all unknown, for as long as five years. As she sprinted across the parking lot toward the accident, that weak vessel in her cerebral cortex had blown like a tire, drowning her control-centers in blood and killing her. Death had probably not been instantaneous, the assistant medical examiner told me, but it had still come swiftly enough . . . and she wouldn’t have suffered. Just one big black nova, all sensation and thought gone even before she hit the pavement.
“Can I help you in any way, Mr. Noonan?” the assistant ME asked, turning me gently away from the still face and closed eyes on the video monitor. “Do you have questions? I’ll answer them if I can.”
“Just one,” I said. I told him what she’d purchased in the drugstore just before she died. Then I asked my question.
* * *
The days leading up to the funeral and the funeral itself are dreamlike in my memory—the clearest memory I have is of eating Jo’s chocolate mouse and crying . . . crying mostly, I think, because I knew how soon the taste of it would be gone. I had one other crying fit a few days after we buried her, and I will tell you about that one shortly.
I was glad for the arrival of Jo’s family, and particularly for the arrival of her oldest brother, Frank. It was Frank Arlen—fifty, red-cheeked, portly, and with a head of lush dark hair—who organized the arrangements . . . who wound up actually dickering with the funeral director.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I said later, as we sat in a booth at Jack’s Pub, drinking beers.
“He was trying to stick it to you, Mikey,” he said. “I hate guys like that.” He reached into his back pocket, brought out a handkerchief, and wiped absently at his cheeks with it. He hadn’t broken down—none of the Arlens broke down, at least not when I was with them—but Frank had leaked steadily all day; he looked like a man suffering from severe conjunctivitis.
There had been six Arlen sibs in all, Jo the youngest and the only girl. She had been the pet of her big brothers. I suspect that if I’d had anything to do with her death, the five of them would have torn me apart with their bare hands. As it was, they formed a protective shield around me instead, and that was good. I suppose I might have muddled through without them, but I don’t know how. I was thirty-six, remember. You don’t expect to have to bury your wife when you’re thirty-six and she herself is two years younger. Death was the last thing on our minds.
“If a guy gets caught taking your stereo out of your car, they call it theft and put him in jail,” Frank said. The Arlens had come from Massachusetts, and I could still hear Malden in Frank’s voice—caught was coowat, car was cah, call was caul. “If the same guy is trying to sell a grieving husband a three-thousand-dollar casket for forty-five hundred dollars, they call it business and ask him to speak at the Rotary Club luncheon. Greedy asshole, I fed him his lunch, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You did.”
“You okay, Mikey?”
“I’m okay.”
“Sincerely okay?”
“How the fuck should I know?” I asked him, loud enough to turn some heads in a nearby booth. And then: “She was pregnant.”
His face grew very still. “What?”
I struggled to keep my voice down. “Pregnant. Six or seven weeks, according to the . . . you know, the autopsy. Did you know? Did she tell you?”
“No! Christ, no!” But there was a funny look on his face, as if she had told him something. “I knew you were trying, of course . . . she said you had a low sperm count and it might take a little while, but the doctor thought you guys’d probably . . . sooner or later you’d probably . . .” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “They can tell that, huh? They check for that?”
“They can tell. As for checking, I don’t know if they do it automatically or not. I asked.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t just buy sinus medicine before she died. She also bought one of those home pregnancy-testing kits.”
“You had no idea? No clue?”
I shook my head.
He reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder. “She wanted to be sure, that’s all. You know that, don’t you?”
A refill on my sinus medicine and a piece of fish, she’d said. Looking like always. A woman off to run a couple of errands. We had been trying to have a kid for eight years, but she had looked just like always.
“Sure,” I said, patting Frank’s hand. “Sure, big guy. I know.”
* * *
It was the Arlens—led by Frank—who handled Johanna’s sendoff. As the writer of the family, I was assigned the obituary. My brother came up from Virginia with my mom and my aunt and was allowed to tend the guest-book at the viewings. My mother—almost completely ga-ga at the age of sixty-six, although the doctors refused to call it Alzheimer’s—lived in Memphis with her sister, two years younger and only slightly less wonky. They were in charge of cutting the cake and the pies at the funeral reception.
Everything else was arranged by the Arlens, from the viewing hours to the components of the funeral ceremony. Frank and Victor, the second-youngest brother, spoke brief tributes. Jo’s dad offered a prayer for his daughter’s soul. And at the end, Pete Breedlove, the boy who cut our grass in the summer and raked our yard in the fall, brought everyone to tears by singing “Blessed Assurance,” which Frank said had been Jo’s favorite hymn as a girl. How Frank found Pete and persuaded him to sing at the funeral is something I never found out.
We got through it—the afternoon and evening viewings on Tuesday, the funeral service on Wednesday morning, then the little pray-over at Fairlawn Cemetery. What I remember most was thinking how hot it was, how lost I felt without having Jo to talk to, and that I wished I had bought a new pair of shoes. Jo would have pestered me to death about the ones I was wearing, if she had been there.
Later on I talked to my brother, Sid, told him we had to do something about our mother and Aunt Francine before the two of them disappeared completely into the Twilight Zone. They were too young for a nursing home; what did Sid advise?
He advised something, but I’ll be damned if I know what it was. I agreed to it, I remember that, but not what it was. Later that day, Siddy, our mom, and our aunt climbed back into Siddy’s rental car for the drive to Boston, where they would spend the night and then grab the Southern Crescent the following day. My brother is happy enough to chaperone the old folks, but he doesn’t fly, even if the tickets are on me. He claims there are no breakdown lanes in the sky if the engine quits.
Most of the Arlens left the next day. Once more it was dog-hot, the sun glaring out of a white-haze sky and lying on everything like melted brass. They stood in front of our house—which had become solely my house by then—with three taxis lined up at the curb behind them, big galoots hugging one another amid the litter of tote-bags and saying their goodbyes in those foggy Massachusetts accents.
Frank stayed another day. We picked a big bunch of flowers behind the house—not those ghastly-smelling hothouse things whose aroma I always associate with death and organ-music but real flowers, the kind Jo liked best—and stuck them in a couple of coffee cans I found in the back pantry. We went out to Fairlawn and put them on the new grave. Then we just sat there for awhile under the beating sun.
“She was always just the sweetest thing in my life,” Frank said at last in a strange, muffled voice. “We took care of Jo when we were kids. Us guys. No one messed with Jo, I’ll tell you. Anyone tried, we’d feed em their lunch.”
“She told me a lot of stories.”
“Good ones?”
“Yeah, real good.”
“I’m going to miss her so much.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Frank . . . listen . . . I know you were her favorite brother. She never called you, maybe just to say that she missed a period or was feeling whoopsy in the morning? You can tell me. I won’t be pissed.”
“But she didn’t. Honest to God. Was she whoopsy in the morning?”
“Not that I saw.” And that was just it. I hadn’t seen anything. Of course I’d been writing, and when I write I pretty much trance out. But she knew where I went in those trances. She could have found me and shaken me fully awake. Why hadn’t she? Why would she hide good news? Not wanting to tell me until she was sure was plausible . . . but it somehow wasn’t Jo.
“Was it a boy or a girl?” he asked.
“A girl.”
We’d had names picked out and waiting for most of our marriage. A boy would have been Andrew. Our daughter would have been Kia. Kia Jane Noonan.
* * *
Frank, divorced six years and on his own, had been staying with me. On our way back to the house he said, “I worry about you, Mikey. You haven’t got much family to fall back on at a time like this, and what you do have is far away.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s what we say, anyway, isn’t it?”
“We?”
“Guys. ‘I’ll be all right.’ And if we’re not, we try to make sure no one knows it.” He looked at me, eyes still leaking, handkerchief in one big sunburned hand. “If you’re not all right, Mikey, and you don’t want to call your brother—I saw the way you looked at him—let me be your brother. For Jo’s sake if not your own.”
“Okay,” I said, respecting and appreciating the offer, also knowing I would do no such thing. I don’t call people for help. It’s not because of the way I was raised, at least I don’t think so; it’s the way I was made. Johanna once said that if I was drowning at Dark Score Lake, where we have a summer home, I would die silently fifty feet out from the public beach rather than yell for help. It’s not a question of love or affection. I can give those and I can take them. I feel pain like anyone else. I need to touch and be touched. But if someone asks me, “Are you all right?” I can’t answer no. I can’t say help me.
A couple of hours later Frank left for the southern end of the state. When he opened the car door, I was touched to see that the taped book he was listening to was one of mine. He hugged me, then surprised me with a kiss on the mouth, a good hard smack. “If you need to talk, call,” he said. “And if you need to be with someone, just come.”
I nodded.
“And be careful.”
That startled me. The combination of heat and grief had made me feel as if I had been living in a dream for the last few days, but that got through.
“Careful of what?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know, Mikey.” Then he got into his car—he was so big and it was so little that he looked as if he were wearing it—and drove away. The sun was going down by then. Do you know how the sun looks at the end of a hot day in August, all orange and somehow squashed, as if an invisible hand were pushing down on the top of it and at any moment it might just pop like an overfilled mosquito and splatter all over the horizon? It was like that. In the east, where it was already dark, thunder was rumbling. But there was no rain that night, only a dark that came down as thick and stifling as a blanket. All the same, I slipped in front of the word processor and wrote for an hour or so. It went pretty well, as I remember. And you know, even when it doesn’t, it passes the time.
* * *
My second crying fit came three or four days after the funeral. That sense of being in a dream persisted—I walked, I talked, I answered the phone, I worked on my book, which had been about eighty percent complete when Jo died—but all the time there was this clear sense of disconnection, a feeling that everything was going on at a distance from the real me, that I was more or less phoning it in.
Denise Breedlove, Pete’s mother, called and asked if I wouldn’t like her to bring a couple of her friends over one day the following week and give the big old Edwardian pile I now lived in alone—rolling around in it like the last pea in a restaurant-sized can—a good stem-to-stern cleaning. They would do it, she said, for a hundred dollars split even among the three of them, and mostly because it wasn’t good for me to go on without it. There had to be a scrubbing after a death, she said, even if the death didn’t happen in the house itself.
I told her it was a fine idea, but I would pay her and the women she brought a hundred dollars each for six hours’ work. At the end of the six hours, I wanted the job done. And if it wasn’t, I told her, it would be done, anyway.
“Mr. Noonan, that’s far too much,” she said.
“Maybe and maybe not, but it’s what I’m paying,” I said. “Will you do it?”
She said she would, of course she would.
Perhaps predictably, I found myself going through the house on the evening before they came, doing a pre-cleaning inspection. I guess I didn’t want the women (two of whom would be complete strangers to me) finding anything that would embarrass them or me: a pair of Johanna’s silk panties stuffed down behind the sofa cushions, perhaps (“We are often overcome on the sofa, Michael,” she said to me once, “have you noticed?”), or beer cans under the loveseat on the sunporch, maybe even an unflushed toilet. In truth, I can’t tell you any one thing I was looking for; that sense of operating in a dream still held firm control over my mind. The clearest thoughts I had during those days were either about the end of the novel I was writing (the psychotic killer had lured my heroine to a high-rise building and meant to push her off the roof) or about the Norco Home Pregnancy Test Jo had bought on the day she died. Sinus prescription, she had said. Piece of fish for supper, she had said. And her eyes had shown me nothing else I needed to look at twice.
* * *
Near the end of my “pre-cleaning,” I looked under our bed and saw an open paperback on Jo’s side. She hadn’t been dead long, but few household lands are so dusty as the Kingdom of Underbed, and the light-gray coating I saw on the book when I brought it out made me think of Johanna’s face and hands in her coffin—Jo in the Kingdom of Underground. Did it get dusty inside a coffin? Surely not, but—
I pushed the thought away. It pretended to go, but all day long it kept creeping back, like Tolstoy’s white bear.
Johanna and I had both been English majors at the University of Maine, and like many others, I reckon, we fell in love to the sound of Shakespeare and the Tilbury Town cynicism of Edwin Arlington Robinson. Yet the writer who had bound us closest together was no college-friendly poet or essayist but W. Somerset Maugham, that elderly globetrotting novelist-playwright with the reptile’s face (always obscured by cigarette smoke in his photographs, it seems) and the romantic’s heart. So it did not surprise me much to find that the book under the bed was The Moon and Sixpence. I had read it myself as a late teenager, not once but twice, identifying passionately with the character of Charles Strickland. (It was writing I wanted to do in the South Seas, of course, not painting.)
She had been using a playing card from some defunct deck as her place-marker, and as I opened the book, I thought of something she had said when I was first getting to know her. In Twentieth-Century British Lit, this had been, probably in 1980. Johanna Arlen had been a fiery little sophomore. I was a senior, picking up the Twentieth-Century Brits simply because I had time on my hands that last semester. “A hundred years from now,” she had said, “the shame of the mid-twentieth-century literary critics will be that they embraced Lawrence and ignored Maugham.” This was greeted with contemptuously good-natured laughter (they all knew Women in Love was one of the greatest damn books ever written), but I didn’t laugh. I fell in love.
The playing card marked pages 102 and 103—Dirk Stroeve has just discovered that his wife has left him for Strickland, Maugham’s version of Paul Gauguin. The narrator tries to buck Stroeve up. My dear fellow, don’t be unhappy. She’ll come back . . .
“Easy for you to say,” I murmured to the room which now belonged just to me.
I turned the page and read this: Strickland’s injurious calm robbed Stroeve of his self-control. Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himself on the floor.
“You funny little man,” said Strickland.
It occurred to me that Jo was never going to turn the page and hear Strickland call the pathetic Stroeve a funny little man. In a moment of brilliant epiphany I have never forgotten—how could I? it was one of the worst moments of my life—I understood it wasn’t a mistake that would be rectified, or a dream from which I would awaken. Johanna was dead.
My strength was robbed by grief. If the bed hadn’t been there, I would have fallen to the floor. We weep from our eyes, it’s all we can do, but on that evening I felt as if every pore of my body were weeping, every crack and cranny. I sat there on her side of the bed, with her dusty paperback copy of The Moon and Sixpence in my hand, and I wailed. I think it was surprise as much as pain; in spite of the corpse I had seen and identified on a high-resolution video monitor, in spite of the funeral and Pete Breedlove singing “Blessed Assurance” in his high, sweet tenor voice, in spite of the graveside service with its ashes to ashes and dust to dust, I hadn’t really believed it. The Penguin paperback did for me what the big gray coffin had not: it insisted she was dead.
You funny little man, said Strickland.
I lay back on our bed, crossed my forearms over my face, and cried myself to sleep that way as children do when they’re unhappy. I had an awful dream. In it I woke up, saw the paperback of The Moon and Sixpence still lying on the coverlet beside me, and decided to put it back under the bed where I had found it. You know how confused dreams are—logic like Dalí clocks gone so soft they lie over the branches of trees like throw-rugs.
I put the playing-card bookmark back between pages 102 and 103—a turn of the index finger away from You funny little man, said Strickland now and forever—and rolled onto my side, hanging my head over the edge of the bed, meaning to put the book back exactly where I had found it.
Jo was lying there amid the dust-kitties. A strand of cobweb hung down from the bottom of the box spring and caressed her cheek like a feather. Her red hair looked dull, but her eyes were dark and alert and baleful in her white face. And when she spoke, I knew that death had driven her insane.
“Give me that,” she hissed. “It’s my dust-catcher.” She snatched it out of my hand before I could offer it to her. For a moment our fingers touched, and hers were as cold as twigs after a frost. She opened the book to her place, the playing card fluttering out, and placed Somerset Maugham over her face—a shroud of words. As she crossed her hands on her bosom and lay still, I realized she was wearing the blue dress I had buried her in. She had come out of her grave to hide under our bed.
I awoke with a muffled cry and a painful jerk that almost tumbled me off the side of the bed. I hadn’t been asleep long—the tears were still damp on my cheeks, and my eyelids had that funny stretched feel they get after a bout of weeping. The dream had been so vivid that I had to roll on my side, hang my head down, and peer under the bed, sure she would be there with the book over her face, that she would reach out with her cold fingers to touch me.
There was nothing there, of course—dreams are just dreams. Nevertheless, I spent the rest of the night on the couch in my study. It was the right choice, I guess, because there were no more dreams that night. Only the nothingness of good sleep.
Product details
- Publisher : Scribner; Classic edition (September 4, 2018)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 544 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1982102497
- ISBN-13 : 978-1982102494
- Lexile measure : 890L
- Item Weight : 2 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.13 x 1.6 x 9.25 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #181,498 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #296 in Ghost Thrillers
- #11,100 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- #13,638 in Suspense Thrillers
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes NEVER FLINCH, YOU LIKE IT DARKER (a New York Times Book Review top ten horror book of 2024), HOLLY (a New York Times Notable Book of 2023), FAIRY TALE, BILLY SUMMERS, IF IT BLEEDS, 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). 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, IT, PET SEMATARY, DOCTOR SLEEP, and FIRESTARTER 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.
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Customers find the book well-written and engaging. They appreciate the suspenseful storyline and thrilling action. The writing style is described as phenomenal, descriptive, and thought-provoking. Readers love the characters and can relate to their emotions. The book portrays a love story with a dark side, with psychological overtones. However, some feel the book drags on with unnecessary fluff and lacks real meaning.
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Customers find the book engaging and enjoyable to read. They say it's worth reading and consider it one of Stephen King's better works. The last 200 pages are praised as better than the beginning, wrapping up the story nicely. The synopsis is described as middle-aged, best-selling fiction author Mike loses his wife Jo. While the book is long, it contains interesting content that makes readers laugh, cry, and shiver.
"...I knew from the beginning that I was on a good read. Some days you know from the start if the fish are biting or not...." Read more
"...After that point, the book becomes quite good...." Read more
"It was great. Scared me very MUCH. Also disturbed me very MUCH. What else can one ask for. Thank you" Read more
"...It makes me laugh, cry and shiver." Read more
Customers enjoy the story's quality. They find it mesmerizing, suspenseful, and full of action. The plot is good and the action is fast-paced. The story sheds light on the ugly truth in U.S. history. Readers describe the book as a beautiful piece of King fiction that can rightfully take its place next to his other works.
"...The many characters all have an interesting place in the story. The seven hundred odd pages are filled with suspense, terror, and romance...." Read more
"I read this book every few years as I find it so deliciously scary, exciting, sad and relatable. It makes me laugh, cry and shiver." Read more
"...It was mysterious. It was nice. Also, the whole relationship between him, the little girl and her mother felt heartwarming more often than not...." Read more
"...worth reading, and I recommend it to anyone who appreciates a good ghost story. Just remember: sleep on your side, not your back!" Read more
Customers find the storytelling style engaging and thought-provoking. They appreciate the vivid prose and descriptive writing that immerses them in the story. The first-person narrative works well, though some readers felt King was too cute at certain points. Overall, the book is described as a wonderful ghost story with a richer texture.
"...is still strong, but the newer books have taken on a deeper, richer story texture, and the character development is significantly greater...." Read more
"...feel that somewhere within this heaping novel is one of King's best stories. 4/5" Read more
"...every few years as I find it so deliciously scary, exciting, sad and relatable. It makes me laugh, cry and shiver." Read more
"Amazing story teller that can scare the hell out of you while pulling your heart strings to tears. This is one of my favorite SK novels" Read more
Customers enjoy the character development. They find the characters relatable and can feel each character's emotions. The book is described as classic Stephen King at his best, with interesting people and predicable good people.
"...taken on a deeper, richer story texture, and the character development is significantly greater...." Read more
"...The main character, a realistically-flawed and very-likable character, meets a beautiful young woman and her daughter who are both in danger...." Read more
"...say for certain is if you want a really good story with an amazing cast of characters this is the book for you...." Read more
"...The writing is beautiful, haunting, gentle, deep - King at his best. It is also unputdownable...." Read more
Customers find the story gripping with emotion and a haunting sense of love. They describe it as heartbreaking and uplifting, with humor, mystery, and charm. The tale is about a grief-stricken author reeling from his wife's sudden death.
"...They develop a more lasting kinship with the reader that his earlier works did not evoke. "..." Read more
"It was great. Scared me very MUCH. Also disturbed me very MUCH. What else can one ask for. Thank you" Read more
"...this book every few years as I find it so deliciously scary, exciting, sad and relatable. It makes me laugh, cry and shiver." Read more
"Amazing story teller that can scare the hell out of you while pulling your heart strings to tears. This is one of my favorite SK novels" Read more
Customers have different views on the pacing of the book. Some find it fast-paced and exciting, keeping their attention until the end. Others say the story is slow at the start, taking too long to get going.
"I read this book every few years as I find it so deliciously scary, exciting, sad and relatable. It makes me laugh, cry and shiver." Read more
"...What I didn't like is how long the book took to get going...." Read more
"...On top of plot and pacing mastery, King also manages to infuse a wealth of literary allusions that enrich the story and its structure, making..." Read more
"If you are new to King, that is. This one took patience to get through, and if it was my first King book, I am not sure I’d read another...." Read more
Customers have mixed views on the book's length. Some find it engaging and long, while others feel it's too long and repetitive. The descriptive sequences are also criticized for being excessively long.
"...At 732 pages, yes it is long. I promise you'll rue finishing the book...." Read more
"...Bag of Bones is a long read, but it never feels too long, even though there are parts that could probably have been left out...." Read more
"Very good but too long. His character development is fantastic as usual. The plot is good & the action is pretty fast...." Read more
"...Having read many of his books, and being fans of most, this felt long-winded to me. I wasn't really feeling the ghost story part either...." Read more
Customers find the book boring with long, unnecessarily long passages. They say it rambles on without any real meaning and seems silly after 150 pages. Many readers feel the book is not worth reading, with unnecessary frivolous characterization and too many cliches and special effects.
"...Instead, she seemed abrasive, uncouth, and combative...." Read more
"...or dream about the history of Sara Laughs and I found it redundant and boring...." Read more
"...and moves along at a good pace, though the plain no-adverbs-allowed dialog gets tiresome and choppy...." Read more
"What didn't I like is easy. Needless amount of frivolous characterization centering around the protagonists emotional struggles with losing his..." Read more
Reviews with images
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Perfect!
Top reviews from the United States
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- Reviewed in the United States on July 20, 2013I am a Stephen King Constant Reader. However, I don't shy from being critical of the authors novels. I like most of them, but there are a few I couldn't finish because of varied disappointments in the story--"Under the Dome" for example. I am slowly making my way through the author's body of work, and I had been meaning to make "Bag of Bones" my next King novel. I am so glad I did so.
I can see a clear contrast in the author's early works, when compared to his latter and most recent novels. His later books are a little more tame and character driven. The ghost and goblin effect is still strong, but the newer books have taken on a deeper, richer story texture, and the character development is significantly greater. I think the effect is that these newer stories tend to stay with you much longer. They develop a more lasting kinship with the reader that his earlier works did not evoke. "Bag of Bones" is a good example of the new King relative to the old. Another good example is "Duma Key". I think the notion that King has "slipped a cog" in his ability to tell a story is baseless. Actually he is as good as ever, maybe better--a few duds notwithstanding--eg..."Under the Dome".
I highly recommend "Bag of Bones". Great story and a dynamic plot--told in a "first person" style. The many characters all have an interesting place in the story. The seven hundred odd pages are filled with suspense, terror, and romance. I found myself sitting for long readings of the prose, and felt tinges of disappointment when I had to put down the book to do other things--eg..sleep. To me, that is high praise from a reader. I knew from the beginning that I was on a good read. Some days you know from the start if the fish are biting or not. Well, the fish were biting good in this lake. It was a good day of fishing--or week, should I say, and knew from the first chapters that the fishing trip would be a successful one.
Don't worry, the book is haunting. It is a very dark story. If you came seeking King's reputation to "scare the livin shit out of ya"...then I think you will be richly rewarded. The author is very long-winded in certain areas of the novel, and these tend to be the darkest and most spooky parts. Again, you won't be disappointed.
I am going to put "Bag of Bones" on my short list of favorite King novels....along with: The Dead Zone, 11/22/63, Duma Key, Misery, Dolores Claiborne, The Shining, Salem's Lot, Lisey's Story, etc.
As you can see, I rated 5 stars. Very deserving! ...and I highly recommend this novel to readers.
- Reviewed in the United States on December 21, 2023Bag of Bones tells the story of a writer named Mike Noonan, who has recently lost his wife and now has severe writer's block. Plagued by strange and frightening dreams of his summer lake house and with nothing better to do, he leaves his home in Derry and moves into the scary lake house. Maybe this change of scenery will allow him to face his fears or maybe it will be enough to help him overcome his writers block. Not long after arriving in town, he meets an attractive single mom named Mattie and her young daughter Kyra and ends up siding with Mattie and bankrolling her custody battle with her own father in law, the very rich and evil Max Devore. Will Mike find love again with this single mom? Will she be able to hold on to Kyra? And what the heck is going on with the lake house, which is clearly haunted? To find out, you will need to read 700 pages and more. What I liked about this book was the writing and the main (good) characters. The villains in the book aren't that well drawn out and their motives don't seem warrant the extremes they take to get what they want. One of the villains, a ghost, does have a bit of depth but you don't really figure that out until the end of the book where you learn more about the town's history. What I didn't like is how long the book took to get going. You can really sum up the first 200 pages as Mike Noonan has just lost his wife, has bad dreams and is suffering from really bad writer's block. After that point, the book becomes quite good. However even after 700 pages, you end up needing an epilogue to help tie together loose ends and help explain what you just read . That said, I still feel that somewhere within this heaping novel is one of King's best stories. 4/5
- Reviewed in the United States on January 20, 2025It was great. Scared me very MUCH. Also disturbed me very MUCH. What else can one ask for. Thank you
- Reviewed in the United States on November 12, 2024I read this book every few years as I find it so deliciously scary, exciting, sad and relatable. It makes me laugh, cry and shiver.
- Reviewed in the United States on February 14, 2025Amazing story teller that can scare the hell out of you while pulling your heart strings to tears.
This is one of my favorite SK novels
Top reviews from other countries
- MaggieReviewed in Canada on December 16, 2023
5.0 out of 5 stars Delivery amazing
Good read
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C. MüllerReviewed in Germany on March 2, 2024
5.0 out of 5 stars Schnell und korrekt geliefert
Das Buch war für ein Gebrauchtes gut erhalten.
- hero_of_cantonReviewed in the United Kingdom on September 10, 2023
5.0 out of 5 stars Another brilliant book from the Master himself
When bestselling author, Mike Noonan’s, wife dies suddenly he begins a period of the most intense writer’s block. He can barely even look at his computer never mind write anything. Deciding a change of scenery might help, he heads to their summer home, Sara Laughs, but before long he finds himself drawn into a custody battle with elderly billionaire, Max Devore, who is intent on ripping his dead son’s three year old daughter, Kyra, away from her Mother. Devore will stop at nothing but there’s something else at work in the town too, something much darker.
I know I often say this but I’m so glad I decided to go on this journey through King’s entire body of work because I have slept on “Bag of Bones” to this point and it’s actually really good!
I love when Stephen King writes authors into his stories and Mike Noonan’s struggle with writer’s block was incredibly well written. Let’s hope King doesn’t have the same problem any time soon!
The mix of supernatural alongside Mike’s grief was perfect although I did sometimes have to remind myself that Jo had died quite some time before the events of the book.
I’ve kind of been seeing this one and “Lisey’s Story” as almost partner books. Both feature authors and grief but with “Lisey’s Story” it’s the author who has died and this one obviously it’s his wife.
I always love King’s characterisation and this is definitely no exception. There’s some really lovely character work here, Mattie and Kyra in particular were great.
There was a little overuse of foreshadowing towards the end for me, I don’t want to spoil anything but I think one event in particular would have been more impactful if it had been a surprise whereas King’s use of foreshadowing meant I knew it was coming.
Overall, another great book from King and definitely one that I’ll read again.
hero_of_cantonAnother brilliant book from the Master himself
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 10, 2023
I know I often say this but I’m so glad I decided to go on this journey through King’s entire body of work because I have slept on “Bag of Bones” to this point and it’s actually really good!
I love when Stephen King writes authors into his stories and Mike Noonan’s struggle with writer’s block was incredibly well written. Let’s hope King doesn’t have the same problem any time soon!
The mix of supernatural alongside Mike’s grief was perfect although I did sometimes have to remind myself that Jo had died quite some time before the events of the book.
I’ve kind of been seeing this one and “Lisey’s Story” as almost partner books. Both feature authors and grief but with “Lisey’s Story” it’s the author who has died and this one obviously it’s his wife.
I always love King’s characterisation and this is definitely no exception. There’s some really lovely character work here, Mattie and Kyra in particular were great.
There was a little overuse of foreshadowing towards the end for me, I don’t want to spoil anything but I think one event in particular would have been more impactful if it had been a surprise whereas King’s use of foreshadowing meant I knew it was coming.
Overall, another great book from King and definitely one that I’ll read again.
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- Alessa DíazReviewed in Mexico on October 28, 2018
5.0 out of 5 stars Enchanting, spooky and overall amazing!
Beautiful story and yet creepy at the same time. Definitely one of King’s best books. It starts off a little slow but goes up to a pace where I couldn’t even put it down. Totally recommended.
- Glenn FlavellReviewed in Australia on February 18, 2025
5.0 out of 5 stars mint condition
arrived early and perfect fit