8
King
When Effie had retired to the bedroom early, King was still buzzing with energy.
There’s no way I can handle sleeping next to her right now, he thought. To hell with how miserable it is out here.
Until midnight he oiled the hunting rifles in the den, including his grandfather’s—the same one he’d learned on.
It took all his strength to not look into the bedroom, but he wasn’t sure he could resist that temptation. Finally, he did fall asleep for a couple of hours curled onto the couch.
King awoke in the darkest of night and glanced at the massive clock over the fireplace. Almost four.
“The real witching hour,” his mother used to say. She’d recount the numerous writers who swore they had no choice but to get up and write at the hour.
He couldn’t fathom what would compel someone
