It was terrifying, but for the first time I felt like an author wasn’t lying to me, wasn’t pulling any punches. Like Richie as he walks into Georgie’s room with Bill, the reality of my own death washed over me. They were the main victims, their parents unable to save them from the inevitability of death. In Stephen King’s hands, children weren’t safe anymore. It was so brutal and unfair and potently alive. I read about a monster that comes alive every 27 or so years to feed on the fears and flesh of children. I read about Georgie’s ill-fated boating trip in the autumn rain. I read about 11 year old Bill Denbrough, who wanted to be a writer like me, who had a little brother named George. I finished the first chapter before I looked up and realized I should be heading home. I sat on a bench outside the library and started in immediately, letting the early autumn wind tickle through my hair, my bike forgotten at the bike rack feet away. But wonder of wonders my mom said yes and allowed me to leave that place with 1100 pages of pure horror magic. In the end, the librarian had to call my parents to get permission for me to borrow the book. Fear and excitement were wrapped up together, but I knew I had to read this book. I was legitimately afraid, too, underneath it all. I felt it calling to me, like a siren’s song. I have never been more attracted to a book in my entire life. And dominating it all, those two letters.
The scaly claw reaching out from the drain. I pulled it off the shelf and turned it over to look at the cover. Blood red, stamped like the product of some unearthly typewriter. Two letters that would change everything for me. There were shelves and shelves of endless fascination, every nook and cranny filled with mystery and terror. Between Dean Koontz and Stephen King, no other section held more interesting book covers for a burgeoning 10 year old horror fan than the “K” aisle in the adult fiction section at the Grand Haven Public Library.
It didn’t take me long to realize the “K” aisle in the adult fiction section was the place to be. I didn’t know what Stephen King was, but I knew he was something to be feared.
Re8 bookworm code#
The name Stephen King was everywhere, invoked in these horrifying ad spots of clowns and blood and fear, like a talismanic speakeasy code word. It was 1990 and the IT miniseries with Tim Curry was about to come out, so it was being promoted like crazy. I’d then flip through it, read a few sentences, and admire the poetry of the language. Sometimes, I’d pull out a volume that looked interesting and simply stare at the cover. I’d wander the aisles and run my hands along the spines of the rows and rows of books. But, occasionally I’d make my way to the adult section, where the true mysteries were hidden. Like Ben, I too spent most of my time in the children’s section, trying to find a ghost story book I hadn’t already read. So, to my 10 year old self, libraries were a wonder. I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, and I was already a full-blown bibliophile, hoarding and cataloging my books like a dragon with his piles of gold. Weekends, I’d ride my bike to the library and spend hours reading and wandering. Like Ben Hanscomb, I spent a great deal of time at the library. So, by the time I was 10 I was ready for something more. I don’t know why, but I liked scary stuff, stories that pushed the boundaries of my small town midwestern bubble. Stine before exploring the dark imagery of the Scary Stories trilogy. Like many a child of the 80’s, I started my horror journey with the unsettlingly mundane violence of Roald Dahl and R.L. It was the first real adult book I ever read. I was ten going on eleven when I read IT for the first time.
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