Stephen King, whose first novel, Carrie, was published in , the year KB. Mr. KB. KB. download pdf epub site. Misery is a psychological horror thriller novel by Stephen King. The novel was nominated for the World Fantasy Award for. Misery. Home · Misery Author: Stephen King content from our site. Start by pressing the button below! Report copyright / DMCA form · DOWNLOAD EPUB.

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Misery. byKing, Stephen, Publication date Topics Novelists, American, Fans Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. Anglais [eBook] Misery (EDITION EN LANGUE ANGLAISE). Stephen King · Hodder and Stoughton ebook (ePub). CHF Protection: Drm. Ebooks written by Stephen King, download PDF, EPUB, TXT, MOBI, site. Download Author: Stephen King. Search Download The Shining, Carrie, Misery.

The tide came and went; the piling stayed. It was just that sometimes you couldn't see it. Without the piling, there was no tide. This memory circled and circled, maddening, like a sluggish fly. He groped for whatever it might mean, but for a long time the sounds interrupted. Sometimes he stopped.

His first really clear memory of this now, the now outside the storm-haze, was of stopping, of being suddenly aware he just couldn't pull another breath, and that was all right, that was good, that was in fact just peachy-keen; he could take a certain level of pain but enough was enough and he was glad to be getting out of the game.

Then there was a mouth clamped over his, a mouth which was unmistakably a woman's mouth in spite of its hard spitless lips, and the wind from this woman's mouth blew into his own mouth and down his throat, puffing his lungs, and when the lips were pulled back he smelled his warder for the first time, smelled her on the outrush of the breath she had forced into him the way aman might force a part of himself into an unwilling woman, a dreadful mixed stench of vanilla cookies and chocolate ice-cream and chicken gravy and peanut-butter fudge.

He heard a voice screaming, 'Breathe, goddammit! Breathe, Paul! The breath blew down his throat again.

Blew down it like the dank suck of wind which follows a fast subway train, pulling sheets of newspaper and candy- wrappers after it, and the lips were withdrawal, and he thought For Christ's sake don't let any of it out through your nose but he couldn't help it and oh that stink, that stink that fucking STINK.

When she took her lips away this time he did not let her breath out but pushed it and whooped in a gigantic breath of his own.

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Shoved it out. Waited for his unseen chest to go up again on its own, as it had been doing his whole life without any help from him. When it didn't, he gave another giant whooping gasp, and then he was breathing again on his own, and doing it as fast as he could to flush the smell and taste of her out of him.

Normal air had never tasted so fine. He began to fade back into the haze again, but before the dimming world was gone entirely, he heard the woman's voice mutter: 'Whew! That was a close one!

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He dreamed of the piling, so real he felt he could almost reach out and slide his palm over its green-black fissured curve. When he came back to his former state of semi-consciousness, he was able to make the connection between the piling and his current situation — it seemed to float into his hand.

The pain wasn't tidal. That was the lesson of the dream which was really a memory.

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The pain only appeared to come and go. The pain was like the piling, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there. When the pain wasn't harrying him through the deep stone grayness of his cloud, he was dumbly grateful, but he was no longer fooled — it was still there, waiting to return. And there was not just one piling but two; the pain was the pilings, and part of him knew for a long time before most of his mind had knowledge of knowing that the shattered pilings were his own shattered legs.

But it was still a long time before he was finally able to break the dried scum of saliva that had glued his lips together and croak out 'Where am I? The name of the man who had written the book was Paul Sheldon.


He recognized it as his own with no surprise. And I am — ' 'I know,' he said. Then the pain and the haze. Then the awareness that, although the pain was constant, it was sometimes buried by an uneasy compromise which he supposed was relief. The first real memory: stopping, and being raped back into life by the woman's stinking breath. Next real memory: her fingers pushing something into his mouth at regular intervals, something like Contac capsules, only since there was no water they only sat in his mouth and when they melted there was an incredibly bitter taste that was a little like the taste of aspirin.

It would have been good to spit that bitter taste out, but he knew better than to do it. Because it was that bitter taste which brought the high tide in over the piling. These things all came at widely spaced intervals, but then as the pain itself began not to recede but to erode as that Revere Beach piling must itself have eroded, he thought, because nothing is forever — although the child he had been would have scoffed at such heresy , outside things began to impinge more rapidly until the objective world, with all its freight of memory, experience, and prejudice, had pretty much re-established itself.

He was Paul Sheldon, who wrote novels of two kinds, good ones and best-sellers. He had been married and divorced twice. He smoked too much or had before all this, whatever 'all this' was. Something very bad had happened to him but he was still alive.

That dark-gray cloud began to dissipate faster and faster.

It would be yet awhile before his number-one fan brought him the old clacking Royal with the grinning gapped mouth and the Ducky Daddles voice, but Paul understood long before then that he was in a hell of a jam. Whenever she came into the room he thought of the graven images worshipped by superstitious African tribes in the novels of H. Rider Haggard, and stones, and doom. She was a big woman who, other than the large but unwelconiing swell of her bosom under the gray cardigan sweater she always wore, seemed to have no feminine curves at all — there was no defined roundness of hip or buttock or even calf below the endless succession of wool skirts she wore in the house she retired to her unseen bedroom to put on jeans before doing her outside chores.

Her body was big but not generous. There was a feeling about her of clots and roadblocks rather than welcoming orifices or even open spaces, areas of hiatus. Most of all she gave him a disturbing sense of solidity, as if she might not have any blood vessels or even internal organs; as if she might be only solid Annie Wilkes from side to side and top to bottom.

Each story is deeply rooted in the sixties, and each is haunted by the Vietnam War. Pet Sematary When the Creeds move into a beautiful old house in rural Maine, it all seems too good to be true: physician father, beautiful wife, charming little daughter, adorable infant son-and now an idyllic home.

As a family, they've got it all But the nearby woods hide a blood-chilling truth-more terrifying than death itself Prison guard Paul Edgecombe has seen his share of oddities in his years working the Mile. In this place of ultimate retribution, Edgecombe is about to discover the terrible, wondrous truth about Coffey, a truth that will challenge his most cherished beliefs Mercedes A cat-and-mouse suspense thriller featuring a retired homicide detective who's haunted by the few cases he left open, and by one in particular - the pre-dawn slaughter of eight people among hundreds gathered in line for the opening of a jobs fair when the economy was guttering out.

Without warning, a lone driver ploughed through the crowd in a stolen Mercedes. The plot is kicked into gear when Bill Hodges receives a letter in the mail, from a man claiming to be the perpetrator.

He taunts Hodges with the notion that he will strike again. Misery Paul Sheldon.

He's a bestselling novelist who has finally met his biggest fan. Her name is Annie Wilkes and she is more than a rabid reader-she is Paul's nurse, tending his shattered body after an automobile accident.

But she is also his captor, keeping him prisoner in her isolated house. Now Annie wants Paul to write his greatest work-just for her. She has a lot of ways to spur him on. One is a needle.Title '. Misery , NEL in English.

Survive thirty days and win the billion dollar jackpot - that was the promise. Scandate Misery February 1, Highbridge Audio.

Misery by Stephen King

Mercedes A cat-and-mouse suspense thriller featuring a retired homicide detective who's haunted by the few cases he left open, and by one in particular - the pre-dawn slaughter of eight people among hundreds gathered in line for the opening of a jobs fair when the economy was guttering out. Part I Annie 'When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

The right of Stephen King to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act All rights reserved. He viewed the release as an experiment in alternate forms of distribution, writing on his website at the time, "My friends, we have the chance to become Big Publishing's worst nightmare.

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