Gwendy's Magic Feather Read online

  Praise for the New York Times bestseller

  GWENDY’S BUTTON BOX

  BY STEPHEN KING AND RICHARD CHIZMAR

  “A different sort of coming-of-age story about a mysterious stranger and his odd little gift.… Cowritten with Richard Chizmar, King’s zippy work returns to the small-town Maine locale of The Dead Zone, Cujo and other early novels.… extremely well-paced … a fun read that never loses momentum.… Gwendy’s Button Box feels like it belongs in this locale that’s always been a pit stop for scary Americana and the normal turned deadly.… Nicely captures that same winning dichotomy between the innocent and the sinister.”

  —USA Today

  “Absorbing.… This bite-size gem of a story packs quite a punch.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Man, I love this story! The whole thing just races and feels so right-sized and so scarily and sadly relevant. Loved the characters … and the sense of one little girl’s connection to the whole world through this weird device. It all just sang.”

  —J. J. Abrams

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  for Kara, Billy, and Noah

  the Magic in my life

  HOW GWENDY ESCAPED OBLIVION

  by Stephen King

  WRITING STORIES IS BASICALLY playing. Work may come into it once the writer gets down to brass tacks, but it almost always begins with a simple game of make-believe. You start with a what-if, then sit down at your desk to find out where that what-if leads. It takes a light touch, an open mind, and a hopeful heart.

  Four or five years ago—I can’t remember exactly, but it must have been while I was still working on the Bill Hodges trilogy—I started to play with the idea of a modern Pandora. She was the curious little girl, you’ll remember, who got a magic box and when her damned curiosity (the curse of the human race) caused her to open it, all the evils of the world flew out. What would happen, I wondered, if a modern little girl got such a box, given to her not by Zeus but by a mysterious stranger?

  I loved the idea and sat down to write a story called “Gwendy’s Button Box.” If you were to ask me where the name Gwendy came from, I couldn’t tell you any more than I can tell you exactly when I did the original 20 or 30 pages. I might have been thinking about Wendy Darling, Peter Pan’s little girlfriend, or Gwyneth Paltrow, or it might have just popped into my head (like the John Rainbird name did in Firestarter). In any case, I visualized a box with a colored button for each of the earth’s large land masses; push one of them and something bad would happen in the corresponding continent. I added a black one that would destroy everything, and—just to keep the proprietor of the box interested—little levers on the sides that would dispense addictive treats.

  I may also have been thinking of my favorite Fredric Brown short story, “The Weapon.” In it, a scientist involved in creating a super-bomb opens his door to a late-night stranger who pleads with him to stop what he’s doing. The scientist has a son who is, as we’d now say, “mentally challenged.” After the scientist sends his visitor away, he sees his son playing with a loaded revolver. The final line of the story is, “Only a madman would give a loaded gun to an idiot.”

  Gwendy’s button box is that loaded gun, and while she’s far from an idiot, she’s still just a kid, for God’s sake. What would she do with that box, I wondered. How long would it take for her to get addicted to the treats it dispensed? How long before her curiosity caused her to push one of those buttons, just to see what might happen? (Jonestown, as it turned out.) And might she begin to be obsessed with the black button, the one that would destroy everything? Might the story end with Gwendy—after a particularly bad day, perhaps—pushing that button and bringing down the apocalypse? Would that be so farfetched in a world where enough nuclear firepower exists to destroy all life on earth for thousands of years? And where, whether we like to admit it or not, some of the people with access to those weapons are not too tightly wrapped?

  The story went fine at first, but then I began to run out of gas. That doesn’t happen to me often, but it does happen from time to time. I’ve probably got two dozen unfinished stories (and at least two novels) that just quit on me. (Or maybe I quit on them.) I think I was at the point where Gwendy is trying to figure out how to keep the box hidden from her parents. It all began to seem too complicated. Worse, I didn’t know what came next. I stopped working on the story and turned to something else.

  Time passed—maybe two years, maybe a little more. Every now and then I thought about Gwendy and her dangerous magic box, but no new ideas occurred, so the story stayed on the desktop of my office computer, way down in the corner of the screen. Not deleted, but definitely shunned.

  Then one day I got an email from Rich Chizmar, creator and editor of Cemetery Dance and the author of some very good short stories in the fantasy/horror genre. He suggested—casually, I think, with no real expectation that I’d take him up on it—that we might collaborate on a story at some point, or that I might like to participate in a round-robin, where a number of writers work to create a single piece of fiction. The round-robin idea held no allure for me because such stories are rarely interesting, but the idea of collaboration did. I knew Rich’s work, how good he is with small towns and middle-class suburban life. He effortlessly evokes backyard barbecues, kids on bikes, trips to Walmart, families eating popcorn in front of the TV … then tears a hole in those things by introducing an element of the supernatural and a tang of horror. Rich writes stories where the Good Life suddenly turns brutal. I thought if anyone could finish Gwendy’s story, it would be him. And, I must admit, I was curious.

  Long story short, he did a brilliant job. I re-wrote some of his stuff, he re-wrote some of mine, and we came out with a little gem. I’ll always be grateful to him for not allowing Gwendy to die a lingering death in the lower righthand corner of my desktop screen.

  When he suggested there might be more to her story, I was interested but not entirely convinced. What would it be about? I wanted to know. He asked me what I’d think if Gwendy, now an adult, got elected to the United States House of Representatives, and the button box made a reappearance in her life … along with the box’s mysterious proprietor, the man in the little black hat.

  You know when it’s right, and that was so perfect I was jealous (not a lot, but a little, yeah). Gwendy’s position of power in the political machinery echoed the button box. I told him that sounded fine, and he should go ahead. In truth, I probably would have said the same if he’d suggested a story where Gwendy becomes an astronaut, goes through a space warp, and ends up in another galaxy. Because Gwendy is as much Rich’s as she is mine. Probably more, because without his intervention, she wouldn’t exist at all.

  In the story you’re about to read—lucky you!—all of Rich’s formidable skills are on display. He evokes Castle Rock well, and the regular Joes and regular Jills that populate the town ring true. We know these people, and so we care for them. We also care for Gwendy. To tell you the truth, I sort of fell in love with her, and I’m delighted that she’s back for more.

  Stephen King

  May 17, 2019

  1

  ON THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1999, Gwendy Peterson wakes up before the sun, dresses in layers for the cold, and heads out for a run.

  Once upon a time, she walke
d with a slight limp thanks to an injury to her right foot, but six months of physical therapy and orthotic inserts in her favorite New Balance running shoes took care of that little problem. Now she runs at least three or four times a week, preferably at dawn as the city is just beginning to open its eyes.

  An awful lot has happened in the fifteen years since Gwendy graduated from Brown University and moved away from her hometown of Castle Rock, Maine, but there’s plenty of time to tell that story. For now, let’s tag along as she makes her way crosstown.

  After stretching her legs on the concrete steps of her rented townhouse, Gwendy jogs down Ninth Street, her feet slapping a steady rhythm on the salted roadway, until it runs into Pennsylvania Avenue. She hangs a sharp left and cruises past the Navy Memorial and the National Gallery of Art. Even in the heart of winter, the museums are all well illuminated, the gravel and asphalt walkways shoveled clean; our tax dollars hard at work.

  Once Gwendy reaches the Mall, she notches it up a gear, feeling the lightness in her feet and the power in her legs. Her ponytail peeks out from underneath her winter cap, rustling against the back of her sweatshirt with every step she takes. She runs along the Reflecting Pool, missing the families of ducks and birds that make it their home during the warm summer months, toward the obelisk shadow of the Washington Monument. She stays on the lighted path, swinging a wide circle around the famous landmark, and heads east toward the Capitol Building. The Smithsonian Museums line both sides of the Mall here and she remembers the first time she visited Washington, D.C.

  She was ten that summer, and she and her parents spent three long, sweaty days exploring the city from dawn to dusk. At the end of each day, they collapsed on their hotel beds and ordered room service—an unheard of luxury for the Peterson family—because they were too exhausted to shower and venture out for dinner. On their final morning, her father surprised the family with tickets to one of the city’s pedicab tours. The three of them squeezed into the back of the cramped carriage eating ice cream cones and giggling as their tour guide pedaled them around the Mall.

  Never in a million years did Gwendy dream she’d one day live and work in the nation’s capital. If anyone questioned her of that likelihood even eighteen months earlier, her answer would have been a resounding no. Life is funny that way, she thinks, cutting across a gravel pathway in the direction of Ninth Street. Full of surprises—and not all of them good.

  Leaving the Mall behind, Gwendy pulls frigid air into her lungs and quickens her stride for the final home stretch. The streets are alive now, bustling with early morning commuters, homeless people emerging from their cardboard boxes, and the rumble and grind of garbage trucks making their rounds. Gwendy spots the multi-colored Christmas lights twinkling from her bay window ahead and takes off in a sprint. Her neighbor across the street lifts a hand and calls out to her, but Gwendy doesn’t see or hear. Her legs flex with fluid grace and strength, but her mind is far away this cold December morning.

  2

  EVEN WITH DAMP HAIR and barely a hint of make-up on her face, Gwendy is gorgeous. She draws a number of appreciative—not to mention a few openly envious—stares as she stands in the corner of the cramped elevator. Were her old friend, Olive Kepnes, still alive (even after all these years Gwendy still thinks of her almost every day), Olive would tell Gwendy that she looked like a million bucks and change. And she would be right.

  Dressed in plain gray slacks, a white silk blouse, and low-heeled slip-ons (what her mother calls sensible shoes), Gwendy looks ten years younger than her thirty-seven years. She would argue vigorously with anyone who told her so, but her protests would be in vain. It was the simple truth.

  The elevator dings and the doors slide open onto the third floor. Gwendy and two others sidestep their way out and join a small group of employees waiting in line at a cordoned-off security checkpoint. A burly guard wearing a badge and sidearm stands at the entrance, scanning identification badges. A young female guard is positioned a few yards behind him, staring at a video screen as employees pass between the vertical slats of a walk-through metal detector.

  When it’s Gwendy’s turn at the front of the line, she pulls a laminated ID card from her leather tote bag and hands it to the guard.

  “Morning, Congresswoman Peterson. Busy day today?” He scans the bar code and hands it back with a friendly smile.

  “They’re all busy, Harold.” She gives him a wink. “You know that.”

  His smile widens, exposing a pair of gold-plated front teeth. “Hey, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Gwendy laughs and starts to walk away. From behind her: “Tell that husband of yours I said hello.”

  She glances over her shoulder, readjusting the tote bag on her arm. “Will do. With any luck, he’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

  “God willing,” Harold says, crossing himself. Then he turns to the next employee and scans his card. “Morning, Congressman.”

  3

  GWENDY’S OFFICE IS SPACIOUS and uncluttered. The walls are painted a soft yellow and adorned with a framed map of Maine, a square silver-edged mirror, and a Brown University pendant. Bright, warm lighting shines down on a mahogany desk centered along the opposite wall. Atop the desk are a hooded lamp, telephone, day-planner, computer and keyboard, and numerous stacks of paperwork. Across the room is a dark leather sofa. A coffee table covered with fanned-out magazines sits in front of it. A small table with a coffee station stands off to one side. There’s also a three-drawer filing cabinet in the far corner and a small bookshelf lined with hardcover books, knickknacks, and framed photographs. The first of the two largest photos shows a tan and beaming Gwendy standing arm-in-arm with a handsome bearded man at the Castle Rock Fourth of July parade two years earlier. The second is of a much younger Gwendy standing in front of her mother and father at the base of the Washington Monument.

  Gwendy sits at her desk, chin resting atop interlocked hands, staring at the photograph of her and her parents instead of the report sitting open in front of her. After a moment, she sighs and closes the folder, pushing it aside.

  She taps a flurry of buttons on the keyboard and opens her email account. Scanning the dozens of notices in her mailbox, she stops on an email from her mother. The time-code shows it was received ten minutes earlier. She double-clicks on it and a digital scan of a newspaper article fills her monitor screen.

  The Castle Rock Call

  Thursday - December 16, 1999

  STILL NO SIGN OF TWO MISSING GIRLS

  Despite a countywide search and dozens of tips from concerned citizens, there has been no progress in the case of two abducted Castle County girls.

  The latest victim, Carla Hoffman, 15, of Juniper Lane in Castle Rock, was taken from her bedroom on the evening of Tuesday, December 14. At shortly after six p.m., her older brother walked across the street to visit a classmate from school. When he returned home no more than fifteen minutes later, he discovered the back door broken open and his sister missing.

  “We’re working around the clock to find these girls,” Castle Rock Sheriff Norris Ridgewick commented. “We’ve brought in officers from neighboring towns and are organizing additional searches.”

  Rhonda Tomlinson, 14, of nearby Bridgton, vanished on her way home from school on the afternoon of Tuesday, December 7…

  Gwendy frowns at the computer screen. She’s seen enough. She closes the email and starts to turn away—but hesitates. Tapping at the keyboard, she switches to SAVED MAIL and uses the Arrow button to scroll. After what feels like forever, she stops on another email from her mother, this one dated November 19, 1998. The subject line reads: CONGRATULATIONS!

  She opens it and double-clicks on a link. A small, dark window with Good Morning, Boston written across it opens at the center of the monitor. Then a low resolution video comes to life and the Good Morning, Boston intro music is blaring from the computer speakers. Gwendy quickly turns down the volume.

  Onscreen, Gwendy and popular morning show host, Della
Cavanaugh, sit across from each other on straight-backed leather chairs. They each have their legs crossed and are wearing microphones clipped to their collars. A banner headline runs across the top of the video screen: HOMETOWN GIRL MAKES GOOD.

  Gwendy cringes at the sound of her voice on the video, but she doesn’t turn it off. Instead, she readjusts the volume, leans back in her chair, and watches herself being interviewed, remembering how utterly strange—and unsettling—it felt to tell her life story to thousands of strangers …

  4

  AFTER GRADUATING FROM BROWN in the spring of 1984, Gwendy spends the summer working a part-time job in Castle Rock before attending the Iowa Writers Workshop in early September. For the next three months, she focuses on classwork and starts writing the opening chapters of what will become her first novel, a multi-generational family drama set in Bangor.

  When the workshop is over, she returns home to Castle Rock for the holidays, gets a tattoo of a tiny feather next to the scar on her right foot (more about that feather a little later), and begins to search for full-time employment. She receives a number of interesting offers and soon after decides on an upstart advertising and public relations firm in nearby Portland.

  In late January 1985, Mr. Peterson follows behind Gwendy on the interstate—pulling a U-Haul trailer full of secondhand furniture, cardboard boxes stuffed with clothes, and more shoes than any one person should own—and helps her move into a rented second-floor downtown apartment.

  Gwendy begins work the following week. She quickly proves to be a natural at the advertising game and over the course of the next eighteen months, earns a couple of promotions. By the middle of year two, she’s traveling up and down the east coast to meet with VIP clients and is listed on company letterhead as an Executive Account Manager.