Stephen King's Box Read online

  Stephen King's Box

  Claudio Hernández

  Translated by Samantha Sugey Priego Morales

  “Stephen King's Box”

  Written By Claudio Hernández

  Copyright © 2017 Claudio Hernández

  All rights reserved

  Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

  www.babelcube.com

  Translated by Samantha Sugey Priego Morales

  Cover Design © 2017 Iván Ruso

  “Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Stephen King´s Box | Claudio Hernández

  Introduction

  The box of stories

  The Gravedigger

  The A girl

  Rotten apples

  In the maggot’s mouth

  The Boogeyman is under the sheets

  Everything you have lost

  It’s time to say goodbye

  Never say my name

  Epilogue

  Synopsis of The Beginnings of Stephen King

  Stephen King´s Box

  Claudio Hernández

  First edition eBook: September 2017

  Title: Stephen King´s Box

  Original title: La caja de Stephen King

  ©2017 Claudio Hernández.

  ©2017 Cover art: Iván Ruso

  © 2017 Translator: Samantha Sugey Priego Morales

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication, including the cover art, may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, recording, on the Internet, or photocopying, without the prior permission of the publisher or the author. All rights reserved.

  I dedicate this book to my father in law, who always was and always will be my father, from heaven, wherever you are, I need you to still be by my side in this hard life.

  Index

  Introduction

  The stories’ box

  The Gravedigger

  The A girl

  Rotten apples

  In the maggot’s mouth

  The Boogeyman is under the sheets

  Everything you have lost

  It’s time to say goodbye

  Never say my name

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  Stephen King started writing at the early age of eight years old, me, influence by his work, started writing my own stories thirty years later, I think we share the same passion for writing. The trick is to know fear on every angle. Through the next years and during all my life, I have analyzed every single work of Steve and I’ve come to the conclusion, that we all become his fans, that Steve is the king of the literature of psychological terror.

  Stephen King is such a smart man who knows people very well and their insides. If Steve hadn’t been a writer, he would probably have been a psychiatrist. Or at least, that’s what I think. His first stories are the ones that get most of our attention. His stories written with feeling and a high grade of fantasy, the same as his first books. My stories are a tribute to the king and an acknowledgment of what he could have found in that lost manuscripts’ box that belonged to his father Donald Edwin King, which contents were never revealed. ¿Could it be that little Stevie, with thirteen years old, chose some of these stories to re-write them? Of course not, but he was influenced by them and that marked his life forever. When I was thirteen years old, the anthology of stories “Night Shift” fell into my hands and I was totally affected by it. After reading the whole book, I started writing my own stories, influenced by the master King every single step of the way. I guess that means that probably, I am the fan number one of Stephen King. O maybe, it means that I am just another fan of Stephen King.

  King himself has recognized so many times that he has written stories and novels based on someone or thinking in someone. That is the case of “Dolores Claiborne”, which he wrote thinking about the actress Kathy Bates. He pictured how that woman would react if her favorite writer had stopped writing about her favorite character. King thought about her. And I think of King when I write, it’s an impulse, I can’t shake it off.

  Stephen King was masterfully influenced by the 50’s DC’s comics. Besides, he was fascinated by the stories of H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Ray Bardbury and even Richard Matheson. He was marked by them. By their stories, by their narrative, by their style. And the movies, those were an influence on him too. Little Stevie wrote his own version of the movies when he got back home. I started writing when I read “Gray Matter”, “Strawberry Spring” , “I Know What You Need” o “The Mangler”, every single one belonging to the book “Night Shift”. I was fascinated by his stories just like him by the stories of H.P. Lovecraft. And he could be also influenced by other writers like Clive Barker (“Books of Blood”) who Stephen King also admires.

  Influences and the incontrollable Richard Bachman, a person who’s not willing to accept the society in which he was meant to live. A society that was, according to him, annoyed. Stephen King always wrote under his influence and in his specialty to show us the dark side of things and the people, inside fear and paranoia with two different names.

  I’m not the only one writing based on him. In the year 2003, Ridley Pearson, friend of Stephen King, wrote the screenplay “The Diary of Ellen Rimbauber”. It’s not an exception, is just another example. Stephen King himself got inspired by a Hotel in which he stayed, called The Montressor Hotel. And the Montressor is a clear reference of an Edgar Allan Poe’s story called “The Cask of Amontillado”. And this worked for him for what he was writing.

  He was very much marked by death too. En the year 1967 he sold his first story “The Glass Floor” in which a woman dies in a room. And he was marked by fear too, If you don’t believe me, look at the bad experience he went through when he saw an scene in the Bambi movie, in which the character is surrounded by fire. It happened the same to me when I saw “Carrie” for the first time. The final revenge on the prom stage, in which Carrieta White unleashes her anger that freaked me out.

  And then, it came ”The Shining”. That’s the reason why I write terror stories and novels, and with this stories I want to pay tribute to the King, forgive the redundancy. Is it paradoxical to do this? I don’t want to apologize for mixing our so separated lives. Is it absurd to write this book? That I’m taking advantage of his influences to be able to publish my stories? No. he’s a part of me since many years ago, just like so many other readers of King, but my passion took me a farer. Way farer.

  Claudio Hernández.

  The box of stories

  If Stephen King had the chance to choose the stories he would have liked to find in the box he found in the basement, he would definitely choose his. But we don’t know what Stephen King found that day, at least not with such thorough certainty. A book of H.P. Lovecraft’s stories stood out. But there were manuscripts and many loose sheets of paper that were part of several stories. There was enough material to publish for a long period of time. And we’ll never know if, besides from the influence, Stephen Kin took something else from that box’s contents. This is the story of Steve, a boy that, since his encounter with the box, sees how his life changes completely and, as time passes by, sees how everything changes around him. Every story has an impact on Steve. The nightmares are more frequent and soon he realizes the power of precognition and the ability to know people’s insides. The initials found in one of the box’s flaps “DEK” intrigued him since the first moment and everything seems to spin around the stories he found in a box. Along with the manuscripts, there are rejection letters and a cross in every corner. From that moment, every single thing th
at happens to him are not coincidences and every day activities are not what they seem. Until his life ends in a tragic way. That’s when the true identity of his story is revealed.

  1

  At thirteen, Steve finds a box full of manuscripts in the basement of his aunt’s house. He’s not staying long and is one of the many houses he’ll live in until he is a grown man, way more ahead. Then, he’ll remember his childhood and what he felt when he found the box, that, rapidly, gave it the name of “Beginnings”. Steve comes closer to the dusty and yellowish cardboard box, placed like a sinister form in the shadows. He comes closer slowly, but surely. And suddenly, he thinks that an enormous rat with long teeth and a tail as hard as the stick of a broom could come out of it. Steve continues getting closer anyway. A little bit more. He’s quiet and no sound comes out of his lips. His eyes open wide as plates search in the shadows, around the box. There’s nothing around. Except for this box. He gets nearer to it and then, his heart starts racing like crazy, in a growing wave. Beating faster every second. He starts to feel warmer. The first drops of sweat appear in his forehead and one of them gets in his right eye. As an impulse, he takes a hand there and hits his enormous bone framed glasses, which are fixed with adhesive tape that almost fell to the floor. He’s getting closer and closer. His heart now seems to beat in the palm of his hand. And he touches the box, first, with the tip of his index finger, then, with all of his fingers. The box is closed. Steve curves his lips, inhales some air and exhales it in a very strong blow. The dust flies off everywhere like a sand storm. Then, he sees the initials D.E.K in one of the flaps of the box.

  ‘What?’

  Steve blows one more time to remove the remaining dust in the box. Now his heart explodes inside his chest.

  ‘What is it, my friend Steve? Be careful with what you find inside of it,’ says a voice inside his head.

  Now, with both hands, he starts to open the cardboard box. And he sees something inside. It isn’t scary, it isn’t either rats or snakes, or coins, like he once remembered having found. While he was looking in the interior of a box, some coins that a friend of his hid in the basement of his house to protect him from his older brother. He remembered too that he let go of the jar of coins when he heard from his brother that there was a dead kid in the woods. Bout soon, the memories become thin as he sees in the interior of the box again. Yellowish papers. Packed and tied up with a very thin string. They were manuscripts. Loose numbered sheets, every single one had something written on it. A lot of text and, on a first sight, every sheet one had an attached note that barely read ‘We’re sorry. Try again’

  Steve took out all of the manuscripts of the box while examining the pages. There were interesting words like ‘claws like spatulas’ and ‘he became a monster’ and ‘death’. It was eight thirty in the morning and the first sunrays dared to pass through the holes in the wall boards. His pulse made a turn with enthusiasm. Steve loved those words and soon he assumed that there were terror stories, or maybe science fiction stories. And he spend the morning in the basement reading those old yellow torn pages, while the sunrays moved inside the basement forming different kinds of shadows. And when his heart calmed down, although remained excited, he wondered what the hell meant those initials: D.E.K

  ‘The most horrible face that has ever been seen,’ whispered Steve.

  And he continued reading wicked words, some horrible and some attractive, for him.

  He had found a box full of terror stories and sci-fi novels. Something that he liked.

  2

  Spending the days reading the manuscripts he had found, in the gloom of his room, was the best thing that could have happened to him, since in junior high he was the objective of all kind of mockery and that was hard on him. Steve, a thirteen year old how had learned the art of loving reading and writing, was truly a lonely boy in the eyes of the world. His words, when he spoke, were barely heard. He spoke very little. It was more like a whisper and he could count how many friends he had with one hand. He and his new discovery were a big part of his life now.

  He was sneaky at school. He closed his eyes behind the thick crystals of his glasses when they called him nicknames. His myopia was evident and he walked almost completely slouched because of his thinness and his height. His hair was dark, close to his skull, like a gelatinous mass marking all kinds of shapes in his hair. And all the things didn’t happened just because, according to him. They had a meaning. He discovered that while he read with eagerness the stories lost in that box, which initials still surprised him.

  3

  While he took a long inhale of his cigarette, Steve took a quick look to the end of one of the stories.

  ‘I love it,’ he said all of a sudden, at the same time he left the yellowish pages on the bed.

  ‘What is it about?’ asked his brother.

  ‘Of a men who inflates himself when he drinks beer and turns into a shapeless mass who eats cats,’ said Steve quickly with an unusual spark in his eyes.

  ‘Uhmm, that’s ok,’ said Ben, with his head somewhere else.

  ‘It’s fantastic! Everything I’m reading is fantastic. It speaks of machines that turn to life, of a serial killer, of a town controlled by children...’ Steve was so excited and his voice was growing deeper. ‘There’re also students who die and come back from the death!’

  ‘You always like horror stories, didn’t you, little brother?’ his voice sounded distant.

  Steve raised a hand to his right eye to take off some dirt of it, and moved carefully away his glasses. He didn’t say anything. Just took off the dirt whit his index finger and blinked lightly. After that, he put on the glasses again and stood hesitant, with his cheek leaned on one of his fists. Silence fell in the room for a while. Ben was now looking trough the dirty crystal window. It was snowing heavily outside and the snowflakes were crashing the crystal turning into little pieces. Maybe, drawing impossible shapes.

  All of a sudden, Steve’s voice sounded hoarse but strong.

  ‘Someday, I’ll be a professional writer and I’ll buy a large car for myself,’ he made some gestures with his hands and then he dropped them. He also dropped the consumed cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his left foot.

  Ben turned to him and nodded.

  4

  Yes, the nightmares were recurrent and the work to bring something else in a poor house was simply embarrassing. Steve had to dig holes for a week, along with a friend from school, for several people to bury them in their coffins. Steve didn’t see anyone, that’s why he asked his mother if she had really seen someone die.

  ‘Twice,’ she said.

  Steve laid his elbows on the table and opened more his eyes.

  ‘And what did you see?’ asked him immediately, with an unusual spark in his eyes.

  His mother shook his head side to side and raised a hand to hold it, like she wanted to support it.

  ‘Nothing,’ said almost like a whisper.

  ‘You had to see something,’ insisted Steve, a little nervous this time.

  There was a short but exhausted moment of silence and she finally said:

  ‘I saw peace. She was a young little girl. She was purple but still had her eyes open. There was a spark on them that was turning off very slowly.’ She swallowed and stopped talking for another long moment. Then, she continued. ‘A man gave her mouth to mouth and a lot of water came out from the girl’s throat but the glow in her eyes was turning off. She turned even more purple, but not a single muscle of her face showed pain. She was at peace. The man kept giving her mouth to mouth. More water came out and her eyes closed slowly. Her face was so purple but it wasn’t distressed. She looked like she was sleeping, except for the color of her face. There was peace. And silence. Nothing else.’

  Steve took off his arms from the table and stood dubious for a long while.

  5

  And that night, Steve had a nightmare. He dreamt that his brother Ben had the same luck as the drowned girl. He was lying down,
on the ground, to the shore of Crystal Lake. His eyes were open and dirty water came out from his mouth. He was trying to say something, but Steve couldn’t hear him. In the dream, everything was in silence. Ben’s eyes closed for a moment and then, they opened again. His face was getting more swollen and more purple and was right in front of him. His brother’s eyes looked at him, almost glazed. And then, the sound came on as if someone had clicked a button.

  ‘The... bo...’ said Ben in a very low voice.

  Steve looked surprised and terrified at the same time. His gestures turned weaker and draw extreme concern in his face. Maybe, there were the wrinkles that formed sweaty grooves and represented fear. Just that. Fear.

  ‘Box... bo...’ said Ben barely, now with a much clearer voice while his face turned even more purple. Finally, he closed his eyes.

  ‘The box?’ wondered Steve and a furious heat rose to his throat. ‘He meant the box in the basement!’

  His face was now a source of heat, like a lit torch and he was sweating. Then, with his heart racing, he leaned forward, almost touching his brother’s nose. He was frozen and, surprisingly, he didn’t smell of anything. He checked that he wasn’t breathing.

  The box in the basement. My brother drowned like that girl my mom saw.

  Steve touched his brother’s shoulder, wet, almost rigid, when all of a sudden, Ben opened his eyes showing a pair of eyeballs as white as a sheet and opened his mouth, now considerably large, full of sharp teeth and gushing a yellow slime.

  And the scream continued coming from Steve’s mouth when he woke up from his nightmare with the body all sweaty and his heart racing like a horse inside his little chest. The sheets were on the floor. And after spending the rest of the night awake, finally, when it was dawn, he started writing a story based on his nightmare like it was something normal. Ben, in the other bed, was sleeping, alien to all of this. It was Saturday.

  6

  The two pages story had been published in the school’s newspaper on Monday. It had had a great success among the students because Steve had changed his brother for a monster that lived in the Crystal Lake, causing trouble in the school, eating students of every class. In the same story, Steve claimed the right to be different from the others without getting hit or taking insults and mockery. So, if that happened, the monster would eat them and Steve felt satisfied with his work.