She wanted to drive her knee into his balls, but it was all too much effort. The best she could do was lift her foot a few inches and then gently set it down again. Lift the foot and set it down. Lift and set. She seemed to be stamping her heel in slow motion, like a horse ready to be let out of a stall.

Aquí dentro es más fácil encontrar las cosas cuando están muertas. El prado no mueve por ahí las cosas muertas. —Sus ojos brillaron en la oscuridad y miró el cuervo destrozado que sostenía Cal—. Creo que la mayoría de los pájaros se mantienen alejados de la hierba. Creo que lo saben y se lo cuentan entre ellos. Pero algunos no hacen caso. Los cuervos son los que menos caso hacen, supongo, porque aquí dentro hay bastantes de ellos muertos" Pa looked at Ma. Ma looked at Pa. They were pushing sixty now and had been together a long time—long enough to have couples’ telepathy. The others took it up. Pa looked at Ma in the rearview. When she shrugged and nodded, he pulled FURTHUR into the lot and parked beside a dusty Mazda with New Hampshire license plates. I’m over here, buddy,” she called to him. “Keep walking toward me. You’re almost to the road. You’re almost out.”

Discussion

Ahora bien: tres cuartos del relato son atrapantes, con un gran poderío descriptivo, con situaciones y acontecimientos que te apabullan y mucha crudeza. In The Tall Grass is the product of a collaboration between two members of the most talented family in horror, Stephen King and his son Joe Hill. The story was originally published in Esquire magazine earlier this year and is King’s second collaboration with Hill after their 2009 novella Throttle. Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad, she thought—no idea where it had come from, something else from Freshman Lit maybe, but one thing she did know was that he could say he wasn’t moving but he was, he was getting farther away all the time.

He was our Golden. Did great Frisbee catches. Just like a dog on TV. It’s easier to find things in here once they’re dead. The field doesn’t move dead things around.” His eyes gleamed in the fading light, and he looked at the mangled crow, which Cal was still holding. “I think most birds steer clear of the grass. I think they know, and tell each other. But some don’t listen. Crows don’t listen the most, I guess, because there are quite a few dead ones in here. Wander around for a while and you find them.”He closed his eyes again, briefly. That’s the kid’s line. Then he thought: Le kid, c’est moi. It was almost funny.