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Night Shift Paperback – August 7, 2012

by Stephen King (Author)

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#1 BESTSELLER • A collection of bone-chilling, nail-biting tales from the undisputed master of horror that showcases the darkest depths of his brilliant imagination and will "chill the cockles of many a heart" (Chicago Tribune).• INCLUDES THE STORY “THE BOOGEYMAN” – NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE FROM 20th CENTURY STUDIOS

Originally published in 1978, Night Shift is the inspiration for over a dozen acclaimed horror movies and television series, including Children of the Corn, Chapelwaite, and Lawnmower Man.

Night Shift is Stephen King's first collection of short stories--a perfect showcase of just how far King's dark imagination can go. Here we see mutated rats gone bad ("Graveyard Shift"); a cataclysmic virus that threatens humanity ("Night Surf," the basis for The Stand); a possessed, evil lawnmower ("The Lawnmower Man"); unsettling children from the heartland ("Children of the Corn"); a smoker who will try anything to stop ("Quitters, Inc."); a reclusive alcoholic who begins a gruesome transformation ("Gray Matter"); and many more. This is Stephen King at his horrifying best.

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The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.
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And the great appeal of horror fiction through the ages is that it serves as a rehearsal for our own deaths.
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I have a marketable obsession. There are madmen and madwomen in padded cells the world over who are not so lucky.
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Editorial Reviews

Review

“A master storyteller.” —Los Angeles Times

“[King] probably knows more about scary goings-on in confined, isolated places than anybody since Edgar Allan Poe.” —Entertainment Weekly

“Eerie. . . . Ought to chill the cockles of many a heart.” —Chicago Tribune

“The most wonderfully gruesome man on the planet.” —USA Today

“An undisputed master of suspense and terror.” —The Washington Post

“He’s the author who can always make the improbable so scary you’ll feel compelled to check the locks on the front door.” —The Boston Globe

“A master. . . . [King] will catch you in his web and reach you at an elemental level where there is no defense.” —Palm Beach Post

“Peerless imagination.” —The Observer (London)

About the Author

STEPHEN KING is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes If It Bleeds, The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and an AT&T Audience Network original television series). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower, It, Pet Sematary, and Doctor Sleep are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

JERUSALEM'S LOT

Oct. 2, 1850.

DEAR BONES,

How good it was to step into the cold, draughty hall here at Chapelwaite, every bone in an ache from that abominable coach, in need of instant relief from my distended bladder—and to see a letter addressed in your own inimitable scrawl propped on the obscene little cherry-wood table beside the door! Be assured that I set to deciphering it as soon as the needs of the body were attended to (in a coldly ornate downstairs bathroom where I could see my breath rising before my eyes).

I'm glad to hear that you are recovered from the miasma that has so long set in your lungs, although I assure you that I do sympathize with the moral dilemma the cure has affected you with. An ailing abolitionist healed by the sunny climes of slave-struck Florida! Still and all, Bones, I ask you as a friend who has also walked in the valley of the shadow, to take all care of yourself and venture not back to Massachusetts until your body gives you leave. Your fine mind and incisive pen cannot serve us if you are clay, and if the Southern zone is a healing one, is there not poetic justice in that?

Yes, the house is quite as fine as I had been led to believe by my cousin's executors, but rather more sinister. It sits atop a huge and jutting point of land perhaps three miles north of Falmouth and nine miles north of Portland. Behind it are some four acres of grounds, gone back to the wild in the most formidable manner imaginable—junipers, scrub vines, bushes, and various forms of creeper climb wildly over the picturesque stone walls that separate the estate from the town domain. Awful imitations of Greek statuary peer blindly through the wrack from atop various hillocks—they seem, in most cases, about to lunge at the passer-by. My cousin Stephen's tastes seem to have run the gamut from the unacceptable to the downright horrific. There is an odd little summer house which has been nearly buried in scarlet sumac and a grotesque sundial in the midst of what must once have been a garden. It adds the final lunatic touch.

But the view from the parlour more than excuses this; I command a dizzying view of the rocks at the foot of Chapelwaite Head and the Atlantic itself. A huge, bellied bay window looks out on this, and a huge, toadlike secretary stands beside it. It will do nicely for the start of that novel which I have talked of so long [and no doubt tiresomely].

To-day has been gray with occasional splatters of rain. As I look out all seems to be a study in slate—the rocks, old and worn as Time itself, the sky, and of course the sea, which crashes against the granite fangs below with a sound which is not precisely sound but vibration—I can feel the waves with my feet even as I write. The sensation is not a wholly unpleasant one.

I know you disapprove my solitary habits, dear Bones, but I assure you that I am fine and happy. Calvin is with me, as practical, silent, and as dependable as ever, and by midweek I am sure that between the two of us we shall have straightened our affairs and made arrangement for necessary deliveries from town—and a company of cleaning women to begin blowing the dust from this place!

I will close—there are so many things as yet to be seen, rooms to explore, and doubtless a thousand pieces of execrable furniture to be viewed by these tender eyes. Once again, my thanks for the touch of familiar brought by your letter, and for your continuing regard.

Give my love to your wife, as you both have mine.

CHARLES.

Oct. 6, 1850.

DEAR BONES,

Such a place this is!

It continues to amaze me—as do the reactions of the townfolk in the closest village to my occupancy. That is a queer little place with the picturesque name of Preacher's Corners. It was there that Calvin contracted for the weekly provisions. The other errand, that of securing a sufficient supply of cordwood for the winter, was likewise taken care of. But Cal returned with gloomy countenance, and when I asked him what the trouble was, he replied grimly enough:

"They think you mad, Mr. Boone!"

I laughed and said that perhaps they had heard of the brain fever I suffered after my Sarah died—certainly I spoke madly enough at that time, as you could attest.

But Cal protested that no-one knew anything of me except through my cousin Stephen, who contracted for the same services as I have now made provision for. "What was said, sir, was that anyone who would live in Chapelwaite must be either a lunatic or run the risk of becoming one."

This left me utterly perplexed, as you may imagine, and I asked who had given him this amazing communication. He told me that he had been referred to a sullen and rather besotted pulp-logger named Thompson, who owns four hundred acres of pine, birch, and spruce, and who logs it with the help of his five sons, for sale to the mills in Portland and to householders in the immediate area.

When Cal, all unknowing of his queer prejudice, gave him the location to which the wood was to be brought, this Thompson stared at him with his mouth ajaw and said that he would send his sons with the wood, in the good light of the day, and by the sea road.

Calvin, apparently misreading my bemusement for distress, hastened to say that the man reeked of cheap whiskey and that he had then lapsed into some kind of nonsense about a deserted village and cousin Stephen's relations—and worms! Calvin finished his business with one of Thompson's boys, who, I take it, was rather surly and none too sober or freshly-scented himself. I take it there has been some of this reaction in Preacher's Corners itself, at the general store where Cal spoke with the shop-keeper, although this was more of the gossipy, behind-the-hand type.

None of this has bothered me much; we know how rustics dearly love to enrich their lives with the smell of scandal and myth, and I suppose poor Stephen and his side of the family are fair game. As I told Cal, a man who has fallen to his death almost from his own front porch is more than likely to stir talk.

The house itself is a constant amazement. Twenty-three rooms, Bones! The wainscotting which panels the upper floors and the portrait gallery is mildewed but still stout. While I stood in my late cousin's upstairs bedroom I could hear the rats scuttering behind it, and big ones they must be, from the sound they make—almost like people walking there. I should hate to encounter one in the dark; or even in the light, for that matter. Still, I have noted neither holes nor droppings. Odd.

The upper gallery is lined with bad portraits in frames which must be worth a fortune. Some bear a resemblance to Stephen as I remember him. I believe I have correctly identified my Uncle Henry Boone and his wife Judith; the others are unfamiliar. I suppose one of them may be my own notorious grandfather, Robert. But Stephen's side of the family is all but unknown to me, for which I am heartily sorry. The same good humour that shone in Stephen's letters to Sarah and me, the same light of high intellect, shines in these portraits, bad as they are. For what foolish reasons families fall out! A rifled escritoire, hard words between brothers now dead three generations, and blameless descendants are needlessly estranged. I cannot help reflecting upon how fortunate it was that you and John Petty succeeded in contacting Stephen when it seemed I might follow my Sarah through the Gates—and upon how unfortunate it was that chance should have robbed us of a face-to-face meeting. How I would have loved to hear him defend the ancestral statuary and furnishings!

But do not let me denigrate the place to an extreme. Stephen's taste was not my own, true, but beneath the veneer of his additions there are pieces [a number of them shrouded by dust-covers in the upper chambers] which are true masterworks. There are beds, tables, and heavy, dark scrollings done in teak and mahogany, and many of the bedrooms and receiving chambers, the upper study and small parlour, hold a somber charm. The floors are rich pine that glow with an inner and secret light. There is dignity here; dignity and the weight of years. I cannot yet say I like it, but I do respect it. I am eager to watch it change as we revolve through the changes of this northern clime.

Lord, I run on! Write soon, Bones. Tell me what progress you make, and what news you hear from Petty and the rest. And please do not make the mistake of trying to persuade any new Southern acquaintances as to your views too forcibly—I understand that not all are content to answer merely with their mouths, as is our long-winded friend, Mr. Calhoun.

Yr. affectionate friend,

CHARLES.

Oct. 16, 1850.

DEAR RICHARD,

Hello, and how are you? I have thought about you often since I have taken up residence here at Chapelwaite, and had half-expected to hear from you—and now I receive a letter from Bones telling me that I'd forgotten to leave my address at the club! Rest assured that I would have written eventually anyway, as it sometimes seems that my true and loyal friends are all I have left in the world that is sure and completely normal. And, Lord, how spread we've become! You in Boston, writing faithfully for The Liberator [to which I have also sent my address, incidentally], Hanson in England on another of his confounded jaunts, and poor old Bones in the very lions' lair, recovering his lungs.

It goes as well as can be expected here, Dick, and be assured I will render you a full account when I am not quite as pressed by certain events which are extant here—I think your legal mind may be quite intrigued by certain happenings at Chapelwaite and in the area about it.

But in the meantime I have a favour to ask, if you will entertain it. Do you remember the historian you introduced me to at Mr. Clary's fund-raising dinner for the cause? I believe his name was Bigelow. At any rate, he mentioned that he made a hobby of collecting odd bits of historical lore which pertained to the very area in which I am now living. My favour, then, is this: Would you contact him and ask him what facts, bits of folklore, or general rumour—if any—he may be conversant with about a small, deserted village called JERUSALEM'S LOT, near a township called Preacher's Corners, on the Royal River? The stream itself is a tributary of the Androscoggin, and flows into that river approximately eleven miles above that river's emptying place near Chapelwaite. It would gratify me intensely, and, more important, may be a matter of some moment.

In looking over this letter I feel I have been a bit short with you, Dick, for which I am heartily sorry. But be assured I will explain myself shortly, and until that time I send my warmest regards to your wife, two fine sons, and, of course, to yourself.

Yr. affectionate friend,

CHARLES.

Oct. 16, 1850.

DEAR BONES,

I have a tale to tell you which seems a little strange [and even disquieting] to both Cal and me—see what you think. If nothing else, it may serve to amuse you while you battle the mosquitoes!

Two days after I mailed my last to you, a group of four young ladies arrived from the Corners under the supervision of an elderly lady of intimidatingly-competent visage named Mrs. Cloris, to set the place in order and to remove some of the dust that had been causing me to sneeze seemingly at every other step. They all seemed a little nervous as they went about their chores; indeed, one flighty miss uttered a small screech when I entered the upstairs parlour as she dusted.

I asked Mrs. Cloris about this [she was dusting the downstairs hall with grim determination that would have quite amazed you, her hair done up in an old faded bandanna], and she turned to me and said with an air of determination: "They don't like the house, and I don't like the house, sir, because it has always been a bad house."

My jaw dropped at this unexpected bit, and she went on in a kindlier tone: "I do not mean to say that Stephen Boone was not a fine man, for he was; I cleaned for him every second Thursday all the time he was here, as I cleaned for his father, Mr. Randolph Boone, until he and his wife disappeared in eighteen and sixteen. Mr. Stephen was a good and kindly man, and so you seem, sir (if you will pardon my bluntness; I know no other way to speak), but the house is bad and it always has been, and no Boone has ever been happy here since your grandfather Robert and his brother Philip fell out over stolen [and here she paused, almost guiltily] items in seventeen and eighty-nine."

Such memories these folks have, Bones!

Mrs. Cloris continued: "The house was built in unhappiness, has been lived in with unhappiness, there has been blood spilt on its floors [as you may or may not know, Bones, my Uncle Randolph was involved in an accident on the cellar stairs which took the life of his daughter Marcella; he then took his own life in a fit of remorse. The incident is related in one of Stephen's letters to me, on the sad occasion of his dead sister's birthday], there has been disappearance and accident.

"I have worked here, Mr. Boone, and I am neither blind nor deaf. I've heard awful sounds in the walls, sir, awful sounds—thumpings and crashings and once a strange wailing that was half-laughter. It fair made my blood curdle. It's a dark place, sir." And there she halted, perhaps afraid she had spoken too much.

As for myself, I hardly knew whether to be offended or amused, curious or merely matter-of-fact. I'm afraid that amusement won the day. "And what do you suspect, Mrs. Cloris? Ghosts rattling chains?"

But she only looked at me oddly. "Ghosts there may be. But it's not ghosts in the walls. It's not ghosts that wail and blubber like the damned and crash and blunder away in the darkness. It's—"

"Come, Mrs. Cloris," I prompted her. "You've come this far. Now can you finish what you've begun?"

The strangest expression of terror, pique, and-I would swear to it—religious awe passed over her face. "Some die not," she whispered. "Some live in the twilight shadows Between to serve—Him!"

Product details

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Anchor; Reprint edition (August 7, 2012)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 384 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0307947297
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-0307947291
Lexile measure ‏ : ‎ 760L
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 2.31 pounds
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.18 x 0.82 x 7.96 inches

Best Sellers Rank: #43,025 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #121 in Ghost Fiction
- #1,014 in Short Stories (Books)
- #3,534 in Literary Fiction (Books)

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Stephen King

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Stephen King is the author of more than fifty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His first crime thriller featuring Bill Hodges, MR MERCEDES, won the Edgar Award for best novel and was shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger Award. Both MR MERCEDES and END OF WATCH received the Goodreads Choice Award for the Best Mystery and Thriller of 2014 and 2016 respectively.

King co-wrote the bestselling novel Sleeping Beauties with his son Owen King, and many of King's books have been turned into celebrated films and television series including The Shawshank Redemption, Gerald's Game and It.

King was the recipient of America's prestigious 2014 National Medal of Arts and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for distinguished contribution to American Letters. In 2007 he also won the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. He lives with his wife Tabitha King in Maine.

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Sean Manseau

The Frustrations of the Young Writer

Reviewed in the United States on November 28, 2012

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Young, unpublished writers tend to be a little...frustrated. Especially talented ones. They write something they know is good, they put it out into the world, and the response, almost invariably, is rejection. Trash. Not for us. Good luck with your future endeavors. "Fine," the young writer thinks, back at his desk, "fine, they didn't like that? Well, wait'll they get a load of this!" And he comes back with another, even better story...which is also rejected. The publisher just didn't know what to make of it, or they already had a surfeit of material from their stable of established scribblers. Sorry. Maybe next time. The young writer crumples the rejection letter in his fist, pounds his head on the desk, and gets back to work. What else is he going to do? He writes more. Collects more rejections. The pressure builds, and builds, his creative daimon pacing like a tiger in a cage. I'll show them! the young promises himself.

Stephen King actually began selling fiction when he was still just a teenager. But the short stories in his first collection, Night Shift, have a tightly-wound energy, an anger and a scabrous humor that can only come from someone whose interior monologue consisted of only I'll show them! I'll show them!
Look at Night Shift's first entry, the H.P. Lovecraft homage, "Jersulaem's Lot". (Over) written in an epistolary format, with archaic vocabulary and grammatic constructions, "Jerusalem's Lot" seems designed to dazzle the reader with its virtuosity. It lacks the verve and narrative punch of the rest of the collection, but that doesn't seem to be the point of its inclusion. Goddamn it, I can write! seems to be the message. Which is all well and good, but if this was what King really had to offer, he'd still be banging out stories sitting in the laundry room of his double-wide trailer.

It's the next selection, "Graveyard Shift", that really brings the goods. The story of two men, one a college kid, the other a middle-aged foreman, investigating the sub-basements of an industrial laundry, "Graveyard Shift" fairly seethes with an I-have-got-to-get-out-of-this-shithole-town desperation that supercharges the relatively spare prose. "A sudden, wet ripping noise." "A legless rat lunged against him, biting. Its body was flabby, warm." "A hideous mewling." The imagery is more gross than grotesque, carefully designed to provoke pure, primal horror. The reader finishes the last line and, shuddering, puts the book down.
I sure showed you! King cackles, then cracks his knuckles and whips out another one.

Let's be frank: there are a few dogs. "Trucks", while it effectively employs King's plainspoken, verite narrative techniques (third person close perspective, pop culture references, realistically snippy dialogue exchanges), is a profoundly stupid story about sentient...trucks. "Battleground", about a man who fights a pitched battle against green army men, is basically a script for a "Twilight Zone" episode. "The Lawnmower Man" is an exercise in gross out, nothing more.

But, man! The rest of the stories! Night Shift is like a greatest hits record, and it was only the guy's first collection. "Graveyard Shift", "Gray Matter", "The Ledge", "Sometimes They Come Back", "Quitters, Inc", "Children of the Corn", "One for the Road"...how can one account for the sustained brilliance of Kind's output between (roughly) 1969 and 1975 (ish)? Oh! Right. Frustration.

I believe that King knew, even as a 20 year-old tyro, that he had a world-beating talent. Novels he wrote during this period, which include The Running Man, Rage, Thinner, The Long Walk, and Blaze, were later published and became best-sellers. But at the time, it was all he could do to sell the odd story to men's magazines like Adam and Juggs. His later literary greatness was already there, like the oak in the acorn. It was growing, the world wasn't making room for him, and the pressure must have been tremendous. But he was able, like all great artists, to channel it into his work--and that's why the stories in Night Shift stand head-and-shoulders above the rest of his short fiction (with the exception of Different Seasons, but those stories were written to prove that he could do more than what-was-that-bump-in-the-night, and came from a similar place of anger).

By his own account, King collected hundreds of rejections in those early, pre-Carrie years. I wonder how many editors later approached him at conventions and book signings to try to get an autograph on a manuscript he'd submitted, one they'd filed and forgotten for years. I bet King tilted his chin down while he scrawled him name, hoping his bushy beard hid his smug smile. He sure showed them! Night Shift is proof. Buy it.

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General Zombie

Superb

Reviewed in the United States on December 6, 2005

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Of King's 4 collection of short stories, I'd have to say that I like 'Night Shift' the best. It's definitely the most consistently horror oriented of them, and the non-horror stories are particularly compelling. Also his tendency to overwrite hasn't displayed itself yet. It's got a few weaker stories, such as 'Gray Matter', 'I Know What You Need' and 'The Lawnmower Man', in particular, but the good ones more than make up for these few short comings. (It's too bad that 'Suffer the Children' got cut instead of 'Gray Matter'. 'Suffer the Children' would've been one of the better stories here, while 'Gray Matter' is probably the worst.) The tales also tend to be more straight forward and conventional than his later ones, but sometimes the older stories really are the best ones. (It still get pretty damn weird at times, no doubt about it, but it's got nothin' on the level of 'You Know They've Gotta Helluva Band' or 'The Moving Finger'.)

'Jerusalem's Lot' is unabashed Lovecraft homage. It can't quite match his best work, but it's excellent and manages not to be too utterly derivative. 'The Mangler' is a strange one, as it's about a possessed industrial dryer/folder thing. It's got an unintentionally black-comic vibe to it, along with perhaps the most gruesome, disturbing violence in anything I've read from him. (Being killed by one of those things would involve being crushed and scalded to death simultaneously. Not pleasant, I'm sure) 'The Graveyard Shift' which was made into an amusingly bad movie, is surprisingly effective. The story focuses more on the conflict between Hall and his supervisor, Warwick, and keeps the rat stuff in relatively small, if still fatal, doses. 'Sometimes They Come Back' is probably my favorite story here. It's puts a few new twists on the old revenge from beyond on the grave theme, and is just one of the most powerfully moody pieces King's ever written. 'Strawberry Spring', a story about a series of murders on a college campus, has a fairly predictable ending, but has enough atmosphere to be a fairly remarkable story anyway. 'Children of the Corn' and 'Trucks' were both made into ill-conceived films, but they work well as short stories. 'Children of the Corn' is the better of the two, focusing more on the desolate town than on the children themselves, and it also has some nice gruesome imagery towards the end. 'The Woman in the Room' is one of the non-horror stories, but it's still one of the darkest things here, and is really almost unbearably sad. (It's about a man's attempt to euthanize his fatally ill mother, and obviously reflects upon the slow death of King's mother.)

I weary of discussing these individually, but suffice to say that they're almost all excellent. In a modern world were the novel has completely supplanted the short story some major King fans may be hesitant to check out these works. Don't make thsi mistake. This is some of his best stuff.

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J. Shumaker

Good suspenseful King short stories

Reviewed in the United States on April 11, 2024

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The majority of short stories contained in Night Shift were typical edge of your seat stories; however, a couple left me thinking....that's it? All in all though, a good read.

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Helen F.-H.

Not usually a Stephen King fan, but this was awesome!

Reviewed in the United States on January 3, 2024

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I read this for a book club and was surprised by how much I liked this short story collection! While a few stories fell flat for me, most od them surprised and stuck with me. The stories sparked vivid discussions, so I do recommend this as a book club pick!

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Juan Sanchez Garcia

EXCELENTE!!!📘

Reviewed in Mexico on November 30, 2023

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Llegó en perfecto estado y súper rápido. Como siempre Stephen king no desepciona!👍

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Vivi Campos

Master of terror!

Reviewed in Brazil on October 8, 2023

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Original stories for tv series like Chapelwaite and movies like Children Of the Corn. Creepy and scary FOR SURE. From fear of heights to fear of addiction, one of these stories will definitely be fixed to your head. (Just don’t look under your bed! Sweet dreams.)

shristi

Stephen King never disappoints

Reviewed in India on March 24, 2024

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Received it in good condition. This is my 2nd Stephen King read and I really enjoyed it. Just skip the 1st 2 stories (didn't find them scary) rest all other stories are amazing. I mostly bought this as I wanted to read Quitters Inc. But all other stories are equally unique and mind blowing.

Robert Elander

One of Stephen King's best anthologys. Book arrived quickly and in perfect condition.

Reviewed in Sweden on October 18, 2023

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The book was shipped well packaged, and arrived the next day in perfect condition (Scandinavia).

I've been reading this quite a lot the last week. Even if the book have been exposed to wear and tear, it still looks great without any spine marks. The Hodder Paperback King books share a general cover design, and this edition looks great both a display. And due to the wellcrafted print, it also works great as a book for intense reading.

It is a really well made print, and i would recommend this over the paperback (published by Anchor) which is also sold on Amazon.

Most definetly going to collect more of the Hodder King prints.

Dáithí Farrell

A Masterclass in Short Horror

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on October 16, 2023

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Stephen King's "Night Shift" is a chilling collection of short stories that showcase the author's mastery of the horror genre. Here's why it deserves a four-star rating:

Diverse Tales: "Night Shift" offers a diverse range of horror stories, from the supernatural and the eerie to the psychologically disturbing, ensuring there's something to unsettle every reader.

Iconic Stories: This collection includes iconic tales like "The Children of the Corn" and "The Lawnmower Man," which have left a lasting impact on the horror genre.

Engaging Writing: King's writing style is as engaging as ever, with his ability to draw readers into the dark and mysterious worlds he creates.

Character Development: Despite the brevity of the stories, King manages to craft well-rounded characters with complex motivations and fears.

Nostalgia: For fans of classic '70s and '80s horror, "Night Shift" offers a nostalgic journey into the era when these stories were originally published.

In summary, "Night Shift" is a masterclass in short horror, showcasing Stephen King's ability to terrify and captivate readers in a compact format. The four-star rating reflects its enduring impact on the genre and its ability to deliver spine-tingling tales that will continue to haunt your dreams. A must-read for horror enthusiasts and King fans

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