In the Tall Grass

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Another. Another. Each match made a fat little puff of smoke as soon as it touched the wet green. One didn’t even make it into the grass, but was huffed out by the gentle breeze as soon as it was lit. A part of him—a part he had been trying with all his will to ignore—already knew what he was going to see. This part had been providing an almost jovial running commentary: Everything will have moved, Cal, good buddy. The grass flows and you flow too. Think of it as becoming one with nature, bro. 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. He left her on the margin of the highway and turned into the dirt lot of the Redeemer. A scattering of dust-filmed cars was parked here, windshields beetle bright in the glare of the sun. That all but one of these cars appeared to have been there for days—even weeks—was another anomaly that would not strike them until later. Cal said, “Tobin, did you lure us in here? Tell me. I won’t be mad. Your father made you do it, I bet.”

A dog—it looked like it had been a golden retriever—was on its side in the mire. Limp brownish-red fur glittered beneath a shifting mat of bluebottles. Its bloated tongue lolled between its gums, and the cloudy marbles of its eyes strained from its head. The rusting tag of its collar gleamed deep in its fur. Cal looked again at the tongue. It was coated a greenish-white. Cal didn’t want to think why. The dog’s dirty, wet, fly-blown coat looked like a filthy golden carpet tossed on a heap of bones. Some of that fur drifted—little fluffs of it—on the warm breeze. Without giving too much away the story itself is chilling and bloody in equal measure, the tension building to an almost inevitably bloody conclusion that ends on a suitably downbeat note. In The Tall Grass is an engaging and absorbing read that exhibits the best of both its authors, drawing the reader in before delivering a swift blow to the gut that will leave them reeling. He was naked from the waist up, kneeling beside her. His scrawny chest was very pale in the dove-colored half-light. His face was sunburned—badly, a blister right on the end of his nose—but aside from that he looked rested and well. No, more than that: He looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Help me!” the kid screamed, and how about this? Help came from Cal’s left, me from his right. It was the Kansas version of Dolby stereo.

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The stone wasn’t hot at all. It was cool. It was blessedly cool and he laid his face upon it, a weary pilgrim who has finally arrived at his destination, and can rest at last. He gulped at the air. His heart galloped. He waited for the buzzing in his head to pass, then realized it wasn’t in his head after all. They really were flies. He could see them shooting in and out through the grass, a swarm of them around something through the shifting curtain of yellow-green, just ahead of him.

Shut up and listen. I’m going to count to three. On three, you put your hands over your head like a ref signaling the field goal’s good and jump just as high as you can. I’ll do the same. You won’t need to get much air for me to see your hands, ’kay? And I’ll come to you.” The DeMuths enter the grass, only to become immediately and inevitably separated in the seven foot foliage. Panic, coupled with prolonged exposure to the burning sun begins to drain the pair mentally and physically as it gradually dawns on them that leaving this overgrown field is not going to be as easy as previously thought. Oh, that’s charming,” he said. Now directly behind her, almost close enough to reach out and touch, and why was that such a relief? It was only a field, for God’s sake. He tittered. “Right idea. Wrong conclusion. I was just going to hook up with my boy. Already found my wife. Want to meet her?”

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I had already watched the film based based on the book so I already knew what to expect with this novella although I was hoping I would enjoy it a little more. TBH I did enjoy it more than the film but still didn’t think it was great.

Her second thought was of a weak swimmer, caught in a retreating tide, pulled farther and farther from shore, not understanding how much trouble she was in until she began to scream, and discovered no one on the beach could hear her. No,” Cal said. “I don’t think it is. I’d rather stay lost.” Maybe it was just his imagination, but the buzzing seemed to be getting louder. Cal’s head jerked around. A little boy in mud-spattered clothes was standing there. His face was pinched and filthy. In one hand he held a dead crow by one yellow leg. Are you thirsty? Bet you are. Here. Take this. Put it in your mouth.” He pushed a soaked, cold twist of his T-shirt into her mouth. He had saturated it with water and rolled it up into a rope. We keep calling,” he said, moving toward where her voice had come from. “We keep calling until we’re together again.”Ah, Christ, now she was fading again. He was so scared that the truth popped out with absolutely no trouble at all, and at top volume. The match went out the moment he touched it to the wet grass, the stems heavy with a dew that never dried, and dense with juice. And Cal was there, in the ashy light of dawn, looking down at her. His own eyes were sharp and avid. From reading In The Tall Grass it immediately becomes clear that although the book is a collaborative effort, it is quite difficult to distinguish where one author’s voice begins and the other ends. With both authors writing in a similar way they are able to produce a coherent yet unique meld of their writing voices that keeps the story moving at a satisfying pace.

She didn’t, but followed just the same. At what she hoped was a safe distance. “You have no idea where you’re going.” Stephen made his first professional short story sale ("The Glass Floor") to Startling Mystery Stories in 1967. Throughout the early years of his marriage, he continued to sell stories to men's magazines. Many were gathered into the Night Shift collection or appeared in other anthologies. Here she is!” Ross Humbolt proclaimed jovially, parting high grass with both hands, like an explorer in some old movie. “Say hello, Natalie! This young woman is going to have a critter!”In the few that I've read of Stephen King, I have become his fan, though each of his stories have a few elements(at least)that I could have done without. Take for instance The Ritual of Chüd in It. Still, disturbing as it is, it can be neglected in terms of the brilliance (and also the length) of the rest of the tale. But I finished this one last night. And I'm still nauseated. Seriously. He visualized a river of burning grass, sparks and shreds of toasted weed drifting into the air. It was such a strong mental image, he could close his eyes and almost smell it, the somehow wholesome late-summer reek of burning green.