We hold these fears to be self-evident:

Go outside alone to see what’s making that noise, that weird skittering, metallic scratching, and you won’t be returning to your couch. Answer your phone at 3:30 in the morning and someone died or someone’s calling from beyond the grave. The folks in the small town you’re passing through are not who they appear to be. But most of all, there is no way to discuss what’s new and worth reading during spooky season without summoning Stephen King, Maine royalty, the sum of all fears. Horror literature begins and ends with him. You shall not pass. I know, Tolkien. But still, no, you shall not.

We always welcome the annual, ahem, return of the King.

We’ve lived under his cloud — his addicting, diabolically clever cloud that grows only larger, never retrac

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