After my previous read, I reread Stephen King’s ‘The Mist’ as a palette cleanser for my next book of the year.
‘The Mist’ is a shorter book, perfect for my current mood. I needed something to remind me that I can enjoy reading when the writing style matches my reading style. Some things click with you; some things don’t.
And King very much clicks with me.
The story follows Dave and his son, “Big” Bill, in the wake of a storm for the ages. Trees have fallen, and wooden piers have sunk. Cars and garages have suffered damage. And an odd mist is creeping in over the lake. Dave heads a small group into town to pick up supplies for the next few days without power. They leave Dave’s wife and Bill’s mother alone at the house, which has suffered a smashed-in window. But whilst in the local supermarket, the mist closes in and traps them inside.
And there’s something awful in the mist.
I will keep the details of the story secret. You should read it (or watch the movie—it’s fantastic) and find out for yourself. But I recommend starting with the book and moving on to the film. I will say this for the film: it surpasses King’s ending on paper here. (Although that’s not to say that King stumbles on the landing.)
King’s style makes the short novella—a little under 200 pages—feel like a pamphlet. The pages fly by, making you wish he’d turned it into a full-length novel. He has the gift, after all. But, then again, King might have chosen this format for a reason.
‘The Mist’ is a short, sharp jab to the dome; it packs a punch.
