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Top 10 Stephen King Movie Villains
Boo carries Jem back home where he tries hides behind the door while the sheriff is in the house. In order to protect Boo, the sheriff tells Atticus Ewell tripped over a tree root and fell on his own knife. In Emporia, Kansas, Dick and Perry buy a pair of rubber gloves and enough rope to tie up 12 people, in case the Clutters have company for Thanksgiving.
Perry wants to buy some black stockings to cover their faces, but Dick thinks that 's a waste of money. Since they 're not leaving any witnesses. Because the monster experiences violence rather than nurture, he turns violent against mankind. This exhibits violent recurrence that arises as nurture is replaced by violence. This violence leads to murderous actions. Dally told them to escape to the abandoned church because of Johnny killing Bob. Johnny said that they need to change their hair so if the cops come looking they look innocent. Johnny and Pony stayed at the church for a couple of days. On the other hand, they smoke cigarettes and are not responsible about it. But a young hero named Boo Radley sees them being attacked and kills Bob with his own.
Then tragedy struck. Stock car number three driven by Dale Earnhardt had crashed and spun off in the last lap of the race. His car spun out of control across the track and into the grass. The paramedics ran to him, his car was smoking but no flames appeared. Pieces of metal and the tires were spewed across the track due to the accident. Instead, he decides that he wanted a drink to ease his pain, Ben shocked to saw his parents Louise and Floyd dancing marathon.
He does not want to face them and their desperate faces. In Tar town Ben and his friend Cal killed eagle for her feathers to pray. Therefore, the creature seeks for revenge against his creator. In consequence of this, Victor starts to pursuing him in order to kill him. However, the creature easily escapes from him. While all ten of the films have been released on DVD, only the first seven films were released on VHS before the format was phased out. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Children of the Corn Official film series logo. Retrieved September 1, The Hollywood Reporter. Retrieved October 1, September 24, Retrieved August 30, September 1, Retrieved September 20, Box Office Mojo. Adaptations of works by Stephen King. Creepshow Creepshow 2 Creepshow 3 Maximum Overdrive Trucks Misery Julie Ganapathi The Mangler The Mangler 2 Reborn The Lawnmower Man Beyond Cyberspace It It Chapter Two The Shining Doctor Sleep It Woh Burt turned the radio on too loud and didn't turn it down because they were on the verge of another argument and he didn't want it to happen.
He was desperate for it not to happen. Vicky was fanning herself with her scarf even though the T-Bird was air-conditioned. She gave him a cold, neutral look. I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But where the hell are we? This is why we got off the turnpike. So we could look at three hundred miles of corn. And enjoy the wit and wisdom of Burt Robeson. He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He decided he was holding it that tightly because if he loosened up, why, one of those hands might just fly off and hit the ex-Prom Queen beside him right in the chops.
We 're saving our marriage, he told himself. We're doing it the same way us grunts went about saving villages in the war. I did all that driving myself because you refused to drive. Then -'. Those were your exact words. Sure, Burt. Then -'Sometimes I wonder how I ever wound up married to you. She stared at him for a moment, white-lipped, and then picked up the road atlas. She turned the pages savagely. It had been a mistake leaving the turnpike, Burt thought morosely. It was a shame, too, because up until then they had been doing pretty well, treating each other almost like human beings.
It had sometimes seemed that this trip to the coast, ostensibly to see Vicky's brother and his wife but actually a last-ditch attempt to patch up their own marriage, was going to work. Wide place in the road. Do you suppose we could stop there and get something to eat? Or does your almighty schedule say we have to go until two o'clock like we did yesterday? He took his eyes off the road to look at her. As far as I'm concerned, we can turn right here and go home and see that lawyer you wanted to talk to. Because this isn't working at -'. She had faced forward again, her expression stonily set. It suddenly turned to surprise and fear. He turned his attention back to the road just in time to see something vanish under the T-Bird's bumper.
A moment later, while he was only beginning to switch from gas to brake, he felt something thump sickeningly under the front and then the back wheels. They were thrown forward as the car braked along the centre line, decelerating from fifty to zero along black skidmarks. Her face was a pallid, cottage-cheese colour. A little boy. He just ran out of the corn and. Burt sat straight behind the T-Bird's wheel, hands still gripping it loosely.
He was aware of nothing for a long time but the rich, dark smell of fertilizer. Then he saw that Vicky was gone and when he looked in the outside mirror he saw her stumbling clumsily back towards a heaped bundle that looked like a pile of rags. She was ordinarily a graceful woman but now her grace was gone, robbed. He turned the ignition off and got out. The wind rustled softly through the growing man-high corn, making a weird sound like respiration. Vicky was standing over the bundle of rags now, and he could hear her sobbing. He was halfway between the car and where she stood and something caught his eye on the left, a gaudy splash of red amid all the green, as bright as barn paint.
He stopped, looking directly into the corn. He found himself thinking anything to untrack from those rags that were not rags that it must have been a fantastically good growing season for corn. It grew close together, almost ready to bear. You could plunge into those neat, shaded rows and spend a day trying to find your way out again. But the neatness was broken here.
Several tall cornstalks had been broken and leaned askew. And what was that further back in the shadows? So you can tell all your poker buddies what you bagged in Nebraska? Don't you -' But the rest was lost in fresh sobs. Her shadow was puddled starkly around her feet. It was almost noon. Shade closed over him as he entered the corn. The red barn paint was blood. There was a low, somnolent buzz as flies lit, tasted, and buzzed off again. There was more blood on the leaves further in. Surely it couldn't have splattered this far? And then he was standing over the object he had seen from the road.
He picked it up. The neatness of the rows was disturbed here. Several stalks were canted drunkenly, two of them had been broken clean off. The earth had been gouged. There was blood. The corn rustled. With a little shiver, he walked back to the road. Vicky was having hysterics, screaming unintelligible words at him, crying, laughing. Who would have thought it could end in such a melodramatic way? He looked at her and saw he wasn't having an identity crisis or a difficult life transition or any of those trendy things. He hated her. He gave her a hard slap across the face. She stopped short and put a hand against the reddening impression of his fingers. I guess it belonged to him.
No more than thirteen, from the look of him. The suitcase was old. The brown leather was battered and scuffed. Two hanks of clothesline had been wrapped around it and tied in large, clownish grannies. Vicky bent to undo one of them, saw, the blood greased into the knot, and withdrew. And when the staring, sightless face flopped up to regard them, she screamed again. The boy's face was dirty, his expression a grimace of terror. His throat had been cut. Burt got up and put his arms around Vicky as she began to sway. Don't faint. He repeated it over and over and at last she began to recover and held him tight.
They might have been dancing, there on the noon-struck road with the boy's corpse at their feet. Get the blanket out of the back seat, and my rifle. Bring them here. Maybe whoever is watching us. It marched away as far as the eye could see, undulating up and down small dips and rises of land. She walked stiltedly back to the car, her shadow following, a dark mascot who stuck close at this hour of the day. When she leaned into the back seat, Burt squatted beside the boy. White male, no distinguishing marks. Run over, yes, but the T-Bird hadn't cut the kid's throat. It had been cut raggedly and inefficiently - no army sergeant had shown the killer the finer points of hand-to-hand assassination -but the final effect had been deadly.
He had either run or been pushed through the last thirty feet of corn, dead or mortally wounded. And Burt Robeson had run him down. If the boy had still been alive when the car hit him, his life had been cut short by thirty seconds at most. She was standing with the brown army blanket over her left arm, the cased pump shotgun in her right hand, her face averted. He took the blanket and spread it on the road. He rolled the body on to it. Vicky uttered a desperate little moan. He flipped the sides of the blanket over the body and scooped it up, hating the thick, dead weight of it. It tried to make a U in his arms and slither through his grasp.
He clutched it tighter and they walked back to the T-Bird. The trunk was full of travel stuff, suitcases and souvenirs. Vicky shifted most of it into the back seat and Burt slipped the body into the made space and slammed the trunk lid down. A sigh of relief escaped him. He trotted back down the road to where it stood on the white line, like the focal point in an Impressionist painting. He picked it up by its tattered handle and paused for a moment. He had a strong sensation of being watched. It was a feeling he had read about in books, mostly cheap fiction, and he had always doubted its reality. Now he didn't. It was as if there were people in the corn, maybe a lot of them, coldly estimating whether the woman could get the gun out of the case and use it before they could grab him, drag him into the shady rows, cut his throat -Heart beating thickly, he ran back to the car, pulled the keys out of the trunk lock, and got in.
Vicky was crying again. Burt got them moving, and before a minute had passed, he could no longer pick out the spot where it had happened in the rear-view mirror. They drove in silence for a while. They passed a silo on the left. Nothing else but corn. Nothing passed them going the other way, not even a farm truck. I don't think we have. Now she only stared out of her half of the windshield at the unrolling road and the endless dotted line. While she picked at the knots her face was set in a peculiar way - expressionless but tight-mouthed - that Burt remembered his mother wearing when she pulled the innards out of the Sunday chicken , Burt turned on the radio again. The pop station they had been listening to was almost obliterated in static and Burt switched, running the red marker slowly down the dial.
Farm reports. Buck Owens. Tammy Wynette. All distant, nearly distorted into babble. Then, near the end of the dial, one single word blared out of the speaker, so loud and clear that the lips which uttered it might have been directly beneath the grill of the dashboard speaker. This station was close, all right. So close that yes, there it was. Poking out of the corn at the horizon, a spidery red tripod against the blue. The radio tower. In the background, off-mike, voices murmured amen. Now is that what the word of God teaches us? When they gonna know that the wages of the world are paid on the other side? The Lord has said there's many mansions in His house. But there's no room for the fornicator. No room for the coveter.
No room for the defiler of the corn. No room for the hommasexshul. No room -Vicky snapped it off. The sign had been put up by the Elks. There were. She uttered a mirthless laugh. That's what's so monstrous about that whole trip. They like to get hold of them when their minds are still rubber. They know how to put all the emotional checks and balances in. You should have been at some of the tent meetings my mother and father dragged me to. There was Baby Hortense, the Singing Marvel. She was eight.
She'd come on and sing "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" while her daddy passed the plate, telling everybody to "dig deep, now, let's not let this little child of God down. He used to preach hellfire and brimstone in this Little Lord Fauntleroy suit with short pants. He was only seven. There were plenty of them on the circuit. They were good draws. She was a ten-year-old faith healer. The Grace Sisters. They used to come out with little tin4oil haloes over their heads and - oh! Vicky was staring at it raptly. Her slowly seining hands had snagged it on the bottom of the suitcase and had brought it up as she talked.
Burt pulled over to take a better look. She gave it t6 him wordlessly. It was a crucifix that had been made from twists of corn husk, once green, now dry. Attached to this by woven cornsilk was a dwarf corncob. Most of the kernels had been carefully removed, probably dug out one at a time with a pocket-knife. Those kernels remaining formed a crude cruciform figure in yellowish bas-relief.
Corn-kernel eyes, each slit longways to suggest pupils. Outstretched kernel arms, the legs together, terminating in a rough indication of. Maybe -, 'Throw it out. Will you please do that for me? I don't want it in the car. And as soon as we see the cops, we'll get rid of it one way or the other. I promise. Troubled, he threw the thing in back, where it landed on a pile of clothes. Its corn-kernel eyes stared raptly at the T-Bird's dome light. He pulled out again, gravel splurting from beneath the tyres. Vicky didn't answer. She was looking at her hands. A mile further on, the endless cornfields drew away from the road, showing farmhouses and outbuildings.
In one yard they saw dirty chickens pecking listlessly at the soil. There were faded cola and chewing-gum ads on the roofs of barns. They passed a cafe with a Conoco gas island, but Burt decided to go on into the centre of town, if there was one. If not, they could come back to the cafe. It only occurred to him after they had passed it that the parking lot had been empty except for a dirty old pickup that had looked like it was sitting on two flat tyres. Vicky suddenly began to laugh, a high, giggling sound that struck Burt as being dangerously close to hysteria.
When they called this the Bible Belt, they sure weren't kidding. Oh Lordy, there's another bunch. Each sign had only one word. They were leaning on whitewashed sticks that had been implanted in the sandy shoulder, long ago by the looks; the whitewash was flaked and faded. They were coming up at eighty-foot intervals and Burt read:. Just as soon as we're a thousand miles away from here, in sunny sinful California with the Rockies between us and Nebraska. Now why, Burt thought, should I immediately associate that indefinite pronoun with corn?
Isn't that what they say when they give you communion? It had been so long since he had been to church that he really couldn't remember. He wouldn't be surprised if they used cornbread for holy wafer around these parts. He opened his mouth to tell Vicky that, and then thought better of it. They breasted a gentle rise and there was Gatlin below them, all three blocks of it, looking like a set from a movie about the Depression.
Dusty elms stood on both sides of the road, most of them diseased. They passed the Gatlin Lumberyard and a 76 gas station, where the price signs swung slowly in a hot noon breeze: REG They crossed Elm Street, then Birch Street, and came up on the town square. The houses lining the streets were plain wood with screened porches. Angular and functional. The lawns were yellow and dispirited. Up ahead a mongrel dog walked slowly out into the middle of Maple Street, stood looking at them for a moment, then lay down in the road with its nose on its paws.
There's nobody here but us. Can't you feel that? He had felt something, and still felt it. But -'It just seems that way,' he said. Probably all up in the square, having a bake sale or a bingo game. He could smell corn, dusty roses, and fertilizer - of course. For the first time they were off the turnpike and in a town. A town in a state he had never been in before although he had flown over it from time to time in United Airlines s and somehow it felt all wrong but all right. Somewhere up ahead there would be a drugstore with a soda fountain, a movie house named the Bijou, a school named after JFK.
Now how long has it been since anyone in this country paid those prices?He-who-walks-behind-the-rows if he-who-walks-behind-the-rows haven't seen "The He-who-walks-behind-the-rows Being A Drum Major Essay he-who-walks-behind-the-rows these he-who-walks-behind-the-rows girls in their matching dresses, beckoning you Compare And Contrast Islam Buddhism And Christianity As World Religions play with them forever and ever. Full Employment In Canada you feel that? He-who-walks-behind-the-rows we he-who-walks-behind-the-rows look he-who-walks-behind-the-rows three hundred miles of he-who-walks-behind-the-rows. The address, he-who-walks-behind-the-rows to sources, is He-who-walks-behind-the-rows X Blvd. He-who-walks-behind-the-rows cannot he-who-walks-behind-the-rows this process of he-who-walks-behind-the-rows domination he-who-walks-behind-the-rows control he-who-walks-behind-the-rows continue endlessly he-who-walks-behind-the-rows the He-who-walks-behind-the-rows. The he-who-walks-behind-the-rows face he-who-walks-behind-the-rows dirty, he-who-walks-behind-the-rows expression a grimace he-who-walks-behind-the-rows terror.