Salem's Lot

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11/1/1999 Mass Market Paperback Fair 0671039741 (Mass 25-3) Additional items ship at a discounted rate (not free). Please ask for details. Please Note: All pictures are ... catalog/stock photos and NOT an actual picture of the actual item being sold. If you are looking for a particular edition (1st, revised, etc) or a particular cover art, please ask BEFORE buying. Also, hardcovers listed as good or acceptable probably do NOT have dust jackets, so please don't expect one. Finally, all items that weigh more than 8 ounces ship by media mail. Media mail can take anywhere from 4-14 business days, so please do not expect the item to arrive in a few days. Read more Show Less

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Overview

Stephen King's second novel,'Salem's Lot, is the story of a mundane town under siege from the forces of darkness. Considered one of the most terrifying vampire novels ever written, it cunningly probes the shadows of the human heart — and the insular evils of small-town America.

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More About This Book

Overview

Stephen King's second novel,'Salem's Lot, is the story of a mundane town under siege from the forces of darkness. Considered one of the most terrifying vampire novels ever written, it cunningly probes the shadows of the human heart — and the insular evils of small-town America.

Editorial Reviews

Chattanooga Times
A novel of chilling, unspeakable evil.
More Reviews (2) Fewer Reviews
From The Critics
Spine-tingling fiction at its best.
From Barnes & Noble
Something strange is going on in Jerusalem's Lot ... but no one dares to talk about it. By day, 'Salem's Lot is a typical modest, New England town; but when the sun goes down, evil roams the earth. The devilishly sweet insistent laughter of a child can be heard echoing through the fields, and the presence of silent looming spirits can be felt lurking right outside your window. Stephen King brings his gruesome imagination to life in this tale of spine tingling horror.

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780671039745
  • Publisher: Pocket Books
  • Publication date: 11/28/1999
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 656
  • Lexile: 0860L (what's this?)
  • Product dimensions: 4.20 (w) x 6.60 (h) x 1.70 (d)

Meet the Author

Stephen King
Stephen King
Few authors have tapped into our secret fears as adeptly as Stephen King, Master of the Macabre and one of the most widely read novelists writing today. With his trademark blend of fantasy, horror, and psychological suspense, this prolific and immensely popular contemporary writer continues to remind us that evil is still a potent force in the world.

Biography

Fiction powerhouse Stephen Edwin King was born in Portland, Maine, in 1947. As a student at the University of Maine at Orono, he wrote a weekly column for the school newspaper, became active in political causes, and met his wife, the former Tabitha Spruce. In the early years of his marriage, King augmented his meager teacher's salary by selling short stories to men's magazines. Then, in 1973 he hit pay dirt: his novel Carrie was accepted for publication, and a major paperback deal provided the means for him to leave teaching and concentrate full-time on writing. Since then, the prolific author has never looked back.

Dubbed the Master of the Macabre for his domination of the horror genre, King has also written bestselling thrillers, mysteries, fantasies, novellas, and short stories, many of which have been turned into blockbuster films and miniseries (A partial list includes Carrie, The Shining, The Stand,, Misery, It, The Shawshank Redemption, The Langoliers, Stand by Me, and The Green Mile). He also has two works of nonfiction to his credit: a gorgeously crafted memoir/scribbler's how-to (On Writing) and Faithful, a chronicle of the Boston Red Sox' stellar 2004 season, cowritten with Stewart O'Nan. In 2003, he received the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.

In between books, the indefatigable King performs in the Rock Bottom Remainders, a rock band that includes among its rotating personnel fellow authors Dave Barry and Amy Tan; attends as many Boston Red Sox games as is humanly possible; and contributes with his wife, Tabitha, to many local and national charities.

Good To Know

Don't believe everything you read about Stephen King. Among the gossip circulating about the scribe is the rumor that he is going blind. King assures his fans that while he is genetically predisposed to a disease called macular degeneration, which could result in blindness, he is not actually going blind.

King is probably one of the most easily recognizable authors alive, and it's not just because of his string of bestsellers. King has appeared in a number of films based on his work, including Pet Semetary, Thinner, and The Stand.

If you've ever wondered why Stephen King has written several books under the pseudonym Richard Bachman, there is actually a very simple explanation: King is so prolific that he felt it necessary to create an alter-ego so that he could publish more than one book a year. The name was a hastily hobbled together combination of writer Richard Stark (ironically, a pseudonym for Donald Westlake) and Randy Bachman of rock group Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

    1. Also Known As:
      Stephen A. King
      Stephen Edwin King
      Richard Bachman
    2. Hometown:
      Bangor, Maine
    1. Date of Birth:
      September 21, 1947
    2. Place of Birth:
      Portland, Maine
    1. Education:
      B.S., University of Maine at Orono, 1970
    2. Website:
      http://www.stephenking.com

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One: Ben (I)

1

By the time he had passed Portland going north on the turnpike, Ben Mears had begun to feel a not unpleasurable tingle of excitement in his belly. It was September 5, 1975, and summer was enjoying her final grand fling. The trees were bursting with green, the sky was a high, soft blue, and just over the Falmouth town line he saw two boys walking a road parallel to the expressway with fishing rods settled on their shoulders like carbines.

He switched to the travel lane, slowed to the minimum turnpike speed, and began to look for anything that would jog his memory. There was nothing at first, and he tried to caution himself against almost sure disappointment. You were seven then. That's twenty-five years of water under the bridge. Places change. Like people.

In those days the four-lane 295 hadn't existed. If you wanted to go to Portland from the Lot, you went out Route 12 to Falmouth and then got on Number 1. Time had marched on.

Stop that shit.

But it was hard to stop. It was hard to stop when —

A big BSA cycle with jacked handlebars suddenly roared past him in the passing lane, a kid in a T-shirt driving, a girl in a red cloth jacket and huge mirror-lensed sunglasses riding pillion behind him. They cut in a little too quickly and he overreacted, jamming on his brakes and laying both hands on the horn. The BSA sped up, belching blue smoke from its exhaust, and the girl jabbed her middle finger back at him.

He resumed speed, wishing for a cigarette. His hands were trembling slightly. The BSA was almost out of sight now, moving fast. The kids. The goddamned kids. Memories tried to crowd in on him, memories of a more recent vintage. He pushed them away. He hadn't been on a motorcycle in two years. He planned never to ride on one again.

A flash of red caught his eye off to the left, and when he glanced that way, he felt a burst of pleasure and recognition. A large red barn stood on a hill far across a rising field of timothy and clover, a barn with a cupola painted white — even at this distance he could see the sungleam on the weather vane atop that cupola. It had been there then and was still here now. It looked exactly the same. Maybe it was going to be all right after all. Then the trees blotted it out.

As the turnpike entered Cumberland, more and more things began to seem familiar. He passed over the Royal River, where they had fished for steelies and pickerel as boys. Past a brief, flickering view of Cumberland Village through the trees. In the distance the Cumberland water tower with its huge slogan painted across the side: "Keep Maine Green." Aunt Cindy had always said someone should print "Bring Money" underneath that.

His original sense of excitement grew and he began to speed up, watching for the sign. It came twinkling up and out of the distance in reflectorized green five miles later:

ROUTE 12 JERUSALEM'S LOT

CUMBERLAND CUMBERLAND CTR


A sudden blackness came over him, dousing his good spirits like sand on fire. He had been subject to these since (his mind tried to speak Miranda's name and he would not let it) the bad time and was used to fending them off, but this one swept over him with a savage power that was dismaying.

What was he doing, coming back to a town where he had lived for four years as a boy, trying to recapture something that was irrevocably lost? What magic could he expect to recapture by walking roads that he had once walked as a boy and were probably asphalted and straightened and logged off and littered with tourist beer cans? The magic was gone, both white and black. It had all gone down the chutes on that night when the motorcycle had gone out of control and then there was the yellow moving van, growing and growing, his wife Miranda's scream, cut off with sudden finality when —

The exit came up on his right, and for a moment he considered driving right past it, continuing on to Chamberlain or Lewiston, stopping for lunch, and then turning around and going back. But back where? Home? That was a laugh. If there was a home, it had been here. Even if it had only been four years, it was his.

He signaled, slowed the Citroën, and went up the ramp. Toward the top, where the turnpike ramp joined Route 12 (which became Jointner Avenue closer to town), he glanced up toward the horizon. What he saw there made him jam the brakes on with both feet. The Citroën shuddered to a stop and stalled.

The trees, mostly pine and spruce, rose in gentle slopes toward the east, seeming to almost crowd against the sky at the limit of vision. From here the town was not visible. Only the trees, and in the distance, where those trees rose against the sky, the peaked, gabled roof of the Marsten House.

He gazed at it, fascinated. Warring emotions crossed his face with kaleidoscopic swiftness.

"Still here," he murmured aloud. "By God."

He looked down at his arms. They had broken out in goose flesh.

2

He deliberately skirted town, crossing into Cumberland and then coming back into 'salem's Lot from the west, taking the Burns Road. He was amazed by how little things had changed out here. There were a few new houses he didn't remember, there was a tavern called Dell's just over the town line, and a pair of fresh gravel quarries. A good deal of the hardwood had been pulped over. But the old tin sign pointing the way to the town dump was still there, and the road itself was still unpaved, full of chuckholes and washboards, and he could see Schoolyard Hill through the slash in the trees where the Central Maine Power pylons ran on a northwest to southeast line. The Griffen farm was still there, although the barn had been enlarged. He wondered if they still bottled and sold their own milk. The logo had been a smiling cow under the name brand: "Sunshine Milk from the Griffen Farms!" He smiled. He had splashed a lot of that milk on his corn flakes at Aunt Cindy's house.

He turned left onto the Brooks Road, passed the wrought-iron gates and the low fieldstone wall surrounding Harmony Hill Cemetery, and then went down the steep grade and started up the far side — the side known as Marsten's Hill.

At the top, the trees fell away on both sides of the road. On the right, you could look right down into the town proper — Ben's first view of it. On the left, the Marsten House. He pulled over and got out of the car.

It was just the same. There was no difference, not at all. He might have last seen it yesterday.

The witch grass grew wild and tall in the front yard, obscuring the old, frost-heaved flagstones that led to the porch. Chirring crickets sang in it, and he could see grasshoppers jumping in erratic parabolas.

The house itself looked toward town. It was huge and rambling and sagging, its windows haphazardly boarded shut, giving it that sinister look of all old houses that have been empty for a long time. The paint had been weathered away, giving the house a uniform gray look. Windstorms had ripped many of the shingles off, and a heavy snowfall had punched in the west corner of the main roof, giving it a slumped, hunched look. A tattered no-trespassing sign was nailed to the right-hand newel post.

He felt a strong urge to walk up that overgrown path, past the crickets and hoppers that would jump around his shoes, climb the porch, peek between the haphazard boards into the hallway or the front room. Perhaps try the front door. If it was unlocked, go in.

He swallowed and stared up at the house, almost hypnotized. It stared back at him with idiot indifference.

You walked down the hall, smelling wet plaster and rotting wallpaper, and mice would skitter in the walls. There would still be a lot of junk lying around, and you might pick something up, a paperweight maybe, and put it in your pocket. Then, at the end of the hall, instead of going through into the kitchen, you could turn left and go up the stairs, your feet gritting in the plaster dust which had sifted down from the ceiling over the years. There were fourteen steps exactly fourteen. But the top one was smaller, out of proportion, as if it had been added to avoid the evil number. At the top of the stairs you stand on the landing, looking down the hall toward a closed door. And if you walk down the hall toward it, watching as if from outside yourself as the door gets closer and larger, you can reach out your hand and put it on the tarnished silver knob —

He turned away from the house, a straw-dry whistle of air slipping from his mouth. Not yet. Later, perhaps, but not yet. For now it was enough to know that all of that was still here. It had waited for him. He put his hands on the hood of his car and looked out over the town. He could find out down there who was handling the Marsten House, and perhaps lease it. The kitchen would make an adequate writing room and he could bunk down in the front parlor. But he wouldn't allow himself to go upstairs.

Not unless it had to be done.

He got in his car, started it, and drove down the hill to Jerusalem's Lot.

Copyright © 1975 by Stephen King

Table of Contents

Prologue 1
Part I The Marsten House 13
Part II The Emperor of Ice Cream 183
Part III The Deserted Village 327
Epilogue 443

First Chapter

Chapter One: Ben (I)

1

By the time he had passed Portland going north on the turnpike, Ben Mears had begun to feel a not unpleasurable tingle of excitement in his belly. It was September 5, 1975, and summer was enjoying her final grand fling. The trees were bursting with green, the sky was a high, soft blue, and just over the Falmouth town line he saw two boys walking a road parallel to the expressway with fishing rods settled on their shoulders like carbines.

He switched to the travel lane, slowed to the minimum turnpike speed, and began to look for anything that would jog his memory. There was nothing at first, and he tried to caution himself against almost sure disappointment. You were seven then. That's twenty-five years of water under the bridge. Places change. Like people.

In those days the four-lane 295 hadn't existed. If you wanted to go to Portland from the Lot, you went out Route 12 to Falmouth and then got on Number 1. Time had marched on.

Stop that shit.

But it was hard to stop. It was hard to stop when —

A big BSA cycle with jacked handlebars suddenly roared past him in the passing lane, a kid in a T-shirt driving, a girl in a red cloth jacket and huge mirror-lensed sunglasses riding pillion behind him. They cut in a little too quickly and he overreacted, jamming on his brakes and laying both hands on the horn. The BSA sped up, belching blue smoke from its exhaust, and the girl jabbed her middle finger back at him.

He resumed speed, wishing for a cigarette. His hands were trembling slightly. The BSA was almost out of sight now, moving fast. The kids. Thegoddamned kids. Memories tried to crowd in on him, memories of a more recent vintage. He pushed them away. He hadn't been on a motorcycle in two years. He planned never to ride on one again.

A flash of red caught his eye off to the left, and when he glanced that way, he felt a burst of pleasure and recognition. A large red barn stood on a hill far across a rising field of timothy and clover, a barn with a cupola painted white — even at this distance he could see the sungleam on the weather vane atop that cupola. It had been there then and was still here now. It looked exactly the same. Maybe it was going to be all right after all. Then the trees blotted it out.

As the turnpike entered Cumberland, more and more things began to seem familiar. He passed over the Royal River, where they had fished for steelies and pickerel as boys. Past a brief, flickering view of Cumberland Village through the trees. In the distance the Cumberland water tower with its huge slogan painted across the side: "Keep Maine Green." Aunt Cindy had always said someone should print "Bring Money" underneath that.

His original sense of excitement grew and he began to speed up, watching for the sign. It came twinkling up and out of the distance in reflectorized green five miles later:

ROUTE 12 JERUSALEM'S LOT
CUMBERLAND CUMBERLAND CTR

A sudden blackness came over him, dousing his good spirits like sand on fire. He had been subject to these since (his mind tried to speak Miranda's name and he would not let it) the bad time and was used to fending them off, but this one swept over him with a savage power that was dismaying.

What was he doing, coming back to a town where he had lived for four years as a boy, trying to recapture something that was irrevocably lost? What magic could he expect to recapture by walking roads that he had once walked as a boy and were probably asphalted and straightened and logged off and littered with tourist beer cans? The magic was gone, both white and black. It had all gone down the chutes on that night when the motorcycle had gone out of control and then there was the yellow moving van, growing and growing, his wife Miranda's scream, cut off with sudden finality when —

The exit came up on his right, and for a moment he considered driving right past it, continuing on to Chamberlain or Lewiston, stopping for lunch, and then turning around and going back. But back where? Home? That was a laugh. If there was a home, it had been here. Even if it had only been four years, it was his.

He signaled, slowed the Citroën, and went up the ramp. Toward the top, where the turnpike ramp joined Route 12 (which became Jointner Avenue closer to town), he glanced up toward the horizon. What he saw there made him jam the brakes on with both feet. The Citroën shuddered to a stop and stalled.

The trees, mostly pine and spruce, rose in gentle slopes toward the east, seeming to almost crowd against the sky at the limit of vision. From here the town was not visible. Only the trees, and in the distance, where those trees rose against the sky, the peaked, gabled roof of the Marsten House.

He gazed at it, fascinated. Warring emotions crossed his face with kaleidoscopic swiftness.

"Still here," he murmured aloud. "By God."

He looked down at his arms. They had broken out in goose flesh.


2

He deliberately skirted town, crossing into Cumberland and then coming back into 'salem's Lot from the west, taking the Burns Road. He was amazed by how little things had changed out here. There were a few new houses he didn't remember, there was a tavern called Dell's just over the town line, and a pair of fresh gravel quarries. A good deal of the hardwood had been pulped over. But the old tin sign pointing the way to the town dump was still there, and the road itself was still unpaved, full of chuckholes and washboards, and he could see Schoolyard Hill through the slash in the trees where the Central Maine Power pylons ran on a northwest to southeast line. The Griffen farm was still there, although the barn had been enlarged. He wondered if they still bottled and sold their own milk. The logo had been a smiling cow under the name brand: "Sunshine Milk from the Griffen Farms!" He smiled. He had splashed a lot of that milk on his corn flakes at Aunt Cindy's house.

He turned left onto the Brooks Road, passed the wrought-iron gates and the low fieldstone wall surrounding Harmony Hill Cemetery, and then went down the steep grade and started up the far side — the side known as Marsten's Hill.

At the top, the trees fell away on both sides of the road. On the right, you could look right down into the town proper — Ben's first view of it. On the left, the Marsten House. He pulled over and got out of the car.

It was just the same. There was no difference, not at all. He might have last seen it yesterday.

The witch grass grew wild and tall in the front yard, obscuring the old, frost-heaved flagstones that led to the porch. Chirring crickets sang in it, and he could see grasshoppers jumping in erratic parabolas.

The house itself looked toward town. It was huge and rambling and sagging, its windows haphazardly boarded shut, giving it that sinister look of all old houses that have been empty for a long time. The paint had been weathered away, giving the house a uniform gray look. Windstorms had ripped many of the shingles off, and a heavy snowfall had punched in the west corner of the main roof, giving it a slumped, hunched look. A tattered no-trespassing sign was nailed to the right-hand newel post.

He felt a strong urge to walk up that overgrown path, past the crickets and hoppers that would jump around his shoes, climb the porch, peek between the haphazard boards into the hallway or the front room. Perhaps try the front door. If it was unlocked, go in.

He swallowed and stared up at the house, almost hypnotized. It stared back at him with idiot indifference.

You walked down the hall, smelling wet plaster and rotting wallpaper, and mice would skitter in the walls. There would still be a lot of junk lying around, and you might pick something up, a paperweight maybe, and put it in your pocket. Then, at the end of the hall, instead of going through into the kitchen, you could turn left and go up the stairs, your feet gritting in the plaster dust which had sifted down from the ceiling over the years. There were fourteen steps exactly fourteen. But the top one was smaller, out of proportion, as if it had been added to avoid the evil number. At the top of the stairs you stand on the landing, looking down the hall toward a closed door. And if you walk down the hall toward it, watching as if from outside yourself as the door gets closer and larger, you can reach out your hand and put it on the tarnished silver knob —

He turned away from the house, a straw-dry whistle of air slipping from his mouth. Not yet. Later, perhaps, but not yet. For now it was enough to know that all of that was still here. It had waited for him. He put his hands on the hood of his car and looked out over the town. He could find out down there who was handling the Marsten House, and perhaps lease it. The kitchen would make an adequate writing room and he could bunk down in the front parlor. But he wouldn't allow himself to go upstairs.

Not unless it had to be done.

He got in his car, started it, and drove down the hill to Jerusalem's Lot.

Copyright © 1975 by Stephen King

Customer Reviews
Average Rating 4.5
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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2008

    Best Vampire Story Ever

    This book was the first Stephen King book I read and I was thoroughly impressed. It offers a plethora of horror, suspense, and almost non-stop action. It was the first book that actually scared me in any substantial way and made me sleep with the lights on. One night while I was reading it, I had my window open and I actually closed it because I was so scared. I have read Dracula by Bram Stoker, the original Vampire story, and in my opinion, this book is better. It started off a little slow but didn't take too long to get exciting and once that happened, the suspense and action kept on coming throughout the entire book.

    5 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  NoThank you for your feedback.   Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 18, 2010

    Best King Book Ever!

    First off let me start by saying this book scared the living hell out of me. There were nights where I would stay up until three in the morning reading and have to shove it under my mattress before turning the lights out. I thought that my life would never be the same again after reading this hahaha! King has a gift of building up this intense level of suspense and it's not until the last quarter of the novel where the climax actually happens. My friend would ask me what the heck was so scary and I had a hard time putting it into words, it just was! Such a great classic! I am so in love with this book even though I still turn on all of the lights in my house!

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 14, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    Whoever says Vampires are played out, just you wait!

    Stephen King seems to have a knack for making something so traditional and so (nowadays) cliche and making it so freaking amazing. It took me a long time to read the novel only because I have a social life and school. However, while I was reading it, I was automatically sucked in. My teachers had to literally force my attention back to the board or textbook. It doesn't take but one page to suck you in. After you get going, you don't even need the lights off to get the creeps or shivers. It's that natural talent that I envy that Mr. King has. Vampires have never seemed so real to me.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 19, 2012

    I really liked it.

    I really liked it.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 5, 2011

    Raw Talent

    This novel shows the progression of Stephen King from master of the scary story to literary treasure. The writing is so-so in some places and excellent in others, but the sheer amount of raw talent from a young novelist (I believe he was 23 when he wrote this) makes this book such a standout. Ominous, even downright scary in parts and well-worth your time.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 25, 2011

    My favorite Stephen King novel...again!

    I originally read this in middle school and remember loving it. Decided to take it for another ride (I like reading scary stuff as Halloween approaches). I was amazed how scary and suspenseful this book still is after 30+ years...a classic that still stands above the others in the current vampire craze.

    Check out another Haunted House story to be released. Check out "The Supernaturals" by NY Times bestselling author David L. Golemon (Event Group Series). A friend of mine is reading an advance copy he picked up at a Horror convention and says it's creepy with Stephen King-like elements.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2011

    Twilight sucks. Vampires dont sparkle, they burst into flames. Salems lot is awesome.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 20, 2011

    Not I.

    It took me a while to read this book. It had some scenes that kept me captivated but not for long. I've read other King books that I loved, but not this one. There seemed to be a lot of rambling but not enough action. I create movies in my mind while I read. This "movie" sucked. :)

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 29, 2010

    Stephen King is amazing

    Salem's Lot is an awesome vampire book (certainly better than Twilight :D), and Stephen King is an incredible author. 'Nuff said.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 12, 2010

    I Also Recommend:

    What did Vampires ever do to you Mr. Stephen King??

    Count Suckula likes a good vampire book!! The kind where the vampire gets the girl, or the kind where the vampire is a superhero, or even the kind of story where the vampire is a teenage hottie who the high school girls can't resist!!

    However, Count Suckula don't likey that this tale KILLS all the vampires in some fairly gruesome ways when they infest this little town!!

    This is the classic vampire book and scary as HELL!! Stephen King is the master. Slow at first cause of the character dev. but don't stop reading cause it gets very bloody when the vamps show up finally!! Read this in the dark in the attic or your basement or a cemetary if you dare!!

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 7, 2010

    My first stephen king read and i am pleased!

    This is my first Stephen King read and I am pretty happy with it. It was definitely thrilling and suspenseful. At some points, I was a little scared! I thought it was particularly slow in the beginning and I find his character development extreme. I love know back stories and details about characters, but I thought he went into too many details with minor characters. It was minor, but the extreme character development did leave me annoyed sometimes when I wanted the story to start picking up. When it finally picked up, I started to enjoy it very much!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted November 15, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Salem's Lot

    If you enjoy being scared, then this is the book for you. It is a story of a town that is being invaded by vampires turning the townspeople into the undead. Whats cool about the book is that each chapter is from a different characters perspective. The vampires don't arrive until later in the book... just so you get to know the characters, so when they die you actually feel for them. But before the vampires arrive you are still scared with stories of the old abandoned mansion in this town. If you are scared easily this is not the book for you. But if you enjoy being frightened and gore, this is the book for you.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 1, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Suspensful

    A haunted house with an eerie past, unusual neighbors, and masterful storytelling from King, Salem's Lot brings vampire tales to the forefront of horror. Taking place in a remote town, suspicions arise over missing persons and odd deaths, leading a writer (who came to his hometown to finish his book and confront his own demons) to solve some of these weird occurences surrounding the unsuspecting folk of the Lot. Stephen King perfectly illustrates his talent and art of suspense. A great addition to your King collection.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 1, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Salem's Lot.

    I was stationed in Germany (Army) when this book came out. There was one copy between 4 barracks roommates, hence 4 bookmarks. We were all on different shifts at a radar repair facility so the book was being read constantly. We all were afraid to open the curtains for fear of seeing Danny Glick hovering out there. Chilling To The Max.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 10, 2008

    BEST VAMPIRE STORY

    Salems Lot is the best vampire story ever written...ive read all kinds of authors books about vampires...but Salems Lot beats them all!!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 29, 2008

    Disappointing.

    I was disappointed in this book. I thought i'd be much better. There wasn't really anything catching in it to hook you to it. He could have done a better job writting this book. But, if you like vampire books just out some of the books I enjoyed.

    1 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 7, 2007

    a book that sends chills up your spine

    Salem's Lot is an amazing tale of overcoming the most terrifying obstacles. In this book you watch Ben Mears face his fear of returning back to the town that he grew up in. You watch him face going back to the very house that plagued the town of Salem's Lot, but now the town is facing something else. Things have definatly changed around Salem's Lot since the mysterious Mr. Barlow arrived. I would definatly recommend this book to anyone who loves to get scared and who loves a good vampire story. However, it does have some stuff that is for older readers so i wouldn't recommend this to anyone under the age of 16.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 2, 2007

    A reviewer

    The book had me hooked from the first word. A thrilling advenure only the master of horror Stephen King could have created. I love it! A legacy in a leauge of it's own. This three-part book will capture you and never let you go!

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 29, 2005

    King is the Master

    This novel, like much of King's finest work, is successful because he is able to make you believe in the unbelievable. He does this by creating finely drawn, idiosyncratic characters which inhabit a fully realized world. The reader is drawn in and involved in the characters lives in a way which encourages the suspension of disbelief. King is a fine writer and this is a wonderful example of his talent.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 8, 2012

    Brilliant.

    I absolutely loved this book. Stephen King never ceases to amaze me. <3

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