From the book...

We were all magicians once. Hidden away in the dusty attic of childhood memories lies a time when we stood astride two worlds. When we could erect fairy kingdoms with a few sticks or wooden blocks. When ferocious animals would spring from the shadows of our bedrooms at night. When the fire trucks and tractors we commandeered could sweep through the towering infernos and utopias of our imagination.

Then one day we gave up the notion that we could fly if given the chance, that trees and little girls in paintings could answer back when spoken to, that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were real. Gone, too, were those imaginary friends of ours like Scotty and Gink, who shared a seat at the dinner table with the family, took the blame for the naughty things we did, and were always around to play with, unlike most of the kids in the neighborhood.

But Stephen King, the modern master of the macabre, like some of us, still remembers his imaginary companion vividly. "I had one when I was six or seven," he says. "I was the younger of two boys. My brother was always off on his own. My mother worked, and I often hung around by myself. So I invented this kid to play with that nobody could see but me..."

Faber & Faber, 1985
ISBN 0-571-12533-6
Trade Paperback, 241 pages
$9.95