Maggie Stiefvater's Reviews > The Shining

Years ago, I stayed at a brand new Vegas hotel for a conference. Brand. New. This shining black tower of decadence had been decorated only a few months before I got there. It had all the ambiance of a freshly vacuumed rental car. In time it would wear Vegas, or vice versa, but for now: it was the new, gormless kid on the block.

So imagine my surprise when, on the last day of my stay, I was tormented all night long by something that turned on the jets in my hot tub, stomped heavily to and fro every time I turned the lights out, and, eventually, after I told the room audibly to "cut it out, I've got an early flight," slammed a shaking blow into the headboard directly beside me to remind me who had seniority in this place. In the morning, I confessed to the front desk I'd had a bit of an exciting night, and not in the usual Vegas way. With a glance at the room number, the clerk said he bet that I had.

Later, I found out the brand new hotel had only been a few weeks old when a man had jumped to his death from one of the rooms; the stylish glass balconies I'd enjoyed were an aftermarket part, designed to keep other tortured guests from following suit. Unclear if my room had been the unlucky suite. Unclear if my room was like that because the man had jumped, or if the man had jumped because my room was like that.

So: that's The Shining.

I'm sure I'm the last person in the world to have read the book (I haven't seen the film still, but now I will), but better late than never, right?

Sucks to shine in a hotel hungry for it, I guess.