The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
Разогреваем клавиши
.
.
.
*запрещен в России, принадлежит Meta
RU /
верстка и дизайн проекта: Сафонова Екатерина
Страх, напечатанный на бумаге. Тот, кто сделал кошмары частью поп-культуры. В его книгах пугает не монстр — а то, что этот монстр похож на нас
Stephen King
Король ужасов
Стивен Кинг
до Кинга
BOOCKS
«К тому времени, когда мне исполнилось четырнадцать, гвоздь в моей стене уже не выдерживал веса наколотых на него листков с отказами»
До того, как имя Стивена Кинга стало всемирно известным, он был простым учителем английского языка, живущим в трейлере и работающим по ночам в прачечной. Он пережил более 30 отказов от издательств и журналов. Стена в его трейлере была увешана письмами с отказами, насаженными на гвоздь.
Его первая рукопись — «Кэрри» — была выброшена в мусорное ведро. Он не верил, что кто‑то захочет читать о странной девочке с телекинетическими способностями
Но его жена, Табита, вытащила рукопись и уговорила его дописать книгу. В 1974 году «Кэрри» была издана и принесла Кингу гонорар в 200 тысяч долларов
30 отказов от издательств и журналов
первая рукопись — «Кэрри» — была выброшена в мусорное ведро
The Shining, 1977
Сияние
Закрытая гостиница, маленький мальчик с даром и медленное безумие отца. Психоз, изоляция и страх стать самим собой
Топор в фильме «Сияние» — не просто оружие. Это символ безумия, которым заражается Джек Торранс
Близнецы из фильма «Сияние» — один из самых зловещих и запоминающихся образов в истории кино
Carrie, 1974
Керри
Актриса отказалась от дублёров и снялась во всех сценах, даже с пиротехникой и в закрытых помещениях, не снимая кровавый грим
Маргарет Уайт говорит исключительно псевдо-библейскими фразами. Её сцены — один из самых жутких элементов фильма
История одиночества, насилия и мести. Кэрри — изгоя в школе, которая находит в себе силы буквально разрушить весь мир
It, 1986
Оно
Клоун Пеннивайз — символ ужаса. Но «Оно» — это не просто монстр. Это страх детства, который преследует во взрослой жизни
Пеннивайз — это только одна из форм. На самом деле «Оно» — древнее космическое существо, отражающее страх каждого
Кинг хотел создать современную мифологию и думал: что, если тролль из сказки прячется не под мостом, а в канализации?
Писательство Кинга — это не только про ужасы. Это про жизнь, страх потерять, страх быть никем
А по дисциплине
Писатель не
по вдохновению
Стивен Кинг Стивен Кинг пишет по 10 страниц каждый день без перерыва и вне зависимости от дня недели
Кинг любит, когда его ничто не отвлекает, когда он пишет, и предлагает начинающим писателям делать то же самое. Если есть окно, задёрните занавеску, если есть телефон, избавьтесь от него на время написания
Кинг любит брать примеры из собственной жизни и развивать их дальше, чтобы найти ужас. Его роман «Клатбище домашних животных» основан на реальных событиях, с которыми Кинг столкнулся. Он жил в доме рядом с опасной дорогой, и ему приходилось останавливать своего ребёнка, когда тот выбегал на проезжую часть. Он использовал этот опыт как вдохновение
Он не верит в музу — только в труд
Стивен Кинг не пугает скримерами. Он пугает тем, что тебе уже знакомо
Не бойся тьмы
Бойся тишины
перед ней
«Ты можешь, ты должен, и если у тебя хватит смелости начать, ты это сделаешь»
Он часто пишет о маленьких городах, где скрываются самые тёмные вещи
Он использует детские страхи — одиночество, осуждение, безысходность
Он мастер медленного нарастания тревоги. Страх — это не прыжок. Это медленное удушье
Он берёт обыденное: машину, собаку, старую гостиницу — и делает их страшными
Стивен Кинг — писатель, который всегда продолжал
Его история — напоминание всем, кто чувствует себя потерянным. Он был бедным, отчаявшимся, зависимым — и всё равно продолжал писать
Сегодня Стивен Кинг — автор более 60 романов, 200 рассказов и десятков экранизаций. Он показывает нам не только, как бояться — но и как не сдаваться, даже если твоя история сейчас в мусорном ведре
Он начал,
поэтому его все знают
Contacts
«Самый страшный момент всегда наступает перед самым началом»
BEHANCE
BEHANCE
INST*
INST*
верстка и дизайн проекта: Сафонова Екатерина
2025
Изображения и материалы используются исключительно в некоммерческих/учебных целях. Все права принадлежат их авторам
*запрещен в России, принадлежит Meta
Некоммерческий проект в рамках обучения в @citadel.study
«Мы выдумываем ужасы, чтобы помочь себе справиться с реальными»
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house. The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing. Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed. Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft. She had nailed it shut last week. She had bolted it the day before yesterday. She had prayed over it last night. Nothing worked. From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand. Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
The wind outside was howling, pulling at the corners of the old house.
The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the ashes shifted like something breathing.
Martha sat in her rocking chair, staring at the door that wouldn’t stay closed.
Every few minutes, it creaked open an inch, though there was no draft.
She had nailed it shut last week.
She had bolted it the day before yesterday.
She had prayed over it last night.
Nothing worked.
From the dark crack, she swore she saw a hand.
Small. Grey. Beckoning.
