Once upon a time there was a boy called Charlie. His mother died in a terrible accident when he was young, and his father turned to drink, but Charlie grew up to be a good, strong, clever young man. The sort who helps strangers in need – such as the misanthropic Mr Bowditch, who has an equally elderly dog and a crumbling property. Which, as this is a Stephen King novel, sits on a tunnel leading to a mysterious world in need of saving from a horrifying evil.
King wrote Fairy Tale in the thick of the pandemic after, he writes, seeing a mental image of “a vast deserted city – deserted but alive … the empty streets, the haunted buildings, a gargoyle head lying overturned in the street … a huge, sprawling palace with glass towers so high their tips pierced the clouds”. These images, he says, “released the story I wanted to tell” – although it takes him a long time to get there. Fairy Tale starts firmly in our world, as Charlie grieves over his mother’s death, cares for his alcoholic father, slips into a well of bad behaviour and then pulls himself out with good grades and a talent for sport. It’s coming-of-age stuff – although with the promise of something fantastical on the horizon, thanks to the “weird chittering noise” that comes from Mr Bowditch’s shed, and the mysterious tub of gold pellets in his safe.
