Last week I explored some classic horror works: I examined some Poe, Henry James, Lovecraft, and more. At the end of that post, I promised an adaptation of one of those works in my own style.
I’ll warn you right now, it’s long. It’s 4900 words, which is about a 25 minute read. That was on purpose- a lot of the works I explored last week could safely be categorized as “long short stories”, usually between 20 and 50 pages.
So, I’m sure you’re dying to know: what story did I pick to adapt?
I thought on this for a bit after writing last week’s article, trying to ask myself which of those stories I personally resonated with the most and which one I felt like I could spin into something that meshes with the way I write. And, like most of my short stories, I made my decision and vomited the entire thing out in one workday.
So make some coffee, grab a snack, and enjoy. Well, I hope you enjoy. Let me know. And, if you’re unfamiliar with the work I adapted, I’ve linked the Wikipedia page in the title.
The Book: A Modern Take on “The King in Yellow“
by Ava Christina
It started when I was out to dinner with my fiancée. Sometimes I think back and wonder why she had to choose Nudo that night, why her craving for spicy ramen had to bring about the loss of everything I knew and loved. Goddamned ramen. I couldn’t eat the stuff to save my life now.
Not that I believe anything could save me at this point. I’ve painted the inside of my windows black, but I know they’re still out there. Painted all over Spokane, on underpasses and street signs and the sides of containers at the railyard. I can feel them out there. Watching me.
Part of me longs for it, for the end of this back-and-forth, cat and mouse, hunter and prey game. To simply give in and watch the world collapse and dissolve. At least then, I won’t feel His eyes burning the skin of my back.
~~~
Lina was always trying to help others. She donated to local charities when she had anything to spare, rather than buying treats for herself. She only ate at locally-owned restaurants, and all of her clothing and jewelry was bought off Etsy or at the numerous art fairs that cropped up all summer in Spokane.
The best part about Lina was that she didn’t scorn others who weren’t as charitable and equitable as she was. She didn’t look down on me when I spent my bonus checks on new clothes or weekend getaways.
She really was too good for me, but the tragedy of it was, she never would’ve known it if not for that day we ate at Nudo.
“I feel pregnant,” Lina said as we exited the restaurant. “And I didn’t even eat half of my food.”
I laughed, putting my hands on her barely-swollen belly in a mock caress. “What should we name it?”
“Nudo,” Lina said without missing a beat.
We walked hand-in-hand down Sprague, watching the one-way traffic slide lazily by. It was a Sunday afternoon, one of the first truly hot ones of the year. I reveled in the feel of the sun on my bare arms, excited for summer.
Now, I can barely remember the feel of the sun’s heat on my skin. I can’t go outside anymore. It’s what He wants me to do.
“Shit,” Lina suddenly swore as we started across a crosswalk, “I just remembered. I still have butter chicken in the fridge.”
“So?” I said, pulling her along across the road by her free hand, the one that wasn’t clutching her leftover ramen in its plastic bag. An impatient car edged into its turn as we crossed, and I shot a dirty look in the direction of its windshield.
“It’ll go bad if I don’t have it for dinner tonight,” Lina lamented. “Chicken’s only good in the fridge for three days.”
“So?”
She rolled her eyes at my obstinance. “So, I’ve also got falafel from Thursday and that casserole your mom brought over. We’re drowning in food that’s about to go bad.” She looked down at the bag of leftovers in her hand. “I don’t need this.”
“So throw it away,” I offered, and as if on cue, we passed a trash can. Leaning up against it with a small cart was a scraggly, filthy woman in a pink knitted hat. A chihuahua paced beside her, its leash tied to an archaic parking meter.
I saw Lina’s eyes go to the trash can, then to the dirty woman. I knew what she was going to do before she even took another step, but my first instinct was to pull her away by the hand. Living in Spokane the past ten years, I’d gotten quite used to the people who lived on the streets. Most of them were harmless. Many of them were strange, mumbling to themselves and pacing the sidewalks with stilted gaits. And a few of them were dangerous.
About a year before, I’d been unlocking my bike after work when a rail-thin bearded man of indeterminate age sprinted up to me, slamming his shoulder into my abdomen before I could even react. I cracked my head on the bike rack, and while I was reeling on the ground, he’d yanked my bag from my shoulder and ran. The loss of my things was upsetting, but the real issue came from the two-week long hospital stay, where my brain kept threatening to swell to dangerous levels from the impact.
Since then, I’d been more wary around the unhoused population. And when Lina started toward the woman in the pink knit beanie, my grip tightened on her hand. She gave me a knowing glance, as if to say not to worry.
I know now that I had every right to worry, though not about being assaulted in the street. Something far worse.
Lina approached the woman and the chihuahua danced forward, springing up at her legs in excitement. Lina laughed, ever patient, and let go of my hand to pet the dog. I cringed as I imagined all the fleas and other things that may have been crawling in the dog’s fur, now climbing up onto her hand. I rummaged in my bag for my travel-sized hand sanitizer, ready to dump a generous glob into her hands after we were out of the woman’s line of sight.
“What a friendly dog,” Lina said, smiling at the woman. “What’s its name?”
“Constance,” the filthy woman responded in a voice like dead branches scraping against a window.
Lina pet the dog a moment longer, then held out the bag to the woman. “I got way too much food. Would you like the rest? It’s spicy chicken ramen.”
The woman studied the proffered bag for a moment, then reached out for it. My abdomen tightened, ready for her to snap, smack Lina across the face with it, perhaps sic the dog on her.
The woman did nothing of the sort, only took the bag and inclined her head slightly at Lina. “Thank you,” she croaked.
“You’re welcome,” Lina said with a smile, but the filthy woman’s rheumy blue eyes had turned to study me.
I tensed under the heaviness of her gaze. Her eyes may have been clouded with cataracts, but they looked as lucid as Lina’s. Most of the people roaming the streets were either on something or reeling from some lack of medication they needed. It was easy to tell when they weren’t seeing you from the same level of reality.
This woman’s eyes drilled into me. I felt a throb in my skull, on the upper right side where my bones had knitted together over the crack. I resisted the urge to put a hand to my head and cringe.
“You have a nice day,” Lina said to the woman, a bit of uneasiness creeping into her tone. She saw the way the woman looked at—no, into—me.
“You too, darling,” the woman said, her eyes never pulling away from my face. “The King comes. Look for the Yellow Sign.”
Then her dirt-streaked face cracked into a smile, as if I’d just told her she was beautiful.
Without another word, I felt Lina’s hand slide into mine. I let her pull me on our way down the street. I wasn’t thinking about the germs from the dog or the travel-sized hand sanitizer ready in my other palm. I was hearing what she’d just said ringing in my ears like a gong. The King comes. Look for the Yellow Sign.
People living on the streets mumbled all sorts of odd things. I’d seen many proselytizing on street corners, ranting about utter nonsense with the conviction of a southern Baptist preacher.
It wasn’t the words that stuck with me. It was how she’d said them. Full of earnestness, not a desperate insistence. More a statement of an obvious fact. As if Lina had asked what kind of dog Constance was, and she’d responded ‘chihuahua’.
The remark had no lasting impact on Lina. As we put more and more distance between ourselves and the woman, heading toward Howard where the car was parked, she was already talking animatedly about our upcoming weekend trip to Cour d’Alene. I resisted the urge to glance back at the woman with the pink hat.
Somehow, I knew that if I looked back, I’d see those unnervingly lucid blue eyes still trained directly on my own.
~~~
The next day, I saw the woman with the pink hat again. She was seated on the sidewalk in front of my office building, Constance the chihuahua tied to the handicap parking sign beside her.
She hadn’t been there on my way in that morning. But she was there now, the sight of her stopping me dead in my tracks as I walked out the front doors with Nick, my manager.
I froze as I saw her. Her back was turned to me. The right side of my head began to throb as I looked at her.
“You okay?” Nick asked when he realized I wasn’t still walking beside him.
I almost wanted to tell him to be quiet. If the woman turned around and saw me, recognized me, I knew that stare would root me to the spot, unable to move.
“Yeah,” I said under my breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He gave me an odd glance, then decided my strangeness was nothing he needed to worry about. We were off the clock, anyways. He bid me goodnight and waved, heading toward the side parking lot.
I stayed where I was, watching the woman for any sign that she knew I was there. Her back was ramrod straight—almost unnaturally so. As if she was attentive. Waiting.
Constance the chihuahua slept with her snout on her paws, oblivious to my presence. I was grateful for it. The dog might’ve alerted her to my presence, given its apparent friendly nature.
But Constance slept on, and the woman didn’t move. I crept slowly toward the side of the building where the bike rack was, keeping my gaze on her at all times. I didn’t turn my back on her as I bent down and took off my bike lock, glancing up every few seconds to make sure she hadn’t moved.
I stuffed my bike lock in my bag and rolled it out of the rack, the spokes clicking all too loud across the nearly-deserted sidewalk. My office was tucked into a curve in the street with trees on all sides. Not totally hidden, but not so tucked away that there wasn’t ever foot traffic going by.
That afternoon, nobody strolled past. I didn’t even see any cars driving by.
Without taking my eyes from the woman, I mounted my bike and pushed up the kickstand. I would have to turn my back on her to ride away toward home, something I didn’t want to do.
Not at all.
But it couldn’t be helped. Besides, this was just a homeless woman with a dog. What could she possibly do to me?
Put you in the hospital for two weeks, my mind said. The thought made my head throb harder, and I realized a migraine was coming on. I’d started getting them after the injury. When they grew to full force, I became nearly immobile. I needed to get home now, or I wouldn’t even be able to ride my bike.
Just go. She hasn’t even looked your way.
I steeled myself, taking several deep breaths. With each inhale, the pounding in my head was like a hammer strike.
Get home now or you’ll be stuck here, blinded and incapacitated with her right beside you.
I pushed off, turning to the right. My skin crawled as I put my back to the woman.
“Look for the Yellow Sign.”
I didn’t stop when I heard her scratchy voice. I pumped my legs hard, fleeing as fast as my body would allow.
~~~
She sat outside my office building in the evenings most days of the week after that. I watched her like a hawk every time, refusing to turn my back on her and Constance as I unlocked my bike. Sometimes, Constance was awake, but she never jumped at me. Just watched me with solid black eyes. The woman didn’t speak to me again after that first time, but she didn’t need to. I couldn’t forget what she’d said even if I wanted to.
Look for the Yellow Sign.
The way she’d said it, she seemed to stress the importance of the last two words. As if, when spelled out, the first letters would be capitalized. Yellow Sign.
She never moved, never did anything to outwardly antagonize me, but all the same, I complained to Nick about her presence.
“She’s not doing anything,” he said in response when I brought it up. “I’m not going to send security after her for just trying to exist.”
How could I explain to him that she was doing something—scaring me? It had gotten to the point where my heart rate would speed up as the end of the workday came close. Knowing I’d have to go out there and walk behind her, putting my back to her as I rode away for home.
It wasn’t that she did something to me. It was merely her repeated and uncanny presence that unnerved me so much. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that she’d shown up here, at my place of work, the day after Lina gave her that ramen.
“She freaks me out,” I said weakly to Nick. “Can’t you at least ask her to move where I don’t have to—” I cut off, biting off the words turn my back to her. “Where I don’t have to see her every day?”
Nick’s face darkened. “I’m sorry the existence of unhoused people is upsetting to you, but that’s not enough cause to disturb the woman.” Judgment radiated off him like heat, and I flushed in embarrassment. I let the subject drop.
My anxiety at the end of each workday grew worse and worse. Eventually, it started triggering migraines around three o’clock every day. I had to take four Advil before they took hold, or I wouldn’t be able to ride home. I’d learned that the hard way, being forced to resort to ordering an Uber for the 5 minute drive home one day. I’d had to explain when Lina asked where my bike was.
It’s how I knew I couldn’t try to explain any of this to her. If Nick thought I was a stuck-up elitist turning up my nose at homeless people, what would Lina think of my complaint? Sure, she would know it wasn’t about how the woman lived on the streets, but she wouldn’t understand what scared me so much about the woman. The way she sat so still, as though she was waiting for something. Waiting for me to come out every day.
So I didn’t tell Lina about my fear of the woman. I thought if I didn’t continue to make an issue out of it, maybe she’d go away. She would have to find a new place to set up eventually, anyway. If it rained or the gusts blew, there would be no cover where she sat by the handicap sign. If anything, she’d have to move over to the trees around the building.
Comforting myself with this thought, I went to work every day, took my four Advil at 2:45, and said nothing further.
That worked for a few weeks. Until I found the book.
~~~
Lina and I had been regular patrons at Petunia & Loomis for years. It was one of our regular stops when we went out for a shopping day downtown. There was always something new and unusual to see in there, given that it was an oddities shop. They sold everything from taxidermy to tarot cards. I’d even bought my dad a ‘haunted doll’ from a bin there a few years back as a joke gift.
My favorite section, though, was always the books.
In a little corner by the window was a small smattering of books for sale at ridiculously good prices. They had tons of Stephen King, both paperback and hardcover, not to mention books on paganism, witchcraft, and a few lovely cookbooks. I made sure to check that shelf every time we came, as I had a decent hardcover King collection going.
I miss those days. When I felt I could take my time perusing shops, going at a leisurely pace walking down Howard street, carrying both mine and Lina’s purchases in canvas tote bags. But Lina’s gone now, as is any money I might use to buy books.
It was on a rare solo trip to Petunia & Loomis that I came across the book.
I’d been granted an extended lunch that day, as we’d had an internet outage just as I sat back down at my desk after eating. Nick had released us all to do as we pleased, on the promise that we’d return when he called to tell us the connection had been fixed.
With no other ideas to spend my time, I found myself pulling open the front door of the oddities shop, the scent of leather and incense filling my nose with comfortable familiarity. The owner saw me and waved.
“Where’s your girl?” He called to me conversationally.
“Home,” I responded with a friendly smile. “I’m just on break.”
“You should check out the box of clowns we just got,” he told me. “Some really good ones in there.”
I laughed. “I definitely will, thanks.”
I gave the center display a brief glance-over, then made my way to that corner by the window where the books were kept.
Most of the titles were new; I hadn’t been in the shop in over a month. There was a hardcover of Firestarter, which I was sorely tempted by, as it looked to be in better shape than the one I had back at home. I was reaching out to check the interior condition when my eyes landed on the book.
It was old. The cover was that ancient-looking brown canvas, the words of the spine stamped in shiny gold letters. The edges were frayed and battered. But it wasn’t the book’s condition that made me stop, my heart rate ticking up.
It was the title scrawled down the spine. The King in Yellow.
There was no author, no publisher, nothing on the spine but the title. I pulled it off the shelf with a hand that had started to shake.
The cover was simple, a gold etching of a man in a cape. It was worn with age, and much of the gold ink had rubbed off. The title crawled across the top of the cover, and again, there was no author, publisher, or any other content aside from the title and that gold etching of the man.
I heard the woman with the pink hat’s matter-of-fact voice ring in my head. The King comes. Look for the Yellow Sign.
I almost dropped the book, but a glance back at the counter showed that the owner was watching me with casual interest. I gave him a shaky smile and cracked open the book, feigning interest. Though actually reading that book was the last thing I wanted to do in the world.
But, like trying to ignore a catchy tune playing over a store’s speakers, my eyes caught on the words of the pages against my will.
I read, and I read, and I understood that I was standing there for probably way too long to be proper. I was in a shop, not a library. The hand holding the book ached to close it, to cut off the stream of words slipping inside my head like invisible parasites.
Eventually, a voice at my side startled me so badly I jumped, nearly dropping the book.
“Good book?” It was the owner. He had the look of someone trying their best to be polite.
It broke the spell. I closed the book, the sound of the pages smacking together almost seeming to echo in my head. The right side of my skull began to ache dully, as if from a distance.
“Yeah, sorry. Where—where did you get it?” I held it up for him to see.
He shrugged. “Hard to say. Jenette bought a bunch of books at an estate sale last weekend. That’s where that Firestarter came from. Could’ve been part of that lot.”
I nodded. I wanted nothing more than to put the book back on the shelf and walk away. Maybe check out the clown figurines he’d mentioned. Get on with my day, head back to work for a few more hours when Nick inevitably called us all back.
But I couldn’t. When I imagined the weight of the book going out of my hands, the dull ache in my skull pulsed with sudden intensity, as though I’d been struck by lightning. I doubled over and cried out, one hand going to my head.
“Whoa, you okay?” The owner asked, alarmed.
I gritted my teeth. When I tucked the book under my arm, the pain abated quickly. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve got a migraine coming on.”
“Oh, alright. No clowns for you today, I’m guessing?” He joked.
I tried to smile, but the weight of the book under my arm seemed to pull on the edges of my mouth. “I should probably head back.”
“Just the book for you, then?”
I didn’t want to take the time to be rung up at the counter, but I also found myself afraid of what might happen if I tried to set the book down again. It seemed to be watching me, that golden man on the cover with his cape looking at me with knowing eyes.
The King comes. Look for the Yellow Sign.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll take the book,” I said.
~~~
I called out of work the next three days.
Lina seemed to accept my explanation of a stomach bug without any challenge. I hated to lie to her, but there was no helping it.
I couldn’t stop reading The King in Yellow.
When I took breaks to use the bathroom or grab food from the kitchen, it itched at the back of my mind like bugs under my skin. On my second day home, I tried to take a shower and ended up fleeing the bathroom, drenched in water and shivering, running for the book on my nightstand and feeling like I could only breathe again when I had it open in my hands.
I remember little else about those three days. I’m sure Lina checked on me, though I couldn’t remember it happening. She slept on the couch so she wouldn’t catch my imaginary illness. I didn’t mind; it allowed me to keep the light on late into the night so I could read.
I read The King in Yellow front to back five times in those three days. The moment I reached the last page, I flipped back to the very beginning without even a pause. My back hurt from laying in bed all day, and my knuckles started to go numb. I realized I’d been holding the two sides of the book in a vice grip.
Finally, the fifth time I reached the last page, I let the book fall closed. I had it now. Committed to memory. It was as familiar to me as a song I’d heard a hundred times.
I did not sleep that night. I lay there, still, thinking about the King and the future that I now knew would be here any day.
~~~
When I returned to work the following Monday, my attitude toward the woman in the pink hat had completely flipped. I wanted her there. I hoped to see her. I needed to speak with her.
But when I came out the front doors that afternoon, she wasn’t there. Neither was Constance the chihuahua.
In the place she always sat was a piece of graffiti. The fresh yellow paint gleamed in the summer sun. Despite having never seen it before, I knew it at once.
The Yellow Sign.
~~~
The woman with the pink hat never came back.
~~~
Lina, as I said, had a good heart. She was always too good for me. It took a lot for her to finally go.
She stood by me through the nights without sleep, even letting me keep the light on. She bought a sleep mask.
She covered more of the bills as I missed more and more days of work. She went out for groceries and brought me back things that she thought I would like.
She thought I was depressed, or experiencing the onset of some sort of illness. BPD, agoraphobia, whatever it was that she used to rationalize my frequent inability to leave the apartment.
But it wasn’t any of those things. I wish it had been. I wish so strongly that I could’ve stayed ignorant, safe in the dark, not knowing the things I do now.
But it was not to be. The woman with the pink hat, somehow, brought me to the book. And the book brought me to understanding.
It was that understanding that prevented me from going outside. Now that I knew what to look for, I realized that He was everywhere. Watching. Watching all of us through the Yellow Signs.
They looked different every time, no one artist painting them exactly the same. But they were always yellow, and I could always feel Him watching me through them. I saw them painted on junked cars, in alleys behind dumpsters, on billboards. Once, I saw it hidden in an impressionist painting of a lion at an art show I’d attended with Lina. She’d escorted me into our Uber, pale-faced and shaking. She’d asked me what had affected me so strongly, and I only remember mumbling something about the King.
That was when she suggested I see somebody.
I resisted, giving vague assurances that I was feeling better, that I was improving with each day. But I found I could leave the apartment less and less the more I tried to assure her. I grew pale and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. I lost weight, and I began to shiver even with the heat turned up.
Lina left when I painted the inside of the windows black. But there was no helping it; somebody had painted a Sign on the fence visible through our living room window. I knew they’d done it on purpose. The King knew I was trying to hide from him.
After Lina took her things, crying, and left for her parents’ in Post Falls, I started to feel a little better. Now there was nobody to worry over me, nobody to beg me to go out for dinner, to a show, to the gas station down the street. Nobody to look at me like I might dissolve in a strong wind.
It was a relief, no matter how much I loved her.
~~~
Nick let me go a month ago. My attendance issue had become too much for his higher-ups to ignore. I didn’t blame him.
It’s also a relief, actually. Now there is nobody expecting anything of me.
I often think about what will happen when my landlord finally comes in person to serve my eviction notice. He won’t be happy about the windows painted black. He might already have noticed them from outside.
I wouldn’t know. I don’t go out there anymore except when I need food. Not where He can track my every movement.
My days are spent reading The King in Yellow by flamelight. My phone died a day after the electricity shut off, and I had to scurry to the gas station on the corner to stock up on food and Bic lighters, my hands held to the sides of my head like blinders on a cart horse. Every second I was out of the safety of the apartment, I felt my skin burn with His attentions. I almost thought I could hear Him laughing at me from His place high in the heavens.
It’s already getting cold at night. I don’t know what I’ll do when winter hits in full force. I’m sure I’ll be out on the streets by then. Maybe I’ll search the city for the lady with the pink hat. She and Constance can show me the best places to get warm in the winter.
I remember the dread and wariness I used to feel around the homeless wandering around downtown. When I do, the right side of my head aches as if from somewhere far away. But the migraines stopped after I painted the windows.
Sometimes I imagine myself this coming winter, hunched in front of Nudo and hoping somebody will come out with leftovers they don’t need, still warm in the paper soup cup. Maybe somebody like Lina.
Maybe I’ll tell them about the King. I won’t be able to escape His sight, then, forced to live out there. He’ll be able to watch me all the time then.
I’m sure that’s what He’s wanted all along.
Well, I hope you had fun with that. If you’re familiar with The King in Yellow and maybe my own work, there’s a chance you noticed a few things.
First, the structure and plot I ended up following for this story is actually quite similar to my short story Bricks, originally published in Tumbleweird (read it for free here if you want) and also found in Losing Air. I didn’t necessarily make it an intentional choice, but it’s where my brain settled after I decided I wanted to do The King in Yellow. I love an unreliable narrator and a descent into unreality.
Second, I took inspiration and elements from a few of the stories in The King in Yellow (obviously). Most outright was the use of the Yellow Sign, taken from the story of the same name. I have a theory that the concept of the Yellow Sign may have originated with Chambers and had indirect influence on Tolkien creating the Eye of Sauron, which in turn influenced King with his Sigul of the Crimson King. Also borrowed from “The Yellow Sign” is the element of the creepy person out on the street who always seems to be there waiting for our character (the woman in the pink hat).
I also followed some conceits from “The Repairer of Reputations”, mainly the use of that unreliable narrator (suffering the head trauma in the past was borrowed from Hildred Castaigne) and the character’s obsession with a mysterious work titled ‘The King in Yellow’, about which we are never told much at all. Also, I named the chihuahua after the character of Constance just for goofs and gaffs.
You probably also noticed that the story takes place in and heavily features places found in Spokane. This wasn’t even something I had to think about; Spokane was a clear fit for the puzzle pieces that had formed in my mind. I’ve spent much time in Spokane throughout my life, and while the unhoused population has always been a tragic issue, I’ve noticed in the past few years that it seems to have gotten much worse quite quickly. And also, if you’re gonna find a creepy mysterious book that drives you mad, you’re probably gonna find it at Petunia & Loomis.
Last thing before I let you go (I know this has been a long one): the opening scene in which Lina decides to give away her ramen leftovers is stolen directly from a lunch I had with Saige at Nudo Ramen House. We ate there during Get Lit! 2026 and enjoyed the food immensely, but we found ourselves with no convenient way to deal with our leftovers. My car was still at the Les Schwab (if you remember my ordeal), thus we had nowhere convenient to safely store food while we attended the convention. We both agreed that the best solution would be to give the food to someone on the street who needed it. The difference, however, is that we were both too shy to actually do so. Lina was created as the person I figured would have no problem with that.
I’d love to know your thoughts on the story, and if you’ve read Chambers’ collection, whether you think my adaptation captured the spirit of the original work.
Monthly Writing Goals Update
21,161 / 20,000 words
While I’ve been struggling with confidence in my novel projects lately, I have been able to peck away at them a bit these last few weeks. I get new project ideas like a Persian cat gets poop stuck in its butt fur, so of course I started something new this week.
If you’re itching to read something else from me after this (hopefully ok) attempt at The King in Yellow, stay tuned for next week’s post. I have an announcement. 🙂
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