Stephen King. Bag of bones (№ 457879)

The sun was just setting towards the horizon. You know what the sun looks like at the end of a hot August day, orange and somehow flattened, as if an invisible hand is pressing it from above and it is about to burst, like a blood-drunk mosquito, spilling the contents of its stomach across the entire horizon. In the east, where the sky had already darkened, thunder rumbled. But it never rained that night, only darkness enveloped the city like a thick, hot blanket.