Chapter 34 1408

Author's note: As with the ever-popular burial story, every horror/suspense writer should write at least one story about a haunted hotel room.This novel is my kind of story, the only thing unusual about it is that I didn't intend to finish it.I wrote only three or four pages as an appendix to The Horror of Petting, and I wanted to show the reader how to revise the first draft.At first I wanted to give an example of the principle of bullshit writing in that book, but something good happened: the story was seducing me, so I wrote it all out.I think different people are afraid of different things (for example, I've never understood why the Peruvian tree snake makes some people creepy), and I was terrified by it while writing this story.It was originally released as part of the audiobook "Smoke and Blood" and it sounded even scarier and scared the hell out of me in the audiobook.Hotel rooms are inherently creepy, don't you think so?I mean, how many people slept in that bed before you, and how many of them got sick?How many people have gone crazy?How many people might want to read the last few verses of the bible in the nightstand drawer and hang themselves in the wardrobe next to the TV?Heh, let's go and see anyway, shall we?Here's the key...you can take a moment to notice what those four innocent numbers (1, 4, 0, 8) add up to.

It's at the end of the corridor. Mike Enslin was still in the turnstile when he saw Orin, the manager of the Dolphin Hotel, sitting on an upholstered chair in the lobby.His heart sank. Maybe I should bring a lawyer, he thought.Alas, it is too late now.Even if Orin decided to put one or two more obstacles between Mike and room 1408, it wouldn't be so bad, there would be compensation. Orin, who was walking across the lobby when Mike came out of the turnstile, extended a fat hand to shake his.The Dolphin Hotel is on 61st Street, not far from 50th Street, a small but stylish hotel.As he shifted the valise to his other hand to shake Orin's, a man and woman in evening gowns passed him.The woman was blond, dressed in black, and her light floral perfume seemed to sum up New York best.In the bar on the mezzanine, someone was playing "Day and Night."

"Mr. Enslin, good evening." "Mr. Orin, what's the matter?" Orin looked pained, and he looked around the small, stylish lobby as if asking for help.At the door, a man was discussing theater tickets with his wife, and the doorman watched them with a patient smile.At the front desk, a disheveled man who had obviously been in business class for a long time, was discussing booking a room with a woman in black stylish clothes.Everything is as usual.Everyone can be helped, except poor Mr. Orlin, who has fallen under the clutches of the writer Enslin. "Mr. Orlin?" Mike reminded him.

"Mr. Enslin, may I invite you into my office for a moment?" Ok, why not, it could add to the writing about Room 1408, set the ominous tone for readers eager to read his new book, and not just that.Mike Enslin hadn't been aware of Orlin's concerns despite reading a lot of background information, and now he did.Olin was really afraid of room 1408, and also worried that something might happen to Mike tonight. "Of course, Mr. Orin." Olin graciously reached out to help Mike carry the bag, "Let me do it." "I can mention it. There's nothing in it, just a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush."

"real?" "Really," Mike said, "I've got my lucky Hawaiian shirt on." He laughed. "It's good for exorcism." Orin sighed instead of laughing, and the stocky man in a black tuxedo and a neat bow tie said, "Very well, Mr. Enslin, please follow me." The hotel manager seemed hesitant, almost bewildered, in the lobby.And in his oak-panelled office, there seems to be a renewed confidence.There are a few photos of the hotel on the walls of the office (the Dolphin Hotel has been open since 1910, and Mike could have written about it in a book without looking up newspapers and magazines about the city's past, but he did), Persian rugs on the floor, Two floor lamps emit a soft yellow light. On the desk is a desk lamp with a diamond-shaped lampshade. Next to it is a humidor with three of Mike's latest books on it.Of course they are all paperbacks, he has never released a hardcover.Mike thought, My hosts are doing research too.

Mike sat at his desk, expecting Orin to sit in the chair behind his desk, but Orin surprised him.He sat in the chair next to Mike, crossed his legs, and leaned over to reach the cigar box. "Does Mr. Enslin smoke?" "No thanks, I don't smoke." Orin's eyes shifted to the cigarette stuck out of Mike's right ear, the cigarette sticking out like the one that the funny-talking reporter used to wear on his soft felt hat.The cigarette had become so much a part of him that Mike didn't know what Orin was looking at, and then he smiled, took the cigarette off, looked at it, and looked at Orin again.

"I haven't smoked in nine years," he said. "I had a brother who died of lung cancer, and I quit after that. Cigarettes in my ears..." He shrugged. "I think part of it was for cool, Part of it is superstition, like the Hawaiian shirt. Or like some people put their cigarettes in a small box that says 'break glass in an emergency' and put it on the desk or on the wall. Is it okay to smoke in room 1408, Olin Sir? I'd like to smoke a cigarette in the event of a nuclear war." "It's a smoking room." "Well," said Mike cheerfully, "one less thing to worry about at night watch."

Orin sighed again, but without the melancholy he had sighed in the lobby.Yes, this is the office, Mike thought, this is Orin's office, his own place.Even this afternoon, when Mike brought his lawyer to meet him, he seemed calmer in the office.Of course, if you can't control the situation in your own territory, where can you do it?Orin's office has some nice pictures on the walls, good quality carpet on the floor and good quality cigars in the humidor.From 1910 onwards, many managers no doubt had a lot of business here.It operates in its own way, like New York City, like the blond woman in the black off-the-shoulder dress and the smell of her perfume, and her ambiguous commitment to sex in the early hours of her New York glamor.

"You still don't think I can talk you out of the idea, do you?" Orin asked. "I know you can't," Mike said, clipping the cigarette back to his ear.He doesn't gloss his hair with pomade like the writers in colorful fedoras, but he still changes his cigarettes as much as his underwear every day.The backs of the ears tend to sweat easily, and before you throw an entire unsmokable cigarette down the toilet at the end of the day, you can see the yellowish sweat stain on the thin white paper of the cigarette, which will take away his urge to smoke.Nearly 20 years of smoking history - 30 cigarettes a day, sometimes 40 cigarettes, has gone away from him.He didn't know why he smoked so much at that time.

Olin picked up the small stack of paperbacks, "I really hope you give up." Michael unzipped the side pocket of his travel bag and pulled out a Sony interview recorder. "Mr. Orlin, do you mind if I record our conversation?" Olin waved his hand, Mike pressed the record button, the red indicator light came on, and the tape began to rotate. Orin was now slowly scanning the stack of books, reading the titles.When Mike saw other people reading his books, he always had a strange and mixed feeling: pride, anxiety, happiness, contempt and shame.Now he has nothing to be ashamed of, and those books have allowed him to live well for the past five years without having to share the profits with the packers (his agent calls the packers "book whores," perhaps with some jealousy).Only a fool would miss The Packer after his first book was a hit. After Frankenstein, what else is there to do but Bride of Frankenstein?

He still went to Iowa to do research with Jenny Smiley.He also worked in a research group with Stanley Elgin, and he aspired to write a book of poetry and become a young poet at Yale (no one in his circle of close friends or acquaintances knew this).When the hotel manager began to read the titles aloud, Mike regretted prodding Olin with the tape recorder.Then he heard Orin's steady tone, and imagined contempt in it.He unconsciously reached out to touch the cigarette on his ear. "Ten Nights in Ten Haunted Houses," Orin read, "Ten Nights in Ten Haunted Graveyards, Ten Nights in Ten Haunted Castles." He looked up at Mike with a faint smile on his lips , "Go to Scotland with that purpose, let alone the Vienna Woods, and everything is tax-deductible, right? It's your job to investigate haunted places." "What's your opinion?" "You're sensitive to these things, aren't you?" Orin asked. "Sensitive, but not vulnerable. If you're trying to persuade me to leave your hotel by reviewing my book—" "No, not at all, I'm just curious. I sent Marcel, the day doorman, to buy these books two days ago, when you first came here to make a request." "It's a need, not a request, and it still is. You've heard lawyer Mr. Robertson say about the new New York criminal law, not to mention those two federal civil rights laws, you don't have the right to deny me a room if I want a certain A specific room and it's empty. Room 1408 is unoccupied, room 1408 is empty these days." But Mr. Orlin's attention was not diverted from Mike's three books (all on the New York Times bestseller list), and he glanced at them for the third time.The soft light reflected off the thin lampshade, showing the purple of the book cover.Purple sells horror books better than any other color, someone told Mike in the past. "I didn't get a chance to look at the books until early tonight," Orin said. "I've been very busy, usually. Our Dolphin Hotel is a small hotel by New York standards, but we have 90 % occupancy and every guest has a problem to solve.” "like me." Orin smiled slightly, "Your problem is a bit special, you and your Mr. Robertson, and all your threats." Mike was angry again.He threatened no one, unless Mr. Robertson himself was a threat.He was compelled to involve a lawyer in the matter, just as a man might be compelled to use a crowbar to break a rusted box lock because the key no longer worked on it. That locked box is not yours, said a voice in his head, but state law and national law say otherwise.The law stipulates that he can live in room 1408 of the Dolphin Hotel if he wants to, as long as there is no occupancy in advance. He knew Orin was looking at him, still with that faint smile, as if he was reading Mike's mental activity word by word.It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Mike thought it was an unexpected, unpleasant conversation.He seemed to be on the defensive ever since he pulled out the interview tape recorder (which is usually threatening) and started recording. "Mr. Orlin, I'm afraid I don't see the point of talking about this. I'm tired today, and if our argument about room 1408 is indeed over, I want to go upstairs and—" "I read a...er, what do you call them, essays? Stories?" Payers, Mike called them, but he didn't want to say it on recording, not even if the tape was his own. "Story," Orin said firmly, "I've read a story in every book, and 'The House of Rilsby, Kansas' in the Haunted House book—" "Ah, yes, ax murder." The guy who chopped Eugene Rilsby's family of six with the ax has never been caught. "Exactly. And the one where you spent a night camping at the cemetery of the suicidal couple in Alaska - people keep saying you saw it in Sitka - and your one at Gotby Castle. Those are really good Interesting and surprising to me." Mike strained his ears, carefully picking up that vague sense of contempt he felt for the Ten Night Talks series, in his very mild reviews.No doubt he heard no contempt.Mike found that no one in the world was as paranoid as a writer who firmly believed he was doing fieldwork, but he didn't believe Orin wasn't scornful. "Thanks," he said. "I guess the readers will think so." He glanced at the interview tape recorder.Usually, the little red-eye indicator light of the tape recorder is staring at someone to see if he dares to say the wrong thing.And tonight it seemed to be looking at Mike himself. "Oh, yes, I admire it." Olin patted the stack of books, "I want to finish...but I read writing, and I like writing. Saw what you did at Gotby Castle I actually laughed during the non-paranormal adventures; I was surprised to see you as a human being, indeed sensitive. I thought it would be full of tyranny." Mike bit the bullet and listened to Olin. This was Olin's disguised persuasion of "what's a good girl like you doing in this kind of place?"Orin, the polite hotel manager who entertains women in evening gowns out for the night, hires tall, thin retired men in tuxedos to play old songs like "Day and Night" in the hotel bar, and he probably watches Punk after get off work at night. Rust's work. "But those books are annoying. If I hadn't read them, I don't think I would have bothered to wait for you. I knew you were going to be in the damn room when I saw the lawyer with the briefcase. What did I say It won't dissuade you either. But these books..." Mike reached over and turned the recorder off...the red eyes made him uncomfortable. "You want to know why I do this, don't you?" "I think you're doing it for the money," said Orin gently. "You've taken a lot of risk, at least I reckon...but it's interesting how quickly you came to that conclusion—" Mike's cheeks were hot.No, it was not at all what he had expected to be, and he never turned off the tape recorder during the conversation.Orin didn't look the same as before.Mike thought I was being led astray by his hands, fat little hands with well-manicured nails, white and neat crescents. "What concerns me—and surprises me—is that I find myself reading a book by an intelligent, talented author who doesn't believe what he's writing." Mike doesn't think that's quite true, having written more than 20 stories he believes in and has published a few.During his first 18 months in New York, he wrote so much poetry that he believed in it that the Village Voice was not paying him at the time.But does he believe that Eugene Rilsby's headless ghost appears in moonlight at his deserted Kansas farmhouse?Believe it or not, he spent the night in the farmhouse, sleeping on a pile of dirty linoleum in the farmhouse kitchen, and the worst thing he saw was two mice scurrying along the skirting boards.He spent a hot summer night on the ruins of a Transylvanian castle, where the vampire Vander Teppens is said to still haunt.But the only vampires he saw at the time were a swarm of European mosquitoes.On the night of camping next to the grave of serial killer Jeffrey Damon, a blood-stained white figure rushed towards him from the dark with a knife after 2 o'clock in the morning, but the ghost actor's friends giggled A flaw was revealed.In short, Mike Enslin was not frightened. When he saw the white figure, he knew it was a teenager wielding a rubber knife.But he had no intention of telling Olin this; he could not afford the time. Unless he can afford it.The tape recorder was put away again (he now knew he had been wrong from the start), and the meeting was supposed to be informal.He also grew to admire Orin in a strange way.When you admire someone, you tell him the truth. "No," he said, "I don't believe in ghouls, goblins, or longlegs, and it's a good thing there's no such thing in the room. Because if there were, I don't believe any good homeowner could protect Us, that's what I believe in. But I'm not preoccupied with stuff like this in the first place, and my investigation of the barking ghost in Mount Hope Cemetery might not win a Pulitzer, but if it does, I'll write about it truthfully. " Orin muttered something, but the voice was too small for Mike to hear. "what did you say?" "I don't believe it." Olin looked at him almost apologetically. Mike sighed, and Orin thought he was lying.At this point, the only thing to do is to raise your fist, or end the discussion. "Why don't we talk another day, Mr. Orlin? I want to go upstairs and brush my teeth. Maybe I'll see Kevin O'Malley behind me in the mirror." Mike was about to get up from his chair when Orin stopped him with his fat, manicured hands. "I didn't say you were lying," he said, "but you don't believe it, Mr. Enslin. And ghosts seldom appear to people who don't believe in them, and when they do they don't see them. Then Eugene Rilsby Probably rolled his severed head all the way into his front hall and you didn't hear a thing!" Mike stood up, then bent down and grabbed the travel bag: "If this is the case, I don't have to worry about room 1408, do I?" "But you'd worry," Orin said, "you would, although there were no ghosts in room 1408, no one had ever seen them. But there was something—I felt it myself—that wasn't just a spiritual presence. In a deserted house or an old castle your disbelief protects you but in room 1408 it only makes you more vulnerable. Don't go Mr Enslin that's why I'm waiting for you tonight please , please don't live in it. Writers like you who write real ghost stories that are adventurous and entertaining are number one among all the people who shouldn't live in that room." Mike was listening, but not listening.He was yelling in his heart, I turned off the tape recorder, he made me turn off the tape recorder embarrassingly.Then he turned into Boris Carlover, the host of "Star-studded Ghost Weekend".Damn, I'm going to put him in the book, and if he doesn't like it, let him sue. He felt a sudden urgency to go upstairs, not to begin a long night in the hotel room around the corner, but because he wanted to write down what Orin had just said before he could remember. "Have a drink, Mr Enslin." "No, I did—" Mr. Orlin drew a key with a long brass medal from his coat pocket.The bronze medal looked old, dull and badly worn.It has the number 1408 raised on it. "Please, give me a break. Give me ten minutes, a little Scotch, and I'll give you this key. I'd give almost anything to change your mind, but when I see this key, I There will always be a recognition that this is inevitable." "You still use the key here?" Mike asked. "It has a nice feel to it, like an antique." "Mr. Enslin, the Dolphin Hotel has used the magnetic card system since 1979, the year I became the manager. Room 1408 is the only keyed room in the house, and there is no need for a magnetic card lock on its door, because It is unoccupied and the last occupant was in 1978." "You liar!" Mike sat down again, took out the tape recorder, pressed the record button, and said, "The hotel manager Olin claimed that no guest has stayed in room 1408 in the past 20 years." "1408 doesn't need a magnetic card lock as I'm absolutely sure it won't work there. The digital watch doesn't work in 1408, sometimes it goes backwards, sometimes it just stops, and it doesn't even when it's not in that room Same. Calculators and cell phones are the same. If you have a pager, I suggest you turn it off, because it will ring at any time once you enter room 1408." He paused. It will turn on automatically. The only way to ensure that it will not ring is to take out the battery." Mike pressed the stop button of the tape recorder without looking at it. He wanted to record the conversation in a familiar way, "Actually, Mr. Enslin, the only The safest way is not to live in that room." "I can't live," Mike said, putting away the tape recorder, "but I think I can take a moment to drink." A turn-of-the-century painting of 50th Street hangs above the bar cabinet.As Orin was pouring drinks in the smoked oak bar cabinet, Mike asked him how he knew the high-tech gadgets couldn't be used if the room hadn't been occupied since 1978. "I didn't say no one's been in that room since 1978," Orin replied. "First of all, the attendant goes in once a month to turn on the lights. That means—" "I know what it means to turn on the lights," said Mike, who is currently writing Ten Haunted Hotel Rooms for four months.To "turn on the light" in an unoccupied room means to open the windows for ventilation; dust off; put enough toilet cleaning tablets in the toilet tank to turn the water blue; change the towels.Maybe the sheets weren't changed, the lights weren't turned on.He wondered if he should bring a sleeping bag.Olin walked over from the bar cabinet with a wine glass, and he seemed to read his thoughts from Mike's face, "The sheets were just changed this afternoon, Mr. Enslin." "Why not be casual and call me Mike." "I'm not used to that," Orin said, handing the glass to Mike. "Here you are." "I wish you..." Mike raised his glass and wanted to clink glasses with Orin, but Orin took his cup back. "No, Mr. Enslin, I wish you well. You and I shall drink to you tonight. You want some wine." Mike sighed, touched Orin's with the rim of his glass, and said, "For me. In a horror movie you'd be at home right now, maybe playing the sad old butler, telling young couples not to go to Castle of Doom. " Orin sat down. "Thank God, I don't play this role very often. Room 1408 isn't listed as a collection of supernatural areas or strange physical phenomenon hotspots—" That will change when my book comes out, Mike thought, taking a sip of his drink. "The Dolphin Hotel is not a base for ghost-seeking tourism. Although people have been to haunted places such as Shoreland, Grand Place, Lane Park, etc., we try not to publicize the secret of room 1408... Of course, for the lucky and persistent Its history is always there for researchers." Mike smiled. "Veronique changed the sheets," Orin said. "I accompanied her, and you should be honored. Mr. Enslin, this is almost ceremoniously changing your sheets. Veronique and her sister in 1971 or 1972 I came to the Dolphin Hotel as a waiter in 1999. We all call her 'Vie'. She is the longest-serving employee in the hotel. She is six years older than me and has been in the position of supervisor. I guess she hasn't changed jobs for six years. The sheets work, but she used to do it in room 1408. She and her sister did it until 1992. Veronique and Celeste are twin sisters, and their relationship seems to make them... how Say? Not immune to Room 1408, but pretty much, at least for the time it takes to turn on the lights in the room." "You're not going to tell me that Veronique's sister died in that room?" "No, that's not the case," Orin said. "She quit working around 1988, but I don't rule out that room 1408 may have been partly responsible for her mental and physical deterioration." "We seem to be on good terms, but I think what you're saying is ridiculous, and I hope I won't spoil that rapport." Olin laughed, "People who study supernatural phenomena are so practical." "I have a duty to my readers," Mike said quietly. "I think I can leave room 1408 unoccupied day and night," said the hotel manager thoughtfully. The breakfast menu on the doorknob. . . . but I can't stand the air in the room becoming stagnant, like the air in an attic, allowing the flying dust to accumulate in the room until it's so thick it looks shaggy. What makes me In this way, am I being picky, or is it just a dead end?" "That trait makes you a hotel manager." "Maybe. In short, Wei and Xi tidy up that room, and come out as soon as they go in, until Xi retires from illness and Wei is promoted for the first time. After that, I send other waiters to tidy up two by two, and I always choose the two who get along well. a waiter." "I hope to use a good relationship to fight ghosts." "Hopefully on good terms, yes. You can joke all you want about the ghost in room 1408, Mr Enslin, but you'll feel it right away, I'm sure of that. Whatever's in that room, it's not shy at all. " "A lot of times, all I can do is go with the waiters and watch them," he added reluctantly, after a pause, "and I figured if something terrible happened, I could put the They dragged it out. But nothing ever happened. A few cried while working, and one laughed. I don't understand why people who laugh uncontrollably are scarier than people who cry, but that's it. And A few people passed out, but nothing too terrible. I've spent some time over the years doing a few simple tests with pagers, cell phones, whatever, and nothing terrible happened. Thank God." He paused again for a moment, and then said in a flat and odd tone, "One of them is blind." "what?" "Romy van Gold. She was dusting off the top of the TV when she screamed. I asked her what was wrong and she dropped the rag and covered her eyes and screamed that she was blind...but She could see the most horrible colors. As soon as I dragged her out the door the colors disappeared, and by the time I took her to the elevator, her vision was back." "You're telling me all this to frighten me, aren't you? Frighten me away, Mr. Orin?" "Actually, I didn't mean to scare you. You know the history of that room, starting with the suicide of the first occupant." Mike is understanding.Kevin O'Malley, a sewing machine salesman, left his wife and seven children to commit suicide on October 13, 1910. "Five men and a woman jumped from the only window in that room. Three women and a man committed suicide by taking drugs, two in the bed, two in the bathroom. One drowned in the bathtub. One died on the toilet. 1970 A man hanged himself in a wardrobe." "Henry Storkin," Mike said, "probably accidental, choking on masturbation." "Maybe. And Randolph Hyde, who cut his wrists and genitals and bled to death. This is not masturbation asphyxiation. The question is if 12 suicide records in the past 68 years don't sway your admission Thoughts, Mr. Enslin, the asthma and ventricular fibrillation of a few waiters will not deter you." Asthma and ventricular fibrillation, that's fine, Mike thought, wondering if it would work in a book. "No waiter who cleaned up room 1408 wants to go in more times." Olin said, drinking the wine in his glass. "Except for the French twins." "Yes, it's Weihexi." Olin nodded. Mike didn't care much about the waiters and their... what did Orin say?Asthma and ventricular fibrillation.He did feel a little annoyed at the suicides Olin had listed... as if he was so stupid that he only saw the facts and didn't see the meaning of them.It really doesn't make much sense other than to record the fact that both Lincoln and Kennedy had a Vice President named Jackson, both Lincoln and Kennedy had seven letter last names, and both Lincoln and Kennedy were elected presidents in the 60's.What do these coincidences prove?Nothing can be proved. "Suicide would be a wonderful chapter in my book," Mike said, "and since the tape recorder is off, I can tell you that these achieve what I statistically call the 'cluster effect.'" "Charles Dickens called it the 'potato effect,'" Olin said. "what?" "When Jacob Marley's spirit first spoke to Scrooge, Scrooge told him he was nothing but a handful of mustard seeds or half-baked potatoes." "Is this interesting?" Mike asked slightly indifferently. "Nothing amuses me, Mr. Enslin. Not at all! Listen carefully, Vee's sister, Celeste, died of a heart attack while also suffering from mid-stage Alzheimer's disease, which she It's up to you." "According to what you said earlier, her sister has nothing to do. She works hard and has been promoted, a typical American struggle experience. You are the same, Mr. Olin, and how many times have you entered and exited room 1408? 100? 200?" "It's a short time each time," Orin said. "It's like going into a room full of gas, and if you hold your breath, it's probably okay. I know you don't like that analogy. No doubt you'll think that's an overstretching, maybe Still find it ridiculous, but I still think it's a good metaphor." He put his finger on his chin. "It's also possible that some people react faster and more strongly to what's in that room, just as some divers are more likely to get diving sickness. In the nearly century of operation of the Dolphin Hotel, the hotel staff have more I really think room 1408 is a gas chamber and it's part of its history, Mr. Enslin. No one talks about it, just like no one says that the 14th floor in most of the hotels here is actually the 13th floor...but they all know .If all the records of that room were collected, it would be an amazing story...a more disturbing story than your readers will ever read. "I guess there's been a suicide in every hotel in New York City, but I'd bet my life that only at the Dolphin Hotel did a dozen suicides happen in the same room. Celeste Romandeau aside , do you know how many people died of natural causes in room 1408? The so-called natural deaths?" "How much?" He never thought about the natural death in room 1408. "30," Orin replied, "I know at least 30." "You liar!" he blurted out. "No, Mr. Enslin, I promise I'm not lying. Do you really think we're leaving rooms vacant just because of old street crones' superstitions or ridiculous New York City traditions? Or because every old good hotel at least Should there be a restless spirit making noises in a haunted suite?" Mike Enslin finds it is this view—not articulated but present—that pervades the new book of the Ten Night Talks.It did nothing to ease his chagrin at hearing Orin laugh at it with the same fury that scientists laugh at witches who cast spells on people. "We have our superstitions and traditions in the hotel business, but we don't want them to get mixed up in our business, Mr. Enslin. I went into the hotel business in the Midwest, and there was a saying there—'Cattlemen There's no vacancy in town'. If we have a vacancy, we let a guest in. The only exception to this rule--it's the first time I've had a conversation like this--is room 1408, a 13th-floor room, The numbers add up to exactly 13." Orin looked at Mike Enslin expressionlessly. "1408 is not only a room for suicides, but also a room for heart attacks and epileptic seizures. In 1973, the person who lived in that room drowned in a bowl of soup, no doubt you will say ridiculous, but I asked the security of the hotel Director, he's seen the death certificate. The magic that resides in that room seems to fade at noon, and we always turn on the lights at that time. I also know that the room attendants have heart disease, emphysema, diabetes now. There was a problem with the heating system on that floor three years ago. Mr. Neil, the director of the maintenance engineering department, had to check the equipment room by room, including 1408. He seemed to be fine at the time, and he was fine after the inspection in the room. Death from massive cerebral hemorrhage." "It's just a coincidence," Mike said, but he couldn't deny that Orin was good at talking.If Orin had been a camp consultant, he might have scared 90 percent of the kids back at the first round of campfire ghost stories. "It's just a coincidence!" Orin repeated softly, not very contemptuously.He took out the old-fashioned key with the bronze medal. "How's your heart, Mr. Enslin? What about your blood pressure and mental condition?" Mike found himself struggling to lift his hand...but once he did it was fine.It seemed to him that he picked up the key without shaking his fingers. "It's all good," he said, clutching the battered bronze medal. "And, I'm wearing a lucky Hawaiian shirt." Olin insisted on taking the elevator with Mike to the 14th floor, but Mike did not refuse.To Mike's amusement, as soon as they walked out of the manager's office, Orin reverted to his humble state, and became the humble Mr. Orin again, Orin in the service of Mike the Writer. A man in a tuxedo, whom Mike guessed was the restaurant manager or head waiter, stopped them, handed Orin a small stack of papers, and whispered to him in French.Orin nodded and whispered to him, and quickly signed the stack of papers."Autumn in New York" was playing in the bar.An echo could be heard from his position, as if in a dream. The man in the tuxedo said "thank you" in French and walked away.Mike and the hotel manager walk to the elevator.Orin asked again if he could carry Mike's travel bag, but Mike refused again.In the elevator, Mike's eyes fell on three neat rows of buttons.按钮排列整齐，没有空出的位置。如果你仔细看，就可以看出其中的间断：按键12下面紧跟着14。迈克想，他们好像以为在电梯按键盘上忽略掉一个数字，就可以让这个数字不存在。愚昧……但欧林说得对，全世界都这么处理。 电梯上升时，迈克说：“我对有些事感到奇怪。为什么你不为1408房虚设一个入住者，如果真的像你所说的把你吓成这样。欧林先生，为什么不对外宣称那是你自己的房间呢？” “我怕被人告欺诈，如果不是那些负责执行州和联邦的民权法的人（在宾馆工作的人之于民权法，就跟你的读者之于夜里当啷作响的链子一样），就是我的老板，如果他们听到风声也会告我。如果我劝不了你不住1408房，我怀疑是否有更好的运气使摩根斯坦利公司的董事会相信把那房间关了是因为闹鬼，因为我怕鬼怪会使偶然入住的推销员跳出窗外，血染六十一大街。” 迈克觉得这是欧林说过的最令人心烦的话。他心想，因为他此时不再试图说服我了，不管在办公室里他有多少推销技巧（也许有些感触是来自波斯地毯），此时此地他已失去了。对，当他在签领班拿来的账单时，你就看得出来，那是能力，而不是推销技巧，不是个人魅力，在他办公室以外的地方没有。但他相信，那房间有危险，完全相信。 门上方发光的数字12灭了，14亮了，电梯停了下来。电梯门打开，出现一条非常普通的宾馆走廊，金色和红色相交织的地毯（肯定不是波斯的），像19世纪的煤气灯一样的照明装置。 “我们到了，”欧林说，“你的楼层。请原谅，我要下去了。1408房在左边走廊的尽头，除非必须，否则我只到这儿。” 迈克·恩斯林双腿似乎比平常更沉重地迈出电梯门。他回头看欧林，矮胖的他穿着黑色大衣，精心地打着暗红色领带。欧林精心修剪过指甲的手紧握着背在身后，矮小的他脸色白得像奶油一样，宽而光滑的前额上渗出汗珠来。 “房间里有电话，如果有麻烦你可以试试……但我怀疑它不能用，如果那房间有情况，电话就不能用。” 迈克想用轻松的方式回应他，比如“那样至少可以给我省下房间服务费”，但他的舌头像双腿一样沉重，躺在口腔里纹丝不动。 欧林从身后抽出一只手来，迈克看见它在颤抖。“恩斯林先生，迈克，别这么干，看在上帝的份上……” 他还没说完，电梯门关上了，把他的话打断了。迈克原地站了一会儿，站在纽约宾馆特有的宁静中，站在没人承认的13楼，他想伸手去按电梯的按钮。 这么做，除了欧林胜利之外，他新书最精彩的章节就会有一个大缺口。这么做，读者可能不知道，他的编辑和代理人可能不知道，罗伯逊律师可能不知道……但他自己知道。 他没按电梯按钮，而是抬手摸了摸耳朵上夹着的香烟，没有意识到自己在做因心烦意乱而产生的习惯动作，然后掸了掸他幸运衬衫的衣领，一路晃着旅行袋走向1408房。 在迈克·恩斯林短暂地停留于1408房间（大约70分钟）之后的11分钟录音磁带内容是最有意思的，这一段磁带有点烧焦，但还没到坏掉的程度。最吸引人注意的是这段录音几乎没有叙述的话语，多奇怪啊！ 那个采访录音机是他前妻五年前送给他的，那时他和她的关系还很友好。第一次“案例探险”（堪萨斯州的里尔斯比）时他几乎没想要带去，最后还是和五本黄色记事本和装满削尖了的铅笔的皮盒子一起带去了。来海豚宾馆1408房之前，他已出了三本书，习惯只带录音机和一支钢笔、一本笔记本，除了已装入录音机的磁带，再外加五盒90分钟长的新磁带。 他已发现录音比笔记更方便。用录音他能捕捉一些逸事，有些相当有价值的东西当场就可以记录，比如在戈特比城堡那座据说是闹鬼的古塔里，蝙蝠像轰炸机般地冲向他时，他像第一次走进巡回表演团的鬼屋的女孩那样尖叫起来。朋友们听了录音都觉得有趣。 那小小的录音机也比笔记本更实用，特别是在新布鲁斯威克墓地那个寒冷的夜里，凌晨3点一阵狂风暴雨刮倒帐篷，在这种环境下他无法记笔记，但可以讲话。他就是这么做的，挣扎着从被风吹得啪啪响的帐篷里爬出来，一直坚持录音，录音机上的红眼睛令人欣慰。这些年的“案例探险”使录音机成了他的朋友。他从未在又细又薄的磁带上记录过真正的超自然事件的第一手叙述，这也包括在1408房间里所作的残缺不全的评论，但他对这小玩意儿有这样的感情也不奇怪，就像跑长途运输的卡车司机喜爱肯沃斯卡车和吉米彼得卡车；作家珍视某支钢笔或用旧的打印机；专业清洁女工不愿丢弃旧吸尘器。并不是说录音机在他遭遇真正的鬼或超能力事件时像十字架和大蒜一样保护他——他从未遇过真正的鬼或超能力事件，但录音机确实陪伴他度过了很多寒冷而不舒适的夜晚。他固执并不意味着他没人情味。 在他进入1408房之前，问题就出现了。 房门歪斜了。 斜得不厉害，但确实是斜了，向左微微斜了一点点。这首先让他想起在恐怖电影里，导演通过倾斜的画面来表现某个人物精神上的苦恼。接着他又想到这门看起来就像天气不太好时你在小船上看到的门一样，前后摇，左右摆，晃来晃去，直到你开始头晕反胃。倒不是说他自己现在就有这种感觉，根本没有，但——是的，我有点这种感觉。 他弯下腰（意识到一不看那扇有点古怪的门，轻微的反胃感觉就消失了），拉开旅行袋上的拉链，拿出采访录音机，他直起身时按下录音键，看见小红眼亮了起来，开口想说：“那门以自己的方式问候我。它变歪了，微微向左倾斜。” 事后如果你听那盒磁带，只听到“那门”两个字，只有这两个字听得很清楚，然后就是按停止键的声音。因为门没有斜，完全是直的。迈克转过头看向走廊另一侧1409房间的门，然后转过来看1408房间的门。两扇门一样，白底金字的房号牌，金色的球形门把，两扇门都非常直。 迈克弯下腰，用那只拿录音机的手提起旅行袋，另一只手拿着钥匙去开锁，可他又停了下来。 那门又歪了。 这次它稍稍斜向右边。 “荒谬！”迈克咕哝着，但又开始反胃了，不是像晕船，完全就是晕船的感觉。几年前他坐轮船皇后二号横渡大西洋去英格兰，一天晚上风浪很大，迈克清楚地记得自己躺在上等舱的床上，总是有想呕吐的感觉但还好没吐。如果看着舱里的门、桌、椅，看着它前后左右地摇晃，那种恶心的感觉就会加剧。 这都是欧林的错，他想，这正是欧林想要达到的效果，他为你设下了这种感觉，老兄，他设下的陷阱。天，如果他看见你这个样子，他会怎么笑你，怎么——他突然意识到欧林很可能看得到他，迈克望向走廊尽头的电梯，几乎没注意到不盯着那门看时，轻微的反胃感又停止了。不出所料，在电梯门的左上方就是闭路摄像头。可能某个保安正在看摄像头所拍到的景象。迈克很肯定欧林也和那傻瓜在一起，两个人像猩猩一样笑着。欧林说看他还带不带律师来这里撒野。看他，那保安笑着回答，嘴比刚才咧得更大，还没把钥匙插到锁孔里，他就吓得像鬼一样苍白了，老板，你耍了他，完完全全耍了他！ 绝不能让你笑我，迈克心里不服气。我在里尔斯比的房子里待过，睡在至少有两个人被杀害的房间里，不论你相不相信，我睡得很安稳；我在连环杀手杰弗雷·达蒙的墓边过过夜，不远处还有著名恐怖小说家拉夫克拉弗特的墓；我在据说是大卫·施迈斯爵士淹死他多个妻子的浴缸边刷过牙。我很久以前就不再受营火鬼故事的惊吓了。绝不能让你笑我！ 他又看向那门，门是直的。他嘀咕了一声，把钥匙插进锁孔里一转，门开了。迈克走了进去。在他伸手摸电灯开关时，门并没有慢慢地关上把他置于完全黑暗之中（此外，隔壁那幢大楼公寓里的灯光透过窗户照进来）。他摸到了开关，拨动它，装饰着交错的水晶链条的顶灯亮了，在房间那头书桌边上的落地灯也亮了。 窗户是在书桌上方，在书桌前写东西的人停下来休息时可以透过窗口欣赏第六十一大街……或跳到第六十一大街。除非——迈克把他的袋子放在门里，关上门，再次按下录音键，小红灯亮了。 “据欧林说，六个人从我正看着的窗口跳下去。”他说，“但我今晚可不想从海豚宾馆的14楼上做俯冲运动——对不起，是13楼。窗外有个钢的或是铁的保护网，保证安全以免发生不幸。我想1408可以说是一间小套房。我所在的这个房间里有两张椅子、一张沙发、一张书桌、一个储藏柜——里面可能放着电视或小酒柜。地毯很普通，比不上欧林办公室里的。墙纸也一样。等等……” 此时迈克又按下停止键，听者又听到喀哒一声。磁带上所有不完整的叙述都是这样支离破碎的，这和他的代理人所保存的150多盒磁带完全不同。另外，他的声音听起来越来越心烦意乱，不像一个人在工作时的声音，倒像一个困惑的人在自言自语。磁带上难懂的话语和越来越心烦意乱的语气让听者明显感到不安。很多人还远没听完这磁带便要求关掉录音机。言语已不足以表达听者不断坚定的感觉：这个男人如果不是方寸已乱，就是无法掌握当时的事态。总之，那些普通的词语已说明有情况发生。 迈克当时正注意到墙上的画。墙上有三幅画，一位女子穿着20年代款式的晚礼服站在楼梯上，一艘有库里尔埃弗斯画廊风格的航船，一幅水果静物画。最后这张水果静物画把难看的橙黄色用在苹果、橘子和香蕉上。三幅画全在玻璃框里，全都斜了。他本打算用录音机记下三幅画歪斜的情况，但这三幅倾斜的画究竟有什么异常有什么值得评论的呢？门应该是斜的……嗯，有点像老电影（加利加里的橱柜），但门并没有斜，那完全是他眼花。 那幅女子站在楼梯上的画向左斜；那张船的画也是，上面画着一排穿喇叭裤的英国水手倚在护栏上看一群飞鱼；橙黄色的水果在迈克看来像是赤道地区让人窒息的阳光，保罗博斯沙漠的阳光下画出来的，这幅向右斜。尽管他平常不是那种爱挑剔的人，但他还是走过去，逐个把它们摆正。看着那歪斜的画又使他感到一阵眩晕。对此他一点也不奇怪，人很容易受这种感觉的影响，他早在皇后二号上就已经发现这现象。有人告诉他如果他能熬过那段不断加剧的敏感期，就适应了——“有了'海上的腿'不晕船”一些老水手仍这么说。迈克没坐更多次船来得到'海上的腿'，也不想得。这些天他一直用的是“陆地上的腿”，如果在这不起眼的1408房摆正几幅画能让他的胃舒服一点，他会这样做。 画框的玻璃上有一层灰尘。他用手指划过静物画上的灰尘，玻璃上留下两条平行的条纹。灰尘有一种油滑的感觉，使他联想到快要腐烂的丝绸，但他绝不会把这记录在磁带上。他怎会知道丝绸快要烂掉时摸起来的感觉？那是酒醉后的想法。 把画摆正后，他退后一个个地审视，在通往卧室的门旁边是穿晚礼服的女子，书桌左边是轮船，最后是在电视柜旁难看的水果画（画技非常糟糕）。他暗自猜测它们会再次歪斜，或是在他看着时就斜了，像老电影《内城区》或小说《闹鬼山的房子》里的情景一样。但那些画摆得非常正，和他摆过后一样。不，他告诉自己，要找出原来歪斜状态的超自然或非自然原因，按他的经验，逆反是事物的本质——戒烟的人想继续抽烟（他的手不自觉地摸到夹在耳朵上的卷烟），自从尼克松当总统以来就斜着的画想继续斜着。毫无疑问这些画挂在这很久了，迈克想，如果我把它们从墙上取下来，可能就会看到一个浅印，或是虫子从里头钻出来，就像你翻开一块大石头时一样。 伴随这个想法还有恶心和令人震惊的东西：一个鲜活的情景在他脑中出现，白色的蠕虫从原来被画盖着的灰白色墙纸里像脓一样涌出来！ 迈克拿起采访录音机，按下录音键，说：“显然欧林在我脑袋里埋下一串偏见，或是一系列偏见，他让我心疲眼疲，他肯定做到了，我的意思不是……”意思不是什么？不是种族主义者？心疲眼疲听起来不像是嬉皮优痞吗？但这是荒谬的，那可能是鸡皮油皮，一个毫无意义的短语。它——此时的磁带上有完整而清晰的记录，迈克·恩斯林说：“现在，我得慢慢稳住自己。”随着另一声喀哒，他再次关掉录音机。 他闭上眼睛，平稳地呼吸四下，每吸一口气屏息数五下再呼出去。这样的呼吸他从未做过，在据说是闹鬼的房子没做过，在据说是闹鬼的墓地没做过，在据说是闹鬼的城堡也没做过。这里不是闹鬼，或是说他想象中的闹鬼不是那样，这像是服了廉价劣质迷幻药后产生的神志恍惚。 是欧林干的，他催眠了你。但你会清醒过来，会在这房间里度过这个该死的夜晚，不只是因为这里是你曾待过的最好的地方——不要理欧林，你近距离接触鬼故事已有十年——还因为你不能被欧林打败。他和他那关于30个人死于这里的胡说八道都站不住脚。我就是四处消灭胡说八道的人，那么先呼吸，吸入，呼出，吸，呼。 他这么做了大约90秒，当他再次睁开眼睛，感觉正常了。墙上的画怎么样？仍是正的。画里的水果呢？仍是橙黄色的，比以前更难看了，一定是沙漠的水果。吃一片那样的水果，你会拉肚子的。 他按下录音键，红眼睛亮了。“我头晕了一两分钟，”他说着穿过房间走到书桌和外面有保护网的窗户边，“可能是受欧林所胡扯的事的影响，但我相信并能感到自己真实地在这儿。”当然他并没有感受到欧林所胡扯的东西，可是如果一旦被磁带记录下来，就能写出一切他所要写的事。“空气不清新，可没有霉味或臭味，欧林说这房间每次开灯时都会通气，但时间太短，对……空气不够清新。嘿，看这儿。” 书桌上有一个烟灰缸，是那种由厚玻璃做成的烟灰缸，你可以在任何地方的宾馆里看到。缸里有一沓纸板火柴。火柴的前盖印着海豚宾馆的图像——在宾馆前立着一个微笑的门童，穿着那种有肩牌、纽扣和纽襻的老式制服；一个骑摩托的壮汉戴着好像是同性恋酒吧里才有的帽子，身上没穿什么只戴着几个银圈；宾馆前的第五大街车来车往，都是另一个时代的车——帕卡德、哈德逊、斯达贝克和有鳍状装饰的克里瑟纽约客。 “烟灰缸中的纸板火柴看起来像1955年的，”迈克说，把火柴放进幸运夏威夷衬衫的口袋里，“我把它作为纪念品收起来，现在该是呼吸些新鲜空气的时候了。” 啪嗒一声，他大概是把录音机放在了桌子上。随即是一些模糊的声响和两声较响的哼声。在停了一秒之后是他的大叫声：“搞定！”声音离麦克风有点远，但第二声近了。 “搞定！”迈克重复了一次，从书桌上拿起采访录音机，“下半扇窗户动不了……像用钉子钉住了，但上半扇窗户完全能打开。我听见了第五大街上的汽车声，所有的喇叭声听起来都很悦耳。有人在吹萨克斯管，可能是在对面两个街区后的大广场上，那乐声让我想起我哥哥。” 迈克突然停下来，看着那小红眼，它仿佛在责备他。哥哥？他哥哥死了，又一位在香烟战争中倒下的战士，然后他松了口气。so what?在鬼怪战争中，迈克·恩斯林总是获胜，至于唐纳德·恩斯林……“我哥哥其实是在康涅狄格州的收费高速公路上被狼吃掉的。”他说，还笑了起来，按下停止键。磁带上还录有一些声音，但这是最后一次连贯的叙述，最后一次，有着清晰的意思的叙述。 迈克转身看着那些画，那些画仍端端正正地挂在那儿，很乖，尽管那幅水果静物画是真他妈的难看。 他按下录音键，说了声“熏橘子”，又把它关掉。他穿过房间走向卧室的门，在穿晚礼服女士的画前停了一会儿，步入黑暗，去摸索电灯的开关。他这才接触到墙面。 （摸起来像死去的老人的皮肤。） 他滑动的手掌感觉到墙纸有点不对劲，然后手指触到了开关。黄色的灯光从天花板上装饰着玻璃小玩意儿的吊灯上射出来，撒满整个卧室。床铺藏在双层的床罩下面。 “为什么说藏呢？”迈克对着采访录音机问，然后再按下停止键。他踏进卧室，被像焦黄的沙漠一般的床罩和它下面像肿瘤般鼓起的枕头吸引住。睡在这上面？绝对不，先生！这就像睡在该死的水果静物画里！ 迈克按下录音键，小红眼亮了，他对着麦克风说：“我在这里就像艺人之神俄耳普斯在曲艺院。”然后再按下停止键。他走近床铺，床罩泛着橙黄色的光。墙纸在白天也许是奶白色的，此时映着床罩的光也变成橙黄色。床的两边各有一个小小的床头柜，一个床头柜上放着那种又黑又大、有拨号盘的电话机，拨号盘上的指洞看起来像因吃惊而翻白的眼睛；在另一个床头柜上放着一个碟子，里头有一个梅子。迈克按下录音键说：“那不是真正的梅子，是塑料的。”他按下停止键。 床上放着菜单。迈克侧着身子走过去，拿起床上的菜单，小心翼翼地不让身体碰床沿或墙壁，他也尽量不让手触到床罩。但他的指尖拂过床罩时，他轻呼了一声。那床罩有一种让人惧怕的柔软，可不管怎样总算把菜单拿起来了。菜单上面是法语，尽管多年不用法语，但还是能看懂，有一种早餐食品看上去是什么东西烤鸟肉，至少听起来像法国人可能吃的东西。他这么想着，心烦意乱地大笑起来。 他闭上眼睛再睁开。 菜单上的文字变成了俄语。 他再闭上眼睛又睁开。 菜单上的文字变成了意大利语。 再闭上再睁开。 菜单不见了，出现一幅木刻画——一个男孩惊恐地回头看着那只正吞下他左小腿的狼，狼的耳朵向后倒，仿佛那男孩是它最喜爱的玩具。 我没看见这些，迈克这么想，他当然没有。他没有再闭一次眼睛就看到菜单上一行行整齐的英语，每行都列着不同口味的早餐：蛋、烘饼、鲜草莓，没有什么烤鸟肉。 他转过身，仍非常缓慢地移动着走出床和墙之间的空间，现在感觉这地方像墓坑一样窄。他的心跳得嘭嘭响，手腕和颈部都能和胸部一样感觉到心脏的剧烈跳动。眼珠子在眼眶里悸动着。是的，1408房确实不正常，非常不正常。欧林说过是毒气引起的，这正是迈克的感觉：像是被人用毒气喷过或被人强迫抽掺有虫毒的烈性大麻。当然是欧林干的，也许是和那笑得很欢的保安一起干的。他将特种毒气从通风口喷进来。我没见到通风口，并不意味着没有通风口。 迈克瞪大了惊恐的眼睛看着卧室四周。床左侧的床头柜上没有梅子，也没有碟子，上面没有东西！他转身走向通往客厅的门，然后又停住了。卧室的墙上有幅画。他不能绝对肯定（以他目前的状态他甚至不能绝对肯定自己的名字叫什么），但却相当清楚和记得刚进来时墙上没有画。这是一幅静物画。古旧的原木柜上摆着一个锡碟，里面有一个梅子。照在梅子和碟子上的光是令人发狂的橙黄色。 他想，这是探戈之光，那种可以照得死人从墓里爬出来跳探戈的光。那种光——“我必须出去！”他喃喃自语，跌跌撞撞地冲入客厅。他察觉到鞋子开始发出古怪的吱吱声，仿佛脚下的地板变软了。 客厅墙上的画又歪了，画面也变了。站在楼梯上的女子扯下了衣服，裸露着乳房，她一手抓着一只乳房，每个乳头上都悬着一滴血。她直盯着迈克的眼睛，凶残地笑着。她的牙齿被锉成吃人野兽的牙齿那么尖。在轮船的护栏上，水手被一排脸色惨白的男男女女代替了。站在最左边离船头最近的男子穿着一件棕色羊毛西装，一只手拿着球帽。他的头发梳得油光发亮，从中间分开贴在额头上。他一副惊呆的表情。迈克知道他的名字：凯文·奥马利，缝纫机推销员，这个房间的第一个入住者，于1910年10月从这个房间跳楼自杀，他左边全是死在这房间里的人，全都是惊呆的表情。他们看起来像是亲戚，像近亲结婚而产生的多数是智障的所有家庭成员。 在那幅原来是水果的画上，现在出现了一个人头，橙黄色的光打在凹陷的头骨上，下垂的双唇，上翻的眼睛，左耳上夹着一支卷烟。 迈克跌跌撞撞地向门走去，双脚吱吱地踩着地板，现在好像每一步都有点黏了。门当然是打不开了，门链没有拴，门栓直立着像6点时钟的指针，但门就是打不开。 迈克剧烈地呼吸着，转身趟过客厅（他感觉是在趟），走向书桌，看到刚才打开的窗户旁窗帘随风飞舞，但他却感觉不到有清新的空气扑面而来，仿佛这房间将新鲜空气都吞噬了。他仍可听到第五大街的喇叭声，但此时听起来感觉在很远处。他仍能听到萨克斯的声音吗？如果听不到，一定是这房间偷走了它甜蜜而优美的旋律，只剩下高亢、不成曲调的呜呜之声，像是风吹过死人颈上的孔洞，或是像装着断指的可乐瓶。 够了，他想说，但再也说不出来。他的心脏在狂跳，如果跳得再快一点，可能会爆炸。他的采访录音机，他很多次“案例探险”的忠实伴侣也不在手上了。不知放在什么地方了，卧室里？如果是，现在可能不见了，被房间吞噬了，或被消化后排泄到其中的一幅画里了。 像一个跑步者在长跑比赛中快到终点时那样，迈克把手放在胸口，好像要安抚心脏。他在俗丽的衬衫的左胸口袋里摸到一个小小的正方形，是录音机，那么硬那么熟悉，使他镇定了一点，让他恢复了一点正常。他知道心在狂跳，房间仿佛也在他身后狂跳，仿佛无数张嘴隐藏在光滑而阴险的墙纸下面。他知道胃现在翻滚得厉害，仿佛被放在油腻的吊床上晃荡着。他感觉到空气像柔软的凝块塞在他耳朵里，这让他想到乳脂软糖在没凝固时的那种感觉。 但他毕竟清醒了一点，这足以使他明确要做一件事：现在还有时间，他必须打电话求助。他想到欧林可能会得意地笑（以他那纽约宾馆经理的顺从的方式）并说“我早就告诉过你”，但这些都无所谓了，有关欧林不知用什么化学方法来诱导出这些奇怪的感觉和恐惧感的念头在他脑中也不复存在了。就是这个房间，这该死的房间！ 他想把手快速伸向那个和卧室里的一模一样的老式电话，猛地拿起来。可他却看见自己的手臂以一种不协调的慢动作伸下去，那么像跳水运动员的手臂，他几乎觉得会有水花溅上来。 他的手指环绕住电话听筒，把它拿起来。另一只手也像拿电话的那只手一样，俯冲下来去拨零，同时把听筒贴近耳朵。拨号盘转回原来的位置时，他听到一连串喀哒声，听起来像《幸运轮盘》节目里的大转盘，你要转动盘子还是要猜谜？记住如果选猜谜而猜错了，你就会被扔到康涅狄格州高速公路旁边的雪地里喂狼。 传到他耳朵里的不是铃声，而是一个嘶哑的声音：“这是九！九！这是九！九！这是十！十！我们已经杀了你的朋友们！现在每个朋友都死了。这是六！六！” 这声音使迈克越来越恐惧，不是因为其内容，而是因为那像锉东西一般刺耳的声音，不是机器发出的声音，也不是人类的声音，是房间本身的声音。那东西从地板和墙壁涌出来，那东西通过电话对他说话，这和他以前所读过的闹鬼或超自然现象毫无共同之处，这儿的东西很怪异。 不，还没到……但来了，它肚子饿了，而你是晚餐。 听筒从他松开的手指中落下去，他转身。听筒在电线一端摆动，就像他的胃一样来回晃动。他仍能听见那刺耳的声音从黑色的听筒中传出来：“八！现在是八！警笛响起时取盖！这是四！四！” 他没有意识到自己正从耳后取下烟叼进嘴里，也不知道自己正摸索着从色彩亮丽的衬衫右胸口袋里拿出印有穿着老式金纽襻制服的服务生的纸板火柴，不知道在戒烟九年后终于开始抽上一支了。 在他面前，房间开始熔化。 左边墙面和墙角在往下垂，不是弯成一条曲线，而是弯成奇特的莫里斯弧线，让他目眩。天花板中央的玻璃枝形吊灯开始像一团浓痰似的滴下来。画开始弯曲，变成老式汽车的挡风玻璃似的形状。那幅卧室门旁边的画里，玻璃下面那位20年代装束的女子乳头滴着血，龇着吃人的牙，转身向楼上跑去，小腿像活塞似的上下移动。电话不断地发出尖厉的声音，还在