Chapter 3 2

The most interesting thing left over from Mike Enslin's brief stay (seventy minutes or so) in room 1408 is the eleven-minute tape in the pocket recorder.The tape is charred a bit, but not burnt yet.But what is surprising is that the content of the recording is only a little bit, and so bizarre. This pocket recorder was a gift from Mike's ex-wife.Five years ago, they were deeply in love.On his first "field expedition" (to the Rilsby Farm in Kansas), he didn't remember to take it with him until the last moment, along with five yellow legal pads and a sharpened leather box.He had already published three books before he arrived at the door of room 1408 of the Dolphin Hotel, and this time he brought only a pen and a notebook, and five new ninety-minute cassettes, not including the ones he loaded before leaving. The box in the tape recorder.

He found dictation to be more suitable than handwriting; he could capture anecdotes, some of which were stunning—the swarm of bats swooping down on him at Gatsby Castle, said to be haunted.He screamed like a little girl walking through a fairground haunted house for the first time.Friends who had heard about this adventure were all amused by him. The pocket recorder is better than a pen, too, especially when you're in a cold Brunswick cemetery at three o'clock in the morning, with blustery winds, torrential rain, and tents being overturned.You can't take notes in this situation, but you can talk... That's what Mike did.He kept talking as he crawled out of the wind-blown wet tent canvas, and he kept seeing the lovely red light on the pocket recorder.The pocket Sony cassette player has been a constant companion on his "field adventures" for years.He has yet to record first-hand accounts of actual paranormal events on the filament-thin tape that spins between reels, including the incomplete commentary he recorded during his sojourn in room 1408, but this gadget makes It's only natural that he can't put it down.Long-distance freight drivers love their Kenworths and Jimmy Peters trucks; writers love a certain pen or an old typewriter; cleaning women don't want to ditch their old Electrolux vacuum cleaners.Mike had never brought the pocket recorder to face a real ghost or paranormal event—like people carry crucifixes and bundles of garlic to protect themselves, but it has been with him through many cold and difficult nights.His obsession with getting something straight doesn't make him inhuman.

Trouble started before he even entered room 1408. The door was crooked. Not too crooked, but definitely crooked, leaning to the left, just a little.The first thing he thought of was that in horror movies, the director tilted the camera to shoot shots with subjective intentions in order to portray the inner pain of the characters.Then he thought of something else—that's what doors look like on ships when the weather is bad.The door goes forward, back, left, right, creaking until you feel a little sick in your head and stomach.Not feeling it myself, not at all, but— Yes, I do feel a little uncomfortable.a little bit.

Olin implies that his attitude makes it impossible for Mike to be very subjectively impartial when conducting interviews about ghosts.If it was just because of that, he would say the same. He bent down (noticing that the slight sickness in his stomach disappeared as soon as he looked away from the slightly askew door) and opened his travel bag and took out the pocket recorder.He stood up, pressed the record button, saw the small red indicator light come on, and then he wanted to say, "The door of room 1408 welcomes me in its own way. It seems to be crooked, leaning slightly to the left."

But he stopped after saying the word door.If you listen to the tape, you can clearly hear two words: the door.Then there is the click of the stop button.Because the door is not crooked, it is straight.Mike turned to look at the door of 1409 across the corridor, then turned to look at the door of 1408.The two doors are exactly the same: white door, golden number plate, golden doorknob.Both doors are straight. Mike bent down, lifted the bag with the hand that held the pocket recorder, reached for the lock with the key in the other, and then stopped again. The door was crooked again. This time it tilts slightly to the right.

"Damn it," Mike whispered, feeling sick to his stomach again, and it didn't sound like seasickness, it was what seasickness felt like.A few years ago, he went to England on the "Queen Elizabeth II ④", and the night on board was rough and rough.Lying on the bed in the stateroom, he nearly threw up several times, but couldn't, which made him miserable.If you look at the hatch... the table... the chairs... watch them move forward, backward... left, right... creaking... the feeling of nausea and dizziness will be more sharp. It's all the good work of that boy Orin, he thought.He just wanted to make a fool of me.He makes you feel this way, it's all orchestrated by him.Dude, what would he be grinning if he saw you.how……

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the realization that Orin might well have seen him.Mike looked back down the hallway beyond the elevator, he was no longer staring at the door, and little did he realize that the slight sickness in his stomach had suddenly disappeared.As he expected, he saw a closed-circuit camera on the upper left of the elevator.One of the hotel security guards was probably staring at him at this moment, and Orin must have been with the security guard, and the two of them must have been laughing like apes.Give him some color to see who sent him here, and with his lawyer on my property, Olin said.look at that kid!The security guard replied that his smile became more complacent and wild.His face was pale, he looked like a ghost, and he didn't even insert the key.That kid is down now, boss!He is dead!

I don't believe it, Mike thought.I lived in the house in Rilsby, at least two people died in that room - and I did fall asleep, believe it or not.I slept next to Geoffrey Dahmer's grave, on the two stones of Howard Philip Lovecraft's; David Smythe is said to have drowned his two wives in In the bathtub, I used to brush my teeth next to that bathtub.The ghost stories told around the campfire have long since stopped scaring me.I don't believe in this evil! He looked back at the door, which was straight.He snorted, put the key in the lock, and turned the key.The door opened and Mike walked in.As he fumbled for the light switch, the door didn't slowly close behind him, plunging him into complete darkness (along with the lights from the neighboring apartment building coming in through the windows).He found the switch, pressed it lightly, and the floor lamp next to the desk at the other end of the room also turned on.

The window was right over the desk, so the person sitting there writing could stop and look out at Sixty-first Street...and jump out on impulse and fall down the street.Apart from…… Mike put the travel bag inside the door, closed the door, and pressed the record button.The little red light is on. "Olin said that six people jumped out of this window in front of me once," he said, "but tonight I won't be on the fourteenth—sorry, the thirteenth floor—of the Dolphin Hotel— Jump down. There is a grid outside the window, which is made of iron or steel. It is better to be careful, otherwise you will regret it. Room 1408 can only be regarded as a business suite. There are two chairs, a sofa, and a writing desk in the room , a cabinet that might have a TV in it, and maybe a mini bar. The rug is pretty ordinary — nothing compares to Olin's, trust me. Same goes for the wallpaper. It's...wait a minute..."

Just then, the audience heard another click from the tape as Mike hit the stop button again.The narration on the tapes is scant and fragmented, unlike the other hundred and fifty or so tapes in the possession of his literary agent.Moreover, his voice gradually became indistinct. It was not the voice of a person at work, but like a person who was at a loss talking to himself without realizing it.The speech on the tape was intermittent and became increasingly incoherent, which made most of the audience feel uncomfortable, and many asked to turn off the tape recorder, and there was still a long section of the tape that had not been played.The title alone is not enough to appreciate that the audience was growing convinced that Mike was either insane or didn't know what was normal, but just listening to the words on the tape gave a sense of something happening .

Mike noticed a few pictures hanging on the wall.There are three of them: a woman in her twenties in evening gown standing on a staircase, a sailboat from the Currier and Ives lithograph⑥, and a still life of fruit, apples, The oranges and bananas were all a sickly orange.All three paintings were in glass frames, and all were askew.He was about to say to the tape recorder that these things were crooked, but what's the fuss about the three paintings being crooked, what's there to comment on?The door turned crooked... It's a bit like the previous "Dr. Caligari's Cabin", which makes people feel quite mysterious.But the door wasn't crooked; it was just that his eyes played with him for a moment. The woman standing on the stairs leaned to the left, as did the sailboat, and thick-legged English sailors lined up along the rail to watch a school of flying fish.The orange-yellow fruit slanted to the right—it seemed to Mike to have been painted in the breathless colors of the Paul Bowles desert at the equator.Although Mike wasn't usually very picky, he went over and straightened them out.The crookedness of them made him feel a little sick again, and he wasn't terribly surprised that one would develop that feeling, as he had discovered on the Queen Elizabeth II.He had heard that if a man could bear it when it was intolerable, he often got used to it... "It takes time to get used to the roughness of the sea," some frequent boaters also said.Mike didn't take boats often, so he wasn't used to the rough seas, which didn't bother him.He had been unaccustomed to the rough seas of late, and if putting the three paintings in the unassuming living room of room 1408 upright would ease his stomach upset. There is a layer of dust on the glass outside the painting.His fingers ran across it, leaving two parallel marks.Dust feels greasy and slippery to the touch.A sentence suddenly flashed in his mind, like silk about to rot.If he intends to record this sentence, then he must be bewitched.How would he know what the silk that was about to rot felt like?Only a drunk would think that. After straightening the painting, he took a few steps back and observed: the woman in evening dress next to the door leading to the bedroom, the sailboat sailing on the ocean to the left of the desk, the disgusting ( Ugly drawn) fruit.He kind of wanted them to askew again, or watched them crooked--7 and the stuff in the old "Twilight Zone"--but a few pictures were straightened all the time.He thought that even if it was twisted further, he would not find it something extraordinary and incredible; as far as he knew, it is the nature of things that old habits die hard—people who quit smoking (he touched the back of the ear subconsciously again) Cigarettes erected) want to keep smoking, and the paintings that have hung askew since Nixon became president naturally want to stay where they are.No doubt they've been hanging here for a long time, Mike thought.If I take them off the wall, I can see a small area of ​​the wallpaper where the color is lighter.Perhaps some worms would wriggle out, as you see when you remove a rock. Shocked and sickened by the thought, he saw a vivid image: white worms crawling around, like running pus, crawling out of the light-coloured wallpaper that had previously been covered. Mike held up his pocket recorder, pressed the record button, and said, "Olin must have caused me to have a series of thoughts, or chains of thoughts, which should it be? He tried to make me fidget, and he succeeded. I don't want to . . . ..." Don't want to be a racist? Is "Hibi-Gibis ⑨" an abbreviation for the Hebrew word Jibis?But this is ridiculous.It should be "Hebrew-Gibrels," but the word means nothing.it…… At this point, Mike Enslin said clearly, "I must remain calm. Immediately." Then there was another click, and he stopped the tape. He closed his eyes and took four long, deep breaths rhythmically, counting to four or five with each breath before exhaling.He's never done it before - whether it's in a legendary haunted house and cemetery, or in a haunted castle.It wasn't haunted, and it wasn't like the haunted scene he imagined, it was like eating bad, cheap marijuana to make people immobile. It's all Olin's fault.He's hypnotized you, and you're trying to keep him out of it.You're going to spend an unforgettable night in this room, and not just because it's the best place you've ever lived in—never mind Olin, you've pretty much got enough material for the best ghost story of the decade — but Orin couldn't win.He and his bullshit story about how thirty people died here won't win.Here, I'm going to see what the hell is going on with that bullshit story, so just inhale...exhale.Inhale...exhale.inhale...exhale... He continued like this for nearly ninety seconds, and when he opened his eyes again, everything returned to normal.The paintings on the walls are still straight, the fruit in the bowl is still orange, and never looked so ugly.There is no doubt that it is the fruit of the desert.Eating one will give you more than enough diarrhea and make you sick. He pressed the record button, and the red light came on. "I feel a little dizzy," he said, walking across the room to the desk and the window with the grid. "It's definitely the story that Olin told, but I believe there's a real ghost felt here." Of course, he didn't feel the presence of the ghost, but once it was on tape, he could write it however he wanted Just how to write. "The air is stale. No smell of mold and rot, and Olin says the place gets a change of air every time it's cleaned, but it's just a light cleaning...yes... the air is stale. Hey, look at this." On the desk was an ashtray, one of those little thick glass ashtrays you used to see everywhere in hotels, with a box of matches in it.The picture on the front of the matchbox is the Dolphin Hotel.Standing in front of the hotel is a smiling receptionist in a vintage uniform with epaulets, a gold ribbon and a hat of the kind that gay hangout bars wear on hooligans with hoops all over The kind on the head.The cars that came and went on Fifth Avenue in front of the hotel were from another era—Packards, Hudsons, Studbeks, fish-shaped Chrysler New Yorkers. "The match in the ashtray was probably made in 1955," Mike said, stuffing it into the pocket of Lucky's Hawaiian shirt. "I'm keeping it as a souvenir. Time to get some fresh air." There was a thud when he put the pocket recorder down, and it probably fell onto the desk.After a pause, there was an indistinct sound and his labored grunt.Then there was another pause, and then there was a scream. "It worked!" he said.This one is a little further away from the mic, but the next one is closer. "Success!" Mike shouted again, picking up the pocket recorder on the table. "The lower half didn't budge...like it was pinned down, it didn't move at all...but the upper half was pulled off by me. I heard the passing traffic on Fifth Avenue, the horn beeping sounded very loud. Cheerful. Someone was playing the saxophone, maybe in front of the plaza two streets away across the way, and it reminded me of my brother." Mike stopped suddenly and looked at the small red light.It seemed to condemn him.elder brother?His brother was dead, another fallen soldier in the tobacco wars.Then he breathed a sigh of relief.So what?Mike Enslin was always victorious in his battles with ghosts, but Donald Enslin... "Actually, my brother was eaten by wolves on the Connecticut road one winter." After speaking, he laughed and pressed the stop button.There was still a recording on the tape--a little bit--but it was the last coherent sentence... the last sentence that was intelligible. Mike turned to look at the paintings, they were still hanging upright, tiny, but the still life—what a bloody ugly one! He hit the record button, recorded just two words—hot oranges, then turned off the recorder again and walked across the room toward the door to the bedroom.He stopped next to the woman in evening dress and groped in the dark for a light switch.He suddenly realized: It felt like skin, like the skin of someone who died long ago. He slid his palm, something was wrong with the wallpaper underneath, and he felt for the switch.Another cheap and pretty glass-trimmed light on the ceiling fills the bedroom with a yellow glow.A double bed is hidden under a yellow coverlet. "Why hide?" Mike asked the pocket recorder, and hit the stop button again.He walked in and was mesmerized by the steaming desert image on the coverlet and the tumor-like pillows beneath the coverlet.sleep there?No way, man!Sleeping there was like sleeping in that disgusting still-life, in that hideous, sweltering, invisible Paul Paulas desert room reserved for deranged Englishmen in exile; Films starring Lawrence Harvey⑩ or Jeremy Irons⑾ at that time, and they can easily remind you of perverted behavior... Mike pressed the record button, and the small red indicator light lit up.He said into the microphone: "Orpheus at the Orpheum Repertory Theater⑿!" Then he pressed the stop button again.He went to the bed.There was an orange glow on the bedspread.The wallpaper that might have looked creamy during the day also took on the orange glow of the bedspread.On either side of the bed were small nightstands, and on one of them stood a telephone—a large black telephone with a dial.The dial fingerholes look like rolled eyes in awe.On the other was a plate with a plum in it.Mike hit record and said, "That's not a real plum, it's plastic." He did hit stop. There was a menu on the bed that was supposed to hang on the doorknob, and Mike sidled carefully along the bed, trying not to touch the bed or the wall, and picked up the menu.He also tried not to touch the bedspread, and he let out an "ouch" when his fingertips ran across it lightly.The sheets were horribly soft, not normal.Still, he picked up the menu.The menu was written in French, and although he hadn't learned French in years, he recognized one of the breakfast dishes as roasted bird in poop.It's kind of like what the French eat, he thought.There was another burst of wild laughter. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The menu is written in Russian. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The menu is written in Italian. He closed his eyes and opened them again. There is no menu at all.There is only one picture of a small wooden boy screaming and looking back at a wooden wolf that has swallowed his left leg up to the knee, and with both ears hanging down, it looks like a A retriever with its favorite toy. I don't see it, Mike thought.Of course he didn't see it, he didn't close his eyes but saw lines of neat English, each line was a tempting breakfast.Eggs, waffles, fresh strawberries; no poop baked bird, but…   He turned and walked slowly sideways out of the small gap between the bed and the wall, which was as narrow as a tomb.His heart was pounding, felt in his neck, wrists, and chest, and his eyes were beating wildly in their sockets. Room 1408 is not right, it is, room 1408 is very wrong.Olin had mentioned gassing, and Mike felt it now: like being gassed or forced to inhale a strong cannabis narcotic mixed with insect venom.No need to think about it, this must be Olin's good deed, and he probably got the tacit approval of the wildly laughing security guard.He poured special poisonous gas in through the vents, and the fact that no vents were visible did not mean that there were no vents. Mike looked around the bedroom with wide eyes, petrified.The plums on the nightstand to the left of the bed were missing, as were the plates.There is nothing on the table.He turned, walked towards the door to the living room, and stopped again.There was a picture on the wall, of which he wasn't absolutely sure--he couldn't even be sure of his own name now--he was pretty sure that there was no picture there when he first walked in.It was a still life painting.In the tin dish in the middle of the old wooden table was a plum.The light fell on the plums, and the plate was a manic orange. Tango lights, he thought.This light causes the dead to dance the tango from their graves.this light... "I have to go," he whispered, stumbling back into the living room.He felt the shoes begin to make a strange kissing sound, as if the floor had softened under his feet. The painting on the wall in the living room has become crooked again, and that's not all the changes.The woman standing on the stairs had her upper body stripped to reveal her breasts, and she held one of each, a drop of blood dripping from her nipple.She looked directly into Mike's eyes and smiled cruelly.Her teeth were ground as sharp as those of a cannibal.Beside the railing of the sailboat, the sailors disappeared, only a row of pale-faced men and women.On the far left, the man closest to the bow was wearing a brown wool suit and holding a bowler hat. His hair was parted in the middle, bald, and fell down to his eyebrows, in a state of astonishment and bewilderment.Mike recognized it: he was Kevin O'Malley—the first guest in the room, a sewing machine salesman—who jumped from here in October 1910.To O'Malley's left were the other people who had died here, all with the same blank, stunned look on their faces.This makes them appear to be related by blood, members of the same consanguineous, extremely mentally handicapped family. The fruit in the still life becomes a severed human head.Orange light slides over sunken cheeks, slack lips, glazed eyes rolled up, cigarette behind right ear. Mike stumbled toward the door, his feet kissing, and now every step felt a little stuck.Of course, the door wouldn't open.The chain on the door was hanging there, not drawn, and the latch was upright, like a hand pointing at six o'clock, but the door just wouldn't open. With his heart pounding, Mike turned and labored across the room—that was how it felt then—to the desk.He saw the freshly drawn curtains fluttering by the window, but he couldn't feel the fresh air on his face, as if the room had swallowed it all up.He could still hear the horn on Fifth Avenue, but it sounded far away.Had he ever heard the sound of a saxophone here?If so, its melodious voice and melody are stolen from this room, and only a dissonant shriek is heard, like the wind blowing through a hole in a dead man's neck or an aerated drink bottle full of severed fingers, or... Stop it, he wanted to say, but he couldn't.His heart was beating terribly fast; if it beat any faster it would explode.The pocket recorder—his constant companion on many “field expeditions”—was no longer in his possession.He forgot it somewhere.Forgot in the bedroom?Had it been forgotten in the bedroom, it would probably be gone by now, having been swallowed up by the room; after being digested it would be excreted in some painting. Mike was out of breath like a long-distance runner nearing the finish line, one hand on his chest, as if doing so would calm his heart.He found the small, boxy pocket recorder in the left breast pocket of his useless shirt.He touched it, and it felt so real, so familiar, that it calmed him a little—he came back a little.He was aware that he was humming... the room seemed to be humming at him too, as if countless mouths were hidden under the glossy, disgusting wallpaper.He felt a terrible pain in his stomach, which seemed to be swinging in its own greasy hammock.He felt the air congeal into soft lumps against his ears, reminding him of toffee sugar rolled into a ball. When he regained consciousness a little bit, he knew in his heart that it was still too late to ask for help.Orin would grin (with his New York hotel manager's deference) and say to him: I told you so.But he wasn't worried about that.He'd thought Orin had chemically induced these outlandish thoughts in him and scared him out of his wits, but now there was no such thought in his mind at all.All he could think about was this room, this room full of evil spirits. He wanted to reach for the old telephone - the exact same one in the bedroom - to grab it.However, he watched his arm slowly fall to the table, too slow and abnormal, like a diver's arm, and he even expected to see his hand splash. He held the microphone, lifted it up, and carefully lowered it with the other hand, then dialed 0.He held the microphone to his ear, and as the dial returned to its original position, he heard a series of clicks that sounded like the wheels in a game of "roulette of fortune."Do you want to spin the wheel or solve the puzzle?But don't forget, if you try to solve the riddle and fail, you'll be thrown into the snow off a Connecticut road to be eaten by wolves. He didn't hear the bell, only the harsh voice. "I'm 9! I'm 9! 9! I'm 10! 10! We killed your friends! Now they're all dead! I'm 6! 6!" The more Mike listened, the more frightened he was, but it wasn't what the voice said that frightened him, but the hollowness of its cacophony.That sound was not made by a machine, nor by a human being.The sound in the room frightened him.The ghosts swarming from the walls and floors and talking to him on the phone were nothing like the haunted or supernatural events he had read about.He had never encountered such a thing. No, it's not here yet...but it's on its way.It is very hungry and you are its supper. The microphone fell from his loosened fingers, and he turned around, the microphone dangling on the other end of the wire, as his stomach moved back and forth inside him, and he could still hear the harsh sound coming from the darkness : "18! Now I'm 18! Hear the sirens and take cover! I'm 4! 4!" He subconsciously took the cigarette from behind his ear and held it in his mouth; subconsciously he fumbled in the right breast pocket of his brightly colored shirt for the box of matches, which had a receptionist in an old-fashioned uniform with a gold ribbon printed on it; It's been nine years since he quit smoking, but he finally decided, subconsciously, to get one. The room began to melt in front of him. The room began to sag, right angles and straight lines were deformed, not into curves, but into strange horseshoe arches, which were painful to the eyes.A glass chandelier in the center of the ceiling droops like spit.Several paintings began to bend like the windshields of vintage cars.Behind the glass of the painting near the door to the bedroom, a woman in her late twenties with bleeding nipples and razor-sharp teeth whirled up the stairs like a seductress in a silent film, with her knees jerking Twist.The phone is still rattling, and the voice of the electric hair clipper is babbling: "5! I am 5! Don't call the police! Even if you want to leave this room, you will never get out! 8! I It's 8!" The doors to the bedrooms and corridors were beginning to sink in and widen in the middle, as if grotesque ghosts were passing in and out.The lights were bright and hot, filling the room with an orange glow.He saw cracks in the wallpaper, little black holes turning into mouths.The floor sank into a concave arc when he heard it coming.It lives behind this room, hidden in the wall, and hums. "6!" the phone screamed, "6! I'm 6! I'm fucking 6!" He looked down at the matchbox in his hand, the one he had taken out of the ashtray in the bedroom.Ridiculous receptionists and old cars with chrome grilles... He saw a line on the bottom of the box that he hadn't seen in so long because the rubbing strips for matches were always on the back of the box. Close the lid of the box before wiping. Mike Enslin didn't think about anything—he had lost his ability to think—he took out a match, the cigarette fell from his mouth, and he couldn't care less.He struck the match, and at once struck it to the matches in the box, and he heard a "poof!", smelled a violent smell of burning sulfur, like smelling salts, and a box of match heads flashed blindingly .Mike didn't even think about it, holding a ball of fire towards the shirt on his chest.The matches were cheap ones made in Korea, Cambodia, or Borneo, and the shirt caught on in no time.Just before the flames would blaze in front of him, messing up the room again, Mike woke up suddenly, like waking up from a bad dream only to find it had come true. He was awake—the strong smell of sulfur and the sudden heat of his shirt were enough to wake him up—but the room was still in the strange horseshoe-vaulted shape.That's not really true, or even remotely true, but that's the only word that seems to describe what happened here.He's trapped in a molten, decaying cavern that's sinking precipitously and tilting dramatically.The bedroom door is no longer a bedroom, but a cannibal coffin.To his left, the wall of still lifes of fruit jutted out toward him, opening in a long crack like an open mouth into another world, from which something was coming out.Mike Enslin heard it drooling, its rapid breathing, and smelled something alive and frightening.It smells a bit like being in a... lion cage. The flames scorched his jaw, and he panicked. The heat from the burning shirt made him unable to hesitate.When Mike smelled singed chest hair, he walked across the sagging carpet again and ran for the door leading to the hallway in a panic.The sound of insects chirping came from the walls, and the bright orange lights shone brightly, as if a hand was opening an invisible rheostat.But when he went to the door and turned the handle, the door opened.It seemed that the thing behind the raised wall had nothing to do with people on fire, maybe it didn't like cooked meat. -------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------ ①It is made of line-drawn yellow paper, with a size of 22 x 36 cm. ②In New Jersey. ③ It is said that vampires sleep during the day and are active at night, fearing crosses and garlic. ④ "Queen Mary", "Queen Elizabeth 1" and "Queen Elizabeth 2" are three cruise ships of the British Conrad Company, which were later suspended due to losses.The first ship is now parked in Long Beach, California, USA for sightseeing, the second ship is now parked in Everglade, Florida for sightseeing, and the third ship burned in Hong Kong. ⑤ Famous American horror novelist (1890～1937), whose novel "Sky Demon" was once put on the screen. ⑥Created by two slate easels, Currier and Ives, in the United States in the 19th century. ⑦A horror film produced by Warner Bros., released in 1999. ⑧ Or translated into "The Realm of Love", a science fiction film. ⑨Created by American cartoonist W.De. Baker (1890~1942), seen in his comic strip Barney Google, and later evolved into American slang, meaning nervous and restless. ⑩A famous American actor who has appeared in "Border Town Heroes", "Summer Smoke and Clouds" and so on. ⑾A well-known British actor who has starred in "Madame Butterfly", "In Fire", "Reversal of Fortune" and other films, and also co-starred in "China Box" with Gong Li. ⑿A theater in the United States that operates in a unified manner and performs the same show in turn. ⒀A poet and singer in Greek mythology who is good at playing the harp. When playing, the beast bows its head and the stubborn stone nods. ⒁A mixture of aromatic ammonium carbonate, used as a wake-up agent. ⒂The old name of Kaliman Island in Southeast Asia, about two-thirds of which is Indonesian territory.