sk.everythingseventual-第75部分

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e　no　gaps　。　。　。　and　yet；　if　you　looked　more　closely；　you　saw　that　there　was。　The　button　marked　12　was　followed　by　one　marked　14。　As　if；　Mike　thought；　they　could　make　the　number　nonexistent　by　omitting　it　from　the　control…panel　of　an　elevator。
　　Foolishness　。　。　。　and　yet　Olin　was　right；　it　was　done　all　over　the　world。
　　As　the　car　rose；　Mike　said；　'I'm　curious　about　something。　Why　didn't　you　simply　create　a　fictional　resident　for　room　1408；　if　it　scares　you　all　as　badly　as　you　say　it　does？　For　that　matter；　Mr。　Olin；　why　not　declare　it　as　your　own　residence？'
　　'I　suppose　I　was　afraid　I　would　be　accused　of　fraud；　if　not　by　the　people　responsible　for　enforcing　state　and　federal　civil　rights　statutes…hotel　people　feel　about　civil　rights　laws　as　many　of　your　readers　probably　feel　about　clanking　chains　in　the　night…then　by　my　bosses；　if　they　got　wind　of　it。　If　I　couldn't　persuade　you　to　stay　out　of　1408；　I　doubt　that　I　would　have　had　much　more　luck　in　convincing　the　Stanley　Corporation's　board　of　directors　that　I　took　a　perfectly　good　room　off　the　market　because　I　was　afraid　that　spooks　cause　the　occasional　travelling　salesman　to　jump　out　the　window　and　splatter　himself　all　over　Sixty…first　Street。'
　　Mike　found　this　the　most　disturbing　thing　Olin　had　said　yet。　Because　he's　not　trying　to　convince　me　anymore；　he　thought。　Whatever　salesmanship　powers　he　had　in　his　office…maybe　it's　some　vibe　that　es　up　from　the　Persian　rug…he　loses　it　out　here。　petency；　yes；　you　could　see　that　when　he　was　signing　the　ma？tre　d's　chits；　but　not　salesmanship。　Not　personal　magnetism。　Not　out　here。　But　he　believes　it。　He　believes　it　all。
　　Above　the　door；　the　illuminated　12　went　out　and　the　14　came　on。　The　elevator　stopped。　The　door　slid　open　to　reveal　a　perfectly　ordinary　hotel　corridor　with　a　red…and…gold　carpet　（most　definitely　not　a　Persian）　and　electric　fixtures　that　looked　like　nineteenth…century　gaslights。
　　'Here　we　are；'　Olin　said。　'Your　floor。　You'll　pardon　me　if　I　leave　you　here。　1408　is　to　your　left；　at　the　end　of　the　hall。　Unless　I　absolutely　have　to；　I　don't　go　any　closer　than　this。'
　　Mike　Enslin　stepped　out　of　the　elevator　on　legs　that　seemed　heavier　than　they　should　have。　He　turned　back　to　Olin；　a　pudgy　little　man　in　a　black　coat　and　a　carefully　knotted　wine…colored　tie。　Olin's　manicured　hands　were　clasped　behind　him　now；　and　Mike　saw　that　the　little　man's　face　was　as　pale　as　cream。　On　his　high；　lineless　forehead；　drops　of　perspiration　stood　out。
　　'There's　a　telephone　in　the　room；　of　course；'　Olin　said。　'You　could　try　it；　if　you　find　yourself　in　trouble　。　。　。　but　I　doubt　that　it　will　work。　Not　if　the　room　doesn't　want　it　to。'
　　Mike　thought　of　a　light　reply；　something　about　how　that　would　save　him　a　room…service　charge　at　least；　but　all　at　once　his　tongue　seemed　as　heavy　as　his　legs。　It　just　lay　there　on　the　floor　of　his　mouth。
　　Olin　brought　one　hand　out　from　behind　his　back；　and　Mike　saw　it　was　trembling。　'Mr。　Enslin；'　he　said。　'Mike。　Don't　do　this。　For　God's　sake…'
　　Before　he　could　finish；　the　elevator　door　slid　shut；　cutting　him　off。　Mike　stood　where　he　was　for　a　moment；　in　the　perfect　New　York　hotel　silence　of　what　no　one　on　the　staff　would　admit　was　the　thirteenth　floor　of　the　Hotel　Dolphin；　and　thought　of　reaching　out　and　pushing　the　elevator's　call…button。
　　Except　if　he　did　that；　Olin　would　win。　And　there　would　be　a　large；　gaping　hole　where　the　best　chapter　of　his　new　book　should　have　been。　The　readers　might　not　know　that；　his　editor　and　his　agent　might　not　know　it；　Robertson　the　lawyer　might　not　。　。　。　but　he　would。
　　Instead　of　pushing　the　call…button；　he　reached　up　and　touched　the　cigarette　behind　his　ear…that　old；　distracted　gesture　he　no　longer　knew　he　was　making…and　flicked　the　collar　of　his　lucky　shirt。　Then　he　started　down　the　hallway　toward　1408；　swinging　his　overnight　case　by　his　side。
　　
　　II
　　
　　The　most　interesting　artifact　left　in　the　wake　of　Michael　Enslin's　brief　stay　（it　lasted　about　seventy　minutes）　in　room　1408　was　the　eleven　minutes　of　recorded　tape　in　his　minicorder；　which　was　charred　a　bit　but　not　even　close　to　destroyed。　The　fascinating　thing　about　the　narration　was　how　little　narration　there　was。　And　how　odd　it　became。
　　The　minicorder　had　been　a　present　from　his　ex…wife；　with　whom　he　had　remained　friendly；　five　years　before。　On　his　first　'case　expedition'　（the　Rilsby　farm　in　Kansas）　he　had　taken　it　almost　as　an　afterthought；　along　with　five　yellow　legal　pads　and　a　leather　case　filled　with　sharpened　pencils。　By　the　time　he　reached　the　door　of　room　1408　in　the　Hotel　Dolphin　three　books　later；　he　came　with　a　single　pen　and　notebook；　plus　five　fresh　ninety…minute　cassettes　in　addition　to　the　one　he　had　loaded　into　the　machine　before　leaving　his　apartment。
　　He　had　discovered　that　narration　served　him　better　than　note…taking；　he　was　able　to　catch　anecdotes；　some　of　them　pretty　damned　great；　as　they　happened…the　bats　that　had　dive…bombed　him　in　the　supposedly　haunted　tower　of　Gartsby　Castle；　for　instance。　He　had　shrieked　like　a　girl　on　her　first　trip　through　a　carny　haunted　house。　Friends　hearing　this　were　invariably　amused。
　　The　little　tape　recorder　was　more　practical　than　written　notes；　too；　especially　when　you　were　in　a　chilly　New　Brunswick　graveyard　and　a　squall　of　rain　and　wind　collapsed　your　tent　at　three　in　the　morning。　You　couldn't　take　very　successful　notes　in　such　circumstances；　but　you　could　talk　。　。　。　which　was　what　Mike　had　done；　gone　on　talking　as　he　struggled　out　of　the　wet；　flapping　canvas　of　his　tent；　never　losing　sight　of　the　minicorder's　forting　red　eye。　Over　the　years　and　the　'case　expeditions；'　the　Sony　minicorder　had　bee　his　friend。　He　had　never　recorded　a　first…hand　account　of　a　true　supernatural　event　on　the　filament…thin　ribbon　of　tape　running　between　its　reels；　and　that　included　the　broken　ments　he　made　while　in　1408；　but　it　was　probably　not　surprising　that　he　had　arrived　at　such　feelings　of　affection　for　the　gadget。　Long…haul　truckers　e　to　love　their　Kenworths　and　Jimmy…Petes；　writers　treasure　a　certain　pen　or　battered　old　typewriter；　professional　cleaning　ladies　are　loath　to　give　up　the　old　Electrolux。　Mike　had　never　had　to　stand　up　to　an　actual　ghost　or　psychokinetic　event　with　only　the　minicorder…his　version　of　a　cross　and　a　bunch　of　garlic…to　protect　him；　but　it　had　been　there　on　plenty　of　cold；　unfortable　nights。　He　was　hardheaded；　but　that　didn't　make　him　inhuman。
　　His　problems　with　1408　started　even　before　he　got　into　the　room。
　　The　door　was　crooked。
　　Not　by　a　lot；　but　it　was　crooked；　all　right；　canted　just　the　tiniest　bit　to　the　left。　It　made　him　think　first　of　scary　movies　where　the　director　tried　to　indicate　mental　distress　in　one　of　the　characters　by　tipping　the　camera　on　the　point…of…view　shots。　This　association　was　followed　by　another　one…the　way　doors　looked　when　you　were　on　a　boat　and　the　weather　was　a　little　heavy。　Back　and　forth　they　went；　right　and　left　they　went；　tick　and　tock　they　went；　until　you　started　to　feel　a　bit　woozy　in　your　head　and　stomach。　Not　that　he　felt　that　way　himself；　not　at　all；　but　…
　　Yes；　I　do。　Just　a　little。
　　And　he　would　say　so；　too；　if　only　because　of　Olin's　insinuation　that　his　attitude　made　it　impossible　for　him　to　be　fair　in　the　undoubtedly　subjective　field　of　spook　journalism。
　　He　bent　over　（aware　that　the　slightly　woozy　feeling　in　his　stomach　left　as　soon　as　he　was　no　longer　looking　at　that　subtly　off…kilter　door）；　unzipped　the　pocket　on　his　overnighter；　and　took　out　his　minicorder。　He　pushed　RECORD　as　he　straightened　up；　saw　the　little　red　eye　go　on；　and　opened　his　mouth　to　say；　'The　door　of　room　1408　offers　its　own　unique　greeting；　it　appears　to　have　been　set　crooked；　tipped　slightly　to　the　left。'
　　He　said　The　door；　and　that's　all。　If　you　listen　to　the　tape；　you　can　hear　both　words　clearly；　The　door　and　then　the　click　of　the　STOP　button。　Because　the　door　wasn't　crooked。　It　was　perfectly　straight。　Mike　turned；　looked　at　the　door　of　1409　across　the　hall；　then　back　at　the　door　of　1408。　Both　doors　were　the　same；　white　with　gold　number…plaques　and　gold　doorknobs。　Both　perfectly　straight。
　　Mike　bent；　picked　up　his　overnight　case　with　the　hand　holding　the　minicorder；　moved　the　key　in　his　other　hand　toward　the　lock；　then　stopped　again。
　　The　door　was　crooked　again。
　　This　time　it　tilted　slightly　to　the　right。
　　'This　is　ridiculous；'　Mike　murmured；　but　that　woozy　feeling　had　already　started　in　his　stomach　again。　It　wasn't　just　like　seasickness；　it　was　seasickness。　He　had　crossed　to　England　on　the　QE2　a　couple　of　years　ago；　and　one　night　had　been　extremely　rough。　What　Mike　remembered　most　clearly　was　lying　on　the　bed　in　his　stateroom；　always　on　the　verge　of　throwing　up　but　never　quite　able　to　do　it。　And　how　the　feeling　of　nauseated　vertigo　got　worse　if　you　looked　at　a　doorway　。　。　。　or　a　table　。　。　。　or　a　chair　。　。　。　at　how　they　would　go　back　and　forth　。　。　。　right　and　left　。　。　。　tick　and　tock　。　。　。
　　This　is　Olin's　fault；　he　thought。　Exactly　what　he　wants。　He　built　you　up　for　it；　buddy。　He　set　you　up　for　it。　Man；　how　he'd　laugh　if　he　could　see　you。　How　…
　　His　thoughts　broke　off　as　he　realized　Olin　very　likely　could　see　him。　Mike　looked　back　down　the　corridor　toward　the　elevator；　barely　noticing　that　the　slightly　whoopsy　feeling　in　his　stomach　left　the　moment　he　stopped　staring　at　the　door。　Above　and　to　the　left　of　the　elevators；　he　saw　what　he　had　expected：　a　closed…circuit　camera。　One　of　the　house　dicks　might　be　looking　at　it　this　very　moment；　and　Mike　was　willing　to　bet　that　Olin　was　right　there　with　him；　both　of　them　grinning　like　apes。　Teach　him　to　e　in　here　and　start　throwing　his　weight　and　his　lawyer　around；　Olin　says。　Lookit　him！　the　security　man　replies；　grinning　more　widely　than　ever。　White　as　a　ghost　himself；　and　he　hasn't　even　touched　the　key　to　the　lock　yet。　You　got　him；　boss！　Got　him　hook；　line；　and　sinker！
　　Damned　if　you　do；　Mike　thought。　I　stayed　in　the　Rilsby　house；　slept　in　the　room　where　at　least　two　of　them　were　killed…and　I　did　sleep；　whether　you　believed　it　or　not。　I　spent　a　night　right　next　to　Jeffrey　Dahmer's　grave　and　another　two　stones　over　from　H。　P。　Lovecraft's；　I　brushed　my　teeth　next　to　the　tub　where　Sir　David　Smythe　suppos