sk.everythingseventual-第78部分

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e　floor；　the　presence　speaking　to　him　from　the　telephone；　had　nothing　in　mon　with　any　haunting　or　paranormal　event　he　had　ever　read　about。　There　was　something　alien　here。
　　No；　not　here　yet　。　。　。　but　ing。　It's　hungry；　and　you're　dinner。
　　The　phone　fell　from　his　relaxing　fingers　and　he　turned　around。　It　swung　at　the　end　of　its　cord　the　way　his　stomach　was　swinging　back　and　forth　inside　him；　and　he　could　still　hear　that　voice　rasping　out　of　the　black：　'Eighteen！　This　is　now　eighteen！　Take　cover　when　the　siren　sounds！　This　is　four！　Four！'
　　He　was　not　aware　of　taking　the　cigarette　from　behind　his　ear　and　putting　it　in　his　mouth；　or　of　fumbling　the　book　of　matches　with　the　old…fashioned　gold…frogged　doorman　on　it　out　of　his　bright　shirt's　right　breast　pocket；　not　aware　that；　after　nine　years；　he　had　finally　decided　to　have　a　smoke。
　　Before　him；　the　room　had　begun　to　melt。
　　It　was　sagging　out　of　its　right　angles　and　straight　lines；　not　into　curves　but　into　strange　Moorish　arcs　that　hurt　his　eyes。　The　glass　chandelier　in　the　center　of　the　ceiling　began　to　sag　like　a　thick　glob　of　spit。　The　pictures　began　to　bend；　turning　into　shapes　like　the　windshields　of　old　cars。　From　behind　the　glass　of　the　picture　by　the　door　leading　into　the　bedroom；　the　twenties　woman　with　the　bleeding　nipples　and　grinning　cannibal…teeth　whirled　around　and　ran　back　up　the　stairs；　going　with　the　jerky　delirious　high　knee…pistoning　of　a　vamp　in　a　silent　movie。　The　telephone　continued　to　grind　and　spit；　the　voice　ing　from　it　now　the　voice　of　an　electric　hair…clipper　that　has　learned　how　to　talk：　'Five！　This　is　five！　Ignore　the　siren！　Even　if　you　leave　this　room；　you　can　never　leave　this　room！　Eight！　This　is　eight！'
　　The　door　to　the　bedroom　and　the　door　to　the　hall　had　begun　to　collapse　downward；　widening　in　the　middle　and　being　doorways　for　beings　possessed　of　unhallowed　shapes。　The　light　began　to　grow　bright　and　hot；　filling　the　room　with　that　yellow…orange　glow。　Now　he　could　see　rips　in　the　wallpaper；　black　pores　that　quickly　grew　to　bee　mouths。　The　floor　sank　into　a　concave　arc　and　now　he　could　hear　it　ing；　the　dweller　in　the　room　behind　the　room；　the　thing　in　the　walls；　the　owner　of　the　buzzing　voice。　'Six！'　the　phone　screamed。　'Six；　this　is　six；　this　is　goddam　fucking　SIX！'
　　He　looked　down　at　the　matchbook　in　his　hand；　the　one　he　had　plucked　out　of　the　bedroom　ashtray。　Funny　old　doorman；　funny　old　cars　with　their　big　chrome　grilles　。　。　。　and　words　running　across　the　bottom　that　he　hadn't　seen　in　a　long　time；　because　now　the　strip　of　abrasive　stuff　was　always　on　the　back。
　　CLOSE　COVER　BEFORE　STRIKING。
　　Without　thinking　about　it…he　no　longer　could　think…Mike　Enslin　tore　out　a　single　match；　allowing　the　cigarette　to　drop　out　of　his　mouth　at　the　same　time。　He　struck　the　match　and　immediately　touched　it　to　the　others　in　the　book。　There　was　a　ffffhut！　sound；　a　strong　whiff　of　burning　sulfur　that　went　into　his　head　like　a　whiff　of　smelling　salts；　and　a　bright　flare　of　matchheads。　And　again；　without　so　much　as　a　single　thought；　Mike　held　the　flaring　bouquet　of　fire　against　the　front　of　his　shirt。　It　was　a　cheap　thing　made　in　Korea　or　Cambodia　or　Borneo；　old　now；　it　caught　fire　at　once。　Before　the　flames　could　blaze　up　in　front　of　his　eyes；　rendering　the　room　once　more　unstable；　Mike　saw　it　clearly；　like　a　man　who　has　awakened　from　a　nightmare　only　to　find　the　nightmare　all　around　him。
　　His　head　was　clear…the　strong　whiff　of　sulfur　and　the　sudden　rising　heat　from　his　shirt　had　done　that　much…but　the　room　maintained　its　insanely　Moorish　aspect。　Moorish　was　wrong；　not　even　very　close；　but　it　was　the　only　word　that　seemed　even　to　reach　toward　what　had　happened　here　。　。　。　what　was　still　happening。　He　was　in　a　melting；　rotting　cave　full　of　swoops　and　mad　tilts。　The　door　to　the　bedroom　had　bee　the　door　to　some　sarcophagal　inner　chamber。　And　to　his　left；　where　the　picture　of　the　fruit　had　been；　the　wall　was　bulging　outward　toward　him；　splitting　open　in　those　long　cracks　that　gaped　like　mouths；　opening　on　a　world　from　which　something　was　now　approaching。　Mike　Enslin　could　hear　its　slobbering；　avid　breath；　and　smell　something　alive　and　dangerous。　It　smelled　a　little　like　the　lion…house　in　the　…
　　Then　flames　scorched　the　undershelf　of　his　chin；　banishing　thought。　The　heat　rising　from　his　blazing　shirt　put　that　waver　back　into　the　world；　and　as　he　began　to　smell　the　crispy　aroma　of　his　chest…hair　starting　to　fry；　Mike　again　bolted　across　the　sagging　rug　to　the　hall　door。　An　insectile　buzzing　sound　had　begun　to　sweat　out　of　the　walls。　The　yellow…orange　light　was　steadily　brightening；　as　if　a　hand　were　turning　up　an　invisible　rheostat。　But　this　time　when　he　reached　the　door　and　turned　the　knob；　the　door　opened。　It　was　as　if　the　thing　behind　the　bulging　wall　had　no　use　for　a　burning　man；　did　not；　perhaps；　relish　cooked　meat。
　　
　　III
　　
　　A　popular　song　from　the　fifties　suggests　that　love　makes　the　world　go　'round；　but　coincidence　would　probably　be　a　better　bet。　Rufus　Dearborn；　who　was　staying　that　night　in　room　1414；　up　near　the　elevators；　was　a　salesman　for　the　Singer　Sewing　Machine　pany；　in　town　from　Texas　to　talk　about　moving　up　to　an　executive　position。　And　so　it　happened　that；　ninety　or　so　years　after　room　1408's　first　occupant　jumped　to　his　death；　another　sewing　machine　salesman　saved　the　life　of　the　man　who　had　e　to　write　about　the　purportedly　haunted　room。　Or　perhaps　that　is　an　exaggeration；　Mike　Enslin　might　have　lived　even　if　no　one…especially　a　fellow　on　his　way　back　from　a　visit　to　the　ice　machine…had　been　in　the　hallway　at　that　moment。　Having　your　shirt　catch　fire　is　no　joke；　though；　and　he　certainly　would　have　been　burned　much　more　severely　and　extensively　if　not　for　Dearborn；　who　thought　fast　and　moved　even　faster。
　　Not　that　Dearborn　ever　remembered　exactly　what　happened。　He　constructed　a　coherent　enough　story　for　the　newspapers　and　TV　cameras　（he　liked　the　idea　of　being　a　hero　very　much；　and　it　certainly　did　no　harm　to　his　executive　aspirations）；　and　he　clearly　remembered　seeing　the　man　on　fire　lunge　out　into　the　hall；　but　after　that　everything　was　a　blur。　Thinking　about　it　was　like　trying　to　reconstruct　the　things　you　had　done　during　the　vilest；　deepest　drunk　of　your　life。
　　One　thing　he　was　sure　of　but　didn't　tell　any　of　the　reporters；　because　it　made　no　sense：　the　burning　man's　scream　seemed　to　grow　in　volume；　as　if　he　were　a　stereo　that　was　being　turned　up。　He　was　right　there　in　front　of　Dearborn；　and　the　pitch　of　the　scream　never　changed；　but　the　volume　most　certainly　did。　It　was　as　if　the　man　were　some　incredibly　loud　object　that　was　just　arriving　here。
　　Dearborn　ran　down　the　hall　with　the　full　ice…bucket　in　his　hand。　The　burning　man…'It　was　just　his　shirt　on　fire；　I　saw　that　right　away；'　he　told　the　reporters…struck　the　door　opposite　the　room　he　had　e　out　of；　rebounded；　staggered；　and　fell　to　his　knees。　That　was　when　Dearborn　reached　him。　He　put　his　foot　on　the　burning　shoulder　of　the　screaming　man's　shirt　and　pushed　him　over　onto　the　hall　carpet。　Then　he　dumped　the　contents　of　the　ice…bucket　onto　him。
　　These　things　were　blurred　in　his　memory；　but　accessible。　He　was　aware　that　the　burning　shirt　seemed　to　be　casting　far　too　much　light…a　sweltering　yellow…orange　light　that　made　him　think　of　a　trip　he　and　his　brother　had　made　to　Australia　two　years　before。　They　had　rented　an　all…wheel　drive　and　had　taken　off　across　the　Great　Australian　Desert　（the　few　natives　called　it　the　Great　Australian　Bugger…All；　the　Dearborn　brothers　discovered）；　a　hell　of　a　trip；　great；　but　spooky。　Especially　the　big　rock　in　the　middle；　Ayers　Rock。　They　had　reached　it　right　around　sunset　and　the　light　on　its　man　faces　was　like　this　。　。　。　hot　and　strange　。　。　。　not　really　what　you　thought　of　as　earth…light　at　all　。　。　。
　　He　dropped　beside　the　burning　man　who　was　now　only　the　smoldering　man；　the　covered…with…ice…cubes　man；　and　rolled　him　over　to　stifle　the　flames　reaching　around　to　the　back　of　the　shirt。　When　he　did；　he　saw　the　skin　on　the　left　side　of　the　man's　neck　had　gone　a　smoky；　bubbly　red；　and　the　lobe　of　his　ear　on　that　side　had　melted　a　little；　but　otherwise　。　。　。　otherwise　。　。　。
　　Dearborn　looked　up；　and　it　seemed…this　was　crazy；　but　it　seemed　the　door　to　the　room　the　man　had　e　out　of　was　filled　with　the　burning　light　of　an　Australian　sundown；　the　hot　light　of　an　empty　place　where　things　no　man　had　ever　seen　might　live。　It　was　terrible；　that　light　（and　the　low　buzzing；　like　an　electric　clipper　that　was　trying　desperately　to　speak）；　but　it　was　fascinating；　too。　He　wanted　to　go　into　it。　He　wanted　to　see　what　was　behind　it。
　　Perhaps　Mike　saved　Dearborn's　life；　as　well。　He　was　certainly　aware　that　Dearborn　was　getting　up…as　if　Mike　no　longer　held　any　interest　for　him…and　that　his　face　was　filled　with　the　blazing；　pulsing　light　ing　out　of　1408。　He　remembered　this　better　than　Dearborn　later　did　himself；　but　of　course　Rufe　Dearborn　had　not　been　reduced　to　setting　himself　on　fire　in　order　to　survive。
　　Mike　grabbed　the　cuff　of　Dearborn's　slacks。　'Don't　go　in　there；'　he　said　in　a　cracked；　smoky　voice。　'You'll　never　e　out。'
　　Dearborn　stopped；　looking　down　at　the　reddening；　blistering　face　of　the　man　on　the　carpet。
　　'It's　haunted；'　Mike　said；　and　as　if　the　words　had　been　a　talisman；　the　door　of　room　1408　slammed　furiously　shut；　cutting　off　the　light；　cutting　off　the　terrible　buzz　that　was　almost　words。
　　Rufus　Dearborn；　one　of　Singer　Sewing　Machine's　finest；　ran　down　to　the　elevators　and　pulled　the　fire　alarm。
　　
　　IV
　　
　　There's　an　interesting　picture　of　Mike　Enslin　in　Treating　the　Burn　Victim：　A　Diagnostic　Approach；　the　sixteenth　edition　of　which　appeared　about　sixteen　months　after　Mike's　short　stay　in　room　1408　of　the　Hotel　Dolphin。　The　photo　shows　just　his　torso；　but　it's　Mike；　all　right。　One　can　tell　by　the　white　square　on　the　left　side　of　his　chest。　The　flesh　all　around　it　is　an　angry　red；　actually　blistered　into　second…degree　burns　in　some　places。　The　white　square　marks　the　left　breast　pocket　of　the　shirt　he　was　wearing　that　night；　the　lucky　shirt　with　his　mini…corder　in　the　pocket。
　　The　minicorder　itself　melted　around　the　corners；　but　it　still　works；　and　the　tape　inside　it　was　fine。　It's　t