sk.everythingseventual-第79部分

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　　The　minicorder　itself　melted　around　the　corners；　but　it　still　works；　and　the　tape　inside　it　was　fine。　It's　the　things　on　it　which　are　not　fine。　After　listening　to　it　three　or　four　times；　Mike's　agent；　Sam　Farrell；　tossed　it　into　his　wall…safe；　refusing　to　acknowledge　the　gooseflesh　all　over　his　tanned；　scrawny　arms。　In　that　wall…safe　the　tape　has　stayed　ever　since。　Farrell　has　no　urge　to　take　it　out　and　play　it　again；　not　for　himself；　not　for　his　curious　friends；　some　of　whom　would　cheerfully　kill　to　hear　it；　New　York　publishing　is　a　small　munity；　and　word　gets　around。
　　He　doesn't　like　Mike's　voice　on　the　tape；　he　doesn't　like　the　stuff　that　voice　is　saying　（My　brother　was　actually　eaten　by　wolves　one　winter　on　the　Connecticut　Turnpike　。　。　。　what　in　God's　name　is　that　supposed　to　mean？）；　and　most　of　all　he　doesn't　like　the　background　sounds　on　the　tape；　a　kind　of　liquid　smooshing　that　sometimes　sounds　like　clothes　churning　around　in　an　oversudsed　washer；　sometimes　like　one　of　those　old　electric　hair…clippers　。　。　。　and　sometimes　weirdly　like　a　voice。
　　While　Mike　was　still　in　the　hospital；　a　man　named　Olin…the　manager　of　the　goddamned　hotel；　if　you　please…came　and　asked　Sam　Farrell　if　he　could　listen　to　that　tape。　Farrell　said　no；　he　couldn't；　what　Olin　could　do　was　take　himself　on　out　of　the　agent's　office　at　a　rapid　hike　and　thank　God　all　the　way　back　to　the　fleabag　where　he　worked　that　Mike　Enslin　had　decided　not　to　sue　either　the　hotel　or　Olin　for　negligence。
　　'I　tried　to　persuade　him　not　to　go　in；'　Olin　said　quietly。　A　man　who　spent　most　of　his　working　days　listening　to　tired　travellers　and　petulant　guests　bitch　about　everything　from　their　rooms　to　the　magazine　selection　in　the　newsstand；　he　wasn't　much　perturbed　by　Farrell's　rancor。　'I　tried　everything　in　my　power。　If　anyone　was　negligent　that　night；　Mr。　Farrell；　it　was　your　client。　He　believed　too　much　in　nothing。　Very　unwise　behavior。　Very　unsafe　behavior。　I　would　guess　he　has　changed　somewhat　in　that　regard。'
　　In　spite　of　Farrell's　distaste　for　the　tape；　he　would　like　Mike　to　listen　to　it；　acknowledge　it；　perhaps　use　it　as　a　pad　from　which　to　launch　a　new　book。　There　is　a　book　in　what　happened　to　Mike；　Farrell　knows　it…not　just　a　chapter；　a　forty…page　case　history；　but　an　entire　book。　One　that　might　outsell　all　three　of　the　Ten　Nights　books　bined。　And　of　course　he　doesn't　believe　Mike's　assertion　that　he　has　finished　not　only　with　ghost…tales　but　with　all　writing。　Writers　say　that　from　time　to　time；　that's　all。　The　occasional　prima　donna　outburst　is　part　of　what　makes　writers　in　the　first　place。
　　As　for　Mike　Enslin　himself；　he　got　off　lucky；　all　things　considered。　And　he　knows　it。　He　could　have　been　burned　much　more　badly　than　he　actually　was；　if　not　for　Mr。　Dearborn　and　his　bucket　of　ice；　he　might　have　had　twenty　or　even　thirty　different　skin…graft　procedures　to　suffer　through　instead　of　only　four。　His　neck　is　scarred　on　the　left　side　in　spite　of　the　grafts；　but　the　doctors　at　the　Boston　Burn　Institute　tell　him　the　scars　will　fade　on　their　own。　He　also　knows　that　the　burns；　painful　as　they　were　in　the　weeks　and　months　after　that　night；　were　necessary。　If　not　for　the　matches　with　CLOSE　COVER　BEFORE　STRIKING　written　on　the　front；　he　would　have　died　in　1408；　and　his　end　would　have　been　unspeakable。　To　a　coroner　it　might　have　looked　like　a　stroke　or　a　heart　attack；　but　the　actual　cause　of　death　would　have　been　much　nastier。
　　Much　nastier。
　　He　was　also　lucky　in　having　produced　three　popular　books　on　ghosts　and　hauntings　before　actually　running　afoul　of　a　place　that　is　haunted…this　he　also　knows。　Sam　Farrell　may　not　believe　Mike's　life　as　a　writer　is　over；　but　Sam　doesn't　need　to；　Mike　knows　it　for　both　of　them。　He　cannot　so　much　as　write　a　postcard　without　feeling　cold　all　over　his　skin　and　being　nauseated　deep　in　the　pit　of　his　belly。　Sometimes　just　looking　at　a　pen　（or　a　tape　recorder）　will　make　him　think：　The　pictures　were　crooked。　I　tried　to　straighten　the　pictures。　He　doesn't　know　what　this　means。　He　can't　remember　the　pictures　or　anything　else　from　room　1408；　and　he　is　glad。　That　is　a　mercy。　His　blood…pressure　isn't　so　good　these　days　（his　doctor　told　him　that　burn　victims　often　develop　problems　with　their　blood…pressure　and　put　him　on　medication）；　his　eyes　trouble　him　（his　ophthalmologist　told　him　to　start　taking　Ocuvites）；　he　has　consistent　back　problems；　his　prostate　has　gotten　too　large　。　。　。　but　he　can　deal　with　these　things。　He　knows　he　isn't　the　first　person　to　escape　1408　without　really　escaping…Olin　tried　to　tell　him…but　it　isn't　all　bad。　At　least　he　doesn't　remember。　Sometimes　he　has　nightmares；　quite　often；　in　fact　（almost　every　goddam　night；　in　fact）；　but　he　rarely　remembers　them　when　he　wakes　up。　A　sense　that　things　are　rounding　off　at　the　corners；　mostly…melting　the　way　the　corners　of　his　minicorder　melted。　He　lives　on　Long　Island　these　days；　and　when　the　weather　is　good　he　takes　long　walks　on　the　beach。　The　closest　he　has　ever　e　to　articulating　what　he　does　remember　about　his　seventy…odd　（very　odd）　minutes　in　1408　was　on　one　of　those　walks。　'It　was　never　human；'　he　told　the　ining　waves　in　a　choked；　halting　voice。　'Ghosts　。　。　。　at　least　ghosts　were　once　human。　The　thing　in　the　wall；　though　。　。　。　that　thing　。　。　。'
　　Time　may　improve　it；　he　can　and　does　hope　for　that。　Time　may　fade　it；　as　it　will　fade　the　scars　on　his　neck。　In　the　meantime；　though；　he　sleeps　with　the　lights　on　in　his　bedroom；　so　he　will　know　at　once　where　he　is　when　he　wakes　up　from　the　bad　dreams。　He　has　had　all　the　phones　taken　out　of　the　house；　at　some　point　just　below　the　place　where　his　conscious　mind　seems　able　to　go；　he　is　afraid　of　picking　the　phone　up　and　hearing　a　buzzing；　inhuman　voice　spit；　'This　is　nine！　Nine！　We　have　killed　your　friends！　Every　friend　is　now　dead！'
　　And　when　the　sun　goes　down　on　clear　evenings；　he　pulls　every　shade　and　blind　and　drape　in　the　house。　He　sits　like　a　man　in　a　darkroom　until　his　watch　tells　him　the　light…even　the　last　fading　glow　along　the　horizon…must　be　gone。
　　He　can't　stand　the　light　that　es　at　sunset。
　　That　yellow　deepening　to　orange；　like　light　in　the　Australian　desert。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　RIDING　THE　BULLET
　　
　　
　　I　think　I've　said　almost　everything　that　needs　to　be　said　about　this　story　in　the　Introduction。　It's　essentially　my　telling　of　a　tale　you　can　hear　in　almost　any　small　town。　And；　like　an　earlier　story　of　mine　（'The　Woman　in　the　Room；'　in　Night　Shift）；　it's　an　attempt　to　talk　about　how　my　own　mother's　approaching　death　made　me　feel。　There　es　a　time　in　most　lives　when　we　must　face　the　deaths　of　our　loved　ones　as　an　actual　reality　。　。　。　and；　by　proxy；　the　fact　of　our　own　approaching　death。　This　is　probably　the　single　great　subject　of　horror　fiction：　our　need　to　cope　with　a　mystery　that　can　be　understood　only　with　the　aid　of　a　hopeful　imagination。
　　
　　
　　I've　never　told　anyone　this　story；　and　never　thought　I　would…not　because　I　was　afraid　of　being　disbelieved；　exactly；　but　because　I　was　ashamed　。　。　。　and　because　it　was　mine。　I've　always　felt　that　telling　it　would　cheapen　both　me　and　the　story　itself；　make　it　smaller　and　more　mundane；　no　more　than　a　camp　counselor's　ghost　story　told　before　lights…out。　I　think　I　was　also　afraid　that　if　I　told　it；　heard　it　with　my　own　ears；　I　might　start　to　disbelieve　it　myself。　But　since　my　mother　died　I　haven't　been　able　to　sleep　very　well。　I　doze　off　and　then　snap　back　again；　wide…awake　and　shivering。　Leaving　the　bedside　lamp　on　helps；　but　not　as　much　as　you　might　think。　There　are　so　many　more　shadows　at　night；　have　you　ever　noticed　that？　Even　with　a　light　on　there　are　so　many　shadows。　The　long　ones　could　be　the　shadows　of　anything；　you　think。
　　Anything　at　all。
　　
　　I　was　a　junior　at　the　University　of　Maine　when　Mrs。　McCurdy　called　about　Ma。　My　father　died　when　I　was　too　young　to　remember　him　and　I　was　an　only　child；　so　it　was　just　Alan　and　Jean　Parker　against　the　world。　Mrs。　McCurdy；　who　lived　just　up　the　road；　called　at　the　apartment　I　shared　with　three　other　guys。　She　had　gotten　the　number　off　the　magnetic　minder…board　Ma　kept　on　her　fridge。
　　''Twas　a　stroke；'　she　said　in　that　long　and　drawling　Yankee　accent　of　hers。　'Happened　at　the　restaurant。　But　don't　you　go　flyin　off　all　half…cocked。　Doctor　says　it　wa'ant　too　bad。　She's　awake　and　she's　talkin。'
　　'Yeah；　but　is　she　making　sense？'　I　asked。　I　was　trying　to　sound　calm；　even　amused；　but　my　heart　was　beating　fast　and　the　living　room　suddenly　felt　too　warm。　I　had　the　apartment　all　to　myself；　it　was　Wednesday；　and　both　my　roomies　had　classes　all　day。
　　'Oh；　ayuh。　First　thing　she　said　was　for　me　to　call　you　but　not　to　scare　you。　That's　pretty　sensible；　wouldn't　you　say？'
　　'Yeah。'　But　of　course　I　was　scared。　When　someone　calls　and　tells　you　your　mother's　been　taken　from　work　to　the　hospital　in　an　ambulance；　how　else　are　you　supposed　to　feel？
　　'She　said　for　you　to　stay　right　there　and　mind　your　schoolin　until　the　weekend。　She　said　you　could　e　then；　if　you　didn't　have　too　much　studyin　t'do。'
　　Sure；　I　thought。　Fat　chance。　I'd　just　stay　here　in　this　ratty；　beer…smelling　apartment　while　my　mother　lay　in　a　hospital　bed　a　hundred　miles　south；　maybe　dying。
　　'She's　still　a　young　woman；　your　Ma；'　Mrs。　McCurdy　said。　'It's　just　that　she's　let　herself　get　awful　heavy　these　last　few　years；　and　she's　got　the　hypertension。　Plus　the　cigarettes。　She's　going　to　have　to　give　up　the　smokes。'
　　I　doubted　if　she　would；　though；　stroke　or　no　stroke；　and　about　that　I　was　right…my　mother　loved　her　smokes。　I　thanked　Mrs。　McCurdy　for　calling。
　　'First　thing　I　did　when　I　got　home；'　she　said。　'So　when　are　you　ing；　Alan？　Sad'dy？'　There　was　a　sly　note　in　her　voice　that　suggested　she　knew　better。
　　I　looked　out　the　window　into　a　perfect　afternoon　in　October：　bright　blue　New　England　sky　over　trees　that　were　shaking　down　their　yellow　leaves　onto　Mill　Street。　Then　I　glanced　at　my　watch。　Twenty　past　three。　I'd　just　been　on　my　way　out　to　my　four　o'clock　philosophy　seminar　when　the　phone　rang。
　　'You　kidding？'　I　asked。　'I'll　be　there　tonight。'
　　Her　laughter　was　dry　and　a　little　cracked　around　the　edges…Mrs。　McCurdy　was　a　great　one　to　talk　about　giving　up　the　cigarettes；　her　and　her　Winstons。　'Goo