sk.everythingseventual-第79节

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ing；　somewhere　Iron　Butterfly　was　singing　'In…A…Gadda…Da…Vida'　and　she　was　screaming。
　　
　　'Carol？'
　　It　was　Bill's　voice；　from　a　thousand　miles　away。　His　hand　was　on　her；　but　it　was　concern　in　his　touch　rather　than　lust。
　　She　opened　her　eyes　and　looked　around　the　sun…brilliant　cabin　of　the　Lear　35；　and　for　a　moment　she　understood　everything…in　the　way　one　understands　the　tremendous　import　of　a　dream　upon　the　first　moment　of　waking。　She　remembered　asking　him　what　he　believed　you　got；　you　know；　after；　and　he　had　said　you　probably　got　what　you'd　always　thought　you　would　get；　that　if　Jerry　Lee　Lewis　thought　he　was　going　to　Hell　for　playing　boogie…woogie；　that's　exactly　where　he'd　go。　Heaven；　Hell；　or　Grand　Rapids；　it　was　your　choice…or　the　choice　of　those　who　had　taught　you　what　to　believe。　It　was　the　human　mind's　final　great　parlor…trick：　the　perception　of　eternity　in　the　place　where　you'd　always　expected　to　spend　it。
　　'Carol？　You　okay；　babe？'　In　one　hand　was　the　magazine　he'd　been　reading；　a　Newsweek　with　Mother　Teresa　on　the　cover。　SAINTHOOD　NOW？　it　said　in　white。
　　Looking　around　wildly　at　the　cabin；　she　was　thinking；　It　happens　at　sixteen　thousand　feet。　I　have　to　tell　them；　I　have　to　warn　them。
　　But　it　was　fading；　all　of　it；　the　way　those　feelings　always　did。　They　went　like　dreams；　or　cotton　candy　turning　into　a　sweet　mist　just　above　your　tongue。
　　'Landing？　Already？'　She　felt　wide…awake；　but　her　voice　sounded　thick　and　muzzy。
　　'It's　fast；　huh？'　he　said；　sounding　pleased；　as　if　he'd　flown　it　himself　instead　of　paying　for　it。　'Floyd　says　we'll　be　on　the　ground　in…'
　　'Who？'　she　asked。　The　cabin　of　the　little　plane　was　warm　but　her　fingers　were　cold。　'Who？'
　　'Floyd。　You　know；　the　pilot。'　He　pointed　his　thumb　toward　the　cockpit's　lefthand　seat。　They　were　descending　into　a　scrim　of　clouds。　The　plane　began　to　shake。　'He　says　we'll　be　on　the　ground　in　Fort　Myers　in　twenty　minutes。　You　took　a　hell　of　a　jump；　girl。　And　before　that　you　were　moaning。'
　　Carol　opened　her　mouth　to　say　it　was　that　feeling；　the　one　you　could　only　say　what　it　was　in　French；　something　vu　or　vous；　but　it　was　fading　and　all　she　said　was　'I　had　a　nightmare。'
　　There　was　a　beep　as　Floyd　the　pilot　switched　the　seat…belt　light　on。　Carol　turned　her　head。　Somewhere　below；　waiting　for　them　now　and　forever；　was　a　white　car　from　Hertz；　a　gangster　car；　the　kind　the　characters　in　a　Martin　Scorsese　movie　would　probably　call　a　Crown　Vic。　She　looked　at　the　cover　of　the　news　magazine；　at　the　face　of　Mother　Teresa；　and　all　at　once　she　remembered　skipping　rope　behind　Our　Lady　of　Angels；　skipping　to　one　of　the　forbidden　rhymes；　skipping　to　the　one　that　went　Hey　there；　Mary；　what's　the　story；　save　my　ass　from　Purgatory。
　　All　the　hard　days　are　ing；　her　Gram　had　said。　She　had　pressed　the　medal　into　Carol's　palm；　wrapped　the　chain　around　her　fingers。　The　hard　days　are　ing。
　　
　　
　　I　think　this　story　is　about　Hell。　A　version　of　it　where　you　are　condemned　to　do　the　same　thing　over　and　over　again。　Existentialism；　baby；　what　a　concept；　paging　Albert　Camus。　There's　an　idea　that　Hell　is　other　people。　My　idea　is　that　it　might　be　repetition。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　1408
　　
　　
　　As　well　as　the　ever…popular　premature　burial；　every　writer　of　shock/suspense　tales　should　write　at　least　one　story　about　the　Ghostly　Room　At　The　Inn。　This　is　my　version　of　that　story。　The　only　unusual　thing　about　it　is　that　I　never　intended　to　finish　it。　I　wrote　the　first　three　or　four　pages　as　part　of　an　appendix　for　my　On　Writing　book；　wanting　to　show　readers　how　a　story　evolves　from　first　draft　to　second。　Most　of　all；　I　wanted　to　provide　concrete　examples　of　the　principles　I'd　been　blathering　about　in　the　text。　But　something　nice　happened：　the　story　seduced　me；　and　I　ended　up　writing　all　of　it。　I　think　that　what　scares　us　varies　widely　from　one　individual　to　the　next　（I've　never　been　able　to　understand　why　Peruvian　boomslangs　give　some　people　the　creeps；　for　example）；　but　this　story　scared　me　while　I　was　working　on　it。　It　originally　appeared　as　part　of　an　audio　pilation　called　Blood　and　Smoke；　and　the　audio　scared　me　even　more。　Scared　the　hell　out　of　me。　But　hotel　rooms　are　just　naturally　creepy　places；　don't　you　think？　I　mean；　how　many　people　have　slept　in　that　bed　before　you？　How　many　of　them　were　sick？　How　many　were　losing　their　minds？　How　many　were　perhaps　thinking　about　reading　a　few　final　verses　from　the　Bible　in　the　drawer　of　the　nightstand　beside　them　and　then　hanging　themselves　in　the　closet　beside　the　TV？　Brrrr。　In　any　case；　let's　check　in；　shall　we？　Here's　your　key　。　。　。　and　you　might　take　time　to　notice　what　those　four　innocent　numbers　add　up　to。
　　It's　just　down　the　hall。
　　
　　
　　
　　I
　　
　　Mike　Enslin　was　still　in　the　revolving　door　when　he　saw　Olin；　the　manager　of　the　Hotel　Dolphin；　sitting　in　one　of　the　overstuffed　lobby　chairs。　Mike's　heart　sank。　Maybe　I　should　have　brought　the　lawyer　along　again；　after　all；　he　thought。　Well；　too　late　now。　And　even　if　Olin　had　decided　to　throw　up　another　roadblock　or　two　between　Mike　and　room　1408；　that　wasn't　all　bad；　there　were　pensations。
　　Olin　was　crossing　the　room　with　one　pudgy　hand　held　out　as　Mike　left　the　revolving　door。　The　Dolphin　was　on　Sixty…first　Street；　around　the　corner　from　Fifth　Avenue；　small　but　smart。　A　man　and　a　woman　dressed　in　evening　clothes　passed　Mike　as　he　reached　for　Olin's　hand；　switching　his　small　overnight　case　to　his　left　hand　in　order　to　do　it。　The　woman　was　blond；　dressed　in　black；　of　course；　and　the　light；　flowery　smell　of　her　perfume　seemed　to　summarize　New　York。　On　the　mezzanine　level；　someone　was　playing　'Night　and　Day'　in　the　bar；　as　if　to　underline　the　summary。
　　'Mr。　Enslin。　Good　evening。'
　　'Mr。　Olin。　Is　there　a　problem？'
　　Olin　looked　pained。　For　a　moment　he　glanced　around　the　small；　smart　lobby；　as　if　for　help。　At　the　concierge's　stand；　a　man　was　discussing　theater　tickets　with　his　wife　while　the　concierge　himself　watched　them　with　a　small；　patient　smile。　At　the　front　desk；　a　man　with　the　rumpled　look　one　only　got　after　long　hours　in　Business　Class　was　discussing　his　reservation　with　a　woman　in　a　smart　black　suit　that　could　itself　have　doubled　for　evening　wear。　It　was　business　as　usual　at　the　Hotel　Dolphin。　There　was　help　for　everyone　except　poor　Mr。　Olin；　who　had　fallen　into　the　writer's　clutches。
　　'Mr。　Olin？'　Mike　repeated。
　　'Mr。　Enslin　。　。　。　could　I　speak　to　you　for　a　moment　in　my　office？'　Well；　and　why　not？　It　would　help　the　section　on　room　1408；　add　to　the　ominous　tone　the　readers　of　his　books　seemed　to　crave；　and　that　wasn't　all。　Mike　Enslin　hadn't　been　sure　until　now；　in　spite　of　all　the　backing　and　filling；　now　he　was。　Olin　was　really　afraid　of　room　1408；　and　of　what　might　happen　to　Mike　there　tonight。
　　'Of　course；　Mr。　Olin。'
　　Olin；　the　good　host；　reached　for　Mike's　bag。　'Allow　me。'
　　'I'm　fine　with　it；'　Mike　said。　'Nothing　but　a　change　of　clothes　and　a　toothbrush。'
　　'Are　you　sure？'
　　'Yes；'　Mike　said。　'I'm　already　wearing　my　lucky　Hawaiian　shirt。'　He　smiled。　'It's　the　one　with　the　ghost　repellent。'
　　Olin　didn't　smile　back。　He　sighed　instead；　a　little　round　man　in　a　dark　cutaway　coat　and　a　neatly　knotted　tie。　'Very　good；　Mr。　Enslin。　Follow　me。'
　　
　　The　hotel　manager　had　seemed　tentative　in　the　lobby；　almost　beaten。　In　his　oak…paneled　office；　with　the　pictures　of　the　hotel　on　the　walls　（the　Dolphin　had　opened　in　1910…Mike　might　publish　without　the　benefit　of　reviews　in　the　journals　or　the　big…city　papers；　but　he　did　his　research）；　Olin　seemed　to　gain　assurance　again。　There　was　a　Persian　carpet　on　the　floor。　Two　standing　lamps　cast　a　mild　yellow　light。　A　desk…lamp　with　a　green　lozenge…shaped　shade　stood　on　the　desk；　next　to　a　humidor。　And　next　to　the　humidor　were　Mike　Enslin's　last　three　books。　Paperback　editions；　of　course；　there　had　been　no　hardbacks。　Mine　host　has　been　doing　a　little　research　of　his　own；　Mike　thought。
　　Mike　sat　down　in　front　of　the　desk。　He　expected　Olin　to　sit　behind　the　desk；　but　Olin　surprised　him。　He　took　the　chair　beside　Mike's；　crossed　his　legs；　then　leaned　forward　over　his　tidy　little　belly　to　touch　the　humidor。
　　'Cigar；　Mr。　Enslin？'
　　'No；　thank　you。　I　don't　smoke。'
　　Olin's　eyes　shifted　to　the　cigarette　behind　Mike's　right　ear…parked　on　a　jaunty　jut　the　way　an　old…time　wisecracking　reporter　might　have　parked　his　next　smoke　just　below　the　PRESS　tag　stuck　in　the　band　of　his　fedora。　The　cigarette　had　bee　so　much　a　part　of　him　that　for　a　moment　Mike　honestly　didn't　know　what　Olin　was　looking　at。　Then　he　laughed；　took　it　down；　looked　at　it　himself；　and　looked　back　at　Olin。
　　'Haven't　had　a　one　in　nine　years；'　he　said。　'Had　an　older　brother　who　died　of　lung　cancer。　I　quit　after　he　died。　The　cigarette　behind　the　ear　。　。　。'　He　shrugged。　'Part　affectation；　part　superstition；　I　guess。　Like　the　Hawaiian　shirt。　Or　the　cigarettes　you　sometimes　see　on　people's　desks　or　walls；　mounted　in　a　little　box　with　a　sign　saying　BREAK　GLASS　IN　CASE　OF　EMERGENCY。　Is　1408　a　smoking　room；　Mr。　Olin？　Just　in　case　nuclear　war　breaks　out？'
　　'As　a　matter　of　fact；　it　is。'
　　'Well；'　Mike　said　heartily；　'that's　one　less　worry　in　the　watches　of　the　night。'
　　Mr。　Olin　sighed　aga