sk.everythingseventual-第88节

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　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。　'Good　boy！　You'll　go　straight　to　the　hospital；　won't　you；　then　drive　out　to　the　house？'
　　'I　guess　so；　yeah；'　I　said。　I　saw　no　sense　in　telling　Mrs。　McCurdy　that　there　was　something　wrong　with　the　transmission　of　my　old　car；　and　it　wasn't　going　anywhere　but　the　driveway　for　the　foreseeable　future。　I'd　hitchhike　down　to　Lewiston；　then　out　to　our　little　house　in　Harlow　if　it　wasn't　too　late。　If　it　was；　I'd　snooze　in　one　of　the　hospital　lounges。　It　wouldn't　be　the　first　time　I'd　ridden　my　thumb　home　from　school。　Or　slept　sitting　up　with　my　head　leaning　against　a　Coke　machine；　for　that　matter。
　　'I'll　make　sure　the　key's　under　the　red　wheelbarrow；'　she　said。　'You　know　where　I　mean；　don't　you？'
　　'Sure。'　My　mother　kept　an　old　red　wheelbarrow　by　the　door　to　the　back　shed；　in　the　summer　it　foamed　with　flowers。　Thinking　of　it　for　some　reason　brought　Mrs。　McCurdy's　news　home　to　me　as　a　true　fact：　my　mother　was　in　the　hospital；　the　little　house　in　Harlow　where　I'd　grown　up　was　going　to　be　dark　tonight…there　was　no　one　there　to　turn　on　the　lights　after　the　sun　went　down。　Mrs。　McCurdy　could　say　she　was　young；　but　when　you're　just　twenty…one　yourself；　forty…eight　seems　ancient。
　　'Be　careful；　Alan。　Don't　speed。'
　　My　speed；　of　course；　would　be　up　to　whoever　I　hooked　a　ride　with；　and　I　personally　hoped　that　whoever　it　was　would　go　like　hell。　As　far　as　I　was　concerned；　I　couldn't　get　to　Central　Maine　Medical　Center　fast　enough。　Still；　there　was　no　sense　worrying　Mrs。　McCurdy。
　　'I　won't。　Thanks。'
　　'Wele；'　she　said。　'Your　Ma's　going　to　be　just　fine。　And　won't　she　be　some　happy　to　see　you。'
　　I　hung　up；　then　scribbled　a　note　saying　what　had　happened　and　where　I　was　going。　I　asked　Hector　Passmore；　the　more　responsible　of　my　roommates；　to　call　my　advisor　and　ask　him　to　tell　my　instructors　what　was　up　so　I　wouldn't　get　whacked　for　cutting…two　or　three　of　my　teachers　were　real　bears　about　that。　Then　I　stuffed　a　change　of　clothes　into　my　backpack；　added　my　dog…eared　copy　of　Introduction　to　Philosophy；　and　headed　out。　I　droppe