sk.everythingseventual-第97部分

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at　the　room　seemed　to　be　humming　back　at　him；　as　if　myriad　mouths　were　concealed　beneath　its　smoothly　nasty　wallpaper。　He　was　aware　that　his　stomach　was　now　so　nauseated　that　it　seemed　to　be　swinging　in　its　own　greasy　hammock。　He　could　feel　the　air　crowding　against　his　ears　in　soft；　coagulating　clots；　and　it　made　him　think　of　how　fudge　was　when　it　reached　the　soft…ball　stage。
　　But　he　was　back　a　little；　enough　to　be　positive　of　one　thing：　he　had　to　call　for　help　while　there　was　still　time。　The　thought　of　Olin　smirking　（in　his　deferential　New　York　hotel　manager　way）　and　saying　I　told　you　so　didn't　bother　him；　and　the　idea　that　Olin　had　somehow　induced　these　strange　perceptions　and　horrible　fear　by　chemical　means　had　entirely　left　his　mind。　It　was　the　room。　It　was　the　god…damned　room。
　　He　meant　to　jab　out　a　hand　to　the　old…fashioned　telephone…the　twin　of　the　one　in　the　bedroom…and　snatch　it　up。　Instead　he　watched　his　arm　descend　to　the　table　in　a　kind　of　delirious　slow　motion；　so　like　the　arm　of　a　diver　he　almost　expected　to　see　bubbles　rising　from　it。
　　He　closed　his　fingers　around　the　handset　and　picked　it　up。　His　other　hand　dove；　as　deliberate　as　the　first；　and　dialed　0。　As　he　put　the　handset　of　the　phone　against　his　ear；　he　heard　a　series　of　clicks　as　the　dial　spun　back　to　its　original　position。　It　sounded　like　the　wheel　on　Wheel　of　Fortune；　do　you　want　to　spin　or　do　you　want　to　solve　the　puzzle？　Remember　that　if　you　try　to　solve　the　puzzle　and　fail；　you　will　be　put　out　into　the　snow　beside　the　Connecticut　Turnpike　and　the　wolves　will　eat　you。
　　There　was　no　ring　in　his　ear。　Instead；　a　harsh　voice　simply　began　speaking。　'This　is　nine！　Nine！　This　is　nine！　Nine！　This　is　ten！　Ten！　We　have　killed　your　friends！　Every　friend　is　now　dead！　This　is　six！　Six！'
　　Mike　listened　with　growing　horror；　not　at　what　the　voice　was　saying　but　at　its　rasping　emptiness。　It　was　not　a　machine…generated　voice；　but　it　wasn't　a　human　voice；　either。　It　was　the　voice　of　the　room。　The　presence　pouring　out　of　the　walls　and　the　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　t