sk.everythingseventual-第98部分

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o　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　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