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u could be silent。
Her head itched。 She scratched it。 Black flecks came swirling down past her face。 On the Crown Vic's instrument panel the speedometer froze at sixteen thousand feet and then blew out； but Bill appeared not to notice。
Here came a mailbox with a Grateful Dead sticker pasted on the front； here came a little black dog with its head down； trotting busily； and God how her head itched； black flakes drifting in the air like fallout and Mother Teresa's face looking out of one of them。
MOTHER OF MERCY CHARITIES HELP THE FLORIDA HUNGRY…WON'T YOU HELP US？
Floyd。 What's that over there？ Oh shit。
She has time to see something big。 And to read the word DELTA。
'Bill？ Bill？'
His reply； clear enough but nevertheless ing from around the rim of the universe： 'Christ； honey； what's in your hair？'
She plucked the charred remnant of Mother Teresa's face from her lap and held it out to him； the older version of the man she had married； the secretary…fucking man she had married； the man who had nonetheless rescued her from people who thought that you could live forever in paradise if you only lit enough candles and wore the blue blazer and stuck to the approved skipping rhymes。 Lying there with this man one hot summer night while the drug deals went on upstairs and Iron Butterfly sang 'In…A…Gadda…Da…Vida' for the nine billionth time； she had asked what he thought you got； you know； after。 When your part in the show was over。 He had taken her in his arms and held her； down the beach she had heard the jangle…jingle of the midway and the bang of the Dodgem cars and Bill …
Bill's glasses were melted to his face。 One eye bulged out of its socket。 His mouth was a bloodhole。 In the trees a bird was crying； a bird was screaming； and Carol began to scream with it； holding out the charred fragment of paper with Mother Teresa's picture on it； screaming； watching as his cheeks turned black and his forehead swarmed and his neck split open like a poisoned goiter； screaming； she was screaming； 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