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f the hall。 Unless I absolutely have to； I don't go any closer than this。'
Mike Enslin stepped out of the elevator on legs that seemed heavier than they should have。 He turned back to Olin； a pudgy little man in a black coat and a carefully knotted wine…colored tie。 Olin's manicured hands were clasped behind him now； and Mike saw that the little man's face was as pale as cream。 On his high； lineless forehead； drops of perspiration stood out。
'There's a telephone in the room； of course；' Olin said。 'You could try it； if you find yourself in trouble 。 。 。 but I doubt that it will work。 Not if the room doesn't want it to。'
Mike thought of a light reply； something about how that would save him a room…service charge at least； but all at once his tongue seemed as heavy as his legs。 It just lay there on the floor of his mouth。
Olin brought one hand out from behind his back； and Mike saw it was trembling。 'Mr。 Enslin；' he said。 'Mike。 Don't do this。 For God's sake…'
Before he could finish； the elevator door slid shut； cutting him off。 Mike stood where he was for a moment； in the perfect New York hotel silence of what no one on the staff would admit was the thirteenth floor of the Hotel Dolphin； and thought of reaching out and pushing the elevator's call…button。
Except if he did that； Olin would win。 And there would be a large； gaping hole where the best chapter of his new book should have been。 The readers might not know that； his editor and his agent might not know it； Robertson the lawyer might not 。 。 。 but he would。
Instead of pushing the call…button； he reached up and touched the cigarette behind his ear…that old； distracted gesture he no longer knew he was making…and flicked the collar of his lucky shirt。 Then he started down the hallway toward 1408； swinging his overnight case by his side。
II
The most interesting artifact left in the wake of Michael Enslin's brief stay （it lasted about seventy minutes） in room 1408 was the eleven minutes of recorded tape in his minicorder； which was charred a bit but not even close to destroyed。 The fascinating thing about the narration was how little narration there was。 And how odd it became。
The minicorder had been a present from his ex…wife； with whom he had remained friendly； five years before。 On his first 'case expedition' （the Rilsby farm in Kansas） he had taken it almost as an afterthought； along with five yellow legal pads and a leather case filled with sharpened pencils。 By the time he reached the door of room 1408 in the Hotel Dolphin three books later； he came with a single pen and notebook； plus five fresh ninety…minute cassettes in addition to the one he had loaded into the machine before leaving his apartment。
He had discovered that narration served him better than note…taking； he was able to catch anecdotes； some of them pretty damned great； as they happened…the bats that had dive…bombed him in the supposedly haunted tower of Gartsby Castle； for instance。 He had shrieked like a girl on her first trip through a carny haunted house。 Friends hearing this were invariably amused。
The little tape recorder was more practical than written notes； too； especially when you were in a chilly New Brunswick graveyard and a squall of rain and wind collapsed your tent at three in the morning。 You couldn't take very successful notes in such circumstances； but you could talk 。 。 。 which was what Mike had done； gone on talking as he struggled out of the wet； flapping canvas of his tent； never losing sight of the minicorder's forting red eye。 Over the years and the 'case expeditions；' the Sony minicorder had bee his friend。 He had never recorded a first…hand account of a true supernatural event on the filament…thin ribbon of tape running between its reels； and that included the broken ments he made while in 1408； but it was probably not surprising that he had arrived at such feelings of affection for the gadget。 Long…haul truckers e to love their Kenworths and Jimmy…Petes； writers treasure a certain pen or battered old typewriter； professional cleaning ladies are loath to give up the old Electrolux。 Mike had never had to stand up to an actual ghost or psychokinetic event with only the minicorder…his version of a cross and a bunch of garlic…to protect him； but it had been there on plenty of cold； unfortable nights。 He was hardheaded； but that didn't make him inhuman。
His problems with 1408 started even before he got into the room。
The door was crooked。
Not by a lot； but it was crooked； all right； canted just the tiniest bit to the left。 It made him think first of scary movies where the director tried to indicate mental distress in one of the characters by tipping the camera on the point…of…view shots。 This association was followed by another one…the way doors looked when you were on a boat and the weather was a little heavy。 Back and forth they went； right and left they went； tick and tock they went； until you started to feel a bit woozy in your head and stomach。 Not that he felt that way himself； not at all； but …
Yes； I do。 Just a little。
And he would say so； too； if only because of Olin's insinuation that his attitude made it impossible for him to be fair in the undoubtedly subjective field of spook journalism。
He bent over （aware that the slightly woozy feeling in his stomach left as soon as he was no longer looking at that subtly off…kilter door）； unzipped the pocket on his overnighter； and took out his minicorder。 He pushed RECORD as he straightened up； saw the little red eye go on； and opened his mouth to say； 'The door of room 1408 offers its own unique greeting； it appears to have been set crooked； tipped slightly to the left。'
He said The door； and that's all。 If you listen to the tape； you can hear both words clearly； The door and then the click of the STOP button。 Because the door wasn't crooked。 It was perfectly straight。 Mike turned； looked at the door of 1409 across the hall； then back at the door of 1408。 Both doors were the same； white with gold number…plaques and gold doorknobs。 Both perfectly straight。
Mike bent； picked up his overnight case with the hand holding the minicorder； moved the key in his other hand toward the lock； then stopped again。
The door was crooked again。
This time it tilted slightly to the right。
'This is ridiculous；' Mike murmured； but that woozy feeling had already started in his stomach again。 It wasn't just like seasickness； it was seasickness。 He had crossed to England on the QE2 a couple of years ago； and one night had been extremely rough。 What Mike remembered most clearly was lying on the bed in his stateroom； always on the verge of throwing up but never quite able to do it。 And how the feeling of nauseated vertigo got worse if you looked at a doorway 。 。 。 or a table 。 。 。 or a chair 。 。 。 at how they would go back and forth 。 。 。 right and left 。 。 。 tick and tock 。 。 。
This is Olin's fault； he thought。 Exactly what he wants。 He built you up for it； buddy。 He set you up for it。 Man； how he'd laugh if he could see you。 How …
His thoughts broke off as he realized Olin very likely could see him。 Mike looked back down the co