ing 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 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 nece