1408- Window

“I’m keeping it as a souvenir. Now it’s time for a little fresh
air.”

There is a clunk as he sets the minicorder down, presumably on the
writing desk. There is a pause followed by vague sounds and a couple
of effortful grunts. After these come a second pause and then a
squeaking sound. “Success!” he says. This is a little off-mike, but the
follow-up is closer.

“Success!” Mike repeated, picking the minicorder up off the desk.
“The bottom half wouldn’t budge . . . it’s like it’s nailed shut . . . but
the top half came down all right. I can hear the traffic on Fifth
Avenue, and all the beeping horns have a comforting quality. Some
one is playing a saxophone, perhaps in front of the Plaza, which is
across the street and two blocks down. It reminds me of my brother.”
...

Breathing rapidly, Mike turned from it and waded—that was
what it felt like—across the room to the writing desk. He could see
the curtains beside the window he had cracked open waving desulto-
rily, but he could feel no fresh air against his face. It was as though
the room were swallowing it. He could still hear horns on Fifth, but
they were now very distant. Did he still hear the saxophone? If
so, the room had stolen its sweetness and melody and left only an
atonal reedy drone, like the wind blowing across a hole in a dead
man’s neck or a pop bottle filled with severed fingers or—

Stop it, he tried to say, but he could no longer speak. His heart was
hammering at a terrible pace; if it went much faster, it would
explode.

- 1408, chapter II