1408- Crooked Door

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 mini-
corder. 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 but
ton. 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 door
way . . . or a table . . . or a chair . . . at how they would go back and
forth . . . right and left . . . tick and tock . . .
...

Damned if you do, Mike thought. I stayed in the Rilsby house, slept in
the room where at least two of them were killed—and I did sleep, whether you
believed it or not. I spent a night right next to Jeffrey Dahmer’s grave and
another two stones over from H. P. Lovecraft’s; I brushed my teeth next to the
tub where Sir David Smythe supposedly drowned both of his wives. I stopped
being scared of campfire stories a long time ago. I’ll be damned if you do!

He looked back at the door and the door was straight. He grunted,
pushed the key into the lock, and turned it. The door opened.

- 1408, chapter II