1408- Calling Rufus to Open Door

He dropped beside the burning man who was now only the smol-
dering 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 come 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 try
ing 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, puls
ing light coming 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 come 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.

- 1408, chapter III