He stepped further in。 Nothing here； nothing at all。 Only an empty room； cold
because Daddy was heating the east wing today。 A bureau。 A closet； its door open
to reveal a clutch of hotel hangers； the kind you can't steal。 A Gideon Bible on
an endtable。 To his left was the bathroom door； a full…length mirror on it
reflecting his own white…faced image。 That door was ajar and —
He watched his double nod slowly。
Yes； that's where it was； whatever it was。 In there。 In the bathroom。 His
double walked forward； as if to escape the glass。 It put its hand out； pressed
it against his own。 Then it fell away at an angle as the bathroom door swung
open。 He looked in。
A long room； old…fashioned； like a Pullman car。 Tiny white hexagonal tiles on
the floor。 At the far end； a toilet with the lid up。 At the right； a washbasin
and another mirror above it； the kind that hides a medicine cabinet。 To the
left； a huge white tub on claw feet； the shower curtain pulled closed。 Danny
stepped into the bathroom and walked toward the tub dreamily； as if propelled
from outside himself； as if this whole thing were one of the dreams Tony had
brought him； that he would perhaps see something nice when he pulled the shower
curtain back； something Daddy had forgotten or Mommy had lost； something that
would make them both happy —
So he pulled the shower curtain back。
The woman in the tub had been dead for a long time。 She was bloated and
purple； her gas…filled belly rising out of the cold； ice…rimmed water like some
fleshy island。 Her eyes were fixed on Danny's； glassy and huge； like marbles。
She was grinning； her purple lips pulled back in a grimace。 Her breasts lolled。
Her pubic hair floated。 Her hands were frozen on the knurled porcelain sides of
the tub like crab claws。
Danny shrieked。 But the sound never escaped his lips； turning inward and
inward； it fell down in his darkness like a stone in a well。 He took a single
blundering step backward； hearing his heels clack on the white hexagonal tiles；
and at the same moment his urine broke； spilling effortlessly out of him。
The woman was sitting up。
Still grinning； her huge marble eyes fixed on him； she was sitting up。 Her
dead palms made squittering noises on the porcelain。 Her breasts swayed like
ancient cracked punching bags。 There was the minute sound of breaking ice
shards。 She was not breathing。 She was a corpse； and dead long years。
Danny turned and ran。 Bolting through the bathroom door； his eyes starting
from their sockets； his hair on end like the hair of a hedgehog about to be
turned into a sacrificial
（croquet？ or roque？）
ball； his mouth open and soundless。 He ran full…tilt into the outside door of
217； which was now closed。 He began hammering on it； far beyond realizing that
it was unlocked； and he had only to turn the knob to let himself out。 His mouth
pealed forth deafening screams that were beyond human auditory range。 He could
only hammer on the door and hear the dead woman ing for him； bloated belly；
dry hair； outstretched hands something that had lain slain in that tub for
perhaps years； embalmed there in magic。
The door would not open； would not； would not； would not。
And then the voice of Dick Hallorann came to him； so sudden and unexpected； so
calm； that his locked vocal cords opened and he began to cry weakly not with
fear but with blessed relief。
（I don't think they can hurt you 。。。 they're like pictures in a book 。。。
close your eyes and they'll be gone。）
His eyelids snapped down。 His hands curled into balls。 His shoulders hunched
with the effort of his concentration：
（Nothing there nothing there not there at all NOTHING
THERE THERE IS NOTHING！）
Time passed。 And he was just beginning to relax； just beginning to realize
that the door must be unlocked and he could go； when the years…damp； bloated；
fish…smelling hands closed softly around his throat and he was turned implacably
around to stare into that dead and purple face。
P A R T F O U R
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Snowbound
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
》
DREAMLAND
Knitting made her sleepy。 Today even Bartok would have made her sleepy； and it
wasn't Bartok on the little phonograph； it was Bach。 Her hands grew slower and
slower； and at the time her son was making the acquaintance of Room 217's long…
term resident； Wendy was asleep with her knitting on her lap。 The yarn and
needles rose in the slow time of her breathing。 Her sleep was deep and she did
not dream。
* * *
Jack Torrance had fallen asleep too； but his sleep was light and uneasy；
populated by dreams that seemed too vivid to be mere dreams — they were certainly
more vivid than any dreams he had ever had before。
His eyes had begun to get heavy as he leafed through packets of milk bills； a
hundred to a packet； seemingly tens of thousands all together。 Yet he gave each
one a cursory glance； afraid that by not being thorough he might miss exactly
the piece of Overlookiana he needed to make the mystic connection that he was
sure must be here somewhere。 He felt like a man with a power cord in one hand；
groping around a dark and unfamiliar room for a socket。 If he could find it he
would be rewarded with a view of wonders。
He had e to grips with Al Shockley's phone call and his request； his
strange experience in the playground had helped him to do that。 That had been
too damned close to some kind of breakdown； and he was convinced that it was his
mind in revolt against Al's high…goddam…handed request that he chuck his book
project。 It had maybe been a signal that his own sense of self…respect could
only be pushed so far before disintegrating entirely。 He would write the book。
If it meant the end of his association with Al Shockley； that would have to be。
He would write the hotel's biography； write it straight from the shoulder； and
the introduction would be his hallucination that the topiary animals had moved。
The title would be uninspired but workable： Strange Resort； The Story of the
Overlook Hotel。 Straight from the shoulder； yes； but it would not be written
vindictively； in any effort to get back at Al or Stuart Ullman or George
Hatfield or his father （miserable； bullying drunk that he had been） or anyone
else； for that matter。 He would write it because the Overlook had enchanted
him — could any other explanation be so simple or so true？ He would write it for
the reason he felt that all great literature； fiction and nonfiction； was
written： truth es out； in the end it always es out。 He would write it
because he felt he had to。
Five hundred gals whole milk。 One hundred gals skim milk。 Pd。 Billed to acc't。
Three hundred pts orange juice。 Pd。
He slipped down further in his chair； still holding a clutch of the receipts；
but his eyes no long