numbers； Jack felt sure that this was the room the lawyer's wife and her stud
had shared； that this was the bathroom where she had been found dead； full of
barbiturates and Colorado Lounge booze。
He pushed the mirror…backed bathroom door open and stepped through。 The light
in here was off。 He turned it on and observed the long； Pullman…car room；
furnished in the distinctive early nineteen…hundreds…remodeled…in…the…twenties
style that seemed mon to all Overlook bathrooms； except for the ones on the
third floor — those were properly Byzantine； as befitted the royalty； politicians；
movie stars； and capos who had stayed there over the years。
The shower curtain； a pallid pastel pink； was drawn protectively around the
long claw…footed tub。
（nevertheless they did move）
And for the first time he felt his new sense of sureness （almost cockiness）
that had e over him when Danny ran to him shouting It was her！ It was her！
deserting him。 A chilled finger pressed gently against the base of his spine；
cooling him off ten degrees。 It was joined by others and they suddenly rippled
all the way up his back to his medulla oblongata； playing his spine like a
jungle instrument。
His anger at Danny evaporated； and as he stepped forward and pushed the shower
curtain back his mouth was dry and he felt only sympathy for his son and terror
for himself。
The tub was dry and empty。
Relief and irritation vented in a sudden 〃Pah！〃 sound that escaped his
pressed lips like a very small explosive。 The tub had been scrubbed clean at
the end of the season； except for the rust stain under the twin faucets； it
sparkled。 There was a faint but definable smell of cleanser； the kind that can
irritate your nose with the smell of its own righteousness for weeks； even
months； after it has been used。
He bent down and ran his fingertips along the bottom of the tub。 Dry as a
bone。 Not even a hint of moisture。 The boy had been either hallucinating or
outright lying。 He felt angry again。 That was when the bathmat on the floor
caught his attention。 He frowned down at it。 What was a bathmat doing in here？
It should be down in the linen cupboard at the end of the wing with the rest of
the sheets and towels and pillow slips。 All the linen was supposed to be there。
Not even the beds were really made up in these guest rooms； the mattresses had
been zipped into clear plastic and then covered with bedspreads。 He supposed
Danny might have gone down and gotten it — the passkey would open the linen
cupboard — but why？ He brushed the tips of his fingers back and forth across it。
The bathmat was bone dry。
He went back to the bathroom door and stood in it。 Everything was all right。
The boy had been dreaming。 There was not a thing out of place。 It was a little
puzzling about the bathmat； granted； but the logical explanation was that some
chambermaid； hurrying like mad on the last day of the season； had just forgotten
to pick it up。 Other than that； everything was —
His nostrils flared a little。 Disinfectant； that self…righteous smell；
cleaner…than…thou。 And —
Soap？
Surely not。 But once the smell had been identified； it was too clear to
dismiss。 Soap。 And not one of those postcard…size bars of Ivory they provide you
with in hotels and motels； either。 This scent was light and perfumed； a lady's
soap。 It had a pink sort of smell。 Camay or Lowila； the brand that Wendy had
always used in Stovington。
（It's nothing。 It's your imagination。）
（yes like the hedges nevertheless they did move）
（They did not move！）
He crossed jerkily to the door which gave on the hall； feeling the irregular
thump of a headache beginning at his temples。 Too much had happened today； too
much by far。 He wouldn't spank the boy or shake him； just talk to him； but by
God； he wasn't going to add Room 217 to his problems。 Not on the basis of a dry
bathmat and a faint smell of Lowila soap。 He —
There was a sudden rattling； metallic sound behind him。 It came just as his
hand closed around the doorknob； and an observer might have thought the brushed
steel of the knob carried an electric charge。 He jerked convulsively； eyes
widening； other facial features drawing in； grimacing。
Then he had control of himself； a little； anyway； and he let go of the
doorknob and turned carefully around。 His joints creaked。 He began to walk back
to the bathroom door； step by leaden step。
The shower curtain； which he had pushed back to look into the tub； was now
drawn。 The metallic rattle； which had sounded to him like a stir of bones in a
crypt； had been the curtain rings on the overhead bar。 Jack stared at the
curtain。 His face felt as if it had been heavily waxed； all dead skin on the
outside； live； hot rivulets of fear on the inside。 The way he had felt on the
playground。
There was something behind the pink plastic shower curtain。 There was
something in the tub。
He could see it； ill defined and obscure through the plastic； a nearly
amorphous shape。 It could have been anything。 A trick of the light。 The shadow
of the shower attachment。 A woman long dead and reclining in her bath； a bar of
Lowila in one stiffening hand as she waited patiently for whatever lover might
e。
Jack told himself to step forward boldly and rake the shower curtain back。 To
expose whatever might be there。 Instead he turned with jerky； marionette
strides； his heart whamming frightfully in his chest； and went back into the
bed/sitting room。
The door to the hall was shut。
He stared at it for a long； immobile second。 He could taste his terror now。 It
was in the back of his throat like a taste of gone…over cherries。
He walked to the door with that same jerky stride and forced his fingers to
curl around the knob。
（It won't open。）
But it did。
He turned off the light with a fumbling gesture； stepped out into the hall；
and pulled the door shut without looking back。 From inside； he seemed to hear an
odd wet thumping sound； far off； dim； as if something had just scrambled
belatedly out of the tub； as if to greet a caller； as if it had realized the
caller was leaving before the social amenities had been pleted and so it was
now rushing to the door； all purple and grinning； to invite the caller back
inside。 Perhaps forever。
Footsteps approaching the door or only the heartbeat in his ears？
He fumbled at the passkey。 It seemed sludgy； unwilling to turn in the lock。 He
attacked the passkey。 The tumblers suddenly fell and he stepped back against the
corridor's far wall； a little groan of relief escaping him。 He closed his eyes
and all the old phrases began to parade through his mind； it seemed there must
be hundreds of them；
（cracking up not playing with a full deck lost ya marbles guy just went loony
tunes he went up and over the high side went bananas lost his football crackers
nuts half a seabag）
all meaning the same thing： losing your mind。
〃No；〃 he whimpered； hardly aware that he had been reduced to this； whimpering
with his eyes shut like a child。 〃Oh no； God。 Please； God； no。〃
But below the tumble of his chaotic thoughts； below the triphammer beat of his
heart； he could hear the soft and futile sound of the doorknob being turned to
and fro as something locked in tried helplessly to get out； something that
wanted to meet him； something that would like to be introduced to his family as
the storm shrieked around them and white daylight became black night。 If he
opened his eyes and saw that doorknob moving he would go mad。 So he kept them
shut； and after an unknowable time； there was stillness。
Jack forced himself to open his eyes； half…convinced that when he did； she
would be standing before him。 But the hall was empty。
He felt watched just the same。
He looked at the peephole in the center of the door and wondered what would
happen if he approached it； stared into it。 What would he be eyeball to eyeball
with？
His feet were moving
（feets don't fail me now）
before he realized it。 He turned them away from the door and walked down to
the main hall； his feet whispering on the blue…black jungle carpet。 He stopped
halfway to the stairs and looked at the fire extinguisher。 He thought that the
folds of canvas were arranged in a slightly different manner。 And he was quite
sure that the brass nozzle had been pointing toward the elevator when he came up
the hall。 Now it was pointing the other way。
〃I didn't see that at all；〃 Jack Torrance said quite clearly。 His face was
white and haggard and his mouth kept trying to grin。
But he didn't take the elevator back down。 It was too much like an open mouth。
Too much by half。 He took the stairs。
》
THE VERDICT
He stepped into the kitchen and looked at them； bouncing the passkey a few
inches up off his left hand； making the chain on the white metal tongue jingle；
then catching it again。 Danny was pallid and worn out。 Wendy had been crying； he
saw； her eyes were red and darkly circled。 He felt a sudden burst of gladness at
this。 He wasn't suffering alone； that was sure。
They looked at him without speaking。
〃Nothing there；〃 he said； astounded by the heartiness of his voice。 〃Not a
thing。〃
He bounced the passkey up and down； up and down； smiling reassuringly at them；
watching the relief spread over their faces； and thought he had never in his
life wanted a drink so badly as he did right now。
》
THE BEDROOM
Late that afternoon Jack got a cot from the first…floor storage room and put
it in the corner of their bedroom。 Wendy had expected that the boy would be half
the night getting to sleep； but Danny was nodding before 〃The Waltons〃 was half
over； and fifteen minutes after they had tucked him in he was far down in
sleep； moveless； one hand tucked under his cheek。 Wendy sat watching him；
holding her place in a fat paperback copy of Cashelmara with one finger。 Jack
sat at his desk； looking at his play。
〃Oh shit；〃 Jack said。
Wendy looked up from her contemplati