somnolent hum of summer wasps in a ground nest； sleepy； deadly； beginning to
wake up。 They were ten thousand feet high。
（Why is a raven like a writing desk？ The higher the fewer； of course！ Have
another cup of tea！）
It was a living sound； but not voices； not breath。 A man of a philosophical
bent might have called it the sound of souls。 Dick Hallorann's Nana； who had
grown up on southern roads in the years before the turn of the century； would
have called it ha'ants。 A psychic investigator might have had a long name for
it — psychic echo； psychokinesis； a telesmic sport。 But to Danny it was only the
sound of the hotel； the old monster； creaking steadily and ever more closely
around them： halls that now stretched back through time as well as distance；
hungry shadows； unquiet guests who did not rest easy。
In the darkened ballroom the clock under glass struck seven…thirty with a
single musical note。
A hoarse voice； made brutal with drink； shouted： 〃Unmask and let's fuck！〃
Wendy； halfway across the lobby； jerked to a standstill。
She looked at Danny on the stairs； still tossing the ball from hand to hand。
〃Did you hear something？〃
Danny only looked at her and continued to toss the ball from hand to hand。
There would be little sleep for them that night； although they slept together
behind a locked door。
And in the dark； his eyes open； Danny thought：
（He wants to be one of them and live forever。 That's what he wants。）
Wendy thought：
（If I have to； I'll take him further up。 If we're going to die I'd rather do
it in the mountains。）
She had left the butcher knife； still wrapped in the towel； unde