The Ninth Nightmare by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page B

had been damp and scabby, too, but nothing like as derelict as this. He had hung out with his friends in abandoned houses in Hamtramck and Highland Park, but he had never seen a room that resembled this one in any way, so he doubted if he was reliving some kind of childhood trauma.
    He went to the window and looked out, his forehead pressed against the chilly glass. He didn’t recognize the neighborhood at all, but wherever it was, it certainly wasn’t University Circle, Cleveland, where the Griffin House Hotel was located. It didn’t look like any part of Cleveland that he had ever seen; nor any part of downtown Detroit, either.
    He had lost his cellphone, and there was no phone beside the bed, so there was no way that he could call the reception desk for help. He thought of climbing out of the window on to the fire escape, and then down to the ground, but what would happen if he did that? In reality, this room was on the first floor. If he accepted an alternative reality, maybe he would become trapped in that alternative reality forever, and never be able to come back.
    He was still staring out of the window when he heard a woman’s voice calling out. It was so weak that it was barely audible, and it sounded bubbly, as if she had a mouthful of water. ‘ Please. Please don’t leave me here. Please .’
    Lincoln felt a crawling sensation all the way down his back. He turned around and saw that a woman was lying diagonally on the bed, half covered by a stained pink satin quilt. She was dark-skinned, with a plump heart-shaped face and thick wavy black hair – Hispanic, or mixed race. There were plum-colored circles under her eyes, or they could have been bruises. On her left cheek she had a large black beauty-spot, or maybe a mole. Her lips were scarlet and shiny, as if she had thickly applied too bright a shade of lipstick.
    â€˜Please don’t leave me,’ the woman whispered. She had a strong Spanish accent.
    â€˜OK, lady,’ said Lincoln, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I’ll try to get you some help.’
    â€˜No use doing that,’ the woman told him.
    â€˜What happened? How did you get in here?’
    â€˜ He brought me here. El prestidigitator . He caught me, and he brought me here.’
    â€˜Who did?’
    â€˜I don’t know his name. Don’t leave me, please. I’m dying.’
    â€˜Are you sick? Did this guy beat up on you? What?’
    The woman closed her eyes and didn’t answer him. Lincoln hesitated, not knowing if he should try to shake her awake. Probably best not to touch her, he thought. She might have a neck or a spinal injury, and shaking could prove fatal.
    He went back over to the door and gave it another kick. ‘Open this door!’ he screamed. ‘Open this fucking door! There’s a woman dying in here! Help me!’
    There was no response. Lincoln looked back at the bed and the woman still had her eyes closed. What the hell was he going to do now? He could go on kicking at the door but if nobody could hear him what was the point? He could wait until morning, for the hotel housekeepers to do their rounds, but quite apart from the fact that the woman on the bed was close to dying, it was already daylight outside, so when would it be morning? And how would the housekeepers get in here, if this was a different reality?
    He was still standing by the door when his decision was made for him. He saw nobody and heard nothing, but suddenly he caught the strong raw smell of gasoline, as if somebody had splashed it all around the room. He sniffed, and sniffed again. The smell was so strong that it burned his throat and made his eyes water.
    Then – without any warning at all, the woman on the bed exploded into flames. A wave of heat seared Lincoln’s face and he stumbled backward, lifting up his hand to shield his eyes. Within seconds, the whole mattress was blazing like a bonfire. Lincoln tried to edge closer, but