3

Simon pushed macaroni and cheese around his plate with a fork. They had been atthe Overlook hotel for three weeks now, and the limits to Dave's cooking skills had quickly become apparent. The three chipmunks sat around a metal table in the fluorescent kitchen, quietly chewing.

At first, Simon had welcomed the trip as a chance to relax and read, but he wasn't having much success on either count. He had quickly plowed through the Heidegger and Foucault he had brought, and now was reduced to rereading lightweight novels (currently browsing through Proust's In Search of Lost Time). He'd scoured the hotel in pursuit of new material, but his search had been fruitless thus far.

Simon wasn't getting mental stimulation from conversations, either. Alvin and Dave had converted a bedroom into a studio, and now spent all their time recording music. Simon had long since stopped trying to be part of the process, but he could still hear the squeals of electric guitars and feedback echo through the Overlook hallways. Even outside of the studio, the two weren't providing much company: Alvin was keeping to himself more than usual, and Dave just wanted to talk about "authentic rock sound," a subject that interested Simon not in the least.

Simon had even gone so far as to try chatting with his little brother Theodore, but Theodore was always playing with Danny (and Danny's invisible friend). The little ones were playing some game that involved mind reading, but of course Simon considered himself above such babyish activities. And so, inevitably, he was left alone. And bored. God, so bored!

The door to the kitchen swung open and Simon's heart sank. It was Jack. Oh crud bunnies.

"Didn't I tell you," Jack snarled, advancing toward him, "to keep out of my personal writing? How am I supposed to get anything done if you pups keep messing up my pages?" His eyes were red, and there was a muscle in his cheek that was twitching. Simon had never before seen him this angry.

"Cool it, Jack," said Dave. "What makes you think it was one of my boys?"

"Paw prints!" said Jack. "Little grubby paw-prints all over my manuscript! And I know which one it was, too." He pointed at Simon. "The red one has been making a racket all day, and the green one was playing with Danny. That leaves you, Blue."

"We have names, jerk," Alvin snapped. "Don't just address us by the color of shirts we're wearing."

"He's right, though," Simon confessed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Torrance. I've just been looking for something to read, and I saw your typewriter with all those pages…" It hadn't even been worth his time to look, though: just a single sentence typed over and over. Probably it was some avant-garde thing, but Simon found it hacky.

"MY! PRIVATE! WORK!" yelled Jack. "That is NOT for you to paw through!"

"Wh-why don't you go the Hotel library, Simon?" asked Theodore. "I saw on a map that there's one close to the ballroom."

"You should have gone on the rest of the tour," said Jack. "The hotel library was damaged by a fire two years ago. Some kid was playing with matches, and all the books were lost. Some damn kid, just like you three DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE WHELPS."

Dave stood up. "Listen, man. You are completely out of line here! Do you know who you're talking to? This is Alvin and the Chipmunks! Grammy-award nominated, platinum-selling–"

"Shut up, Dave," said Jack. "I haven't listened to your stupid album, but if it's as awful as the garbage I keep hearing from your studio…"

Dave face grew dark, and in an instant, the two men were shouting at each other and pounding on the table. Simon took this as his cue to leave. He pushed back his chair and scampered for the door. Nobody seemed to notice in the ruckus.

By Newton's beard, thought Simon as he walked down the hallway, what a bunch of Neanderthals I live with. He was already ready to leave this lousy hotel, ready to return to a world of culture and stimulation, ready to get lost in a

(library?)

Simon stopped. Just across from the giant ballroom doors, there was a door he had never noticed before. It was made of old, dark wood, and had an elegant plaque that read "Library" in loopy cursive. Simon approached it with curiosity. Jack had said the room was shut off, but surely it wouldn't hurt to take a little peek inside? Just to help him imagine the library as it had once been?

He turned the cold brass doorknob and peeked inside. And gasped.

It was a beautiful old room, and it appeared to be completely intact. There were plush tan chairs, a dark mahogany table, thick maroon carpet on the floor, and a small steel chandelier that lit the room with warm electric light. There was a pleasant musty smell and a feeling of stillness and timelessness. And, most importantly, there were three enormous bookshelves that covered the walls.

"Egads!" yelped Simon with pleasure. It was beyond his wildest dreams. This wasn't some closet with a few Danielle Steel novels and a set of Home and Garden magazines. This was a little museum of old, hardbound books, books that creaked when you opened them. Ecstatic, Simon hopped into the room and headed for the farthest shelf, craning his head sideways to read the titles.

He settled on a dusty red copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Happily, he hopped into a chair, scooted up to the table and began to read. It was just as he remembered it. Captain Robert Walton, exploring the arctic! Simon sighed. At last, he wasn't cooped up in an old hotel, but lost in the world of story!

This was the best Simon had felt in a week. Completely immersed, he feasted his mind on the story of Captain Walton, Dr. Victor, and the grotesque creation. Minutes went by, and Simon, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. (But)

But then he turned the page.

Page 217 was an illustration page of the type that one found in old books, a woodcut print with black ink. The illustration was a close-up of a face contorted in fear (!) – but how could it be that the page showed not the face of Dr. Frankenstein but of Simon's own?

It was him, there was no doubt about it. The round ears, the large oval spectacles, and the button nose were all sights Simon saw when he looked into a mirror. But when had his eyes ever been so wide and horrified, his mouth so tortured? Below the illustration, a caption read:

Chapter 3: In which Simon the little chipmunk screamed and screamed

Simon slammed the book closed, and covered his eyes. It wasn't real, Simon. You dozed off and had a nightmare. He was aware of his rapidly beating heart and so he tried to control his breathing, but before he was successful, he heard the whisper.

"Chapter One: in which Simon the little chipmunk came to the library all alone."

"Who's there?" shouted Simon. He stood up and looked around. He didn't see anyone. All four bookshelves were flush against the walls, there was no space for anyone to be hiding

(four bookshelves? four walls? so where's the door, Simon?)

Simon whirled around. Wall-to-wall bookshelves didn't make sense, he had come in here somehow, and at the moment he would give all the books in the world just to figure out where the door was–

"Chapter Two: in which Simon the little chipmunk began to hear a song."

"Where are you?" screamed Simon. "What do you want?"

"Simple Simon met a pie-man going to the fair," whispered the voice. "Said Simple Simon to the pie-man, 'let me taste your wares.'"

"Shut up!" shouted Simon, squinting his eyes shut. "Let me out of here!"

"Said the pie-man to Simple Simon, 'let me have your penny.' Said Simon to the pie-man–"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Simon yelled, and he knocked the book off the table to the carpet below. There was silence. Simon took a shuddering breath and forced his eyes open. There, directly in front of him, was the open door that led to the hallway. Why hadn't he seen it?

For a long while he looked at the door, afraid to move toward it. But the moments passed without sound or incident. And Simon found he was able to move again.

Whatever that had been, he didn't want to repeat it. He started toward the door, but realized he was leaving the book on the floor. Better to hide it on the top shelf, where nobody will ever stumble across it. He leaned down to grab the book and, as he did so, he looked under the table.

There was a body lying there, charred and red and smoking. One burned hand held a matchbook; the other hand slowly reached toward Simon. The figure lifted its disfigured head from the floor and stared at Simon with lidless eyes.

"Chapter three, Simple Simon."

And Simon the little chipmunk screamed and screamed.