Hell House Part 10

Barrett didn't speak.

"Please believe me," Florence said. "I know I'm right. He's trying to turn us against each other." She looked at him with anxious eyes. "If you don't believe me, he'll have succeeded; can't you see that?"

Barrett sighed. "Miss Tanner-"

"I'll sit for you first thing in the morning," she broke in. "You'll see."

"There'll be no further sittings."

Florence stared at him, incredulous. "No further sittings?"

"It isn't necessary."

"But we've barely begun. We can't stop now. We've so much to learn."

"I've learned everything I wish to learn." Barrett was trying to control his temper, but the pain was making it difficult.

"You're cutting me off because of what happened before," Florence objected. "It wasn't my fault. I've told you that."

"Telling me is not convincing me," Barrett answered in a tightly restrained voice. "Now, if you don't mind-"

"Doctor, we can't stop the sittings!"

"I am doing so, Miss Tanner."

"You think it was me who-"

"Not only think it, Miss Tanner, but know it," he interrupted. "Now, please please, I'm in considerable pain."

"Doctor, I was not responsible! It was Belasco's son!"

"Miss Tanner, there is no such person! there is no such person!"

The sharpness of his voice made Florence shrink away from him. "I know you're in pain-" she started faintly.

"Miss Tanner, will you go? go?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Miss Tanner-" Edith began.

Florence looked around at her. She wanted desperately to convince Barrett, but the look of concern on his wife's face stopped her. She looked back at him. "You're wrong," she said. Turning away, she started for the door. "I'm sorry," she murmured to Edith. "Please forgive me."

She held herself in check until she'd returned to her room. There she sat down on the edge of her bed and started to cry. "You're wrong," she whispered. "Don't you see? You're wrong. You're wrong wrong."

12/22 10:18 P.M.

Edith lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. She'd closed her eyes a dozen times, only to open them again in seconds. She couldn't conceive of falling asleep. It seemed an impossibility to her.

She turned her head on the pillow and looked at Lionel. He was heavily asleep. It was no wonder, after what he'd been through. She'd been appalled when she'd helped him undress and put on his pajamas. His entire body was discolored by bruises.

She closed her eyes again, a terrible uneasiness inside her-nervousness with no apparent source. It was probably the house that made her feel it. What in G.o.d's name was this power Lionel kept talking about? That it was present was undeniable. What had happened in the dining hall had been terrifying proof of its existence. The thought that Miss Tanner could utilize that power against them was unnerving.

Edith sat up, turning back the bedclothes. Frowning, she slid her feet into her slippers and stood. She wandered across the rug and stopped by the octagonal table, looking at the box in which Lionel kept his ma.n.u.script. Abruptly she turned and walked across the room. Stopping in front of the fireplace, she looked inside. There was a low-burning fire, mostly glowing wood coals. She thought of putting on another log, sitting in the rocking chair, and staring at the fire until sleep came. She glanced uneasily at the rocking chair. What would she do if it started moving by itself again?

She rubbed a hand across her face. There was a tingling underneath the skin. She drew in a shaking breath and looked around. She should have brought a book to read. Something light and undemanding. A mystery novel would be good. Better still, some humor; that would be perfect. Some H. Allen Smith or Perelman.

She moved to the cabinet to the right of the fireplace and opened one of its doors. "Oh, good," she murmured. There were shelves of leatherbound volumes inside. None of them were t.i.tled. She pulled one out and opened it. It was a treatise on Conation and Volition Conation and Volition. She frowned and slid it back onto its shelf; drew out another. It was printed in German. "Wonderful." She replaced it on the shelf, pulled out a third book. It dealt with eighteenth-century military tactics. Edith's smile was pained. Water, water everywhere, she thought. Sighing, she pushed the book back onto its shelf and pulled out a larger volume bound in blue leather with gold-edged pages.

The book was false, its center hollowed out. As she opened the cover, a pack of photographs fell out and spilled across the rug. Edith started, almost dropping the book. Her heartbeat quickened as she stared down at the fading photographs.

Swallowing, she stooped and picked one up. A shudder rippled through her flesh. The photograph was of two women in a s.e.xual embrace. All the photographs were p.o.r.nographic- men and women in a variety of poses. Some of them made it evident that the men and women were performing on the huge round table in the great hall while other men and women sat around the table, watching avidly.

Edith pressed her lips together as she picked up all the photographs and pressed them into a bundle. What an ugly house this is, she thought. She put the photographs into the hollow book and thrust it back onto its shelf. As she closed the cabinet door, she saw, on one of the upper shelves, a decanter of brandy on a silver tray with two small silver cups beside it.

She walked across the room and sat on her bed again. She felt uncomfortable and restless. Why did she have to look in that cabinet? Why, of all the books inside it, did she have to pick out that one?

She lay down on her side and drew her legs up, crossing her arms. She s.h.i.+vered. Cold, she thought. She stared at Lionel. If only she could lie beside him; not for s.e.x, just to feel his warmth.

Not for s.e.x. She closed her eyes, a look of self-reproach on her face. Had she ever wanted s.e.x with him? She made a pained sound. Would she have even married him if he hadn't been twenty years her senior and left virtually impotent by the polio?

Edith twisted on her back and glared up at the ceiling. What's the matter with me, anyway? she thought. Just because my mother told me s.e.x is evil and degrading, do I have to fear it all my life? My mother was a bitter woman, married to an alcoholic woman-chaser. I'm married to another kind of man entirely. I have no reason to feel like this; no reason at all.

She sat up suddenly and looked around in terror. Someone's watching me again Someone's watching me again, she thought. She felt the skin on the back of her neck begin to crawl. Her scalp was covered with an icy tingling. Someone's looking at me, knowing what I feel.

Pus.h.i.+ng up, she walked to Lionel's bed and looked at him. She mustn't wake him up; he needed rest. Turning hurriedly, she moved to the octagonal table and dragged its chair beside Lionel's bed. She sat on the chair, and carefully, so as not to wake him, put her hand on his arm. There couldn't be anyone looking at her. There were no such things as ghosts. Lionel had said so; Lionel knew. She closed her eyes. There are no such things as ghosts, she told herself. No one is looking at me. There are no such things as ghosts. Dear G.o.d in heaven, there are no such things as ghosts Dear G.o.d in heaven, there are no such things as ghosts.

12/22 11:23 P.M.

Fischer broke the seal on the bottle and unscrewed its cap. He poured two inches of bourbon into a gla.s.s and set down the bottle. Picking up the gla.s.s, he swirled the liquor around. He hadn't had a drink in years. He wondered if it was a mistake to start again. There had been a time when he couldn't stop once he'd started. He didn't want to sink to that again. Especially here.

He took a sip, grimacing as he swallowed. He coughed, and his eyes watered; he rubbed a finger over them. Then he leaned against the cupboard and began to take tiny sips of the bourbon. It felt comfortingly warm as it trickled down his throat and settled in his stomach.

Better thin it down, he thought. He walked around the steam table and over to the sink, where he turned on the cold water. After it had cleared, he held the gla.s.s of bourbon underneath the faucet and added an inch of water. That was better. Now the relaxation could come without the danger of his getting drunk.

Fischer lifted himself onto the sink counter and took judicious sips of his drink as he thought about the house. What was it doing this time? he wondered. There was was a plan; of that he had no doubt. That was the horror of the place. It was not amorphously haunted. h.e.l.l House had a method. It worked against invaders systematically. How it did this, no one had ever found out. Until December 1970, he thought, when B. F. Fischer, moving just as systematically- a plan; of that he had no doubt. That was the horror of the place. It was not amorphously haunted. h.e.l.l House had a method. It worked against invaders systematically. How it did this, no one had ever found out. Until December 1970, he thought, when B. F. Fischer, moving just as systematically- His right hand twitched so violently as the corridor door was opened that he spilled half his drink across the floor. Florence came into the kitchen, looking harried and exhausted.

"Why aren't you in bed?" she asked.

"Why aren't you?"

"I'm looking for Belasco's son."

He didn't speak.

"You don't think he exists either, do you?"

Fischer didn't know what to say.

"I'll find him," she said, turning away.

Fischer watched her go. He wondered if he should offer to accompany her. He shook his head. Things always happened around her, because she was too open. He didn't want to experience anything more today. He watched her push through the swinging door and disappear into the dining hall. Her footsteps faded. It was still again.

All right, the house, he thought; his plan. Two days had pa.s.sed. He had the feel of the place now. It was time to start figuring what his approach was going to be. Obviously, it could not consist of working in tandem with Barrett or Florence. He'd have to function on his own. But how?

Fischer sat immobile, staring at the floor. After a while, he took a sip of his drink. It had to be something clever, he thought, something different, something that would circ.u.mvent the house's method.

He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the drainboard. Clever. Different. Florence was right about the multiple haunting idea; that much he could agree on. Belasco and a host of others were in this house. How to best them, though?

After several minutes Fischer put the drink down, jumped abruptly to the floor, and started toward the entry hall. A walk around the house, he thought. All by himself this time, without Florence Tanner to distract his train of thought. Those things she'd "felt." Jesus Christ. He shook his head, a mirthless smile on his lips. Those Spiritualists were too d.a.m.n much.

He was crossing the entry hall when he froze in his tracks, his heartbeat leaping. A figure was drifting down the staircase. Fischer blinked his eyes and squinted, trying to see who or what it was; there were no lights on the stairs.

He started as the figure reached the foot of the steps and started toward the front door. It was Edith in a pair of light blue ski pajamas, her eyes staring straight ahead. Fischer stood motionless as she glided like a wraith across the entry hall and pulled open the front door.

She went outside, and Fischer, starting, ran across the entry hall. He dashed through the open doorway, gasping in shock as he saw that she had disappeared into the mist. He ran across the porch and down the steps, hearing a crackling of frost beneath his tennis shoes as he ran along the path. He saw a blur of movement ahead. Is it really her? Is it really her? he thought in sudden horror. Or was he being tricked? He started slowing down, then caught his breath. The figure was headed toward- he thought in sudden horror. Or was he being tricked? He started slowing down, then caught his breath. The figure was headed toward- "No!" He bolted forward, grabbing. Two emotions flared in him at once-relief that it was flesh and skin he clutched, and fierce elation that he'd thwarted the will of the house. He pulled Edith away from the edge of the tarn. She looked at him without a sign of recognition, eyes like gla.s.s.

"Come back inside," he said.

Edith held back stiffly, face expressionless.

"Come on. It's cold out here." He turned her toward the house. "Come on."

Edith began to s.h.i.+ver as he led her. For several frightening moments he thought he'd lost his sense of direction; that they were going to walk into the freezing night to die of exposure. Then he saw, through the swirling mist, the nebulous rectangle of the front doorway, and hurried toward it, one arm around Edith, drawing her along beside him. He led her up the porch steps and into the house, pus.h.i.+ng the door shut as they went inside. As quickly as he could, he guided her across the entry hall and into the great hall. Standing Edith before the hearth, he bent over and picked up a log, tossing it onto the coals. He grabbed a poker and jabbed at the log until it caught fire. Tongues of flame leaped upward cracklingly. "There we go," he said. He turned to look at Edith. She was staring at the mantel, her expression taut, unreadable. Fischer turned and looked. There were p.o.r.nographic carvings on the mantel he hadn't noticed before.

Edith's groan was one of such revulsion that Fischer looked back sharply. She was s.h.i.+vering. He pulled off his sweater and held it out to her. She didn't take it. Her eyes were fixed on his face. "I'm not," she said.

Fischer stiffened as she reached up and began to remove her pajama top. "What are you doing?" he asked. His heartbeat quickened as she pulled the pajama top over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her skin was covered with gooseflesh, but she didn't seem aware of being cold. She started to work the pajama bottoms over her hips. Her blank expression was unnerving. "Stop it," Fischer told her.

She didn't seem to hear. She pushed down hard, and the pajama bottoms slipped down her legs. She stepped out of them and moved toward Fischer. "No," he muttered, as she stepped up close to him. She pressed against him with a moan and slid her arms around his back. She pushed her loins against him. Fischer started as she kissed his neck. She started reaching down to touch him. Fischer pulled back. Edith's eyes were blank. He braced himself and slapped her as hard as he could.

Edith spun around with a gasp and almost fell. Fischer grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet. She stared at him in shock. Suddenly she looked down at herself; gasping in horror. She yanked free of his grip so violently that it made her stagger backward. She almost fell again. Regaining her balance, she s.n.a.t.c.hed her pajamas off the floor and held them in front of herself.

"You were walking in your sleep," he told her. "I found you outside, starting to go into the tarn."

She didn't respond. Her eyes were wide with fear. She backed away from him, heading toward the archway.

"Mrs. Barrett, it was the house-"

He broke off as she whirled and ran across the room. He started after her, then stopped and listened. After almost a minute, he heard a door being closed upstairs. His shoulders slumped. Turning, he stared into the fire.

Now the house was getting to her as well.

12/22 11:56 P.M.

Something kept drawing her to the cellar. Florence descended the stairs and pushed through the swinging metal door that opened on the swimming pool. She remembered the feeling she'd had when she and Fischer had looked into the steam room yesterday: a sense of something perverted, something unwholesome. She could not resign that feeling to what she felt about Belasco's son. Still, she had to be sure.

Her footsteps echoed and re-echoed as she walked along the edge of the pool. She blinked. Her eyes were tired. She felt badly in need of sleep. But she couldn't go to bed the way things were. Before she slept, she had to prove-to herself; at least-that Belasco's son was not imagination.

She pulled open the door to the steam room, looked inside. The pipe valve had been fixed, she saw. The room was filled with steam. She stared into the curling depths of it. There was something in there, without a doubt, something terribly malignant. But Belasco's son was not that way. His fury was defensive. He was desperately in need of help, and desperately desired that help, yet, at the same time, had such scarified malaise of soul that he fought against help in almost suicidal fas.h.i.+on.

She turned from the steam room and walked back along the length of the pool. She'd better warn Dr. Barrett not to use the steam room. She looked around. If Belasco's son was not here, why had she felt a compulsion to come to the cellar? There was only the pool and steam room. No, that wasn't true; she remembered now. There was a wine cellar across the corridor.

The moment she remembered it, it seemed as though a burst of cognizance exploded through her. An excited smile beginning on her lips, she hurried to the swinging door and pushed it open. Running across the corridor, she opened the wine-cellar door and felt around for a light switch. After a moment she found it, pushed it up. The light was dim, the overhead bulb filmed with dust and grime.

Florence walked into the room and looked around. The feeling was intense. Her gaze jumped from wall to wall, across the empty wine racks. Suddenly it froze on the wall across from the door. She stared at it. Yes Yes, she thought. She started toward it.

She cried out as unseen hands clutched her by the throat. She reached up and began to grapple with the hands. They were cold and moist. She yanked them away and staggered to the side. Regaining direction, she lunged for the wall. The hands grabbed her arm and slung her sideways. She reeled across the floor and crashed against a wine rack. "Don't!" she cried. She turned and looked around the room. "I'm here to help!"

She pushed away from the wine rack, started for the wall again. Again the hands were on her, clutching at her shoulders. She was turned and hurled away. She almost hit the door before she caught her balance, whirling. "You will not deter me." She started forward slowly, praying in a soft, determined voice. The hands grabbed hold of her again. They jerked free as she spoke out loudly: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" Florence rushed to the wall and pressed herself against it. She was flooded with awareness. "Yes!" she cried. A vision leaped across her mind: a lion's den-a young man looking at her pleadingly. She sobbed with joy. "Daniel!" She had found him! "Daniel!"

DECEMBER 23, 1970.

12/23 6:47 A.M.

The distant scream cut like a knife into Edith's sleep. She twitched awake, staring upward in confusion. A sound of rustling made her jerk around. Lionel was propped on his left elbow, looking at her.

"What was was it?" she asked. it?" she asked.

Barrett shook his head.

"I mean, was it real?"

Barrett didn't answer.

The second scream made her gasp. Barrett caught his breath. "Miss Tanner." He dropped his legs across the mattress edge and felt for his slippers. Edith started sitting up. She gasped again as Lionel's legs gave way. He fell against his bed, hissing at the pain in his thumb.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded once and pushed erect again, grabbing for his cane. Edith stood up, pulling on her quilted robe. She followed Lionel quickly to the door. He pulled it open, and they moved into the corridor, Lionel hobbling badly. Edith walked beside him, b.u.t.toning her robe. She glanced toward Fischer's room. Surely he had heard.

Barrett stopped at Florence Tanner's door and knocked three times in quick succession. When she failed to answer, he opened the door and went inside. The room was dark. Edith felt herself stiffen with antic.i.p.ation as Lionel flicked up the wall switch.

Florence Tanner was on her back, arms clutched across her chest. Barrett limped to her bed, Edith close behind him. "What is it?" he asked.

Florence stared at him with narrowed, pain-glazed eyes. He leaned down, wincing at the pull of stiffened muscles. "Miss Tanner?"

She shuddered, digging teeth into her lower lip to keep from crying. Slowly she withdrew her arms, and Edith started as she saw him begin to unb.u.t.ton the medium's gown. There were two damp patches on it, one above each breast. Florence closed her eyes as Barrett drew aside the edges of the gown. Edith shrank back.

There were deep teeth marks ringing the nipples on Florence's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.