Hell House

Hell House Page 21

10:43 A.M.

Edith turned onto her right side and looked at the other bed. Lionel was asleep. She should never have let him work on that crate. They should have asked Fischer to open it.

She thought about what Lionel had said before he'd gone to sleep: that Florence Tanner was becoming so anxious to prove her case that she was sacrificing her bodily well-being to do it.

"Dissociation of mind resulting in a modification of self is the basic cause of mediumistic phenomena," he had said. "I don't know if there really was a Daniel Belasco or not, but the personality Miss Tanner claims to be in touch with is nothing more than a division of her own personality."

Edith blew out a harried breath and turned onto her back. If only she could understand as Lionel did. All she could think of were those horrible teeth marks around Florence Tanner's nipples; the scratches and bites which Florence claimed the cat had inflicted. How could she have done those things to herself, even unconsciously?

Edith slipped her legs across the mattress edge and sat up. She stared at her shoes for several minutes before pushing her feet into them. Standing, she moved to the octagonal table and looked at the manuscript. She ran a finger over the title page. Would it really hurt? she thought. It was ridiculous to have this almost mindless dread of alcohol. Just because her father's drinking had made her childhood miserable was no reason to condemn liquor per se. All she was contemplating was one small drink in order to relax.

She moved to the cabinet and opened the door. Lifting out the decanter and one of the small silver cups, she carried them to the table. She pulled a tissue from her purse and cleaned out the silver cup before she poured it full of brandy. It was very dark.

She wondered suddenly if it could be poisoned. That would be a grisly way to end things.

She dipped a finger into the brandy, touched it to her tongue. Would she know if it was poisoned? Her tongue began to burn, and she swallowed nervously. The warmth spread delicately to the tissues of her throat. Edith raised the silver cup and held it underneath her nostrils. The aroma was pleasing. How could it be poisoned? Surely someone had tasted it before this.

She took a tiny sip, closing her eyes as it trickled down her throat. The inside of her mouth grew warm. She made a sound of pleasure as the brandy reached her stomach and a tiny core of heat began expanding there. She took another sip. It's what I need, she thought. I'm not a potential drunk just because I sip a little brandy. She moved to the rocking chair, hesitated, then sat down. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and drank the brandy with deliberate sips.

When the cup was empty, she opened her eyes and looked toward the table. No, she thought. One was enough. She felt relaxed now; that was all she wanted. She held the cup before her eyes, examining the intricacies of its silverwork. Maybe she'd take it home as a souvenir when the week was over. She smiled. There; that was better. She was planning ahead.

She thought about Fischer. She really should apologize to him for avoiding him so rudely this morning. She should thank him for saving her life. She shivered, thinking of the stagnant water in the tarn, and stood up, wavering slightly as she crossed the room. She opened the door and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind herself as quietly as possible.

A wave of dread swept over her for an instant as she realized that she was alone for the first time since they'd entered the house. She scoffed away the dread. She was being foolish. Lionel was just inside the room. Florence was probably in her room, Fischer in his. She moved along the hallway to his door. Was she making a mistake? No, she thought; I owe him an apology, I owe him thanks.

She knocked on Fischer's door and waited. There was no sound inside the room. After several moments she knocked again, but there was no response. Edith turned the knob and pushed at the door. What am I doing? she thought. She couldn't stop herself. Opening the door, she looked inside.

The room was considerably smaller than the one she and Lionel were in. There was only one massive bed with a high, square-cut canopy. To its right was a table with a French telephone and an ashtray on it. Edith looked at the ashtray filled with mashed cigarette butts. He smokes too much, she thought.

She drifted to the armchair beside the table. Fischer's tote bag was on it, its zipper undone. Edith looked inside and saw some T-shirts and an open carton of cigarettes. She swallowed, reaching down to touch the bag.

She whirled with a gasp.

Fischer was standing in the doorway, looking at her.

For a terribly extended time, it seemed to her, they stared at each other. Edith's heartbeat raced; she felt a licking heat across her face.

"What is it, Mrs. Barrett?"

She tried to get control of herself. What must he be thinking to find her here like this? "I came to thank you," she managed.

"Thank me?"

"For saving my life last night."

She drew back unconsciously as Fischer walked over to her. "You shouldn't have left your husband."

She didn't know what to say.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course."

Fischer looked at her closely. "I think you should go back to your room now," he said.

He moved beside her as she crossed the rug. "Try tying your wrist to the bed at night," he told her.

Edith nodded as he followed her into the corridor and to her room. She turned to face him. "Thank you."

"Don't leave your husband again," he said. "You should never - "

He broke off, leaning forward suddenly as though to kiss her. Edith twitched and drew back. "Have you been drinking?" he asked.

She tightened. "Why?"

"Because it isn't safe to drink here. It isn't safe to lose control."

" I am not losing control," she told him stiffly. She turned and went inside her room.

11:16 A.M.

Florence started as someone knocked on the door. "Come in."

Fischer entered.

"Ben." She tried to rise.

"Don't get up," he told her. He started across the room. "I'd like to talk to you."

"Of course." She patted the bed. "Sit here beside me."

Fischer settled on the mattress edge. "I'm sorry you're in pain."

"It will pass."

He nodded, unconvinced, then looked at her in silence, until Florence smiled. "Yes?" she asked.

He braced himself for her reaction. "I agree with Doctor Barrett. I think you should leave."

" Ben."

"You're being torn to pieces, Florence. Can't you see that?"

"You don't think I'm doing these things to myself, do you?"

"No, I don't," he answered. "But I don't know who is doing them, either. You say it's Daniel Belasco. What if you're wrong?

What if you're being fooled?"

"Fooled?"

"There was a woman medium here with us in 1940. Grace Lauter. She became convinced that a pair of sisters haunted the house. She built a very convincing case for it. The only trouble was, she was wrong. She cut her throat the third day we were here."

"But Daniel Belasco does exist. We found his body, found his ring with his initials on it."

"We also put him to rest. Why isn't he at rest, then? "

Florence shook her head. "I don't know." Her voice was faltering. "I just don't know."

"I'm sorry." He patted her hand. "I'm not trying to pick at you. I'm just concerned, that's all."

"Thank you, Ben." After several moments she smiled at him. "Benjamin Franklin Fischer," she said. "Whoever gave you such a name?"

"My father. He was nuts for Benjamin Franklin."

"Tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell. He left my mother when I was two. I don't blame him. She must have driven him mad."

Florence's smile faded.

"She was a fanatic," Fischer said. "When I started showing signs of mediumship at nine, she devoted her existence to it." His smile was humorless. "My existence, too."

"Do you regret it?"

"I regret it."

"Truly, Ben?" She looked at him with deep concern.

Fischer smiled abruptly. "You said you were going to tell me about Hollywood when we settled down." His smile went wry.

"Not that things have settled down much."

"It's a long story, Ben."

"We have time."

She gazed at him in silence. "All right," she finally said. "I'll tell you briefly."

Fischer waited, looking at her.

"Perhaps you read about it," Florence said. "The gossip columns made a lot of it at the time. Confidential even did a story on the Spiritualist meetings I held in my home. They made it sound like something else, of course.

"It wasn't, Ben. It was exactly what I claimed. As for the stories about me never marrying because I wanted to 'play the field,' as they called it, they weren't true either. I never married because I never met a man I wanted to marry."

"How did you become an actress?"

"I loved to act. When I was a child, I put on little shows for my parents and relatives. Later on, I joined the high-school drama club, a local theater group, majored in dramatics at college. The progression was remarkably smooth; it happens that way sometimes. A God-given appearance, a combination of fortunate events." She smiled a little ruefully. "I was never a great success at it. I didn't apply myself enough. But there was never anything questionable, either. No dark past, no scars covering childhood wounds. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents loved me, and I loved them. They were Spiritualists; I became a Spiritualist."

"Were you an only child?"

"I had a brother. David. He died when he was seventeen - spinal meningitis." She looked into the past. "It was the only real sorrow of my life."

She smiled again. "It was the 'waning' of my career, they said, that made me 'flee' from Hollywood, 'turning to religion' for comfort. They always neglected to mention that I'd been a Spiritualist all my life. Actually, I blessed my fading career. It gave me the opportunity to do what I always knew I should do - devote myself exclusively to mediumship.

"I didn't fear Hollywood - or flee from it. There's nothing fearful about it. It's a location and an enterprise, nothing more.

What those involved in it make of their lives is their own choice. The so-called 'corrupting' influences are no greater than similar influences that exist in any line of work. It isn't the business that matters, but the corruptibility of those who enter it.

"Not that I was unaware of the moral vacuum which usually surrounded me. On crowded sets, at parties, I was often overwhelmed by the atmosphere of unwholesome tension in the air." She smiled, remembering. "One night, when I went to bed, I said the Lord's Prayer as I always do. Suddenly I realized that what I'd said was 'Our Father which art in heaven, Hollywood be thy name.'" She shook her head in amusement. "I left within the month and came East to stay."

Fischer began to speak, then broke off as somewhere, faintly, in the distance, the cat yowled. End of pleasant interlude, he thought. Florence looked pained. "The wretched thing." She started to rise.

Fischer pressed her back against the pillows. "I'll look."

"But - "

"Rest." he told her, standing.

"Before you go, would you get my purse?"

Fischer walked across the room and got it for her. Florence opened it and removed a medallion, holding it out to him.

Fischer took it. There was a single word engraved on it: BELIEVE.

"It's all within you if you do," she said.

He started to hand it back to her. "No, keep it," she said. "From me to you, with love."

Fischer forced a smile. "Thank you." He slipped the medallion into his pocket. "I'm really all right, though. Worry about yourself, not me."

"Will you sit with me after I rest?" she asked. "I've got to contact Daniel Belasco, and trance is the quickest way. But I don't want to sit alone."

"You won't consider leaving, then?"

"I can't, Ben, you know that." She paused. "Will you sit with me?"

Fischer looked at her uneasily. Finally he nodded. "Right."

He left the room without another word.