Hell House

Hell House Page 37

2:17 P.M.

Barrett came out of the bathroom, wearing robe and slippers. He limped to Edith's bed and sat on the edge of it. She was lying down, the comforter pulled over her. "Feeling better?" she asked.

"Marvelous."

"How's the thumb?"

"I'll have it checked as soon as we get home." He wouldn't tell her that he'd tried to unwind the bandage in the shower but had been forced to stop because he'd almost fainted from the pain.

"Home." Edith's smile was bemused. "I guess I still can't believe we're really going to see it again."

"We'll be there by tomorrow." Barrett made a face. "We'd be there by tonight if Deutsch Junior wasn't such a - "

" - son of a bitch," she provided.

Barrett smiled. "To put it mildly." The smile disappeared. "I'm afraid our security is gone, my dear."

"You're my security," she said. "Leaving this house with you by my side will be worth a million dollars to me." She took hold of his left hand. "Is it really over, Lionel? All of it?"

He nodded. "All of it."

"It's so hard to believe."

"I know." He squeezed her hand. "You don't mind if I say I told you so, do you?"

"I don't mind anything as long as I know it's over."

"It is."

"What a pity she had to die when the answer was so close."

"It is a pity. I should have made her leave."

She put her other hand on his and pressed it reassuringly. "You did everything you could."

"I shouldn't have left her alone before."

"How could you have known she'd wake up?"

"I couldn't. It was incredible. Her subconscious was so intent on validating her delusion that her system actually rejected the sedation."

"The poor woman," Edith said.

"The poor, self-defrauded woman. Even to the final touch - scrawling, in her own blood, that circle with the 'B' inside it. She had to believe, even as she died, that she was right; that it was Belasco destroying her - the father or the son, I don't know which. She couldn't allow herself to believe it was her own mind doing it." He winced. "How pitiful an end it must have been; pain-racked, terrified - "

Seeing the look on Edith's face, he stopped. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

He forced a smile. "Well, Fischer should be back in an hour or so, and we can leave." He frowned. "Assuming he isn't detained when he brings in her body."

"Can't say I'll miss the old place," she said after a few moments.

Barrett laughed softly. "Nor can I. Although" - he thought about it for a moment - "it is my scene of - how shall I term it? -

triumph?"

"Yes." She nodded. "It is a triumph. I can't really comprehend what you've done, but I sense how terribly important it is."

"Well, if I do say so myself, it's going to give parapsychology rather a leg up into polite society."

Edith smiled.

"Because it's science," he said. "No mumbo-jumbo. Nothing the critics can pick at - though I'm sure they'll try. Not that I argue with them when they cavil at the usual approach to psychic phenomena. Their resentment of the aura of trivial humbug which hovers over most of the phenomena and its advocates is justifiable. By and large, psi doesn't have an air of respectability. Therefore the critics ridicule it rather than risk being ridiculed themselves for examining it seriously. This is a priori evaluation, unfortunately - one hundred percent unscientific. They'll continue to overlook the import of parapsychology, I'm afraid, until they're able - as Huxley put it - 'to sit down before fact as a little child - be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatsoever abysses nature leads.'"

He chuckled self-consciously. "End of discourse." Leaning over, he kissed her gently on the cheek. "The speechifier loves you," he said.

"Oh, Lionel." She slipped her arms around his back. "I love you, too. And I'm so proud of you."

She was asleep now. Barrett carefully disengaged his fingers from hers and stood. He smiled down at her. She deserved this sleep. She hadn't had a decent night's rest since they'd entered Hell House.

His smile broadened as he turned from the bed. Hell House was a misnomer now. From this day forth, it would be merely the Belasco house.

As he dressed with slow, contented movements, he wondered what would happen to the house. It ought to be a shrine to science. Deutsch would doubtless sell it to the highest bidder, though. He grunted with amusement. Not that he could imagine anyone wanting to own it.

He combed his hair, looking at his reflection in the wall mirror. His eye was caught by the rocking chair across the room, and he smiled again. All of that was over now, the endless little outputs of meaningless kinetics. No more winds or odors, no percussions; nothing.

He crossed the room and went into the corridor, heading for the stairs. He was glad that Fischer had insisted on taking Florence Tanner's body into town immediately. He knew the other man would not have placed the body in the trunk, and it would have been terribly painful for Edith to ride all the way to Caribou Falls with the body in the back seat. He hoped that Fischer didn't take too long in returning. He was working up quite an appetite; his first of the week. A celebration meal, he thought. Poor old Deutsch, it suddenly occurred to him; he'd never know now. Perhaps it was kinder that way. Not that Deutsch had wanted - or deserved - kindness.

He descended the staircase slowly, eying the enormous entry hall. A museum, he thought. Really, something should be done with the house now that the terror had been exorcised.

He hobbled across the entry hall. He'd examined his body in the full-length bathroom mirror after taking his shower, imagining it was how a prizefighter's body looked after a particularly grueling bout - the purple-black contusions everywhere.

The burned skin on his calf was still contracting, too; he could feel the tautness of the scalded area pulling at the skin around it.

The abrasion on his shin still hurt as well; and, as for his leg and thumb - Barrett had to smile. The Olympics I'm not ready for, he thought.

He crossed the great hall, walking to the Reversor. Once again, he stared at the main dial in awe: 14,780. He'd never dreamed the reading could be so high. No wonder this place had been the Everest of haunted houses. He shook his head almost admiringly. The house had been aptly named.

He turned and limped to the table, frowning as he visualized the necessary packing. He looked at the array of equipment.

Maybe he wouldn't have to pack it, after all. If they put blankets in the limousine trunk for padding, the equipment could probably be wrapped in towels or something. Maybe they should take a few objets d'art as well, he thought, repressing a smile.

Deutsch would never miss them. He ran a finger over the top of the EMR recorder.

Its needle stirred.

Barrett twitched. He stared at the needle. It was motionless again. Odd, he thought. Touching the recorder must have activated the needle by static electricity. It wouldn't happen again.

The needle jumped across the dial, then fluttered back to zero.

Barrett felt a tic in his right cheek. What was happening? The recorder couldn't function on its own. EMR was convertible to measurable energy only in the presence of a psychic. He forced a dry laugh. Grotesque if I discover I'm a medium after all these years, he thought. He made a scoffing noise. That was absurd. Besides, there was no radiation left in the house. He'd eliminated it.

The needle started moving. It did not jump or flutter. It inched across the dial as though recording a build-up of radiation.

"No," Barrett said. His tone was irritated. This was ludicrous.

The needle continued moving. Barrett stared at it as it passed the 100 mark, the 150 mark. He shook his head. This was absurd. It couldn't record by itself. Moreover, there was nothing left in the house to record. "No," he said again. There was more anger than dismay in his voice. This simply could not be.

His head jerked up so suddenly that it hurt his neck. He watched the needle of the dynamometer begin to arc across its dial.

This was impossible. His gaze leaped to the face of the thermometer. It was starting to record a drop in temperature. " No," he said. His face was pale with malice. This was nonsense, totally illogical.

He caught his breath as the camera clicked. He gaped at it and heard the film inside it being wound, heard the lens click shut again, He gasped again, muscles spasmed as the rack of colored lights went on, turned off, went on again. " No." He shook his head unyieldingly. This was not acceptable. It was a trick of some kind; it was fraudulent.

He started violently as one of the test tubes broke in half, falling from its rack to clatter on the tabletop. This cannot be! he heard a voice protesting in his mind. Abruptly he remembered Fischer's single question. "No!" he snapped. He backed off from the table. It was utterly impossible. Once dispelled, the radiation had no restorative power whatever.

He cried out as the rack of lights began to flicker rapidly. "No!" he raged. He would not believe it! The needles of his instruments were not all quivering across their dials. The thermometer was not recording a constant drop in temperature. The electric stove had not begun to glow. The galvanometers were not recording on their own. The camera wasn't taking photographs. The tubes and vessels weren't breaking one by one. The EMR recorder needle hadn't passed the 700 mark. It was all delusion. He was suffering some aberration of the senses. This-could-not-be-happening . "Wrong!" he shouted, face distorted by fury. "Wrong, wrong, wrong! "

His mouth fell open as the EMR recorder started to expand. He stared at it in horror as it swelled as though its sides and top were made of rubber. No. He shook his head in disavowal. He was going mad. This was impossible. He would not accept it He would not -

He screamed as the recorder suddenly exploded, screamed again as metal splinters drove into his face and eyes. He dropped his cane and threw his hands across his face. Something shot across the table, and he jolted backward as the camera struck him on the legs. He lost his balance, fell, heard equipment crashing to the floor as though someone were flinging it. He tried to see but couldn't, staggered blindly to his feet.

It struck him then, a crushing, arctic force that jerked him from his feet as though he were a toy. A cry of shocked bewilderment flooded from him as the glacial force propelled him through the air and flung him violently against the front of the Reversor. Barrett felt his left arm snap. He shrieked in pain, dropping to the floor.

Again the unseen force grabbed hold of him and started dragging him across the hall. He couldn't break away from it. Trying in vain to scream for help, he bumped and slithered along the floor. A massive table blocked his way. Sensing it, he flung his right arm up, crashed against its edge, his bandaged thumb driven back against its wrist. His mouth jerked open in a strangling cry of agony. Blood began to spout from the hand. Yanked across the tabletop and somersaulted down onto the floor again, he caught an obscure glimpse of the thumb dangling from his hand by shards of bone and skin.

He tried to fight against the power which hauled him brutally across the entry hall, but he was helpless in its grip, a plaything in the jaws of some invisible creature. Eyes staring sightlessly, face a blood-streaked mask of horror, he was dragged into the corridor feet first. His chest was filled with fiery pain as clutching hands crushed his heart. He couldn't breathe. His arms and legs were going numb. His face began to darken, turning red, then purple. Veins distended on his neck; his eyes began to bulge. His mouth hung open, sucking at the air in vain as the savage force bounced him down the stairs and drove his broken body through the swinging doors. The tile floor rushed beneath him. He was hurtled into space.

The water crashed around him icily. The clutching force dragged him toward the bottom. Water poured into his throat. He started choking, struggled fitfully. The force would not release him. Water gushed into his lungs. He doubled over, staring at the bottom as he strangled. Blood from his thumb was clouding everything. The power turned him slowly. He was staring upward, seeing through a reddish haze. There was someone standing on the pool edge, looking down at him.

The sound of his enfeebled thrashing faded. The figure blurred, began to disappear in shadows. Barrett settled to the bottom, eyes unseeing once again. Somewhere deep within the cavern of his mind a faint intelligence still flickered, crying out in anguish: Edith!

Then all was blackness, like a shroud enfolding him, as he descended into night.

2:46 P.M.

Edith's left hand jumped abruptly. Her wedding band had sheared in half and fallen to the bed. She snapped her eyelids back.

The room was dark. "Lionel?"

The door was opened. The corridor was dark, too. Someone entered. "Lionel?" she said again.

"Yes."

She sat up groggily. "What happened?"

"Nothing to be concerned about. The generator just went out."

"Oh, no." She tried to see. It was too dark.

"It's not important," Lionel said. She heard his footsteps cross the room, felt his weight settle on the other side of the bed.

She reached out nervously and felt his hand. "You're sure everything is all right?"

"Of course." The hand began to stroke her hair. "Don't be afraid. Let's take advantage of it."

"What?" She reached for him, but he was farther away than she'd thought.

"We haven't been together for a long time." Lionel's hand slid down her cheek. "And you're in need of it."

She made a questioning sound. His hand slid over to her left breast and began to squeeze it. "Lionel, don't," she said.

"Why not?" he asked. "Aren't I good enough for you?"

"What are you - ?"

"Fischer's good enough," he interrupted. "Even Florence Tanner was good enough." His fingers tightened on her breast, hurting it. " How about a little pussy for the old man now? "

Edith tried to pull away his hand. She felt her heartbeat quicken. "No," she murmured.

"Yes," he said. The hand moved down abruptly, shoving up her skirt to clutch between her legs. " Yes, you lesbian bitch."

The lights went on.

Edith screamed. The hand released her, pulling back. It was bloodless, severed at the wrist, floating up above her chest now, gamboling in the air before her stricken face, vein ends dangling from it. Edith recoiled against the headboard. The hand dropped to her breast again, pinching her nipple between its thumb and index finger. She cried out shrilly, tried to knock it loose. The hand jumped forward like a leprous spider, clamping on her face, cold and smelling of the grave. A crazed shriek flooded from her, and the gray hand flew back. Edith jerked her legs up, kicking at it berserkly. The hand jumped up and started gesturing in the air, fingers wriggling wildly.

Suddenly it darted downward, vanishing into the bedclothes, and the comforter began to swell, ballooning quickly. Gasping, Edith flung herself across the mattress, springing to her feet. She lurched around the corner of the bed, fleeing for the door. The comforter flew upward. In an instant, she was covered by a cloud of moths. Flailing at the surge of insects, she stumbled blindly across the room. The moths enveloped her completely, gray wings beating at her face, bodies fluttering in her hair. She tried to scream, but moths flew in her mouth; she spit them out in horrified revulsion, pressed her lips together. Moths flew in her ears. Their dusty wings whipped frenziedly against her eyes. Both arms flung across her face, she crashed against the octagonal table and began to fall.

Before she hit the floor, the moths were gone. She landed hard and scrabbled to her knees. The table thudded down nearby, pages of Lionel's manuscript spilling across the rug in front of her. The pages leaped into the air. She swung at them in mindless panic as they tore in shreds before her eyes. The pieces shot into the air and fluttered downward like a rain of giant snowflakes. Edith backed away from them, pushing at the floor with hands and feet. A man began to laugh. She looked around in terror. "Lionel," she muttered. "Lionel." She heard her own voice played back like a tape recording. "No," she pleaded.

"No," her voice repeated. Edith whined. She heard the whine again. She started crying, heard an echoed crying in the air. With a desperate lunge, she found her feet and dashed across the room. She jerked the door in, leaped back with a choking scream.

Florence stood in the doorway, naked, staring at her, dark blood running down her thighs and legs. Edith shrieked. Darkness swept across her. She began to fall.

She jerked erect as an electric current spasmed through her body. Darkness fled; she was acutely conscious, knowing even as she flung herself into the empty doorway that she hadn't been allowed to faint. She lunged into the corridor and headed for the stairs. The air was thick with mist. She smelled the odor of the tarn. A figure blocked her way. Edith jolted to a stop. The woman wore a white gown. She was soaking wet, her dark hair plastered down across her gray face. She was holding something in her arms. Edith stared at it in loathing; it was half-formed, monstrous. Bastard Bog! a voice screamed in her mind. She backed off, a demented moaning in her throat.

Something spun her, slammed against her back. To keep from falling, she was forced to run. She wasn't headed for the stairs! She tried to stop herself and turn but couldn't control her limbs. She screamed as Florence rushed at her. She felt the cold arms clamp around her, and her scream was cut off as the dead lips crushed on hers. She reached up, gagging, crazed with terror, tried to pull the head away.

Florence vanished. Edith's yanking motion made her fall. She landed on her knees. "Lionel!" she screamed. "Lionel!" roared a mocking voice. Cold wind rushed across her, whipping at her clothes and hair. She tried to stand. Something icy crashed against her neck. She screamed as teeth dug deep into her flesh. Her hands flew up, but there was nothing. Fetid spittle trickled down her skin. She felt the pitted indentations. "Lionel!" she screamed in anguish.

"Here!" he answered. Edith's head jerked up. He was running down the corridor toward her! She scrambled up and rushed toward him. She threw herself against him. Instantly she jerked back, staring at the man who held her. It was her father, with the slack expression of an imbecile on his face, his red-rimmed eyes regarding her with stupid glee, his mouth agape, his tongue protruding. He started pulling her against him, a sound of animal amusement rumbling in his chest. He was naked, bloated. Edith wrenched away from him. She tried to run, but something smashed against her side. She lost her balance and went floundering toward the banister that overlooked the entry hall. She crashed against it, crying out in pain. Her father advanced on her, holding his enormous penis with both hands. She started clambering across the rail, to die below, escape this horror.

Strong hands grabbed her. Edith whirled in horror. Lionel was holding her. She stared at him, refusing to believe. "Edith! It's me!" The sound of his familiar voice made her fall against him, sobbing. "Take me out of here," she begged.

"Right away," he answered. Left arm fixed around her back, he ran her to the stairs. She looked at him. He had no cane, he wasn't limping. "No," she moaned. "It's quite all right," he said. He rushed her down the staircase. Edith tried to pull away from him. "It's me," he said. She sobbed again. He wouldn't let her go. Hollow laughter rippled in the air. She looked around and saw the people grouped below, watching them elatedly. She turned to Lionel, but it wasn't Lionel anymore. It was a monstrous caricature of him, every feature gross, exaggerated, his voice a vicious mocking as he said, "It's me. It's me." "No!" she screamed. She wrestled with him helplessly. His grip was too strong. He wasn't even looking ahead. He was grinning at her as they ran. Edith closed her eyes. Let it be quick! she pleaded.

The entry hall, the corridor. She felt herself rushed along the floor. She couldn't make a sound. The theater door flew open; she was thrust inside. She opened her eyes and saw a crowd of naked people sitting in the velvet chairs, keening with amusement at her plight. She was half-dragged up the steps. The bloated parody of Lionel bound her to a post. She looked out at the audience. They howled with fierce anticipation. Edith cried out as her clothes were ripped away. The people cheered. It sounded muffled, from another world. Edith heard a coughing growl and turned her head. A crouching leopard stalked across the stage. She tried to scream, but nothing issued from her throat. The audience screamed. Edith closed her eyes. The leopard sprang. She felt its huge teeth sinking deep into her head, its heated, blood-sour breath flooding across her face. She felt its rear legs start to thrash berserkly, felt the talons ripping out her stomach. Black pain seared her, and she fell back, shrieking.

She was crumpled on the dusty stage. Heartbeat staggering, she sat up. The theater was empty. No. There was someone, sitting in the shadows of the last row, dressed in black. She seemed to hear a deep voice resonating in her mind. Welcome to my house, it said.

She tried to stand. Her legs began to buckle, and she fell against a wall. She pushed away and staggered to the steps. Lionel stood in front of her. "It's me," he said. She cried out, agonized. Laughter boomed inside the theater. Edith stumbled to the door and pushed it open. Lionel was standing in the corridor. "It's me," he said.

She tried to make the entry hall but couldn't; her body was turned to the side. Lionel was waiting on the landing of the cellar stairs. "It's me!" he cried. The stairwell yawned before her. Lionel was standing at the bottom, grinning up at her. "It's me!" he cried. Edith whimpered, clutching at the banister rail, half-pushed, half-descending on her own. Lionel was standing by the metal doors.

"It's me!" he cried. The swinging doors flew open, crashed against the wall inside. Lionel was standing by the pool. "It's me!" he cried. The force impelled her toward him. Edith staggered forward, stopped beside the pool. She stared into the bloody water.

Lionel was floating just below the surface, staring up at her.

Madness took her then. She backed off, screaming, stumbling out into the corridor. A figure came leaping down the stairs and grabbed her by the arms. She fought it with demented strength, shrieks of frenzy flooding from her throat. The figure shouted at her, but she heard only her own voice. Something struck her on the jaw, and suddenly she was falling, screaming endlessly, as she went plummeting into the depths.

3:31 P.M.

Edith stirred again. Her eyes fluttered open. For several moments she stared toward the front of the car. Then she turned in confusion, twitching as she saw him. She looked at him in questioning silence.

"I'm sorry I had to hit you," he said.

"That was you?"

He nodded.

Edith looked around abruptly. "Lionel."

"His body's in the trunk."

She started for the door, but Fischer restrained her. "You don't want to look at him." She continued struggling against his grip. "Don't," he said.

Edith fell back, averting her face. Fischer sat in silence, listening to her cry.

She turned to him abruptly. "Let's get out of here," she said.

He didn't move.

"What is it?"

"I'm not leaving."

Edith didn't understand.