Hell House

Hell House Page 8

Barrett looked at her, intrigued. "His voice?" She nodded, and he turned to put it back on the turntable. Florence looked at Fischer, who was standing several yards away, staring at the phonograph.

Barrett wound the crank tight, ran a fingertip across the end of the steel needle, and set it on the record edge. There was a crackling noise through the speaker, then a voice.

"Welcome to my house," said Emeric Belasco. "I'm delighted you could come."

Edith crossed her arms and shivered.

"I am certain you will find your stay here most illuminating." Belasco's voice was soft and mellow, yet terrifying - the voice of a carefully disciplined madman. "It is regrettable I cannot be with you," it said, "but I had to leave before your arrival."

Bastard, Fischer thought.

"Do not let my physical absence disturb you, however. Think of me as your unseen host and believe that, during your stay here, I shall be with you in spirit."

Edith's teeth were set on edge. That voice.

"All your needs have been provided for," Belasco's voice continued. "Nothing has been overlooked. Go where you will, and do what you will - these are the cardinal precepts of my home. Feel free to function as you choose. There are no responsibilities, no rules. 'Each to his own device' shall be the only standard here. May you find the answer that you seek. It is here, I promise you." There was a pause. "And now . . . auf Wiedersehen."

The needle made a scratching noise on the record. Barrett raised the needle arm and switched off the phonograph. The great hall was immensely still.

" Auf Wiedersehen." said Florence. " Until we meet again."

"Lionel - ?"

"The record wasn't meant for us," he said.

"But - "

"It was cut a good half-century ago," said Barrett. "Look at it." He held it up. "It's merely a coincidence that what he said seems applicable to us."

"What made the phonograph go on by itself, then?" Florence asked.

"That is a separate problem," Barrett said. "I'm only discussing the record now." He looked at Fischer. "Did it play by itself in 1940? The accounts say nothing of it."

Fischer shook his head.

"Do you know anything about the record?"

It appeared that Fischer wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "Guests would arrive, to find him gone. That record would be played for them." He paused. "It was a game he played. While the guests were here, Belasco spied on them from hiding."

Barrett nodded.

"Then, again, maybe he was invisible," Fischer continued. "He claimed the power. Said that he could will the attention of a group of people to some particular object, and move among them unobserved."

"I doubt that," Barrett said.

"Do you?" Fischer's smile was strange as he looked at the phonograph. "We all had our attention on that a few moments ago," he said. "How do you know he didn't walk right by us while we were listening?"

12:46 P.M.

They were moving up the staircase when an icy breeze passed over them, causing their candle flames to flicker. Edith's flame went out. "What was that?" she whispered.

"A breeze," said Barrett instantly. He declined his candle to relight hers. "We'll discuss it later."

Edith swallowed, glancing at Florence. Barrett took her by the arm, and they started up the stairs again. "There'll be many things like that during the week," he said. "You'll get used to them."

Edith said no more. As she and Lionel ascended the stairs, Florence and Fischer exchanged a look.

They reached the second floor and, turning to the right, started along the balcony corridor. On their right, the heavy balustrade continued. To their left, set periodically along a paneled wall, were bedroom doors. Barrett approached the first of these and opened it. He looked inside, then turned to Florence. "Would you like this one?" he asked.

She stepped into the doorway. After several moments, she turned back to them. "Not too bad," she said. She smiled at Edith.

"You'll rest more comfortably here."

Barrett was about to comment, then relented. "Fine," he said. He gestured toward the room.

He followed Edith inside and shut the door. Edith watched as he limped around the bedroom. To her left were a pair of carved walnut Renaissance beds, between them a small table with a lamp and a French-style telephone on it. A fireplace was centered on the opposite wall, in front of it a heavy walnut rocking chair. The teakwood floor was almost covered by a twenty-by-thirty-foot blue Persian rug, in the middle of which stood an octagonal-topped table with a matching chair upholstered in red leather.

Barrett glanced into the bathroom, then returned to her. "About that breeze," he said. "I didn't want to get involved in a discussion with Miss Tanner. That's why I glossed over it."

"It really happened, didn't it?"

"Of course," he answered, smiling. "A manifestation of simple kinetics: unguided, unintelligent. No matter what Miss Tanner thinks. I should have mentioned that before we left."

"Mentioned what?"

"That you'll need to inure yourself to what she'll be saying in the next week. She's a Spiritualist, as you know. Survival of and communication with the so-called disincarnate is the foundation of her belief; an erroneous foundation, as I intend to prove. In the meantime, though" - he smiled - "be prepared to hear her views expressed. I can't very well ask that she remain mute."

To her right, their heads against the wall, were a pair of beds with elaborately carved headboards, between them a huge chest of drawers. Above the chest, suspended from the ceiling, was a large Italian silver lamp.

Directly across from her, by the paneled window shutters, was a Spanish table with a matching chair. On top of the table was a Chinese lamp and a French-style telephone. Florence crossed the room and pickd up the receiver. It was dead. Did I expect it to be working? she thought, amused. At any rate, it had doubtless been used only for calls made within the house.

She turned and looked around the room. There was something in it. What, though? A personality? A residue of emotion?

Florence closed her eyes and waited. Something in the air; no doubt of it. She felt it shift and throb, advancing on her, then retreating like some unseen, timorous beast.

After several minutes she opened her eyes. It will come, she thought. She crossed to the bathroom, squinting slightly as its white tile walls glittered with reflected candlelight. Setting the holder on the sink, she turned the hot-water faucet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a gurgling rattle, a gout of darkly rusted water splattered into the basin. Florence waited until the water cleared before she held her hand beneath it. She hissed at its coldness. I hope the water heater isn't broken too, she thought. Bending over, she started patting water onto her face.

I should have gone into the chapel, she thought. I shouldn't have backed off from the very first challenge. She winced, remembering the violent nausea she'd felt as she was about to enter. An awful place, she thought. She'd have to work her way up to it, that was all. If she forced it now, she might lose consciousness. I'll get in there soon enough, she promised herself.

God will grant the power when it's time.

His room was smaller than the other two. There was only one bed with a canopy top. Fischer sat at the foot of it, staring at the intricate pattern on the rug. He could feel the house around him like some vast, invisible being. It knows I'm here, he thought; Belasco knows, they all know that I'm here: their single failure. They were watching him, waiting to see what he'd do.

He wasn't going to do anything prematurely, that was certain. He wasn't going to do a thing until he got the feel of the place.

2:21 P.M.

Fischer came into the great hall carrying his flashlight. He had changed into a black turtleneck sweater, black corduroy trousers, and a pair of scuffed white tennis shoes. His steps were soundless as he moved toward the huge round table where Barrett, seated, and Edith, standing, were opening wooden boxes and unloading equipment. In the fireplace, a fire was burning.

Edith started as Fischer emerged from the shadows. "Need help?" he asked.

"No, it's going fine," said Barrett, smiling. "Thank you for the offer, though."

Fischer sat in one of the chairs. His eyes remained on Barrett as the tall, bearded man removed an instrument from protective excelsior, wiped it carefully with a cloth, and set it on the table. Fussy about his equipment, Fischer thought. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, watching the gamboling deformity of Edith's shadow on the wall as she picked up another wooden box and carried it to the table.

"Still teach physics?" he asked.

"Limitedly, because of health." Barrett hesitated, then continued. "I had polio when I was twelve; my right leg is partially paralyzed."

Fischer gazed at him in silence. Barrett took another instrument from its box and wiped it off. He set the instrument on the table and looked at Fischer. "It won't affect our project in any way," he said.

Fischer nodded.

"You referred to the tarn before as Bastard Bog," Barrett said, returning to his work. "Why was that?"

"Some of Belasco's female guests got pregnant while they were here."

"And they actually - ?" Barrett broke off, glancing up.

"Thirteen times."

"That's hideous," said Edith.

Fischer blew out smoke. "A lot of hideous things happened here," he said.

Barrett ran his eyes across the instruments already on the table: astatic galvanometer, mirror galvanometer, quadrant electrometer, Crookes balance, camera, gauze cage, smoke absorber, manometer, weighing platform, tape recorder. Still to be unpacked were the contact clock, electroscope, lights (standard and infrared), maximum and minimum thermometer, hygroscope, sthenometer, phosphorescent sulfide screen, electric stove, the box of vessels and tubes, the molding materials, and the cabinet equipment. And the most important instrument of all, Barrett thought with satisfaction.

He was unpacking the rack of red, yellow, and white lights when Fischer asked, "How are you going to use those when there's no electricity?"

"There will be by tomorrow," Barrett said. "I telephoned Caribou Falls; the phone is near the front door, incidentally. They'll install a new generator in the morning."

"And you think it will work?"

Barrett repressed a smile. "It will work."

Fischer said no more. Across the hall, a burning log popped, making Edith twitch as she walked to one of the larger wooden boxes.

"Not that one, it's too heavy," Barrett told her.

"I'll do it." Rising from his chair, Fischer walked to Edith and, stooping, lifted the box. "What is it, an anvil?" he asked as he set it on the table.

Barrett was aware of Fischer's curious gaze as he pried up the boards on top of the box. "Would you - ?" he asked. Fischer lifted out the bulky metal instrument and set it on the table. It was cube-shaped, painted dark blue, an uncomplicated dial in front of it numbered 0-900, the thin red needle pointed at zero. Across the top of the instrument was stenciled, in black letters: BARRETT - EMR.

"EMR?" asked Fischer.

"I'll explain it later," said Barrett.

"This your machine?"

Barrett shook his head. "That's being constructed."

They all turned toward the archway at the sound of heels. Florence was approaching, carrying a candle in its holder. She had changed to a heavy green, long-sleeved sweater, thick tweed skirt, and low-heeled shoes. "Hello," she said cheerfully.

As she came up to them, her gaze ran across the array of devices on the table, and she smiled. She turned to Fischer. "Like to take a walk with me?" she asked.

"Why not?"

After they were gone, Edith saw a typed list on the table and picked it up. It was headed, "Observed Psychic Phenomena at the Belasco House":

Apparitions; Apports; Asports; Automatic drawing; Automatic painting; Automatic speaking ; Automatic writing; Autoscopy; Bilocation; Biological phenomena; Book tests; Breezes; Catalepsy; Chemical phenomena; Chemicographs; Clairaudience; Clairsentience; Clairvoyance; Communication; Control; Crystal gazing; Dematerialization; Direct drawing; Direct painting; Direct voice; Direct writing; Divination; Dreams; Dream communications; Dream prophecies; Ectoplasm; Eldolons; Electrical phenomena; Elongation; Emanations; Exteriorization of motricity; Exteriorization of sensation; Extras; Extratemporal perception; Eyeless sight; Facsimile writing; Flower clairsentience; Ghosts; Glossolalia; Hyperamnesia; Hyperesthesia; Ideomorphs; Ideoplasm; Impersonation; Imprints; Independent voice; Interpenetration of matter; Knot tying; Levitation; Luminous phenomena; Magnetic phenomena; Materialization; Matter through matter; Metagraphology; Monition; Motor automatism; Newspaper tests; Obsession; Paraffin molds; Parakinesis; Paramnesia; Paresthesia; Percussion; Phantasmata; Poltergeist phenomena; Possession; Precognition; Presentiment; Prevision; Pseudopods; Psychic photography; Psychic rods; Psychic sounds; Psychic touches; Psychic winds; Psychokinesis; Psychometry; Radiesthesia; Radiographs; Raps; Retrocognition; Scriptograph; Sensory automatism; Skin writing; Skotography; Slate writing; Smells; Somnambulism; Stigmata; Telekinesis; Teleplasm; Telescopic vision; Telesthesia; Transcendental music; Transfiguration; Transportation; Typtology; Voices; Water sprinkling; Xenoglossy.

Edith put the list down numbly. My God, she thought. What kind of week was it going to be?

2:53 P.M.

The garage had been built to accommodate seven automobiles. Now it was empty. As they entered, Fischer thumbed off his flashlight, enough daylight filtering through the grimy door windows for them to see. He looked at the greenish mist which pressed against the panes of glass. "Maybe we should keep the car in here," he said.

Florence didn't answer. She was walking across the oilspotted floor, turning her head from side to side. She paused by a shelf and touched a dirty, rust-flecked hammer.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"Maybe we should keep the car in here."

Florence shook her head. "If a generator can be tampered with, so can a car."

Fischer watched the medium move around the garage. As she passed close by, he caught a scent of the cologne she wore.

"Why did you give up acting?" he asked.

Florence glanced at him with a fleeting smile. "It's a long story, Ben. When we've settled down a bit, I'll tell it to you. Right now, I'd better get the feeling of the place." She stopped in a patch of light and closed her eyes.

Fischer stared at her. In the dim illumination, the medium's ivory skin and lustrous red hair gave her the appearance of a Dresden doll.

After a while she returned to Fischer. "Nothing here," she said. "You agree?"

"Whatever you say."

Fischer switched on his flashlight as they ascended the steps to the corridor. "Which way now?" she asked.

"I don't know the place that well. I was here only three days."

"We'll just explore, then," Florence said. "No need - " She broke off suddenly and stopped, head twisted to the right, as though she heard a noise behind them. "Yes," she murmured. " Yes. Sorrow. Pain." She frowned and shook her head. "No, no."

At length she sighed and looked at Fischer. "You felt it," she said.

Fischer didn't answer. Florence smiled and looked away. "Well, let's see what else we can find," she said.