Hell House (27 page)

chairs, the debris of broken crockery and glassware, the coffeepot and serving dish, the scattering of silverware, the dried food, the coffee stain, the sallow blots of sugar and cream. Staring at it all, he'd tried to calculate what had happened. Which one of the two had been correct? Had Florence caused the attack, as Barrett had claimed? Or had it been Daniel Belasco, as Florence had insisted?

No way of knowing. Fischer had walked through the kitchen, out through the west doorway and down the corridor to the ballroom. What had made the chandelier move? Electromagnetic radiation, or the dead?

The chapel. Had Daniel Belasco possessed Florence?—or suicidal madness?

He'd gone into the garage, the theater, the cellar, walked along the pool, into the steam room. What had attacked Barrett there? Mindless power, or Belasco?

The wine cellar. He'd stood there for minutes, staring at the open section of wall. Nothing there; a void.

Where was the power?

Fischer picked up the tape recorder and set it back on the table. Finding the extension cord, he plugged it in, surprised to discover that it still worked. He reversed the spool, then pressed the PLAY button.

"Hold it!" Barrett's voice said loudly. There were shuffling noises. He heard heavy breathing; was it his? Then Barrett said,

"Miss Tanner coming out of trance. Premature retraction, causing brief systemic shock." After several moments of silence, the recorder was turned off.

Fischer reversed the tape farther, played it back. "Teleplasmic veil beginning to condense," said Barrett's voice. Silence.

Fischer remembered the mistlike fabric which had covered Florence's head and shoulders like a wet shroud. Why had she manifested physical phenomena? The question still disturbed him. "Separate filament extending downward," Barrett's voice said. Fischer reversed the spool and switched the recorder to PLAY again. "Medium's respiration now two hundred and ten,"

Barrett's voice was saying. "Dynamometer fourteen hundred and sixty. Temperature—" He stopped as someone gasped; Edith, Fischer recalled. Momentary silence. Then Barrett's voice said, "Ozone present in the air."

Fischer stopped the spool, reversed it, let it run. What could he possibly hope to learn from reliving those moments? They hadn't added up to anything, except to confirm to Florence what she believed, and to Barrett what he believed. He stopped the spool, began to play the tape. "Sitters: Doctor and Mrs. Lionel Barrett, Mr. Benjamin—" Fischer switched it off and ran the tape back farther still.

He stopped and played it, starting as the hysterical voice— Florence's, yet so unlike hers—cried out, "—don't want to hurt you, but I must! I
must!
" A momentary silence. The voice near choking with venom as it said: "I warn you.
Get out of this
house before I kill you all
."

Sudden banging sounds. Edith's frightened voice asking, "
What's that?
" Fischer stopped the spool, reversed the tape, and listened to the threatening voice again. Had it been the voice of Daniel Belasco? He listened to it five times, gleaning nothing from it. Barrett could have been right. It might have been Florence's subconscious creating the voice, the character, the threat.

With a muffled curse, he reversed the tape again and played it back. "Leave house," said the imperious voice of Red Cloud.

Had there ever been such an entity, or had it, too, been a segment of Florence's personality? Fischer shook his head. There was a grunting noise. "No good," said the voice, deep-pitched, but conceivably Florence's, forced to a lower register. "No good.

Here too long. Not listen. Not understand. Too much sick inside." Fischer had to smile, although it pained him. It was such a poor excuse for the voice of an Indian. "Limits," it was saying. "Nations. Terms. Not know what that mean. Extremes and limits. Terminations and extremities." A pause. "Not know."

"Shit," said Fischer, jabbing in the button which stopped the spool. He reversed it farther, switched it on. Silence. "Now, if you'd—" Barrett began. "Red Cloud Tanner woman guide," Florence interrupted in the deep voice. "Guide second medium on this side."

He listened to the entire sitting: the rumbling voice of the Indian; the description of the caveman entity; the "arrival" of "the young man"; the hysterical voice, threatening them; the fierce percussions; Barrett's voice describing the unexpected onset of physical phenomena.

The second sitting: Florence's invocation and hymn; her sinking into trance—the low-pitched, wavering moans, the wheezing inhalations; Barrett's impersonal voice recording instrument readings; his description of the materialization; the rolling laugh; Edith's scream.

The tape moved soundlessly. Fischer reached out and switched off the recorder.
Zero
, he thought. Who had he been kidding, to come charging back in here like Don Quixote? What a laugh.

He stood. Well, he wasn't leaving. Not until something happened. Not until he started to pick up the threads. There had to be an answer somewhere. All right, he'd walk around the house again. He'd keep on ferreting in corners until he found that little mote of insight he was searching for. The house felt flat, but somewhere there was something still alive, something powerful enough to murder.

He was going to find it if it took a year.

As he moved across the great hall, he began to open up. There seemed no danger to it now. There seemed no point to it, either. Still, he had to do something.

He had scarcely let the last of his defenses down when something pushed him. He was moving into the entry hall, and the unexpected shove almost made him fall. Staggering to one side, he crossed his arms automatically, braced for resistance.

There was no more. Fischer scowled. He knew that he should open up again. Here was something tangible at last. Except that it had caught him by surprise. He didn't dare expose himself the way he had yesterday.

He stood hesitantly, sensing the presence hovering around him, wanting to confront it but afraid to.

Enraged at his weakness, he opened up.

Immediately something clutched his arm and flung him toward the south corridor. Fischer stumbled to a halt. He removed his crossed arms, which had, with instant selfprotection, covered his solar plexus. He had to stop this opening and closing like 80

a goddamned frightened clam!

He opened the door inside himself enough to feel the presence squeezing in. Again he was impelled toward the corridor. It was as though invisible hands were plucking at his clothes, holding his hand, clutching at his arm. He moved along with it, amazed by the blandness of the presence. This was no dark, destructive force. This was like some unseen maiden aunt hastening him to the kitchen for milk and cookies. Fischer almost felt inclined to smile at the feel of it— insistent, yes, demanding, but totally devoid of menace. He gasped at the sudden thought: Florence! She had sworn the answer lay in the chapel! A rush of joy burst through him. Florence helping him! He pushed in through the heavy door and went inside.

The chapel was oppressively still. Fischer looked around as though to see her. There was nothing.

The altar
.

The words had flashed across his mind as clearly as though someone had spoken them aloud. He moved quickly down the aisle, wincing as he stepped across the cat, then the fallen crucifix. He reached the altar and looked at the open Bible. The page he saw was headed BIRTHS. "Daniel Myron Belasco was born at 2:00 A.M. on November 4, 1903." He felt a chilling disappointment. That wasn't it; it couldn't be.

He started as the pages of the Bible were flung over in a bunch. Now individual pages began to whirl by so fast he felt a breeze across his face. They stopped. He looked down, couldn't tell which paragraph he was meant to see. He felt his hand being lifted, let it move to the page. His index finger settled on a line. He bent across the book to read it.

"
If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out
."

He stared at the words. It seemed as though Florence were standing beside him, anxious and impatient; but he didn't understand. The words made no sense to him.

"Florence—" he started.

He jerked his head up at the tearing sound behind the altar. A strip of wallpaper was hanging down, revealing the plaster wall behind it.

Fischer cried out as the medallion burned against his chest. Reaching frantically inside his shirt, he yanked it out and dropped it with a hiss of pain. It broke in pieces on the floor. Fischer stared at it in dazed confusion. A wedge like the head of an arrow had fallen from the other parts. It seemed to be pointing at—

It came with an appalling rush. Like some native paralyzed to mindless terror by the roar of an approaching tidal wave.

Fischer looked up dumbly.

In the next moment, the power had smashed against him violently, driving him backward. He screamed in horror as it flung him to the floor and covered him with crushing blackness. There was no resisting it. Helplessly, he lay there as the cold force flooded through him, swelling every vein with dark contamination.
Now!
a voice howled in his mind, triumphantly. And suddenly he knew the answer, just as Florence Tanner had, and Barrett had, and knew that he was being told because he was about to die.

He didn't move for a long time. His eyes did not blink. He looked like a dead man sprawled on the floor.

Then, very slowly, face without expression, he got up and drifted to the door. Pulling it open, he walked into the corridor and headed toward the entry hall. He walked to the front door, opened it, and went outside. Crossing the porch, he descended the broad steps, reached the gravel path, and started walking on it. He stared straight ahead as he walked to the edge of the tarn and stepped into the glutinous ooze. The water rose above his knees.

He seemed to hear a distant cry. He blinked, kept moving. Something crashed into the water with him, grabbed his sweater, jerked him back. There was an acid wrenching in his vitals and he gasped in pain. He tried to throw himself into the water.

Someone tried to pull him back to shore. Fischer groaned and pulled away. The cold hands grabbed him by the neck. He snarled and tried to break away from them. His stomach muscles knotted, and he doubled over, falling to his knees. Icy water splashed across his face. He shook his head and tried to rise, to move into the tarn again. The hands kept pulling at him.

Looking up, he saw, as through a veil of gelatin, a white, distorted face. Its lips were moving, but he couldn't hear a sound. He stared up dazedly. He had to die. He knew that clearly.

Belasco had told him so.

7:58 P.M.

For the past half-hour Fischer had been hunched in the corner of the seat, face as white as chalk, teeth chattering, arms crossed across his stomach, eyes unblinking for minutes at a time, staring sightlessly ahead. His shaking had kept dislodging the blanket from his shoulders; Edith had had to draw it around him repeatedly. Fischer had not responded to her attentions in any way. She might have been invisible to him.

It had taken her what seemed an endless amount of time to prevent him from walking into the tarn. Although his struggles had become progressively weaker, his obvious intention to drown himself had persisted. Like a somnambulist, he had tried stubbornly to wrest himself away from her. Nothing she'd said or done seemed to help. He hadn't spoken, was almost soundless in his single-minded attempt at suicide. Pulling at his clothes, clutching at his hands and arms and hair, slapping his face, Edith had thwarted his efforts again and again. By the time his struggles had finally ended, she'd been as soaked and shivering as he.

She looked around, trying to see the gasoline gauge. She'd been running the motor and heater since she'd gotten him into the car; the Cadillac was warm now. She saw that there was still more than half a tank, and turned back. The temperature did not appear to have the slightest effect on Fischer. His shivering continued unabated. Still, it was more than cold, she knew. She stared at his palsied features. Full circle; she could not avoid the thought.

The 1970 attempt on Hell House was one more item on the list of failures.

Fischer twitched convulsively and closed his eyes. His teeth stopped chattering; his body was immobile. As Edith watched in 81

anxious silence, she saw faint streaks of color returning to his cheeks.

Several minutes later he opened his eyes and looked at her. She heard a dry, crackling sound in his throat as he swallowed.

He reached out slowly toward her, and she took his hand. It was as cold as ice.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She couldn't speak.

"What time is it?"

Edith looked at her watch and saw that it had stopped. She twisted around to look at the dashboard. "Just past eight."

Fischer sank back with a feeble groan. "How did you get me here?"

He listened as she told him. When she was through, he asked, "Why did you come back again?"

"I didn't think you should be alone."

"In spite of what happened to you before?"

"I was going to try."

His fingers tightened on hers.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I was trapped."

"By what?"

"By
whom
."

She waited.

"Florence told us," Fischer said. "She
told
us, but I didn't have the brains to see."

"What?"

"The 'B' inside the circle," Fischer answered. "Belasco. Alone."

"
Alone?
" She couldn't comprehend it.

"He created everything."

"How do you know?"

"He told me so," he said. "He let me know, because I was about to die.

"No wonder the secret was never found. There's never been anything like it in the history of haunted houses: a single personality so powerful that he could create what seemed to be a complex multiple haunting; one entity appearing to be dozens, imposing endless physical and mental effects on those who entered his house—utilizing his power like some soloist performing on a giant, hellish console."

The motor was off now; the car was getting cold. They should be getting into town, but sitting in the darkness, stunned, subdued, she couldn't stir herself as Fischer's voice droned on.

"I think he knew, from the second we entered, that Florence was the one to concentrate on. She was our weakest link; not because she had no strength, but because she was so willingly vulnerable to him.

"When she sat on Monday night, he must have fed her various impressions, looking for one that would create a response in her. It was the young man that 'took' in her mind— the one Florence came to identify as Daniel Belasco.

"At the same time, in order to use her against your husband, Belasco caused her to manifest physical phenomena. It served a multiple purpose. It verified your husband's beliefs. It was the first wedge in Florence's assurance; she knew she was a mental medium, and even though she tried to convince herself that it was God's will, it always distressed her. She knew it was wrong.

We both did.

"And, as a third effect, it prevented your husband from bringing another psychic into the house after I refused to sit for him."

His eyes flinted. "Belasco keeping the group to a workable number.

"Then," he continued, "he started to evolve a situation of hostility between Florence and your husband. He knew that they disagreed on their beliefs, knew that, subconsciously. Florence would resent your husband's insistence on the physical examination, the intimation—however politely phrased— that she was capable of fraud, even if it was involuntary. Belasco worked on that resentment, worked on their differences of belief, built them up, then caused the poltergeist attack in the dining hall, using some of Florence's strength but mostly his own. Again, a multiple purpose was served. First, it weakened Florence, made her doubt her motivations. Second, it increased the animosity between her and your husband. Third, it further verified your husband's convictions. Fourth, it injured him, frightened him a little."

"He wasn't frightened," Edith said; but there was no conviction in her voice.

"He kept on working on Florence," Fischer said, as though she hadn't spoken, "draining her physically and mentally: the bites, the cat's attack— undermining her strength on the one hand, elaborating her misconception about Daniel on the other.

When her confidence was flagging most, because of what your husband said, Belasco let her find the body—even staging an apparent resistance to her finding it, to make it more convincing.

"So she became persuaded that Daniel Belasco haunted the house. To guarantee the conviction, Belasco led her to the tarn in her sleep, let 'Daniel' rescue her, even gave her a fleeting glimpse of himself rushing from the tarn. She was positive then. She came to me and told me what she thought—that Belasco controlled the haunting by manipulating every other entity in the house. She was so close.
My God!
Even fooled every step of the way, she almost had it. That was why she was so certain.

Because, in everything she said, there was only the thinnest wall between her and the actual truth. If I'd helped her, she might have broken through, might have—"

Fischer stopped abruptly. For a long time he stared through the window. Finally he went on.

"It was a matter of timing," he said. "Belasco must have known that, sooner or later, Florence would come up with the right answer. So he concentrated on her even more, used her memory about her brother's death, and tied it in to her obsession about Daniel Belasco. Her brother's grief became Daniel's grief, her brother's need"—Fischer clenched his teeth— "became Daniel's."