Hell House (24 page)

She jerked back from his touch, eyes open suddenly, gaping at him.

"Where's your husband?" Fischer asked.

She looked around in shock. "He isn't here?"

He watched dazedly as she stood. From the look on her face, he saw that she was taken aback by his appearance. "Never mind," he mumbled, heading for the corridor. Edith didn't speak. She brushed past him, calling, "Lionel!"

She was halfway down the stairs before he'd reached the landing. "Don't go alone!" he cried. She paid no attention. Fischer tried to hurry down the steps but had to stagger to a halt, clinging to the rail as pain drove spikes into his skull. He leaned against the banister, trembling. "Lionel!" he heard her calling as she ran across the entry hall. He heard an answering call below and opened his eyes. Where else? he thought bitterly. Barrett was so anxious to prove his point, he was leaving his wife alone now, ignoring Florence. Stupid bastard!

Fischer hobbled down the stairs and walked across the entry hall, teeth set against the jolting pain. Entering the great hall, he saw Barrett and Edith standing by the Reversor. "Where is she?" he demanded.

Barrett looked at him blankly.

"
Well?
"

"She's not in her room?"

"Would I ask if she was?" snarled Fischer.

Barrett started limping toward him, joined by Edith. From the look on her face, Fischer could tell she was upset with Barrett too. "But I listened," Barrett said; "I checked you awhile ago. And the pills I gave her—"

"To hell with your pills!" Fischer cut him off. "You think possession can be stopped with pills?"

"I don't believe—"

"Screw what you believe!" Fischer's head was pounding so hard now that he could barely see. "She's gone, that's all that matters!"

"We'll find her," Barrett said; but there was no assurance in his voice. He looked around uneasily. "We'll try the cellar first.

She might—"

He stopped as Fischer clutched his head, his face distended by a look of agony. "You'd better sit," he said.

"Shut up!" Fischer shouted hoarsely. He hunched over, making retching noises.

"Fischer—" Barrett started forward.

Fischer stumbled to a chair and dropped down heavily. Barrett approached as fast as he could, followed by Edith. They stopped as Fischer jerked down his hands and looked at them in shock.

"What?" asked Barrett.

Fischer began to shiver.

"What is it?" Barrett's voice rose involuntarily. Fischer's look unnerved him.

"The chapel."

Edith's scream of horror pierced the air. She spun away and stumbled to the wall.

"
Oh, my dear God
," Barrett murmured.

Fischer walked unsteadily to the body and stared at it. Her eyes were open, looking upward, her face the hue of pale wax.

His gaze shifted to her genitals. They were caked with blood, the outer tissues shredded.

He twitched as Barrett stopped beside him. "What
happened
to her?" the older man whispered.

"She was killed," said Fischer venomously. "Murdered by this house." He tensed, expecting Barrett's contradiction, but there was none. "I don't see how she could have gotten up with all that sedative inside her," was all Barrett said, his tone one of guilt.

He saw that Fischer had turned to look at the crucifix lying nearby and did the same. Seeing the blood on its wooden phallus, he felt his stomach walls contract. "My God," he said.

"Not here," Fischer muttered. He shouted suddenly, as if he'd gone berserk: "
There's no God in this fucking house!
"

Across the chapel, Edith jerked around to look at Fischer startledly. Barrett started to speak, then held it back. He drew in a trembling breath. The chapel smelled of gore. "We'd better get her out of here."

"I'll do it," Fischer said.

"You'll need some help."

"
I'll do it
."

Barrett shivered at the look on Fischer's face. "Very well."

Fischer crouched beside the body. Darkness pulsed before him, and he had to put down both hands to support himself he felt them pressing into her blood. After a while his vision cleared, and he looked at her face.
She tried so hard
, he thought.

Reaching out, he closed her eyes as gently as he could.

"What's that?" Barrett asked.

Fischer glanced up, wincing at the pain the movement caused. Barrett was staring at the floor near Florence. He looked down. It was too gloomy to see. He heard Barrett fumble in his pockets, then the scratching of a match end on a striking surface. The flare of light made his eyes contract painfully.

She'd drawn a symbol on the floor, using a finger dipped in her blood. It was a crude circle with something scrawled inside it. Fischer looked at it intently, trying to decipher it. Abruptly he saw what it was. Barrett spoke at the same moment.

"It looks like the letter 'B.'"

11:47 A.M.

They stood in the doorway, watching Fischer's slowly moving form until it vanished in the mist. Then Barrett turned.

"All right," he said.

She followed him into the great hall. Barrett hobbled quickly to the Reversor, and she stopped to watch him, trying not to think of Florence. Barrett made a final check on the Reversor, then turned to look at her.

"It's ready," he said.

She wished, for his sake, she could experience the emotion he obviously felt. "I know this moment is important to you," she said.

"Important to science." He turned to the Reversor, set its timer, turned several knobs, then, after hesitating for a moment, threw the switch.

For several seconds Edith thought that nothing was happening. Then she heard a resonant hum rise to audibility inside the giant structure and began to feel a throbbing in the floor.

She stared at the Reversor. The hum was rising in pitch and volume, the vibration in the floor increasing; she could feel it running up her legs, into her body.
Power
, she thought—the only thing that could oppose the house. She didn't understand it, but feeling its heavy throb in her body, its reverberation starting to hurt her ears, she almost believed.

She started as, behind the Reversor's grillwork, tubes began to glow with an intense phosphorescence. Barrett backed off slowly. His fingers trembled as he drew out his pocket watch. Exactly noon. Fittingly precise, he thought. He pushed the watch into his pocket and turned to Edith. "We have to go."

Their coats were on the table by the front door; Barrett had brought them down earlier. Hastily he helped her on with hers.

As she assisted him, she glanced toward the great hall. The noise of the Reversor was painful even here now. She could feel its pulsing in the floor beneath her, hear the rattling of a vase nearby. "Quickly," Barrett said.

A moment later they had left the house and were hurrying along the gravel path, around the tarn, the sound of the Reversor fading behind them. As they crossed the bridge, Edith saw the Cadillac standing in the mist, and tightened at the thought of Florence being in it.

Barrett pulled open the back door, flinching as he saw that Fischer had the blanket-covered body on the seat with him, cradling its head and upper torso in his arms. "Couldn't we—" he started, breaking off as Fischer glared at him. He hesitated, then reshut the door. No point in setting Fischer off. He was close enough to the edge as it was.

"She's in there
with
him?" Edith whispered.

"Yes."

Edith looked ill. "I can't sit in there with—" She couldn't finish.

"We'll sit in front."

"Can't we go back in the house?" she asked, fleetingly aware of the grotesqueness of her requesting to go back inside Hell House.

"Absolutely not. The radiation would kill us."

She stared at him. "All right," she finally said.

As they got into the front and closed the door, Barrett glanced into the rearview mirror. Fischer was bent over Florence's body, his chin resting on what must have been the top of her head. How badly had her death affected him? he wondered.

Remembering then, he turned to Edith. "Deutsch is dead," he told her.

Edith didn't respond. At last she nodded. "It doesn't matter."

Unexpectedly, Barrett felt a flare of anger.
Doesn't it?
he thought. He turned away. Why brood about it, then? He'd done his best to provide for her. If she didn't care . . .

He willed away the anger. What else could she say? He straightened up, grimacing at the pain in his thumb. "Fischer?"

There was no reply. Barrett looked around. "Deutsch is dead," he said. "His son refuses to pay us."

"What's the difference?" Fischer mumbled. Barrett saw his fingers tightening on Florence Tanner's shoulder. He turned back to the front and, reaching into his overcoat pocket, withdrew the ring of keys. Fingering through them, he found the ignition key and pushed it into its slot. He turned the key enough to activate the dial needles without starting the engine. There wasn't enough fuel to run the engine for forty minutes so they could keep the interior warm. Damn, he thought. He should have remembered to bring more blankets from the house, some brandy.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Well, they'd have to endure it, that was all. Personally, he didn't care— This moment was too engulfing for anything else in the world to overshadow it.

Behind those windowless walls some several hundred yards distant, Hell House was dying.

12:45 P.M.

Barrett snapped his watch cover shut. "It's done."

Edith's face was without expression. Barrett started feeling disappointment at her lack of response, then realized that she could not conceive of what had taken place inside the house. Reaching across the seat, he patted her hand, then turned.

"Fischer?"

Fischer was still slumped over Florence, holding her body against himself. He looked up slowly.

"Will you go back in with us?"

Fischer didn't speak.

"The house is clear."

"Is it?"

Barrett wanted to smile. He couldn't blame the man, of course. His claim
did
sound preposterous after what had taken place this week. "I need you with me," he said.

"Why?"

"To verify that the house is clear."

"What if it isn't?"

"I guarantee it is." Barrett waited for Fischer's decision. When nothing happened, he said, "It will take only a few minutes."

Fischer stared at him in silence for a while before he edged away from Florence's body and, shifting carefully to a kneeling position on the floor, lowered her to the seat. He looked at her for several moments, then withdrew his arms and turned to the door.

They came together in front of the car.
Dй

jаvu
, thought Edith. It was as though time had been reversed and they were about to enter Hell House for the first time. Only the absence of Florence prevented the illusion from being complete. She shivered, drawing up the collar of her coat. She felt numb with cold. Lionel had run the engine and heater for brief periods of time during their wait, but minutes after he switched off the engine each time, the cold had returned.

The walk to the house was eerily reminiscent of Monday's arrival: their shoes ringing on the concrete bridge; her glancing back to see the limousine being swallowed by the mist; the circling trudge around the tarn, its hideous odor in her nostrils; the crunch of gravel underneath their shoes; the cold penetrating flesh; her feelings as the massive house loomed up in front of them. It was no use. She couldn't believe that Lionel was right. Which meant that they were walking back into a trap. They'd gotten out somehow; three of them, anyway. Now, incredibly, they were returning. Even realizing that Lionel had to know the effect of his Reversor, it was impossible to comprehend the suicidal folly of their move.

The final yards along the gravel path. The approach up the wide porch steps; the click of shoes on concrete again. The double doors ahead of them. Edith shuddered.
No
, she thought, I won't go back inside.

Then Barrett had opened the door for her, and without a word she'd entered Hell House again.

They stopped, and Barrett shut the door. Edith saw that the vase had fallen to the floor and shattered.

Barrett looked at Fischer questioningly.

"I don't know," Fischer said.

Barrett tensed. "You have to open up." Was it possible that Fischer had no extrasensory perception left? The thought that he might have to bring another psychic all the way to Maine before finding out was appalling to him.

Fischer moved away from them. He looked around uneasily. It did feel different. That could be a trick, though. He'd been fooled before. He didn't dare expose himself like that again.

Barrett watched him restively. Edith glanced at her husband and saw how impatient he was. "Try, Mr. Fischer," he said abruptly. "I guarantee there'll be no trouble."

Fischer didn't look around. He walked across the entry hall. Amazingly, the atmosphere
had
changed. Even without opening up, he could sense that. Still, how
much
had it changed? How much faith could he really have in Barrett? His theory had sounded good. But Barrett wasn't just asking him to believe a theory. He was asking him to put his life at stake again.

He kept on walking. He was passing through the archway into the great hall now; he heard the Barretts' footsteps following.

Entering the hall, he stopped and looked around. The floor was littered with broken objects. Across from him, a tapestry hung askew on its wall. What had the Reversor
done?
He wanted very much to know but was afraid to try to find out.

"
Well?
" asked Barrett. Fischer waved him off. I'll do it when I'm ready, he thought angrily.

He stood immobile, listening, waiting.

On impulse then, he dropped the barriers. Closing his eyes, he spread his arms, his hands, his fingers, drawing in whatever might be hovering in the atmosphere.

His eyes jerked open, and he looked around in bafflement.

There was nothing.

Distrust returned. He whirled and darted past them. Edith looked alarmed, but Barrett grabbed her arm, preventing her from panic. "He's startled because there's nothing to pick up." he told her.

Fischer ran into the entry hall. Nothing. He raced down the corridor to the chapel, shoved the door in violently. Nothing. He turned and ran to the steps, descending them with avid leaps, ignoring the pain in his head. Straight-arming through the pool doors, he raced to the steam room, pulled open its door, braced himself.

Nothing.

He turned in awe. "I don't believe it."

He sprinted back along the pool and out into the corridor. He ran into the wine cellar. Nothing. He dashed back up the stairs, gasping for breath. The theater. Nothing. The ballroom. Nothing. The billiard room. Nothing. He raced along the corridor with frenzied strides. The kitchen. Nothing. The dining hall. Nothing. He charged across the great hall, back into the entry hall.

Barrett and Edith were still there. Fischer rocked to a panting halt in front of them. He started to speak, then broke into a run for the stairs. Barrett felt a rush of exultation. "Done," he said. "It's
done
, Edith.
Done!
" He threw his arms around her, pulled her close. Her heart was pounding. She still couldn't believe it. Yet Fischer was beside himself. She watched him leaping up the staircase, two steps at a time.

Fischer ran across the corridor to the Barretts' room. He plunged inside. Nothing! Spinning with a dazzled cry, he ran into the corridor again, to Florence's room. Nothing! Along the corridor to his room. Nothing! Over to Belasco's quarters. Nothing!

God Almighty!
Nothing!
His head was pounding, but he didn't care. He raced along the corridor, flinging open doors to all the unused bedrooms. Nothing! Everywhere he went, nothing, absolutely nothing! Jubilation burst inside him. Barrett had done it!

Hell House was clear!

He had to sit. Staggering to the nearest chair, he dropped down limply. Hell House cleared. It was incredible. He thrust aside the knowledge that he'd have to alter everything he'd ever believed. It didn't matter.
Hell House had been cleared
, exorcised by that fantastic—what?—down there. His laugh broke hoarsely. And he had called it a pile of junk. Jesus God, a pile of
junk!

Why hadn't Barrett kicked him in the teeth?

He slumped against the chair, eyes closed, regaining breath.

Reaction came abruptly. If shed lasted one more hour. Just another
hour!
He felt a sudden, anguished rage at Barrett for having left her alone.

It wouldn't last. It was overpowered by the awe he felt for the physicist. Patiently, doggedly, Barrett had done his work, 73