Hell House (25 page)

knowing that they'd thought him wrong. Yet he'd been right all the time. Fischer shook his head in wonderment. It was a miracle. He inhaled deeply, had to smile. The air still stank.

But not with the reek of the dead.

2:01 P.M.

Fischer braked a little as the Cadillac moved into another pocket of impenetrable mist. He'd decided to keep the car and sell it if he could, splitting the take with Barrett. Failing that, he'd drive the damn thing into a lake; but Deutsch would never see it again. He hoped that Barrett had some way of getting the Reversor out of Hell House before Deutsch could get his hands on it.

It had to be worth a small fortune.

Reaching forward, he turned on the windshield wipers, his eyes fixed on the road as he drove through the dark woods, trying to dovetail the pieces in his mind.

First of all, Barrett had been right. The power in the house had been a massive residue of electromagnetic radiation. Barrett had negated it, and it had vanished. Where did that leave Florence's beliefs? Were they totally invalidated now? Had she, as Barrett had claimed, created her own haunting, unconsciously manipulating the energy in the house to prove her points? It seemed to fit. It shook his own beliefs as well, but it fitted.

Still, why had her unconscious will chosen to effect a type of phenomena she'd never effected in her life? To convince Barrett, to whom physical phenomena were the only meaningful kind, the answer came immediately.

All right, there really had been a Daniel Belasco, he thought. He'd been bricked inside that wall alive by someone, probably his father. That much Florence had picked up psychically, reading the house's energy like the memory bank of a computer.

That Daniel Belasco was, therefore, the haunting force had been her mistaken interpretation of those facts.

Why had she carried it to such suicidal extremes, though? The question baffled him. After a lifetime of intelligent mediumship, why had she literally killed herself to prove that she was right? Was that the kind of person she'd really been?

Had her outward behavior been entirely a deception? It seemed impossible. She'd functioned as a psychic for many years without incurring harm; or inflicting it, as she apparently had on Barrett. Had the power of Hell House been so overwhelming that she simply hadn't been able to cope with it? Barrett would undoubtedly say yes; and it was true that, facing it that single time yesterday, he had almost been destroyed by its enormity. Still . . .

Fischer lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. He had to force himself back to the unassailable fact that the house was clear.

Barrett had been right; there was no denying it. His theory made sense: shapeless power in the house requiring the focus of invading winds in order to function. What had the house been like between 1940 and last Monday? he wondered. Silent?

Dormant? Waiting for some new intelligence to enter? Undoubtedly—since Barrett was correct.

Correct.

He tried to fight away encroaching doubts. Damn it, he'd been in the housel He'd run from room to room, completely opened. There'd been nothing. Hell House had been clear. Why were these stupid qualms assailing him, then?

Because it was all too simple
, he realized abruptly.

What about the debacles of 1931 and 1940? He'd been in one of them and knew how incredibly complex the events had been. He thought about the list Barrett had. There must have been more than a hundred different phenomena itemized on it.

This week's occurrences had been staggeringly varied. It simply didn't make sense that it had all been radiation to be turned off like a lamp. True, there was no logic to back up his misgiving, but he could not dispel it. There had been so many "final answers" in the past, people swearing that they knew the secret of Hell House. Florence had believed it of herself and had been lured, by that belief, to her destruction. Now Barrett felt
he
had the final answer. Granted that he had what seemed to be complete verification of his certainty. What if he was wrong, though? If there'd been any recurrent method at all to the house, it had been that at the moment when a person thought the final answer had been found, the house's final attack was launched.

Fischer shook his head. He didn't want to believe that. Logically, he
couldn't
believe it. Barrett had been right. The house was clear.

Abruptly he recalled the bloody circle on the chapel floor, the "B" inside it. Belasco, obviously. Why had Florence done that? Had her thoughts been blinded by the imminence of death? Or crystallized?

No. It couldn't be Belasco. The house was clear. He'd felt it himself, for Christ's sake! Barrett had been absolutely right.

Electromagnetic radiation was the answer.

Why, then, was his foot pressing down harder and harder on the accelerator? Why was his heart beginning to pound? Why was there an icy prickling on the back of his neck?
Why did he have this constantly increasing dread that he had to get back to
the house before it was too late?

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 75

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.