Hell House (26 page)

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 77

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.

"I'm going back inside."

"
Inside?
" She looked appalled. "You don't know what it's like in there."

"I have to—"

"You don't know what it's like!" she cut him off. "It killed my husband! It killed Florence Tanner! It would have killed me if you hadn't gotten back! No one has a chance in there!"

Fischer didn't argue.

"Aren't two deaths enough? Do you have to die too?"

"I don't plan to die."

She clutched his hand. "Don't leave me, please."

"I have to."

"
No
."

"I have to."

"Please don't do it!"

"Edith, I
have
to."

"No! You don't! You
don't!
There isn't any reason to go back inside!"

"Edith." Fischer took her hand in both of his and waited for her crying to abate. "Listen now."

She shook her head, eyes closing.

"I have to. For Florence. For your husband."

"They wouldn't want you to—"

"
I
want it," Fischer interrupted. "I need it. If I leave Hell House now, I might as well crawl into my grave and die. I haven't done a thing all week. While Florence and your husband were doing everything they could to solve the haunting—"

"They couldn't solve it, though! There isn't any way of solving it!"

"Maybe not." He paused. "I'm going to try, though."

Edith glanced up quickly at him, then said nothing, silenced by his look. "I'm going to try," he said.

They were silent. Finally Fischer asked, "You drive, don't you?"

He saw a telltale flare of hope in her expression. "No," she said.

He smiled gently. "Yes, you do."

Edith's chin slumped forward on her chest. "You're going to die," she said. "Like Lionel. Like Florence."

Fischer drew in a slow breath.

"Then I will," he said.

Fischer crossed the bridge and trudged along the gravel path which ringed the tarn. He was alone now. For several moments the realization filled him with such dread that he almost turned and ran.

Edith had been crying when she left; she'd tried, in vain, to control it. Tears running down her cheeks, she'd turned the Cadillac and driven off into the mist. He had to go inside the house now anyway. He couldn't walk to Caribou Falls in this cold.

The bottoms of his tennis shoes made crunching noises on the gravel as he walked. What was he going to do? he wondered.

He had no idea. Had Florence accomplished anything? Had Barrett? He had no way of knowing. He might be confronted with starting from the beginning all over again.

He began to shake, stiffening his back to fight it off. It didn't matter what he had to do. He was here; he'd do it. Edith would bring back food and leave it on the porch for him. How long it lasted didn't matter either. Only one thing counted at the moment.

As he continued walking, he became conscious of the medallion Florence had given him pressed against his chest. He'd told Edith he was doing this for Barrett too, but really it was all for Florence. She was the one he could have helped, the one he should have helped.

The house again, a mist-obscured escarpment up ahead. Fischer stopped and looked at it. It might have stood there for a thousand years. Was there an answer to its haunting? He didn't know. But if he couldn't discover it, then no one could: of that much he was certain.

He padded silently across the porch steps to the door. It was still ajar, the way he'd left it when he'd carried Barrett's body to the car. He hesitated for a long time, sensing that to walk inside would decide, finally and irrevocably, his fate.

"Hell." What fate did he have, anyway? He went inside and shut the door. Moving to the telephone, he picked up the receiver. The line was dead. What did you expect? he asked himself. He dumped the receiver on the table. He was cut off absolutely now. He turned and looked around.

As he crossed the entry hall, he had the feeling that the house was swallowing him alive.

6:29 P.M.

Fischer sat at the huge round table in the great hall, eating a sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee; Edith had brought two sacks of food and left again without a word. It's insane, Fischer was thinking. He'd thought it endlessly for the past hour.

The atmosphere of Hell House was completely flat.

He hadn't even had to open up to realize it. The awareness had developed quickly as he'd toured the house, first upstairs, all the bedrooms, used and unused. If there'd been any presence in the air, he would have sensed it. There was nothing. It was grotesque. What had killed Barrett so violently, then? What had almost killed Edith? He'd felt that presence strongly as he'd rushed down the cellar steps to rescue her before. Now it was gone; the house felt as clear as it had after the Reversor had been used. It wasn't any kind of trick, either; he was sure of that. When he'd opened up the first time yesterday, he'd known that there was something lurking in the house. He'd miscalculated its power and its cunning, but he'd known it was there.

Now it wasn't.

Fischer stared at the floor. One of Barrett's galvanometers was lying near his feet, its side cracked open, springs and coils protruding from the gash like polished entrails. His gaze shifted to the other equipment lying broken on the rug, shifted to the Reversor, and held on the huge dent on its face. Something devastating had struck this room, struck this equipment, struck Barrett.

Where had it gone?

He sighed, and propping the soles of his tennis shoes against the table edge, leaned the chair back slightly. Now what? he thought. He'd come back imbued with fine dramatic resolution. For what? He was no further along than he'd ever been. There wasn't even anything to work with now.

He'd walked through every room on the first floor, stood for almost twenty minutes in the dining hall, looking at its wreckage: the massive table wedged against the fireplace screen, the giant sanctuary lamp battered on the floor, the overturned 79