Hell House (16 page)

12/23 – 3:47 P.M.

Edith sat up and slid her legs across the mattress edge. Reaching out, she picked up Lionel's watch from the table and raised its lid. Nearly four o'clock. How could he possibly get his machine ready by tomorrow?

She stared at him as he slept, wondering if he still believed everything he said. Somehow, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was no longer as confident as he claimed. Not that he would ever show it, not even to her. When it came to his work, he was a man of unrelenting pride, always had been.

Standing abruptly, Edith moved to the cabinet and opened the door. All right, both of them had warned her. Nothing had happened, had it? The brandy had relaxed her, nothing more. If she was going to stay in this house until tomorrow, she was damned well going to take a few steps to make that stay endurable.

She carried the decanter and one of the silver cups to the table. Setting down the cup, she pulled out the decanter top and poured the cup full of brandy. Picking up the cup, she drank its contents with a swallow. She threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth open wide, sucking at the air as brandy scalded down her throat. It was like pouring hot syrup into her chest and stomach. Heat pulsed outward, radiating through her veins.

She poured herself another cupful, took a sip of it, and eased herself onto the table, pushing aside the box with Lionel's manuscript in it. She took another sip of brandy, then swallowed the entire cupful, head laid back again, eyes closed, a look of sensual enjoyment on her face.

She thought about being in the steam room with Lionel, trying not to face the nagging qualm that, beyond a certain point, she'd been infuriated at his impotence, as if, somehow, it were his fault and not that of the polio. She tightened, thinking that the real reason he wanted her to go to Caribou Falls was that he didn't want to be annoyed by her needs; that he wanted to concentrate on his machine.

She blinked. That was a terrible thing to think of Lionel. If he'd been able to, he would have made love to her.

Would he? her mind demanded. Or did he really care at all whether they ever had sex?

With an impulsive movement, she reached around for the decanter, knocking the box off the table, spilling pages of the manuscript across the rug. She started to get up, then, with a frown, ignored it. Let it lie, she thought. I'll get it later. She closed her eyes, emptying another cupful of brandy into her mouth and swallowing it.

She slipped off the table, almost fell. I’m
drunk
, she thought. A momentary pang of guilt assailed her. Mom was right, I am like him, she thought. She fought it off. I'm
not!
she told her unseen mother; I'm a good girl. "
Hell
-" She scowled. I'm not a girl at all, I'm a woman. With desires. He should know that. He's not
that
old. Or that impotent. It was his damned religious mother, not the polio. It was-

She frowned away the thought, weaving across the bedroom toward the cabinet. Her limbs felt warm and silky, and there was a lovely numbness in her head. They were wrong; getting drunk was the only answer. She thought about the cabinet of liquor in the kitchen. Maybe she'd get a bottle of bourbon from it-maybe two bottles. Maybe she'd just drink herself insensible until tomorrow came.

She removed the hollowed book so quickly that it slipped from her fingers and thudded on the rug, the photographs scattering. She sank to her knees and started looking at them one by one. She licked her upper lip unconsciously. She stared at a photograph of the two women lying on the great hall table, performing mutual cunnilingus. The room seemed to get hotter and hotter.

Abruptly she flung away the photograph as though it was burning her fingers. "
No
," she muttered frightenedly. She started, looking back toward Lionel as he stirred, then pushed clumsily to her feet and looked around the bedroom like a cornered animal.

She walked across the room quickly. Opening the door, she moved into the hall and closed the door, flinching at the noise; she'd meant to be more quiet. Shaking her head to clear it, she walked to Fischer's room.

He wasn't there. Edith stared into his room and wondered what to do. Closing the door, she turned and started back along the hallway, drifting to her left until she reached the banister rail. She held on to it for balance as she headed for the staircase. For some strange reason, the house did not seem frightening to her. Further proof that alcohol was just the thing, she thought.

She had the sensation of floating down the staircase. Vaguely she recalled some film about the South she'd seen at a revival. All she could remember clearly was some woman in hoop skirts gliding down the stairs as though she were descending on a track. She felt the same way. She wondered why she felt so confident.

A glimmer, faint, too fleeting to be captured. Edith blinked and hesitated. Nothing. She continued down the stairs. He's in the great hall, she decided. He was always where the coffee was. She couldn't recall ever seeing him eat. No wonder he was so thin.

As she crossed the entry hall, she heard a sound of splintering wood. Again she stopped. She hesitated, then moved forward once again. Of course, she thought. She smiled. She'd never felt so fuzzy in her life. She closed her eyes. I'm floating, said her mind. Father and daughter, drunks forever.

She stopped in the archway and leaned against it dizzily. She blinked her eyes, refocusing with effort. Fischer had his back to her. He was using the crowbar to pry apart the crate. That's sweet, she thought.

She started as Fischer spun around, the crowbar raised as though to strike at some attacker. He whirled so quickly that the cigarette between his lips arced to the floor.

"
Kamerad
," she said. She raised her arms as though surrendering.

Fischer stared at her without a sound. She saw his chest rise and fall with agitated breath. "Are you angry?" she began to say.

He cut her off. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Nothing." She pushed off from the archway and started toward him weavingly.

"Are you
drunk?
" He sounded stunned.

"I've had a few drinks, if that's any of your business."

Fischer dumped the crowbar on the table, moving toward her. "Lionel will be pleased that you-" She gestured airily toward the machine.

Fischer reached her, took her arm. "Come on."

She pulled away from him. "Come on, yourself." She staggered slightly, then regained her balance, turning toward the machine.

"Mrs. Barrett-"

"Edith."

Fischer took her arm again. "Come
on
. You shouldn't leave your husband."

"He's all right. He's sleeping."

Fischer tried to turn her, but she wouldn't do it. Snickering, she pulled away from him again. "For Christ's sake!" he snapped.

A teasing smile drew back her lips. "No, not for his sake." Fischer looked at her confusedly.

As she started toward the table, the room was nebulous around her, and she had the vague impression it was filled with people standing just beyond the limits of her vision. That's imagination, said her mind. All there is in here is mindless energy.

She reached the table and rubbed a finger on its surface. Fischer rejoined her. "You've got to go upstairs."

"No, I don't." She took hold of his right hand. Fischer pulled it away. Edith smiled and rubbed her finger on the table again. "This is where they met," she said.

"Who?"

"Les Aphrodites. Here. Around this table."

Fischer took her arm again. Edith jerked it in against herself so that his hand was pinned against her breast. "Here. Around this table," she repeated.

"You don't know what you're saying." Fischer pulled his hand away.

"I know exactly what I'm saying. Mr. Fischer." Edith snickered. "Mr. B. F. Fischer."

"Edith-"

He tightened as she pushed against him, sliding her arms around him. "Don't you like me at all?" she asked. "I know I'm not as beautiful as Florence, but I-"

"Edith, it's the house. It's making you-"

"
The house is doing nothing
," she broke in. "
I’m
doing it."

He tried to pull away her arms. She pressed against him harder. "Are you impotent too?" she teased.

Fischer wrenched her arms loose, pushing her away. "Wake up!" he shouted.

Fury burst inside her. "Don't tell
me
to wake up!
You
wake up!-you sexless bastard." Edith stumbled back against the table, wriggled up on top of it, and yanked her skirt with clawing fingers. "What's the matter, little man?" she jeered. "Never had a woman?" Grabbing at her sweater front, she jerked it open, popping buttons. Dragging aside the edges, she undid the front hook of her bra and, clutching at her breasts with palsied fingers, held them up, a look of furious derision on her face. "What's the
matter
, little man?" she ranted. "Never had a tit before?
Try
it! It's delicious!"

Sliding off the table, she advanced on Fischer, fingers gouging at her breasts. "Suck them," she said, her voice trembling with hatred. Her face convulsed with sudden fury. "Suck them, you fairy bastard, or I'll get myself a woman who will!"

His head jerked sideways. Edith scanned the movement, and a sudden weight crashed down on her.

Lionel was standing in the archway.

A wave of darkness billowed up at her. Her legs gave way; she started falling. Fischer leaped to catch her. "No!" she screamed. She twisted to the left and fell against a marble statue on a pedestal. She caught at it; the cold stone pressed against her breasts. It seemed as though the face was leering at her Edith cried out as the weight of it fell backward from her grasp and shattered on the floor. She landed on her knees and toppled forward.

Darkness swallowed her.

12/23 – 4:27 P.M.

Somewhere there was music playing, slowly, tenderly; a waltz. She was dancing to the music, gliding through a kind of mist. Was she in the ballroom? She could not be sure. Her partner's face was indistinct, yet she felt certain it was Daniel's. She could feel his arm around her and his left hand holding out her right. It was warm. There was a scent of flowers in the air; roses, she decided. A summer dance. A small string orchestra performing. Florence danced in languorous circles with her partner.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

"Yes," she murmured. "Very."

Was she on a set? Was that it? Was she making a film? She tried to recall but couldn't. Still, how could it be a film? It was all too real; no camera, no banks of lights, no fourth wall missing and the crew in sight, the sound man at his board. No, it was a real ballroom. Florence tried again to see her partner's face, but couldn't focus her eyes. "Daniel?" she murmured.

"My dear?"

"It
is
you," Florence said.

She saw him then, his grave face very handsome, very gentle. His arm drew tight around her. "I love you," he said.

"And I love you."

"You'll never leave me? Always be beside me?"

"Yes, my darling, always; always."

Florence closed her eyes. The music quickened, and she felt herself being swept around the ballroom floor. She heard the rustling of a hundred skirts, the ballroom filled with dancers, lovers. Florence smiled. And she loved, too; loved Daniel. Daniel held her safely as they danced. She scarcely felt her feet; she seemed to float.

She felt a scented breeze across her face and smiled again. He'd danced her out onto the wide veranda. Overhead, the sky was filled with stars, like diamond fragments sprinkled on black velvet; she didn't have to look to know that they were there. The moon was full, pale silver, glowing. It shed soft radiance on the garden just beyond. She didn't have to look; she knew. Had she been drinking wine? She felt intoxicated. No; it was intoxication of the spirit. It was joy and love, sweet music playing in the distance as she waltzed with her beloved Daniel, around, around, dancing slowly toward-

He shouted. "No!"

Florence gasped in shock, all senses flooded. Daniel stood before her in the mist, white-faced, frightened, gesturing for her to stop. Icy water numbed her feet and ankles, cold wind scored her face, the smell of rot assailed her nostrils; crying out, she staggered back and fell. Something seemed to rush away behind her. Florence thrashed around and caught a momentary view of someone very tall and dressed in black vanishing into the mist.

She shuddered as the freezing air sliced deep into her flesh. She lay beside the tarn.

She had been walking into it.

With a sound of sickened dread, she pushed up, started running for the house. Her shoes were wet, the bottoms of her stockings. Shivering, she dashed along the gravel path. The blind face of the house loomed darkly from the mist. She ran across the gravel, up the steps. The doorway yawned. She ran inside and slammed the door, falling back against it.

She was shaking from the cold, from fright. She couldn't stop herself.
She’d almost walked into the tarn
. The knowledge horrified her.

She started as a figure hurried down the hallway from the kitchen. It was Fischer, with a glass in his hand. Seeing her, he stopped a moment, then advanced again. "What happened?" he asked.

"Is that whiskey?"

Fischer nodded.

"Let me have some."

He handed her the glass, and Florence drank, choking as the liquor scalded down her throat. She handed back the glass.

"What happened?" Fischer asked.

"He tried to kill me."

"Who?"

"
Belasco
," she said. She clutched at his arm. "I
saw
him, Ben. I actually caught a glimpse of him as he left me by the tarn."

She told him what had happened, how Belasco had made her think she was dancing in the ballroom with Daniel, while he'd led her to the tarn to drown her. How Daniel had warned her at the moment she was going in.

"How did Belasco get control of you?" he asked.

"I must have dozed off. I was tired after sitting, after everything that's happened today."

Fischer looked ill. "If he can get you in your sleep now-"

"
No
." She shook her head. "He won't again. I'm warned now. I'll retain my strength." She shivered. "Can we go in by the fire?"

When they were sitting in front of the fire, her shoes and stockings off, her feet propped on a stool, a new log crackling on the fire, Florence said, "I think I know the secret of Hell House, Ben."

Fischer didn't speak for almost half a minute. "Do you?" he asked then.

"It's Belasco."

"How?"

"He safeguards the haunting of his house by reinforcing it," she said. "By acting as a hidden aide for every other haunting force."

Fischer did not respond, but she could tell from the sudden flare of interest in his eyes that she had gotten through to him. He sat up slowly, as though uncoiling, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Think of it, Ben," she said. "
Controlled multiple haunting
. Something absolutely unique in haunted houses: a surviving will so powerful that he can use that power to dominate every other surviving personality in the house."

"You think the others are aware of it?" he asked.

"I don't know about the others. All I know is that his son is. If he weren't, he couldn't have saved my life.

"It all fits, Ben," she said. "It's been Belasco from the start. He's the one who's kept me from the chapel. He's the one who tried to keep me from discovering Daniel's body last night. He's the one who made it seem that Daniel had bitten me, the one who possessed the cat. He's the one who caused the poltergeist attack on Doctor Barrett, trying to turn us against each other. He's the one who's keeping Daniel's soul imprisoned here.

"Think of what fantastic power he possesses, Ben. To actually be capable of keeping another's spirit from progression,
despite
a consecrated burial. Maybe it's because Daniel is his son, but, even so, it's incredible."

She leaned back in her chair, looking at the flames. "He's like a general with his army. Never entering the battle, but always controlling it."

"How can he be hurt, then? Generals don't get killed in war."

"We'll hurt him by decreasing the size of his army until he has no one left, until he has to fight his war alone." She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. "A general without an army is nothing."

"But we have only till Sunday."

Florence shook her head. "I'm staying here until the job is done," she said.

She closed the door and moved immediately to her bed. Kneeling beside it, she offered up a prayer of gratitude for the enlightenment which had been given her, a prayer of request for strength to deal with what she had discovered.

When the prayers were ended, she rose and moved into the bathroom to cleanse her ankles and feet; there was still a residue of odor from the tarn on them. As she washed and dried them, she thought about the massive project which lay ahead: to release the earthbound spirits from this house, against the will of Emeric Belasco. It almost seemed too much to accomplish.

"But I will," she said aloud, as though Belasco listened. She'd have to be alert, though. What Ben had said was true. "You've been fooled before," he'd said. "Make sure you aren't fooled again."

"I'll be careful," she'd replied.

She would. She recognized the sense in what he'd said. How thoroughly she had been fooled last night into believing that, perhaps, she'd been responsible for the poltergeist attack on Dr. Barrett. How thoroughly she had been fooled this morning into thinking that Daniel was responsible for the bites and for the cat's attack on her. She must not allow herself to be fooled again. Daniel had not been responsible for any of those things. He was tormented, not tormentor.

Florence closed her eyes, hands clasped in front of her. Daniel, listen now, she whispered in her mind. I thank you, with all my heart, for saving my life. But don't you see what it means? If you can thwart your father's will in that way, you can also thwart it by departing from this house. You don't have to stay here any longer. You're free to go if only you believe. Your father has no power to hold you prisoner. Ask for the help of those beyond, and it will come to you. You
can
leave this house. You
can!

Florence opened her eyes abruptly. Moving to the Spanish table, she opened her purse. She took out a pad and pencil, laid the pad on the table, picked up the pencil, and held its point against the paper. Instantly it started moving. She closed her eyes and felt it writing by itself, tugging her hand this way and that. In seconds it stopped, and the feeling of control drained from her hand. She looked at the pad.

"No!" She tore the top sheet off and crumpled it into a ball, flinging it to the floor, "No, Daniel! No!"

She stood beside the table, trembling, staring at the paper, the words engraved on her mind.

One way only.