Hell House (8 page)
Florence knocked softly on the door to Fischer's room. When there was no answer, she knocked again. "Ben?" she called.
He was sitting up in bed, eyes closed, head leaning back against the wall. On the table to his right, his candle was almost guttered. Florence drifted across the room, protecting the flame of her candle with an upraised hand. Poor man, she thought, stopping by the bed. His face was drawn and pale. She wondered when he'd gotten to sleep. Benjamin Franklin Fischer: the greatest American physical medium of the century. His sittings in Professor Galbreath's house at Marks College had been the most incredible display of power since the heyday of Home and Palladino. She shook her head with pity. Now he was emotionally crippled, a latter-day Samson, selfshorn of might.
She returned to the corridor and shut the door as quietly as possible. She looked toward the door to Belasco's room. She and Fischer had gone there yesterday afternoon, but its atmosphere had been curiously flat, not at all what she'd expected.
She crossed the corridor and entered it again. It was the only duplex apartment in the house, its sitting room and bath located on the lower level, its bedroom on a balcony reached by a curved stairway. Florence moved to it and ascended the steps.
The bed had been constructed in seventeenth-century French style, its intricately carved columns as thick as telephone poles, the initials "E. B." carved in the center of the headboard. Sitting down on it, Florence closed her eyes and opened herself to impressions, wanting to verify that it had not been Belasco in her room the night before. She released her mind as much as possible without going into a trance.
A tumble of images began to cross her consciousness. The room at night, lamps burning. Someone lying on the bed. A figure chuckling. Lucid, staring eyes. A calendar for 1921. A man in black. A smell of pungent incense in her nostrils. A man and woman on the bed. A painting. A cursing voice. A wine bottle hurled against the wall. A sobbing woman flung across the balcony rail. Blood oozing on the teakwood floor. A photograph. A crib. New York. A calendar for 1903. A pregnant woman.
The birth of a child; a boy.
Florence opened her eyes. "Yes." She nodded. "
Yes
."
She went down the stairs and left the room. A minute later, she was entering the dining hall, where Barrett and his wife were breakfasting.
"Ah, good, you're up," Barrett said. "Breakfast just arrived."
Florence sat at the table and served herself a small portion of scrambled eggs, a piece of toast; she wouldn't be sitting until later in the day, since they had to wait for a cabinet to be built. She exchanged a few remarks with Mrs. Barrett, answered Barrett's questions by saying that she felt it would be better to let Fischer sleep than wake him up, then, finally, said, "I think I have a partial answer to the haunting of the house."
"Oh?" Barrett looked at her with interest that was clearly more polite than genuine.
"That voice warning us. That pounding on the table. The personality that approached me in my room last night. A young man."
"Who?" asked Barrett.
"Belasco's son."
They looked at her in silence.
"You recall that Mr. Fischer mentioned him."
"But didn't he say that no one was sure whether Belasco had a son or not?" Barrett said.
Florence nodded. "But he did. He's here now, suffering, tormented. He must have gone into spirit at an early age- just past twenty, I feel. He's very young and very frightened- and, because he's frightened, very angry, very hostile. I believe if we can convince him to go on, a portion of the haunting force will be eliminated."
Barrett nodded. Don't believe a word of it, he thought. "That's very interesting."
Florence thought, I know he doesn't believe me, but it's better that I tell him what I think.
She was about to change the subject when there was a loud knocking on the front door. Edith, who was drinking coffee, spilled some as her hand jerked. Barrett smiled at her. "Our generator, I imagine, And a carpenter, I hope."
Standing, he picked up his candle holder and cane and started toward the great hall. He stopped to look back at Edith. "Well, I guess it's safe to leave you long enough to answer the door," he said after a few moments.
He crossed the great hall and moved into the entry hall. Opening the front door, he saw Deutsch's representative standing on the porch, coat collar raised, an umbrella in his hand. To Barrett's surprise, he saw that it was raining.
"I've got your generator and your carpenter," the man said.
Barrett nodded. "What about the cat?"
"That too."
Barrett smiled with satisfaction. Now he could move.
The lights went on, and, in unison, all four uttered sounds of pleasure. "I'll be damned," said Fischer. They exchanged spontaneous smiles. "I never thought electric lights could look so good," Edith said.
Bathed with light, the great hall was another place entirely. Now its size seemed regal rather than ominous. No longer black with looming shadows, it was a massive chamber in some art museum, and not a haunted cavern. Edith looked at Fischer. He was obviously pleased, his posture different, apprehension cleansed from his eyes. She looked at Florence, who was sitting with the cat on her lap. The lights on, she thought. That cat resting peacefully. She smiled. It didn't seem like a haunted house at all now.
She gasped as the lights flickered, went out, then on again. Immediately, they began to dim. "Oh, no," she murmured.
"Easy," Barrett said. "They'll get it."
A minute later, the lights were bright and steady. When another minute passed without a change, Barrett smiled. "There, you see?"
Edith nodded. Her relief had ended, though. From relaxed assurance, she had fallen back to a nagging dread that, any second, they might once more be in darkness.
Florence looked at Fischer, caught his eye, and smiled at him. He did not return it. Idiots, he thought. Some bulbs go on, and they all think the danger's over.
The cabinet had been constructed in the northeast corner of the great hall by the installation of an eight-foot-long round wooden bar between the walls. A pair of heavy green draperies was hanging from the bar on rings, forming a triangular enclosure seven feet high. Inside the enclosure was a straight-backed wooden armchair.
Barrett edged aside the draperies on each side until there was an opening in the middle large enough to accommodate a small wooden table he had asked Fischer to carry in. Pushing the table in front of the opening, he placed on top of it a tambourine, a small guitar, a tea bell, and a length of rope. He looked at the cabinet appraisingly for several moments, then turned to the others.
They watched as he rummaged through the contents of the wooden chest from which he'd gotten the rope, tea bell, guitar, and tambourine. He lifted out a pair of black tights and a black long-sleeved smock and held them out to Florence. "I believe they'll fit," he said.
Florence stared at him.
"You don't object, do you?"
"Well-"
"You know it's standard procedure."
"Yes, but"-Florence hesitated, then went on-"as a precaution against fraud."
"Primarily."
Florence's smile was awkward. "Surely you don't think I'm capable of perpetrating fraud with a form of mediumship I didn't even know I had before last night."
"I'm not implying that, Miss Tanner. It's simply that I must maintain a standard. If I don't, the results of the sitting are scientifically unacceptable."
Finally she sighed. "Very well." She took the tights and smock, looked around, then went inside the cabinet to change, pulling the draperies together. Barrett turned to Edith. "Would you examine her, my dear?" he asked. Bending over the box, he lifted out a spool of black thread with a needle pushed through the thread, and handed it to her.
Edith moved toward the cabinet, a discomfited look on her face. She'd always hated doing this, although she'd never indicated it to Lionel. Stopping by the cabinet, she cleared her throat. "May I come in?"
There was a momentary silence before Florence answered. "Yes." Edith pushed between the drapery edges, stepping into the cabinet.
Florence had removed her skirt and sweater and was leaning over, stepping from her half-slip. Straightening, she draped the slip across the chair back. As she reached back to unhook her white brassiere, Edith stepped aside. "I'm sorry," she murmured; "I know it's-"
"Don't be embarrassed," Florence said. "Your husband is quite right. It's standard procedure."
Edith nodded, keeping her eyes on Florence's face as the medium hung her brassiere across the chair back. Her gaze dropped as Florence bent forward to remove her underpants. She was startled by the fullness of the medium's breasts, and looked up quickly. Florence stood erect. "All right," she said. Edith saw a stippling of gooseflesh on the medium's arms.
"We'll make it quick so you can dress," she said. "Your mouth?"
Florence opened her mouth, and Edith looked inside. She felt ridiculous. "Well, unless you have a hollow tooth or something-"
Florence closed her mouth and smiled. "It's just a technicality. Your husband knows I'm not concealing anything."
Edith nodded. "Your hair?"
Florence reached up both hands to unpin her hair. The movement made her breasts hitch, so their hardened nipples brushed against Edith's sweater. Edith twitched back, watching the tresses of thick red hair as they rippled downward, spilling over Florence's creamy shoulders. She'd never examined a woman so beautiful before.
"All right," Florence said.
Edith started fingering through the medium's hair. It was warm and silky to the touch. The fragrance of Florence's perfume drifted over her. Balenciaga, she thought. She drew in a labored breath. She could feel the pressing weight of Florence's breasts against her own. She wanted to step back but couldn't do it. She looked into the medium's green eyes, looked down quickly. Turning Florence's head, she looked into her ears. I will not look up her nose, she thought. She drew her hands back awkwardly. "Armpits?" she said.
Florence raised her arms and caused her breasts to jut again. Edith edged away from her and glanced down at her shaved armpits. She nodded once, and Florence lowered her arms. Edith felt her heartbeat thudding. The inside of the cabinet seemed very close. She looked at Florence unhappily. It seemed as if the two of them were stopped in time. Then she noted Florence glancing down, and lowered her gaze. She started at the sight of Florence's hands cupped beneath her breasts, holding them up. This is ridiculous, she thought. She nodded once, and Florence took her hands away. That's enough, Edith decided. I'll just say I did the rest. Obviously she has no intention of committing fraud.
She watched as the medium sat in the chair, hissing at its coldness. She looked up at Edith. I'll just say I did the rest, Edith thought.
Leaning back, Florence spread her legs apart.
Edith stared down at the medium's body: the heavy, ovate loll of her breasts, the swell of her stomach, the milk-white fullness of her thighs, the parted tuft of glossy copper hair between her legs. She couldn't take her eyes away. She felt a drawing hotness in her stomach.
She jerked her head around so quickly, looking up, that it sent a shooting pain through her neck.
"What
is
it?" Florence asked.
Edith swallowed, staring up across the wooden rod. There was only ceiling visible. She looked at Florence. "
What?
" the medium asked.
Edith shook her head. "I think we can assume-" She broke off, gesturing with a trembling hand, then turned and pushed from the cabinet.
She nodded to Lionel and crossed to the fireplace. She was sure she looked completely disconcerted, but hoped he wouldn't ask her why.
She stared into the fire. There was something in her hand. She looked at it; the spool of thread. Now she'd have to bring it back. She closed her eyes. Her neck still hurt from the wrenching she'd given it. Had she really seen a movement? There'd been nothing there. Still, she could have sworn that someone had been looking down into the cabinet.
At her.
"Too tight?" asked Barrett.
"No, it's fine," Florence answered quietly.
Barrett finished tying the gloves at her wrists. As he did, Florence looked across his shoulder at Edith, who was sitting by the equipment table, the cat resting on her lap.
"Put your palms on the chair plates," Barrett instructed. The gloves he'd fastened to Florence had metal plates attached to their palms. As Florence rested them on the plates nailed to the chair arms, a pair of tiny bulbs on the equipment table lighted.
"So long as your hands remain in place, the bulbs will burn," Barrett told her. "Break contact-" He lifted her hands, and the bulbs went out.
Florence watched as Barrett unrolled the wire for the shoe plates. It disturbed her that Edith had looked up the way she had, when she'd been conscious of nothing.
"Will the foot plates activate the same two bulbs?" she asked.
"Two others."
"Isn't that a lot of light?"
"The combined wattage of all four bulbs is less than ten," he answered as he connected the shoe plates.
"I'd assumed we'd be in darkness."
"I can't accept darkness as a test condition." Barrett glanced up. "Would you try the foot plates?"
Florence set the plates attached to the soles of her shoes on the pair of plates Barrett had placed on the floor. On the equipment table, two more small bulbs went on. Barrett pushed up, wincing. "Don't be concerned," he said. "There'll be just enough illumination to observe by."
Florence nodded. Barrett's words failed to reassure her, though. Why do I feel so upset? she thought.
Fischer sat looking at the medium, her luxuriant figure outlined by the skin-tight costume. The sight did not arouse him. Those damned black outfits, he was thinking. How many of them had he worn? The memory of his early teen years was of endless sittings like this, his mother and himself riding from city to city on buses, from one test to another.
He lit another cigarette and watched as Barrett connected wire leads to Florence's arms and thighs, roped her to the chair, then picked up a folded piece of mosquito netting to which tiny bells had been sewn. Shaking it open, Barrett fastened it to the wooden rod so that the netting hung down in the space uncovered by the draperies. He pulled the small table several inches toward himself. Now the netting filled the space between the table and Florence, weights on its bottom holding it taut.
Barrett arranged the infrared lights so they'd shine across the surface of the table in front of the cabinet. Switching on the invisible lights, he moved his hand across the cabinet table. There was a clicking noise as the synchronized shutters of the two cameras were activated. Satisfied, Barrett checked the dynamometer and the globe of the telekinetoscope. He set out modeling clay and briefly stirred the melted paraffin wax in its pot on the small electric stove.
"We're ready now," he said.
As if it understood his words, the cat jumped suddenly from Edith's lap and loped across the room, heading for the entry hall. "Isn't that encouraging?" she said.
"Doesn't mean a thing," Barrett told her. Adjusting the red and yellow lights to minimum illumination, he moved to the wall switch and depressed it. The great hall darkened. Barrett took his place at the table, switching on the tape recorder. "December 22, 1970," he said into the microphone. "Sitters: Doctor and Mrs. Lionel Barrett, Mr. Benjamin Franklin Fischer. Medium: Miss Florence Tanner." Quickly he recited the details of arrangements and precautions, then sat back. "Proceed," he said.
The three sat quietly as Florence spoke an invocation and sang a hymn. After she was finished, she began to take in deep breaths. Soon, her hands and legs began to twitch as though she were being subjected to a series of galvanic shocks. Her head began to loll from side to side, her face becoming flushed. Low-pitched groans quavered in her throat. "No," she muttered. "No, not now." Gradually her noises faded, until, following a wheezing inhalation, she relapsed into silence.
"Two-thirty-eight p.m.; Miss Tanner in apparent trance," Barrett said into the microphone. "Pulse rate: eighty-five. Respiration: fifteen. Four electric contacts maintained." He checked the self-recording thermometer. "No change in temperature. Steady at seventy-three-point-two degrees. Dynamometer reading: eighteen hundred and seventy."
Twenty seconds later, he spoke again. "Dynamometer reading decreased to eighteen hundred and twenty-three. Temperature lowering; now at sixty-six-point-six degrees. Pulse rate: ninety-four-point-five and rising."
Edith drew in her legs, pressing them together as she felt coldness underneath the table. Fischer sat immobile. Even sheltered, he could feel the power gathering around him.
Barrett checked the thermometer again. "Temperature drop now twelve-point-three degrees. Dynamometer tension reduced to seventeen hundred and seventy-nine. Pressurometer negative. Electric contacts still maintained. Rate of breath increasing. Fifty… fifty-seven… sixty; rising steadily."
Edith stared at Florence. In the feeble light, all she could make out was the medium's face and hands. She seemed to be lying back against the chair, eyes shut. Edith swallowed. There was a cold knot in her stomach, which even Lionel's assured tones could not dispel.
She started as the camera shutters clicked. "Infrared rays broken, cameras activated," Barrett said. He looked at the dark blue instrument and tightened with excitement. "Evidence of EMR commencing."
Fischer looked at him. What was EMR? Clearly it was something vital to Barrett.
"Medium's respiration now two hundred and ten," Barrett was saying. "Dynamometer fourteen hundred and sixty. Temperature-"
He broke off at the sound of Edith's gasp. "Ozone present in the air," he said. Remarkable, he thought.
A minute passed, then two, the smell and coldness steadily increasing. Abruptly Edith closed her eyes. She waited, opened them again, and stared at Florence's hands. It had not been her imagination.
Threads of pale white, viscous matter were oozing from the medium's fingertips.
"Teleplasm forming," Barrett said. "Separate filaments uniting into single filmy strand. Will attempt matter penetration." He waited until the teleplasm strand was longer, then said to Florence, "Lift the bell." He paused before repeating the instruction.
The viscous tentacle began to rear up slowly like a serpent. Edith drew back in her chair, staring at it as it glided forward through the air, penetrated the net, and headed for the table.
"Teleplasmic stalk through net and moving toward the table." Barrett said. "Dynamometer reading: thirteen hundred and forty, dropping steadily. Electric contacts still maintained."
His voice became a blur of meaningless sounds to Fischer as he watched the moist, glistening tentacle inch its way across the table like a giant worm. A photograph flared briefly in his mind: him, fourteen, deep in trance, a similar extrusion from his mouth. He shivered as the filmy member twined itself around the handle of the tea bell. The tentacle began to tighten slowly. Suddenly it raised the bell, and Fischer's legs twitched spastically as the bell was shaken.
"Thank you. Put it down, please," Barrett said. Edith looked at him, astounded by his casual tone. Her gaze returned to the table as the gray extremity put down the bell, uncurling itself from the handle.
"Will try for specimen retrieval," Barrett said. Standing, he set a porcelain bowl on the cabinet table; at his approach, the tentacle jerked back as though in startled retreat. "Leave a section in the bowl, please," Barrett said, returning to his chair.
The gray appendage started swaying back and forth like the stalk of some undersea plant undulating in the current. "Leave a section in the bowl, please," Barrett repeated. He looked at the EMR recorder. The needle had passed the 300 mark. He felt a glow of satisfaction. Turning back to the cabinet, he repeated his instruction once more.
He was forced to speak the words seven times more before the glistening filament began to move. Slowly it started toward the bowl. Edith stared at it, repelled yet fascinated. It looked like an eyeless, gray-scaled serpent. As it reached the bowl, it slithered up across the rim. She flinched as it recoiled. Again it advanced on the bowl, with perceptible caution in its movement. Once again it snapped back soundlessly.
On the fifth advance, the tentacle remained in place, coiling with a languid, spiraling movement, until it filled the bowl. Thirty seconds later it withdrew. Edith started as it disappeared from sight.
Barrett rose and transferred the bowl to the equipment table. Edith glanced at the transparent liquid inside it. "Specimen retained in bowl," Barrett said, looking at it. "No odor. Colorless and slightly turbid."
"Lionel." Edith's urgent whisper made him look up.
Across the bottom half of Florence's face, a cloudy mass was starting to form.
"Teleplasmic matter being generated across lower part of medium's face," Barrett said. "Issuance from mouth and nostrils."
As he continued speaking into the microphone, describing the materialization and noting the flux of instrument readings, Edith stared at the formation in front of Florence's face. Now it resembled a torn, grimy handkerchief, the lower part of which hung down in shreds. The upper part was starting to rise. It spread with a swaying movement, first obscuring Florence's nose, then her eyes, finally her brow, so that her face was cloaked entirely, the formation like a ragged veil through which her pale features could be seen.
"Teleplasmic veil beginning to condense," said Barrett. This really was remarkable, he thought. For a mental medium to produce such striking teleplasm at her first physical sitting was almost unprecedented. He watched with mounting interest.
The texture of the mistlike veil looked curdled now; in less than half a minute, Florence's face had vanished behind it. Soon, her head, then upper shoulders, were concealed beneath folds of what appeared to be a soggy, grayish shroud. The bottom of this dingy fabric was descending toward her lap, lengthening into a solid strip several inches wide. As it descended, it began to take on coloration.
"Separate filament extending downward," Barrett said. "Reddish hue impinging on the grayness. Stretching tissue seems to be inflamed. Getting brighter… brighter. The color of open flesh now."
Fischer felt numb. His chair seemed to be tilting backward as he watched the altering vesture on Florence's head and body. Sudden panic struck him. He was going under! He dug his nails into his palms until pain overshadowed all else.
The shroud on Florence was becoming more albescent every moment, starting to resemble linen dipped in white paint, transparent in some places, solid in others. Veillike strips and patches were beginning to appear at other spots on her body-her right arm and leg, her right breast, the center of her lap. It looked as though a solid bedsheet had been dipped into some iridescent liquid, then torn apart, the fragments thrown across her indiscriminately, the largest piece settling on her head and shoulders.
Edith pressed back hard against her chair, unaware that she was doing so. She had witnessed physical phenomena before, but never anything like this. Her face was masklike as she watched the teleplasmic sections start to coalesce. Bit by bit, they started to assume a shape. The filament, now pale again, looked vaguely like an arm and wrist.
"Something taking form," said Barrett.
Twenty-seven seconds later, a white figure stood before the cabinet, garbed in a shapeless robe, sexless, incomplete, its hands like rudimentary claws. There was a mouth, and two dark spots for nostrils, and it had two eyes which seemed to gaze at them. Edith drew in a rasping breath. "Easy," Barrett said. "Teleplasmic figure formed. Imperfectly-"
He broke off as the figure chuckled.
Edith made a stricken noise. "
Easy
," Barrett told her.
The figure laughed: a rolling laugh, deep and resonant, which seemed to gorge the air. Edith felt her scalp begin to crawl.
The figure was turning to look at her
. It seemed to be coming closer. A frightened whimper filled her throat. "
Hold still
," Barrett whispered.
Suddenly the figure reached for her, and Edith screamed, throwing her arms across her face. With a noise that sounded like the snapping of a giant rubber band, the figure vanished. Florence cried out hoarsely, making Edith jump again. Fischer struggled to his feet. "Hold it!" Barrett ordered.
Fischer stood beside the table rigidly as Barrett drew up the netting and shone the red beam of his pencil flashlight into Florence's face. Immediately he turned it off and checked his instruments. "Miss Tanner coming out of trance," he said. "Premature retraction, causing brief systemic shock." He looked at Fischer.
"Help her now," he said.