Hell House (13 page)

Edith rose and walked over to him. He was peeling off a large envelope that was taped to the front of the machine. As he opened it and slid out his blueprints, Edith looked at the control panel with its array of switches, dials, and knobs. "What did this cost to build?" she asked.

"I'd say in excess of seventy thousand dollars."

"
My God
." Edith ran her gaze over the dials. "EMR," she murmured, reading the metal plate fastened below the largest dial.

The numbers on it ranged from zero to 120,000.

"What
is
EMR, Lionel?"

"I'll explain it later, dear," he said distractedly. "I'll tell all of you exactly what the Reversor is designed to do."

"The Reversor," she said.

He nodded, looking at the top blueprint. Pulling the pencil flashlight from his pocket, he shone its thin beam through a grille-like opening on the side of the machine. He frowned and, limping to the table, set down the blueprints, and picked up a screwdriver. Returning to the machine, he began to unfasten a plate.

Edith moved to the fireplace and held her hands toward the flames. She'd stood right here, she thought after a moment. She could remember nothing before being slapped from sleep, to find herself naked in front of Fischer. She shuddered, trying not to think about it.

She was moving back toward Lionel when Fischer suddenly came dashing in. Edith started as he called out, "Doctor!"

Barrett whirled.

"It's Miss Tanner!"

Edith froze. My God, what's happened now? she thought.

"She's been hurt again."

Barrett nodded once and, limping to the table, grabbed his black bag. "Where?" he asked.

"In her room."

The three moved hurriedly across the great hall, Barrett setting the pace as best he could. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"She's scratched—torn—bitten."

"How did it happen?"

"I don't know; the cat, I think."

"The
cat?
"

"I was bringing her some food. When she didn't answer my knock, I opened the door. The second I did, the cat shot out and disappeared."

"And Miss Tanner?"

"She was in the bathroom," Fischer said. "At first she wouldn't come out. When she did—" He stopped, grimacing.

She was lying on her bed when they came in; she opened her eyes and turned her head as they crossed the room. Edith made a sound of shock. The medium's skin was as pale as wax, deep, blood-encrusted indentations on her head, puffy scratches on her face and neck.

Barrett put his bag by her bed and sat down beside her. "Have you disinfected these?" he asked, looking at the bites on her head.

She shook her head. Barrett opened his bag and removed a small brown bottle and a box of Q-Tips. He glanced at the rips in Florence's sweater. "Your body, too?"

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

"You'd better take the sweater off."

"I've washed myself."

"That's not enough. There could be infection."

Florence glanced at Fischer. Without a word, he turned and walked to the other bed, sitting down on it, his back to them.

Florence started to remove her sweater. "Would you help her, Edith?" Barrett asked.

Edith moved to the side of the bed, wincing as she saw the pattern of the jagged slashes across Florence's chest and stomach, the bites and lacerations on her arms. She reached behind the medium to unhook her bra, stepping back as Florence slipped it off. The medium's breasts were covered with scratches as well.

Barrett unscrewed the cap of the bottle. "This is going to hurt," he said. "Would you like a codeine?"

Florence shook her head. Barrett dipped a Q-Tip into the bottle and began to swab out one of the puncture wounds in her forehead. Florence hissed and closed her eyes, tears pressing out beneath the lids. Edith couldn't watch. She turned away and looked at Fischer. He was staring at the wall.

Several minutes passed, the only sound Florence's hissing and an occasional murmur of apology from Barrett. When he was done, he drew a blanket across her chest. "Thank you," she said. Edith turned back.

"The cat attacked me," Florence said. "It was possessed by Daniel Belasco."

Edith looked at her husband. His expression was unreadable.

The medium tried to smile. "I know, you think—"

"It doesn't really matter what I think, Miss Tanner," Barrett cut her off. "What matters is your being mauled."

"I'll be all right."

"I wonder if that's so, Miss Tanner. I wonder if it might not be advisable for
you
to leave rather than Mr. Fischer."

Edith was aware of Fischer twisting around to look at them.

"No, Doctor." Florence shook her head. "I don't think it would be advisable at all."

Barrett looked at the medium for several moments before he spoke again. "Mr. Deutsch needn't know," he said.

Florence looked confused.

"I mean"—he hesitated—"you've more than contributed your share to the project."

"And you'll see to it that I get paid off, is that it?"

"I'm only trying to help. Miss Tanner."

Florence started to reply, then held back. She averted her eyes before she looked at Barrett again. "All right," she said, "I'll accept that. But I'm not going to leave."

Barrett nodded. "Very well. It's up to you, of course." He paused, then added, "But I would feel derelict in my responsibility toward you if I didn't urge, no,
warn
you to leave this house while you can." He paused again. "Furthermore, if I think your life is in danger, I may
see
to it that you go."

Florence looked appalled.

"I don't intend to stand by knowingly and allow you to become yet one more victim of Hell House," Barrett told her. He snapped his bag shut, picked it up. "My dear?" he said. Struggling to his feet, he turned for the door.

10:43 A.M.

Edith turned onto her right side and looked at the other bed. Lionel was asleep. She should never have let him work on that crate. They should have asked Fischer to open it.

She thought about what Lionel had said before he'd gone to sleep: that Florence Tanner was becoming so anxious to prove her case that she was sacrificing her bodily well-being to do it.

"Dissociation of mind resulting in a modification of self is the basic cause of mediumistic phenomena," he had said. "I don't know if there really was a Daniel Belasco or not, but the personality Miss Tanner claims to be in touch with is nothing more than a division of her own personality."

Edith blew out a harried breath and turned onto her back. If only she could understand as Lionel did. All she could think of were those horrible teeth marks around Florence Tanner's nipples; the scratches and bites which Florence claimed the cat had inflicted. How could she have done those things to herself, even unconsciously?

Edith slipped her legs across the mattress edge and sat up. She stared at her shoes for several minutes before pushing her feet into them. Standing, she moved to the octagonal table and looked at the manuscript. She ran a finger over the title page. Would it really hurt? she thought. It was ridiculous to have this almost mindless dread of alcohol. Just because her father's drinking had made her childhood miserable was no reason to condemn liquor per se. All she was contemplating was one small drink in order to relax.

She moved to the cabinet and opened the door. Lifting out the decanter and one of the small silver cups, she carried them to the table. She pulled a tissue from her purse and cleaned out the silver cup before she poured it full of brandy. It was very dark.

She wondered suddenly if it could be poisoned. That would be a grisly way to end things.

She dipped a finger into the brandy, touched it to her tongue. Would she know if it was poisoned? Her tongue began to burn, and she swallowed nervously. The warmth spread delicately to the tissues of her throat. Edith raised the silver cup and held it underneath her nostrils. The aroma was pleasing. How could it be poisoned? Surely someone had tasted it before this.

She took a tiny sip, closing her eyes as it trickled down her throat. The inside of her mouth grew warm. She made a sound of pleasure as the brandy reached her stomach and a tiny core of heat began expanding there. She took another sip. It's what I need, she thought. I'm not a potential drunk just because I sip a little brandy. She moved to the rocking chair, hesitated, then sat down. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and drank the brandy with deliberate sips.

When the cup was empty, she opened her eyes and looked toward the table. No, she thought. One was enough. She felt relaxed now; that was all she wanted. She held the cup before her eyes, examining the intricacies of its silverwork. Maybe she'd take it home as a souvenir when the week was over. She smiled. There; that was better. She was planning ahead.

She thought about Fischer. She really should apologize to him for avoiding him so rudely this morning. She should thank him for saving her life. She shivered, thinking of the stagnant water in the tarn, and stood up, wavering slightly as she crossed the room. She opened the door and stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind herself as quietly as possible.

A wave of dread swept over her for an instant as she realized that she was alone for the first time since they'd entered the house. She scoffed away the dread. She was being foolish. Lionel was just inside the room. Florence was probably in her room, Fischer in his. She moved along the hallway to his door. Was she making a mistake? No, she thought; I owe him an apology, I owe him thanks.

She knocked on Fischer's door and waited. There was no sound inside the room. After several moments she knocked again, but there was no response. Edith turned the knob and pushed at the door. What am I doing? she thought. She couldn't stop herself. Opening the door, she looked inside.

The room was considerably smaller than the one she and Lionel were in. There was only one massive bed with a high, square-cut canopy. To its right was a table with a French telephone and an ashtray on it. Edith looked at the ashtray filled with mashed cigarette butts. He smokes too much, she thought.

She drifted to the armchair beside the table. Fischer's tote bag was on it, its zipper undone. Edith looked inside and saw some T-shirts and an open carton of cigarettes. She swallowed, reaching down to touch the bag.

She whirled with a gasp.

Fischer was standing in the doorway, looking at her.

For a terribly extended time, it seemed to her, they stared at each other. Edith's heartbeat raced; she felt a licking heat across her face.

"What is it, Mrs. Barrett?"

She tried to get control of herself. What must he be thinking to find her here like this? "I came to thank you," she managed.

"Thank me?"

"For saving my life last night."

She drew back unconsciously as Fischer walked over to her. "You shouldn't have left your husband."

She didn't know what to say.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course."

Fischer looked at her closely. "I think you should go back to your room now," he said.

He moved beside her as she crossed the rug. "Try tying your wrist to the bed at night," he told her.

Edith nodded as he followed her into the corridor and to her room. She turned to face him. "Thank you."

"Don't leave your husband again," he said. "You should never—"

He broke off, leaning forward suddenly as though to kiss her. Edith twitched and drew back. "Have you been drinking?" he asked.

She tightened. "Why?"

"Because it isn't safe to drink here. It isn't safe to lose control."

"
I am not losing control
," she told him stiffly. She turned and went inside her room.

11:16 A.M.

Florence started as someone knocked on the door. "Come in."

Fischer entered.

"Ben." She tried to rise.

"Don't get up," he told her. He started across the room. "I'd like to talk to you."

"Of course." She patted the bed. "Sit here beside me."

Fischer settled on the mattress edge. "I'm sorry you're in pain."

"It will pass."

He nodded, unconvinced, then looked at her in silence, until Florence smiled. "Yes?" she asked.

He braced himself for her reaction. "I agree with Doctor Barrett. I think you should leave."

"
Ben
."

"You're being torn to pieces, Florence. Can't you see that?"

"You don't think I'm doing these things to
myself
, do you?"

"No, I don't," he answered. "But I don't know who is doing them, either. You say it's Daniel Belasco. What if you're wrong?

What if you're being fooled?"

"Fooled?"

"There was a woman medium here with us in 1940. Grace Lauter. She became convinced that a pair of sisters haunted the house. She built a very convincing case for it. The only trouble was, she was wrong. She cut her throat the third day we were here."

"But Daniel Belasco does exist. We found his body, found his ring with his initials on it."

"We also put him to rest.
Why isn't he at rest, then?
"

Florence shook her head. "I don't know." Her voice was faltering. "I just don't know."

"I'm sorry." He patted her hand. "I'm not trying to pick at you. I'm just concerned, that's all."

"Thank you, Ben." After several moments she smiled at him. "Benjamin Franklin Fischer," she said. "Whoever gave you such a name?"

"My father. He was nuts for Benjamin Franklin."

"Tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell. He left my mother when I was two. I don't blame him. She must have driven him mad."

Florence's smile faded.

"She was a fanatic," Fischer said. "When I started showing signs of mediumship at nine, she devoted her existence to it." His smile was humorless. "My existence, too."

"Do you regret it?"

"I regret it."

"Truly, Ben?" She looked at him with deep concern.

Fischer smiled abruptly. "You said you were going to tell me about Hollywood when we settled down." His smile went wry.

"Not that things have settled down much."

"It's a long story, Ben."

"We have time."

She gazed at him in silence. "All right," she finally said. "I'll tell you briefly."

Fischer waited, looking at her.

"Perhaps you read about it," Florence said. "The gossip columns made a lot of it at the time.
Confidential
even did a story on the Spiritualist meetings I held in my home. They made it sound like something else, of course.

"It wasn't, Ben. It was exactly what I claimed. As for the stories about me never marrying because I wanted to 'play the field,' as they called it, they weren't true either. I never married because I never met a man I wanted to marry."

"How did you become an actress?"

"I loved to act. When I was a child, I put on little shows for my parents and relatives. Later on, I joined the high-school drama club, a local theater group, majored in dramatics at college. The progression was remarkably smooth; it happens that way sometimes. A God-given appearance, a combination of fortunate events." She smiled a little ruefully. "I was never a great success at it. I didn't apply myself enough. But there was never anything questionable, either. No dark past, no scars covering childhood wounds. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents loved me, and I loved them. They were Spiritualists; I became a Spiritualist."

"Were you an only child?"

"I had a brother. David. He died when he was seventeen—spinal meningitis." She looked into the past. "It was the only real 40