Hell House (20 page)

11:02 P.M.

If only I could sleep, she thought. Her smile was barren. The human mind, she thought. This afternoon she'd wanted to stay awake until their stay in Hell House was ended. Now she wanted nothing more than to drift into unconsciousness, eliminating eight or nine hours of their remaining time here.

She closed her eyes again. How many times had she closed and opened them now? Forty, fifty, a hundred? She drew in a long, slow breath. That smell; always that fetid smell.

Hell House should be burned to the ground.

She opened her eyes and looked at Lionel. He was deeply asleep. Moving her right hand, she felt the tug of the tie on her wrist. Had he really done it because she'd walked in her sleep last night? Or was it Fischer he was worried about? Did he really fear she'd go to Fischer again? She couldn't fathom what had driven her to him the first time. Had it truly been the house? Or was it something in herself? She'd never had such overt sex desires before—not even about Lionel, much less other men. Or women; she shuddered at the thought. She was frightened and appalled by the things she'd said and done.

She pressed her lips together. It was more than just herself; it had to be. Something had invaded her, some virus of corruption which, even as she lay here, might be spreading its disease throughout her mind and body. She would not believe it was herself alone, some unsuspected evil in her nature starting to emerge. It had to be the house. It had affected others. She could scarcely hope to be immune.

Her chin jerked up. She stared across the room.

The rocking chair had started moving.

"Lionel," she murmured.
No
. He needed sleep. It's force, she told herself unguided, unintelligent; kinetics taking the path of least resistance—slamming doors, winds, footsteps, rocking chairs.

She wanted to close her eyes but knew that, even if she did, she'd hear the rhythmic squeaking of the chair. She stared at it.

Dynamics. Force. Residuum. Her mind repeated the words again and again.

Yet all the time, she knew, she really knew, that it was someone sitting in the chair— someone whom she couldn't see.

Someone cruel, implacable, waiting to destroy her, waiting to destroy them all. Was it Belasco? she thought in horror. What if he were suddenly to appear, gigantic, terrifying, smiling at her as he rocked? There's no one there! she forced herself to think.

No one there at all!

The chair rocked slowly back and forth. Back and forth.

11:28 P.M.

The room felt hot. Groaning, Florence peeled aside the top blanket and dropped it to the floor. She turned on her side and closed her eyes again. Sleep, she told herself. Tomorrow we'll get back to it again.

A few minutes later she thrashed onto her back and looked at the ceiling again. No use, she thought. She wasn't going to sleep tonight.

Daniel's words had stunned her. She had always thought in terms of working with Dr. Barrett, but it had never occurred to her that such an alliance was an absolute necessity.

She'd almost gone to see him, tell him that they had to solve the problem of Daniel Belasco together. Then she'd realized that it would be a waste of time. As far as Dr. Barrett was concerned, there
was
no Daniel Belasco; he was a product of her own subconscious. What good would talking to him do? He hadn't accepted the body or the ring. Why should a Bible entry make any difference to him?

She drew aside the covers restlessly and sat up.
What was she to do?
She couldn't just stand by and let Dr. Barrett force Daniel from the house, without giving him peace. The thought appalled her. To plunge his desolate soul into limbo would be a crime against God.

Yet how could she prevent it? She mustn't even consider what Daniel had asked. She mustn't.

She stood with a mournful sigh and crossed the room. Entering the bathroom, she ran a glass of water. What other way
was
there, though? her mind probed. She'd been praying steadily since morning, pleading, importuning; all to no avail.

And, by tomorrow, Dr. Barrett would be ready with his machine.

For a moment she had the wild urge to run downstairs and damage the machine. She shook that off, angry at herself for even thinking it. She had no right to stand in Dr. Barrett's way. He was an honest, conscientious man who had devoted his life to his work. That he was so close to the truth was incredible. It was not his fault that the answer he'd found was only partial. He didn't even believe in the existence of Daniel Belasco. Obviously, he could not feel responsible for persecuting him.

Florence put down the glass and turned from the sink. There has to be an answer, she thought; there
has
to be. She started back into the bedroom.

She stopped with a gasp and looked toward the Spanish table.

The telephone was ringing.

It can't, she thought. It hasn't worked in more than thirty years.

She wouldn't answer it. She knew what it was.

It kept on ringing, the shrill sounds stabbing at her eardrums, at her brain.

She mustn't answer it. She wouldn't.

The telephone kept ringing.

"No," she said.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

With a sob, she lunged across the room and jerked up the receiver, dumping it on the table. She leaned against the edge of the table, suddenly weak, palms pressing on its surface. She could scarcely breathe. She wondered dazedly if she were going to 59

faint.

She heard a thin voice coming from the earpiece. She couldn't hear what it said—a single word repeated—but she knew that it was Daniel's voice.

"No," she mumbled.

The voice kept speaking the same word, over and over. She jerked up the receiver, spoke into it desperately. "No!"

"Please," said Daniel.

Florence closed her eyes. "No," she whispered.

"Please." His voice was pitiful.

"No, Daniel."

"Please."

"No. No."

"
Please
." She had never heard such anguish in a voice before. "
Please
."

"
No
." She could barely speak now. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. Her throat felt clogged.

"
Please
," he begged.

"No," she whispered. "No, no."

"
Please
." The voice of someone begging for his very existence. "
Please
." She was his only hope. "
Please
." Tomorrow he would be thrust into horror by Dr. Barrett. "
Please
." There was only the one way. "
Please
." He started crying. "
Please.

Please
." The world was gone. There were only the two of them. "
Please
." She had to help him. "
Please
." He was sobbing.

"
Please!
" Dear God, her heart was breaking! "
Please! Please! Please!
"

She hung up suddenly, a violent shudder racking through her body. All right! she thought. It was the only way. Her spirit guides would help her and protect her; God would help her and protect her. It was the only way; the only way. She believed in Daniel, she believed in herself. There was only the one way; she could see that now with vivid clarity.

Moving to the bed on trembling legs, she sank to her knees beside it, bowed her head, and clasped her hands together tightly.

Closing her eyes, she began to pray: "Dear God, reach down your hand and give me your protection. Help me, this night, to bring to your care the tortured soul of Daniel Belasco."

For five minutes she prayed without cease. Then, slowly, she rose and undid her robe. Removing it, she laid it across the other bed. She shivered as she drew the flannel nightgown over her head. She looked down at her body. Let this be the temple, then, she thought.

Drawing aside the bedclothes, she lay on her back. The room was almost dark, the bathroom door nearly shut. She closed her eyes and started breathing deeply.
Daniel
, she called in her mind.
I give you, now, the love you never knew. I do this freely so
that you will gain the strength to leave this house. With God's love and with mine, you shall rest, this night, in Paradise
.

She opened her eyes. "Daniel," she said, "your bride is Waiting."

There was a movement near the door. A figure drifted toward her.

"Daniel?"

"Yes, my love."

She held out her arms.

He crossed the room, and Florence felt the drawing from her body as he neared. She could just make out his features, gentle, frightened, filled with need for her. He lay beside her on the bed. She turned to face him. She could feel his breath, and pressing close, she gave her lips to him.

His kiss was long and tender. "I love you," he whispered.

"And I love you."

She closed her eyes and turned onto her back again, feeling his weight shift onto her. "With love," she murmured. "Please, with love."

"Florence," he said.

She opened her eyes.

In an instant, she lay petrified, heartbeat staggering as she gasped at what was lying on her.

It was the figure of a corpse, its face in an advanced state of decomposition. Livid, scaly flesh was crumbling from its bones, its rotted lips wreathed in a leering smile that showed discolored jagged teeth, all of them decayed. Only the slanting yellow eyes were alive, regarding her with demoniacal glee. A leaden bluish light enveloped its entire body, gases of putrefaction bubbling around it.

A scream of horror flooded from her throat as the moldering figure plunged inside her.

11:43 P.M.

Fischer jerked up, gasping, at the sound of screaming in the next room.

For several moments he sat frozen, bound by dread. Then something drove him to his feet and carried him across the room.

Flinging open his door, he lunged into the corridor and rushed to the door of Florence's room, twisted the knob, and pushed.

The door was locked.

"Oh, my God." He looked around in panic, the sound of Florence's mindless screams draining him. He glanced at the door to the Barretts' room as it opened suddenly and Edith peered out, her expression taut and stricken.

Lurching across the corridor, Fischer grabbed a heavy wooden chair and dragged it to the door. He started crashing it against the wood. The screaming broke off. He kept slamming the chair against the door. One of its legs snapped off. "Damn!" He battered at the door dementedly, seeing, on the edge of vision, Barrett and Edith hurrying toward him.

Suddenly the jamb was splintered and the door flew open. Hurling the broken chair aside, Fischer reached inside and switched the light on, then rushed into the room.

The sight of Florence made him gag. He heard the sound of Edith being sick. "Dear God," Barrett muttered.

She was naked, lying on her back, her legs spread far apart, her eyes wide open, staring upward with a look of total shock.

Her body was bruised and bitten, scratched, gouged, and running with blood.

Fischer looked at her face again, the face of a woman who had just been driven mad. Her lips stirred feebly. Compelled, he leaned over to hear. At first there were only rattling noises in her throat. Then she whispered, "
Filled
." She stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "
Filled
."

He was unable not to ask. "With what?"

With hideous abruptness, she began to smile.

————————-

DECEMBER 24, 1970

————————-

7:19 A.M.

Fischer sat slumped in an armchair, staring at Florence. He hadn't closed his eyes all night. When Barrett's pills had finally put her to sleep, he'd dragged the heavy armchair to her bedside; and Barrett and Edith had gone back to their room, Barrett with the promise that he'd return in several hours to take over watching. He'd never returned. Fischer had not expected it. He knew how badly Barrett had been physically and mentally abused the last two days in Hell House.

He shivered as a chill ran through him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and yawned, wondering what time it was. He could use some coffee. Straining to his feet, he trudged into the bathroom, twisted the cold-water faucet, and cupped his right hand underneath the icy stream. Bending over, he splashed the water into his face, hissing at the sting of it. He straightened up and gazed at his reflection in the cabinet mirror. Water was dripping from his chin. He puffed out breath and misted drops of water on the mirror surface. Reaching out, he slid a bath towel from its rack and patted it against his face.

He went back into the bedroom and stood beside the bed, looking at Florence. She looked at peace; a beautiful woman, asleep. It had not been that way during the night. Despite the sleeping pills, she had dozed erratically, limbs twitching, whimpering at times as though in pain, trembling periodically with paroxysmal seizures. He had been tempted to wake her from whatever terrors she had been experiencing. It had proven unnecessary. At unexpected intervals, she had jolted awake on her own, eyes staring, face disfigured by a look of dread. Each time, he'd held her hand, trying not to wince when her grip became painful, her clutching fingers as white as bone. She'd never spoken. After a while her eyes had fallen shut, and in seconds she had gone to sleep again.

Fischer blinked, refocusing his eyes. Florence was awake and looking at him. Her face had no expression. It was as though she'd never seen him before.

"How are you?" he asked.

She made no reply, gazing at him fixedly, her eyes those of a doll, glasslike, unmoving.

"Florence?"

There was a crackling sound in her throat as she swallowed. Fischer rose and walked into the bathroom, returning with a glass of water. "Here." He held it out.

Florence didn't stir. Fischer held the glass awhile, then set it on the bedside table. Florence's gaze shifted to the place where he had put it, then sprang back to his face.

"Can you speak?" he asked.

"Have you been here all night?"

Fischer nodded.

Her gaze shifted again, moving to the chair, then back again to probe at Fischer's eyes. "There?" she asked.

"Yes."

She made a noise of cynical amusement. "
Stupid
." She ran an appraising gaze over his body. "You could have slept with me."

Fischer waited guardedly.

She pulled the covers down from her chest. "Who put on my nightgown?"

"I did."

Florence smiled with derision. "Fun?" she asked.

"After we cleaned you off."

Something flared in her eyes—a nova of awareness. Her body was convulsed by a wrenching shudder. "Oh, my God," she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes. "He's inside me." She reached out tremblingly for him.

Fischer took her hand and sat beside her on the bed. "We'll get rid of him."

She shook her head.

"We
will
." He squeezed her hand.

Florence pulled her hand away so fast he couldn't hold it. She began unbuttoning the front of her nightgown.

"What are you doing?"

Florence paid no attention. Breathing hard, she yanked aside the edges of her gown, exposing her breasts. Fischer winced at the sight of them. The teeth marks around her nipples looked purplish and infected. Florence clutched a hand around each 61