Hell House (21 page)

breast, compressing and pulling them erect, their nipples hardening. "Look at them," she said.

Fischer grabbed her hands and forced them to her sides. In the instant that he did so, Florence lost rigidity and, with a faint groan, turned her head on the pillow. Fischer pulled the covers to her chin. "I'm taking you out of here this morning," he said.

"He lied to me." Her voice was strengthless. "He said it was the only way."

Fischer felt ill. "You still believe there's a Daniel—"

"Yes!" She turned back suddenly. "I know there is. I found the entry of his birth inside the chapel Bible." She saw his look of startlement. "He let me in to prove that he existed. He's the one who always kept me out. He learned about my brother, picked it from my mind—just as you said. He knew I'd believe him, because the memory of my brother's death would make me believe." She clutched at Fischer's hand again. "Oh, God, he's
inside
me, Ben; I can't get rid of him. Even as I'm speaking to you, I can feel him in there, waiting to take over."

She began to shake so violently that Fischer drew her up and put his arms around her. "Shhh. It's going to be all right. I'll take you out of here this morning."

"He won't let me go."

"He can't stop you."

"Yes he can; he
can
."

"He can't stop me."

Florence jerked away from him and thrashed back, thumping hard against the headboard of the bed. "Who the fucking hell are you?" she snarled. "Maybe you were hot stuff when you were twelve, but now you're shit. You hear me? Shit!"

Fischer stared at her in silence.

A flickering in her eyes revealed the change, like the evanescent shimmer of sunlight across a cloud-darkened landscape.

Instantly she was herself again; but not emerging from amnesia. It was, instead, a sudden, brutal surfacing to self, with total memory of every vileness she'd been forced to utter.

"
Oh, God, please help me, Ben
."

Fischer held her tightly, sensing the congested turmoil in her mind and body. If only he could dig inside her like some psychic surgeon, rip away the cancerous mass, and fling it from her. He couldn't, though; he didn't have the power or the will.

He was as much a victim of this house as she was.

Fischer drew back. "Get dressed. We'll leave."

Florence stared at him.

"Now."

She nodded; but it seemed the jerk of a marionette's head as the operator moved the string from overhead. Drawing aside the bedclothes, Florence rose and walked to the bureau. Fischer watched as she drew some clothes from its drawers and started for the bathroom.

"Florence—"

She turned to face him. Fischer braced himself. "You'd better dress in here."

The skin grew taut across her cheekbones. "I have to
piss
. Is that all right?"

"Stop it!" Fischer shouted.

Florence jerked so hard she dropped her clothes. She looked at him bewilderedly.

"Stop it," he repeated quietly.

Florence looked painfully embarrassed. "But I have to . . ." She couldn't finish.

Fischer stared at her sadly. What if she became possessed in there, did something harmful to herself?

He sighed. "Don't lock the door."

She nodded once and turned. Entering the bathroom, she closed the door. Fischer listened for the sound of the lock, relaxing gradually when it didn't come. Standing, he walked across the room and picked up the clothes she'd dropped.

He looked around with relief as Florence opened the bathroom door and came out. Without a word he handed her her clothes and turned away. He sat on the bed with his back to her. "Keep talking while you dress."

"All right." He heard the rustle of her nightgown as she took it off. He closed his eyes and yawned. "Did you sleep at all?"

she asked.

"I'll sleep when you're out of here."

"You're going too, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think I'm vulnerable as long as I'm shut off from the house, not fighting it. I might stay. I have no qualms about lifting a hundred thou from old man Deutsch's bank account. He won't miss it." He paused. "I'll give you half of it."

Florence didn't speak.

"Talk," he said.

"
Why talk?
"

The tone of her voice made him twist around. She was standing by the bureau, naked, smiling at him. "Take off
your
clothes now," she said.

Fischer stood up quickly. "Fight it."

"Fight what?" she asked. "My love of cock?"

"Florence—"

"Strip. I want to wallow. Like a pig." She started toward him angrily. "Strip, you bastard. You've wanted to fuck my ass all week; now
do
it!"

She seemed to think his sudden movement toward her indicated interest, and she ran to him. Fischer grabbed her wrists and jerked her to a halt. "Fight it, Florence."

"Fight what? My—?"

"
Fight
it."

"Let me go, goddamnit!"

"
Fight
it!' Fischer gouged his fingers into her wrists until she gasped in pain and rage.

"I want to fuck!" she screamed.

"
Fight
it, Florence!"

"I want to
fuck
, I want to
fuck!
"

Releasing her left wrist, Fischer slapped her face as hard as possible. Her head snapped to the right, her expression one of shocked amazement.

When her head turned back, he saw that she'd been given back her mind. For several moments she stood trembling, gaping at him. Then she glanced down at her body, shamed. "Don't look," she begged.

Fischer released her other wrist and turned away. "Dress," he said. "Forget your bags; I'll bring them later. Let's get out of here."

"All right."

God, I hope it is all right, he thought. He shuddered.
What if he was not allowed to take her from the house?

7:48 A.M.

"More coffee?"

Lionel twitched, and Edith realized that he'd been half asleep, despite his open eyes. "I'm sorry; did I startle you?"

"No, no." He shifted on the chair, grimacing; started reaching for the cup with his right hand, then did it with his left instead.

"You've got to have that thumb looked at, first thing."

"I will."

The great hall was without a sound again. Edith felt unreal. The words they'd spoken had seemed artificial. Eggs? No, thank you. Bacon? No. Chilly? Yes. I'll be glad to leave this place. Yes, so will I. Like dialogue from some inferior domestic drama.

Or was it a carry-over from the tension between them last night?

She stared at Lionel. He was drifting off again, his eyes unseeing, almost blank. He'd been working on the Reversor for more than an hour before they'd eaten, laboring without cease while she dozed in a nearby easy chair. He'd said that it was almost ready now. She turned and looked across the hall at it. Despite its imposing size, it was impossible to believe that it could conquer Hell House.

She looked back at the table. Everything about this morning had conspired to make her feel unreal, a character manipulated through some inexplicable role. Coming down the stairs, they'd seen the cat go running down the corridor toward the chapel—

soundlessly, a fleeting, orange-mottled form. Then, while Lionel had been working on the Reversor, she'd heard a sound, and starting awake, had seen an old couple crossing the hall, carrying a coffeepot and covered trays. Half asleep, she'd stared at them in silence, thinking them ghosts. Even when they'd set the trays on the table and begun collecting the supper dishes, she hadn't realized who they were. Then, in a rush, it had come to her, and smiling at her own deluding mind, she'd said, "Good morning."

The old man grunted, and the woman nodded, mumbling something indistinct. In moments they were gone. Still groggy from sleep, Edith had begun to wonder if she'd really seen them. She'd drifted back into a shallow sleep, jolting awake with a gasp when Lionel had touched her shoulder.

She cleared her throat, and Lionel twitched again. "What time will we be out of here?" she asked.

Barrett tugged at his fob and pulled the watch from its pocket. Opening the cover, he gazed at its face. "I'd say early afternoon," he answered.

"How do you feel?"

"Stiff." His smile was tired. "But I'll mend."

They looked around as Fischer and Florence entered the hall, dressed for outdoors. Barrett eyed them questioningly as they approached the table. Edith looked at Florence. She was pale, her gaze avoiding theirs.

"You have the car keys?" Fischer asked.

Barrett repressed a look of surprise. "Upstairs."

"Would you get them, please?"

Barrett winced. "Could
you?
I really can't face those stairs again."

"Where are they?"

"In my overcoat pocket."

Fischer glanced aside. "You'd better go with me," he said to Florence.

"I'll be all right."

"Why don't you join us, Miss Tanner; have some coffee?" Barrett invited.

She was about to speak, then changed her mind, and nodding once, sat down. Edith poured a cup of coffee and passed it across the table. Florence took it from her, murmuring, "Thank you."

Fischer looked uneasy. "Don't you think you'd better come along?"

"We'll keep an eye on her," said Barrett.

Fischer still hesitated.

"What Ben doesn't want to tell you," Florence said, "is that I was possessed by Daniel Belasco last night and could lose control of myself at any moment."

Barrett and Edith stared at her. Fischer could tell that Barrett didn't believe her, and the realization angered him. "
She's
telling the truth
," he said. "I'd rather not leave her alone with you."

Barrett regarded Fischer in silence. Finally he turned to Florence. "You'd best go with him, then," he said.

Florence looked up pleadingly. "Couldn't I have a cup of coffee first?"

Fischer's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"If anything happens, just take me outside."

"I'll buy you coffee in town."

"It's such a long way, Ben."

"
Florence—
"

"Please." She closed her eyes. "I'll be all right. I promise you." She sounded as though she were about to cry.

He stared at her, not knowing what to do.

Barrett spoke to break the painful silence. "There's really no need to stay," he said to Florence. "The house will be cleared by afternoon."

She looked up quickly. "How?"

Barrett's smile was awkward. "I'd intended to explain it to you—but, under the circumstances .

"Please. I have to know before I leave."

"There isn't time," said Fischer.

"Ben, I have to know." Her look was desperate. "I can't go until I do."

"Damn it—"

"
If I start to lose control, just take me out
," she said. She turned to Barrett pleadingly.

"Well . . ." His tone was dubious. "It's somewhat complicated."

"I have to know," was all she said. Fischer sat down gingerly near Florence. Why am I doing this? he wondered. He didn't believe that Barrett's machine would have the least effect on Hell House. Why wasn't he dragging her out of here? It was her only hope.

"To begin with fundamentals," Barrett said, "all phenomena occur as events in nature—a nature the order of which is larger than that presented by current science, but nature, nonetheless. This is true of so-called psychic events as well, parapsychology being, in fact, no more than an extension of biology."

Fischer kept his eyes on Florence. She had slipped in and out of possession so frequently before.

"Paranormal biology, then," Barrett said, "setting forth the premise that man overflows and is greater than the organism which he inhabits, as Doctor Carrel put it. In simplest terms, the human body emits a form of energy—a psychic fluid, if you will. This energy surrounds the body with an unseen sheath; what has been called the 'aura.' It can be extruded beyond the borders of this aura, where it can create mechanical, chemical, and physical effects: percussions, odors, movement of external objects, and the like—as we have seen repeatedly these past few days. I believe that when Belasco spoke of 'influences,' he may have been referring to this energy."

Fischer looked at Barrett, ambivalent emotion rising in him. The older man sounded so confident. Was it possible that all the beliefs of his life could be reduced to something one could probe at in a laboratory?

"All through the ages," Barrett continued, "evidence in proof of this premise has been forthcoming, each new level of human development bringing about its own particular proof. In the Middle Ages, for example, much superstitious thought was directed toward what were called demons and witches. Accordingly, these things were manifested, created by this psychic energy, this unseen fluid, these 'influences.'

"Mediums have always produced phenomena indigenous to their beliefs." Fischer glanced at Florence, seeing that she'd tightened at these words. "This is certainly the case with Spiritualism. Mediums adhering to this faith create its own particular phenomenon—so-called spirit communication."

"Not
so-called
, Doctor." Florence's voice was strained.

"Let me continue, Miss Tanner," he said. "You may refute me later if you wish. By record, the only time religious exorcisms have an effect on haunted houses or possessions is when the medium who causes the phenomena is highly religious, thus profoundly moved by the exorcism. In far more cases—including this house— gallons of holy water and hours of exorcism fail to alter anything, either because the medium involved is not religious or because more than one medium has contributed to the effect."

Fischer glanced at Florence. Her face was pale, lips pressed together.

"Another example of this biological mechanism," Barrett was saying, "was that of animal magnetism, which produced psychic phenomena equally as impressive as those of Spiritualism, but entirely devoid of any religious characteristics.

"How does this mechanism function, though? What is its genesis? Reichenbach, the Austrian chemist, in the years between 1845 and 1868 established the existence of such a physiological radiation. His experiments consisted, first, of having sensitives observe magnets. What they saw were gleams of light at the poles, like flames of unequal length, the shorter at the positive pole. Observation of electromagnets brought about the same results as did observation of crystals. Finally, the same phenomenon was observed on the human body.

"Colonel De Rochas continued Reichenbach's experiments, discovering that these emanations are blue at the positive pole, red at the negative. In 1912 Dr. Kilner, a member of the London Royal College of Physicians, published the results of four years of experimentation during which, by use of the 'dycyanine' screen, the so-called human aura was made visible to anyone.

When the pole of a magnet was brought into proximity with this aura, a ray appeared, joining the pole to the nearest point of the body. Further, when the subject was exposed to an electrostatic charge, the aura gradually disappeared, returning when the charge was dissipated.

"I oversimplify the progression of discovered facts, of course," he said, "but the end result is irrefutable;
the psychic
emanation which all living beings discharge is a field of electromagnetic radiation
."

He looked around the table, disappointed at the flatness of their expressions. Didn't they realize what he was saying?

He had to smile then. There was no way they could realize the import of his words until he'd proved them.

"Electromagnetic radiation—EMR—is the answer, then," he said. "All living organisms emit this energy, its dynamo the mind. The electromagnetic field around the human body behaves precisely as do all such fields—spiraling around its center of force, the electric and magnetic impulses acting at right angles to each other, and so on. Such a field
must
impinge itself on its 64