The power vanished suddenly, sucked back into the air. Fischer tottered on his knees, across his face the dazed expression of a man who'd just been bayoneted in the stomach. He tried to hold himself erect but couldn't. With a choking noise, he fell, landing on his side and drawing up his legs, bending forward at the neck until he had contracted to a fetal pose, eyes closed, body shivering uncontrollably. He felt the rug against his cheek. Nearby, he heard the pop and crackle of the fire. And it seemed as though someone were standing over him, someone who regarded him with cold, sadistic pleasure, gloating at the sight of his ravaged form, the helpless dissolution of his will.
And wondering, idly, casually, just how and when to finish him off.
Barrett stood beside the bed, looking at Edith, wondering whether to wake her or not. The food was getting cold; but was it food she needed, or rest?
He moved to his own bed and sat with a groan. Crossing his left leg over his right, he touched the burn gingerly. He couldn't use his injured thumb. The cut should have been sutured. God knew how infected it was getting. He was afraid to remove the bandage and look.
He didn't see how he was going to work on the machine tonight. The least exertion brought on pain in his leg and lower back; just walking downstairs and up had been a strain. Grimacing, he eased off his left shoe. His feet were swelling too. He had to end it by tomorrow. He wasn't sure he could last beyond then.
The realization drained his waning confidence even further.
Noises had awakened him-the sound of something thumping on the rug. Slowly he had surfaced from a leaden sleep, thinking that he heard a door shut somewhere.
When he'd opened his eyes, Edith was gone.
For several groggy moments he had thought she was in the bathroom. Then, on the periphery of vision, he'd caught sight of something on the floor, and sat up, staring at the manuscript pages scattered across the rug. His gaze had shifted to the area beside the cabinet. Photographs were lying strewn about; a book had fallen.
Alarm had started rising in him then. Grabbing his cane, he'd stood, his attention caught by the brandy decanter on the table, the silver cup. Crossing to the cabinet, he'd looked down at the photographs, tensing as he saw what they were.
"Edith?" He'd turned toward the bathroom. "Edith, are you in there?" He'd limped to the bathroom door and knocked. "Edith?"
There'd been no reply. He'd waited several moments before turning the knob; the door was unlocked.
She was gone.
He'd turned in dismay, hobbling to the door as quickly as he could, trying not to panic; but everything about the situation was ominous: his manuscript thrown to the floor, those photographs, the brandy decanter back on the table, and on top of all that, Edith's absence.
He'd hurried into the corridor and moved to Florence Tanner's room. Knocking, he'd waited for several seconds, then knocked again. When there'd been no reply, he'd opened the door, to see Miss Tanner heavily asleep on her bed. He'd backed out, shut the door, and moved to Fischer's room.
There'd been no one there, and he'd begun to panic then. He'd moved across the corridor and looked into the entry hall below, thinking he heard voices. Frowning, he'd limped to the stairs and started to descend as quickly as he could, teeth set against the pain in his leg. He'd
told
her not to do this! What was the matter with her?
He'd heard her voice as he crossed the entry hall, her tone unnatural as she said, "It's delicious!" With renewed alarm, he'd hastened his steps.
Then he'd reached the archway and was frozen there, staring into the great hall with a stunned expression, watching Edith, sweater open, bra unhooked, advancing on Fischer, breasts in her hands, ordering him to-
Barrett closed his eyes and pressed a hand across them. He'd never heard such language from her in their married life, never seen a hint of such behavior, not even to himself, much less to any other man. That she was probably repressed, he'd always known; their sex life had been necessarily constrained. But this-
He dropped his hand and looked at her again. The pain was returning, the distrust, the anger, the desire for retaliation of some kind. He struggled against it. He wanted to believe that the house had done it all to her, but he could not expunge the nagging doubt that somewhere deep within her lay the real cause of what had happened. Which, of course, explained his sudden animosity toward Fischer's words, he recognized.
He stood and crossed to her. They had to talk; he couldn't stand this doubting any longer. Reaching down, he touched her shoulder.
She awakened with a gasp, eyes flung open, legs retracting suddenly. Barrett tried to smile but couldn't. "I've brought your supper," he said.
"Supper." She spoke the word as though she'd never heard it in her life.
He nodded once. "Why don't you wash up?"
Edith looked around the room. Was she wondering where he'd put the photographs? he thought. He withdrew as she sat up, looking down at herself. He'd refastened her bra and closed her sweater with what buttons remained. Her right hand fluttered up the front of her sweater; then she stood and crossed to the bathroom.
Barrett limped to the octagonal table, picked up the boxed manuscript, and placed it on the library table against the wall. With great effort he pulled the chair beside her bed over to the octagonal table and sat down. He eyed the lamb chops and vegetables on his plate and sighed. He should never have brought her to this house. It had been a dreadful mistake.
He turned as the bathroom door opened. Edith, her face washed and hair combed, walked over to the table and sat. She did not pick up her fork, but sat hunched over, gaze deflected, looking like a chastened girl. Barrett cleared his throat. "The food is cold," he said, "but… well, you need something."
He saw her dig her teeth into her lower lip as it began to tremble. After several moments she replied, "You don't have to be polite to me."
Barrett felt a sudden need to shout at her, fought it off. "You shouldn't have had any more of that brandy," he said. "I examined it before, and unless I'm mistaken, it contains more than fifty percent absinthe."
She looked up questioningly.
"An aphrodisiac."
She gazed at him in silence.
"As for the rest," he heard himself say, "there
is
a powerful influence in this house. I think it's begun to affect you." Why am I saying this? he wondered. Why am I absolving her?
Still, the look. Barrett felt a tremor in his stomach.
"Is that all?" she finally asked.
"All?"
"You've… solved the problem?" There was an undertone of resentful mortification in her voice.
Barrett tensed. "I'm trying to be rational."
"I see," she whispered.
"Would you rather I ranted? Called you names?" He pulled himself erect. "I'm trying, for the moment, to blame it on outside forces."
Edith said nothing.
"I know I haven't provided sufficient… physical love," he said with difficulty. "There
is
the polio damage, but I suppose that's not a full excuse. Maybe it's my mother's influence, maybe my total absorption in my work, my inability to-"
"
Don't
."
"
I'm blaming it on that
," he said determinedly. "On myself and on the house." There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow. He took out his handkerchief and wiped it off. "Kindly permit me to do so," he said. "If there are other factors involved… we'll work them out later. After we've left this house."
He waited. Edith managed a nod.
"You should have told me what happened last night."
She looked up quickly.
"About your almost walking into the tarn."
She looked as though she were about to speak; but as he said no more, she changed her mind. "I didn't want to worry you," she said.
"I understand." He stood with a groan. "I think I'll rest my leg a bit before I go downstairs."
"You have to work tonight?"
"I have to finish by tomorrow."
She walked beside him to the bed and watched as he lay down, lifting his right leg with effort. He saw her trying not to show reaction to the swollen state of his ankles. "I'll be all right," he told her.
She stood beside the bed, looking at him worriedly. Finally she said, "Do you want me to leave, Lionel?"
He was quiet for a while before he answered. "Not if you'll stay with me all the time from now on."
"All right." She seemed to hold back, then, on impulse, sat beside him. "I know you can't forgive me now," she said. "I don't expect it-no, please don't speak. I know what I've done. I'd give twenty years of my life to undo it."
Her head dropped forward. "I don't know why I drank like that, except that I was nervous-frightened. I don't know why I went downstairs. I was conscious of what I was doing, yet, at the same time-"
She looked up, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. Just try not to hate me too much. I need you, Lionel. I love you. And I don't know what's happening to me." She could hardly speak now. "I just don't know what's happening to me."
"My
dear
." Despite the pain, Barrett sat up and put his arms around her, pressing his cheek to hers. "It's all right, all right. It will all pass after we've left this house." He turned his face to kiss her hair. "I love you, too. But then, you've always known that, haven't you?"
Edith clung to him, sobbing. It's going to be all right, he told himself. It
had
been the house. Everything would be resolved after they left.
Florence straightened with a groan. Leaning her elbow on the mattress edge, she levered to her feet. What time is it? she wondered. Declining her head, she raised her watch.
That late
, she thought, dismayed.
And still he was here.
Sighing wearily, she trudged into the bathroom and rinsed her face with cold water. As she dried her skin, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She looked haggard.
For more than two hours she'd been praying for Daniel's release. Kneeling beside the bed, hands clasped tightly, she had called upon all those in the spirit world who had helped her in the past, asking them to aid Daniel in breaking the bonds which kept him a prisoner of Hell House.
It hadn't worked. When the hours of prayer were ended and she'd sent out feelers of awareness, Daniel had been nearby.
Waiting.
Florence hung up the towel and left the bathroom. Crossing the bedroom, she went into the corridor and started for the stairs. More and more, her deepening involvement with Daniel was disturbing her. I should be doing more, she thought. There were so many other souls to be reprieved as well. Could she really manage to remain in Hell House for as long as it would take to do that? Without light or heat or food, how could she subsist? It was obvious that, after Sunday, Deutsch would want the house closed up.
What about the other entities she'd contacted since Monday?-and that only a small percentage of the actual number, she was convinced. Recollections tided through her mind as she descended the staircase. The "something" in her room; it might not have been Daniel. That sense of pain and sorrow she'd experienced while leaving the garage on Monday afternoon. The furious entity on the staircase to the basement who had called this house a "goddamn sewer." The perverted evil in the steam room. She still felt a terrible guilt for failing to warn Dr. Barrett. The spirit Red Cloud had described as like a caveman covered with sores. Whatever it was in the chapel which prevented her from entering; it might not be Belasco. The figure at the sitting which had reached for Mrs. Barrett. Florence shook her head. There were so many, she thought. Unhappy presences filled this house wherever she moved. Even now she felt that, if she opened herself, she would come upon many more of them. They were everywhere. In the theater and the ballroom, in the dining hall, the great hall-everywhere. Would a year be long enough in which to contact all of them?
She thought, with anguish, about the list which Dr. Barrett had.
Apparitions
;
Apports
…
Bilocation
…
Chemical phenomena
…
Clairsentience
…
Direct voice
…
Elongation
…
Ideoplasm
…
Imprints
… There must be more than a hundred items on the list. They had barely scratched the surface of Hell House. A massive sense of hopelessness assailed her. She tried to fight it off but found it impossible. It was one thing to speak of solving the enigma, step by step, if one had unlimited time. But a week. No, less. Only a little more than four days now.
Willfully, she thrust her shoulders back and walked erect.
I'm doing all I can
, she told herself. I can do no more. If all she did in the entire week was give Daniel peace, it would be enough. She walked determinedly into the great hall. She needed food. She wasn't going to sit anymore. She'd make sure she ate well for the rest of the week. Moving to the table, she began to serve herself some dinner.
She was about to sit at the table when she saw him. He was sitting before the fireplace, staring at the lowering flames. He hadn't even turned to look at her.
"I didn't see you," she said. She carried her plate of food over to him. "May I sit with you?"
He glanced at her as though she were a stranger. Florence sat down on another armchair and began to eat.
"What's wrong, Ben?" she asked when he gave no indication of accepting her company.
"Nothing."
She hesitated, then went on. "Has something happened?"
Fischer didn't answer.
"You seemed so hopeful before, when we were talking."
He said nothing.
"What's happened, Ben?"
"Nothing."
Florence started at the anger in his voice. "Have I done something wrong?"
He drew in breath, said nothing.
"I thought we trusted each other, Ben."
"
I don't trust anyone or anything
," he said. "And anyone who does, in this house, is a fool."
"Something
has
happened."
"A lot of things have happened," Fischer snapped.
"Nothing we can't handle."
"
Wrong
." He turned on her, his dark eyes filled with venom-and with fear, she saw. "There's nothing in this house we
can
handle. Nothing anyone is
ever
going to handle."
"That isn't true, Ben. We've made wonderful progress."
"Toward what?
Our mutual graves?
"
"No." She shook her head. "We've discovered much. Daniel, for instance; and the way Belasco works."
"
Daniel
," he said contemptuously. "How do you know there
is
a Daniel? Barrett thinks you made him up in your mind. How do you know he isn't right?"
"Ben, the body, the ring-"
"
A
body,
a
ring," he broke in. "Is that your proof? Your logic for putting your head on the block?"
Florence was shocked at the malevolence in his voice. What had
happened
to him?
"How do you know you haven't been deluding yourself from the first moment you entered this house?" he demanded. "How do you know Daniel Belasco isn't a figment of your imagination? How do you know his personality isn't exactly what you've made it, his problem exactly what you've made it?
How do you know?
"
He jarred to his feet, glaring at her. "You're
right
," he said. "I'm obstructed, shut off. And I'm going to
stay
shut off until the week is over. At which time I'll collect my hundred thousand clams and never come within a thousand miles of this goddamned house again. I suggest you do the same."
Turning on his heel, he moved across the floor with angry strides. "Ben-!" she called. He ignored her. Florence tried to stand to follow, but she didn't have the strength. She sat slumped on the chair, gazing toward the entry hall. After a while she set her plate aside. His words had had a terrible impact on her. She tried to repress them, but they would not be repressed. All the uncertainties were returning. She'd always been a mental medium. Why should she have, suddenly, become a physical one? It made no sense, it was unprecedented.
It threatened her faith.
"No." She shook her head. It wasn't true. Daniel
did
exist. She had to believe that. He'd saved her life. He'd spoken to her, pleaded with her.
Pleaded. Spoken. Saved her life.
How do you know Daniel Belasco isn't a figment of your imagination?
She tried to repel the notion, but it wouldn't leave. All she could think was that if he
were
a product of her imagination, she would have had him save her life exactly as he did. In trance, she would have taken herself down to the tarn to prove Belasco's murderous intent, then awakened herself at the moment of entering the tarn in order to prove that Daniel existed and wanted to save her life; even given herself the vision of him standing before her, blocking the way; the vision of Belasco fleeing.
"
No
." She shook her head again. It wasn't true. Daniel did exist; he
did
.
Are you happy? she thought, the words rising unexpectedly to the surface of consciousness.
Yes. Very
. The words she'd exchanged with Daniel as she'd danced with him-or thought that she was dancing with him.
Are you happy? Yes. Very
.
Are you happy? Yes. Very
.
"Oh, my God," she murmured.
She'd spoken those words in a television play once.
Her mind strained desperately to resist the onrush of doubt-but now the dam of her resistance had fallen, and the dark waters were flooding in.
I love you
.
And I love you
. "No," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
You’ll never leave me, will you? You'll always be beside me? Yes, my darling, always; always
.
She saw him as he'd looked that evening in the hospital, pale, drawn, eyes bright with the glitter of impending death; her beloved David. The remembrance chilled her. He had whispered to her earlier of Laura, the girl he loved. He'd never shared her physical love, and now he was dying, and it was too late.
He'd held her hand so tightly it had hurt, his face a lined, gray mask, his lips bloodless as he'd spoken those words to her:
I love you
. She had whispered back:
I love you, too
. Had he known, by then, that it was her in the room with him? Dying, had he thought that she was Laura?
You’ll never leave me, will you?
he’d murmured.
You’ll always be beside me?
And she had answered:
Yes, my darling, always; always
.
A sob of terror broke inside her. No, it wasn't true! She started crying. But it
was
true.
She had made up Daniel Belasco in her mind
. There
was
no Daniel Belasco. There was only the memory of her brother, and the way he'd died, the loss he'd felt, the need he'd carried to his grave.
"No, no, no, no, no." Her hands were clutching at the arms of the chair, her head slumped forward, shaking, hot tears spilling from her eyes. She couldn't seem to breathe, kept gulping at the air, as if her lungs were bursting. No, it wasn't true! She could not have done this thing, this blinded, terrible, deluded thing! There had to be some way of proving that! There had to be!
She jerked her head up with a gasp, staring at the fire through gelatinous tears. It seemed as though someone had whispered in her ear: two words.
The chapel.
A trembling smile drew back her lips. She wavered to her feet and started toward the entry hall, rubbing at her eyes. There was an answer in the chapel; she had always known that. Now, in an instant, she knew it was the answer she needed; it was proof and vindication.
This time she would get in.
She tried not to run but couldn't help herself. She rushed across the entry hall and past the staircase, skirts rustling, shoes thudding on the floor. Turning the corner, she started down the side corridor, running as fast as she could.
She reached the chapel door and placed her hands against it. Instantly the rush of cold resistance filled her vitals, the grinding churn of nausea. She pressed both palms against the door and started praying. Nothing in this world or in the next was going to stop her now.
The force within the chapel seemed to waver. Florence pressed her weight against the door. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" she said in a loud, clear voice. The force began retreating, drawing backward and inward, as though it were shrinking. Her lips moved quickly as she prayed. "You cannot keep me from this place, for God is with me! We will enter now, together! Open! You cannot repel me any longer!
Open!
"
Suddenly the force was gone. Florence pushed the door and went inside, switching on the lights. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes and spoke. "I thank thee, Lord, for giving me strength."
After several moments, she opened her eyes and looked around. The dim illumination of the wall lights barely held the darkness at bay. She was standing in a shadow, only her face in light as she searched the room with her eyes. The silence was intense; she seemed to feel its pressure on her eardrums.
Moving forward abruptly, she drifted down the center aisle, averting her shocked gaze from the crucifix above the altar. This was the way; she felt it unmistakably. Unseen filaments were drawing at her.
She reached the foot of the altar and looked at it. A massive Bible with metal clasps was set on top of it. A Bible in this hideous place, she thought, shuddering. Her gaze shifted around the wall. The drawing power was so intense it seemed as though invisible threads were tied to her, pulling her toward… what? The wall? The altar? Surely not the crucifix. Florence felt herself drawn forward, forward.
She gasped, all movement frozen, as the cover of the Bible was flung back violently. As she stared at it, the pages began to turn so rapidly that they became a blur of movement. Florence felt a throbbing at her temples. Suddenly the pages stopped, and bending down, she looked at the page which had been uncovered.