Hell House Part 12

"They may have been," he said. "All I'm saying is that they most certainly were not inflicted by Daniel Belasco."

Edith grimaced. "She did it to herself?"

"Perhaps not directly, although I can't discount the possibility," he said. "More likely, though, it falls under the category of stigmata."

Edith looked a little ill.

"Stranger things have happened." Barrett hesitated, then Went on. "I never did tell you what happened to Martin Wrather that time; if you recall, I merely said he'd suffered injury while sitting. What happened was that his genitals were nearly severed. He did it to himself in a moment of hysteria. To this day, however, he remains convinced that 'forces from the other side' attempted to emasculate him." He smiled somberly. "Which is a far cry from a few small bites on female b.r.e.a.s.t.s-although I'm sure the pain she's suffering is considerable.

"You see how she's rounding out her case, though," he continued. "She comes upon the body last night-and this morning, in a rage at having his secret discovered, Daniel Belasco punishes her, tries to frighten her away."

"But you"-she gestured weakly-"don't believe any of it."

"None."

She sighed, as if surrendering. "What's going to happen, then?"

"What's going to happen is that my machine will arrive this morning, and by tomorrow I'll end the so-called curse of h.e.l.l House by purely scientific means."

They looked around as Fischer entered the great hall and walked over to the table, wearing his pea jacket, his clothes and hands streaked with earth stains. He said nothing as he sat and poured himself a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette.

"Are the services completed?" Barrett asked, the faintest edge of gibing in his voice.

Fischer glanced at him, then lifted the silver cover from the platter of bacon and eggs and looked at them before he dumped the cover back in place.

"Isn't Miss Tanner having breakfast?" Barrett asked.

Fischer shook his head, then drank some coffee. Barrett studied him. The man was obviously under pressure. He'd never given it much thought, but for Fischer to have come back to this house after what had happened must have required a tremendous act of will.

"Mr. Fischer," he said.

Fischer raised his eyes.

"I didn't respond to Miss Tanner last night because I was in pain and... well, to be quite frank, angry with her, too. But I do think she was right when she suggested that you leave."

Fischer eyed him coldly.

"Please don't take this as criticism. I simply think that, for your own good, it might be wise for you to go."

Fischer's smile was bitter. "Thanks."

Barrett laid his napkin on the table. "Well, I've given you my feelings on the matter. The decision is yours to make, of course." He took out his pocket watch and raised the lid. As he put the watch back into its pocket, he noticed Edith glancing away from Fischer. "Perhaps we should bring some food to Miss Tanner," he suggested.

"She wants to be alone right now," Fischer said.

Barrett nodded, then pushed to his feet, flinching as he set his weight down on his burned leg. "My dear?" he said. She nodded with a faint smile, standing.

"He seems particularly tense today," he said as they started across the entry hall.

"Mmm."

He looked at her. "So do you."

"It's the house."

"Of course." He smiled. "Wait until tomorrow. You'll notice quite a change."

He looked around with an elated smile as someone knocked on the front door. "My machine," he said.

12/23 8:31 A.M.

So this broken body has released the spirit which shall never return to it again. This body has served its purpose, it can serve that purpose no more. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen."

She had spoken the words of the funeral service three times now, the first time when she and Fischer had laid Daniel Belasco's body to rest, twice more upon returning to her room. Now his soul could rest.

It had been bitterly cold outside, the ground as hard as iron. Fischer's attempt to dig a pit finally had to be abandoned. They had searched the area around the house until they'd found a hollow in the earth, placed the body in that, and covered it with leaves and stones. Then she had recited the words of the funeral service, both of them standing beside the makeshift grave, heads bowed, eyes closed.

Florence smiled. She'd see to it that Daniel had a proper burial as soon as possible. What mattered now was that he was released from this house.

Reaching into the pocket of her sweater, she drew out Daniel's ring and held it in her palm, closing her fingers over it.

The images began immediately. She saw him: dark-haired, handsome, imperious in att.i.tude, yet, underneath the superficial arrogance, as defenseless as a child. She saw him laughing at the table in the dining hall, saw him in the ballroom, waltzing with a beautiful young woman. There was only youth and tenderness in his smile.

The visions darkened. Daniel in the theater, looking at a play, face taut, eyes glittering. Florence tightened. This was not what he desired; but he was young, impressionable. Everything degrading was available. She saw him reeling down a corridor, a drunken woman on his arm. She saw him in this very bedroom, trying, in spite of everything, to find a sense of beauty in the s.e.x act.

The corruption deepened. Drunkenness. Despair. A brief escape, then, helplessly, retreat to h.e.l.l House, never to escape again. Florence winced. She saw him in the great hall, naked, sitting at the huge round table, watching avidly. She saw him sliding a hypodermic needle into his arm, saw him venting s.e.xual desires that made her tremble in the darkness. Yet, always, behind the mask-the face that h.e.l.l House had created-cowered the boy; wanting to flee, but incapable of doing so; wanting love, but finding only license.

She caught her breath, seeing him approach his father. She could not make out the face of Emeric Belasco; the figure stood in shadows, giant, menacing. She moved her lips in prayer, the ring gripped tightly in her hand. The shadows started to contract. In a moment she would see him. Something cold began to fill her chest; the vision faltered. Florence groaned. She mustn't lose it! She descended deeper with a surge of will. If only she could see the father, get inside the father, understand the father. Sweat broke out across her brow. She felt a snake uncoiling in her stomach, cold and wet. "No," she murmured. She must not surrender. There was meaning here, an answer.

She cried out as a violent shock coursed through her body. Instantly her hand unclasped, the ring slipped off. She heard it thumping on the rug, a vast distance below. She felt as though she lay in some great cavern, wounded. She could not perceive the walls or ceiling; in every direction lay only darkness and distance. She tried to open her eyes but couldn't. Blackness trickled sluggishly across her mind, blotting out awareness. Power, she thought. Dear G.o.d, the power power.

She started slipping down the wall of a gigantic pit, moving downward toward a darkness which was blacker than any she had ever known. She tried to stop herself but couldn't. The sensation was physical-her body sliding down and down, the walls of the pit adhesive enough to keep her from pitching into s.p.a.ce, not enough to stop her inexorable descent toward the darkness below. The darkness that waited had a character, a personality. It's him, she thought. He waits for me.

Oh, G.o.d, he waits for me!

She fought against it, praying to her guides, her spirit doctors, all those who had helped her in the past. Keep me from falling deeper, she entreated them. Take my hand and bear me up. I ask this in the name of our eternal G.o.d. Help me, help me!

Abruptly she was back inside the room, the pit and cavern gone. She was asleep, yet not asleep. She knew that she was on the bed, unconscious; knew she was aware, as well. She heard the opening and closing of a door. Was it the door of her room, or some imagined door within her mind? All she knew was that her eyes were fastened shut; that she slept, yet was awake. She heard footsteps drawing near.

She saw a figure. With her eyes closed, she could see it coming toward her like a silhouette cut from black paper. Did she imagine it? Was the figure in the room, or in her mind?

It reached the bed and sat beside her; she could feel the mattress yielding as it sat. Suddenly she knew that it was Daniel, and a groaning noise enveloped her. Was it a real groan, issuing from her lips, or a thought sound which expressed the shock she felt? It could not be him It could not be him. He was at rest. She and Fischer had placed his body in a consecrated grave. He could not be back again; it was impossible. Asleep, awake, she saw him sitting on the bed beside her, a figure in black. Was he looking at her? Were there eyes in that dark head?

"Is it you?" she asked. She heard her voice but couldn't tell if it was thought or real.

"It is."

"Why?" she asked, she thought. "You should have gone on."

"I cannot."

She tried to wake herself, unable to endure this limbo of fragmentary awareness. "You have to go," she told him. "You were given your release."

"It's not the release I seek."

"What is is, then?" She became more conscious of the battle to awaken. She had to separate herself before it was too late.

"You know what it is," he said.

She did know, suddenly. The knowledge was a chilling wind across her heart. "You must go on," she said.

"You know what you must do," he answered.

"No."

"I need it, or I cannot leave."

"No!" she answered. Wake! Wake! she thought. she thought.

Daniel said, "Then I must kill you, Florence."

Icy hands were clamped around her neck. Florence cried out in her sleep. She reached up, clawing at them. Suddenly she woke. The hands were gone. She started pushing up, then froze in shock, her heartbeat staggering.

There was a hideous sound beside her on the bed; an eerie sound, half-animal, half-human, liquid, and deranged. She couldn't move. What was it? Very slowly Florence turned her eyes. The bathroom door was open slightly, faint illumination clouding through the room.

It was the cat.

She watched it staring at her. Its eyes were glittering, insane. It kept making the wavering, unnatural sound in its throat. She began to lift her hand. "In the name of G.o.d," she whispered.

With a savage yowl, the cat leaped at her face. Florence jerked back, both arms flung before her. The cat thrashed into her, its sharp claws hooking deep into her arms. She cried out as she felt its teeth dig brutally into her head. She tried to push it loose but couldn't; it was sprawled across her face, its hot fur in her eyes and mouth. Its teeth dug deeper, front claws buried in her arms, the harsh, demented sound still bubbling in its throat. Florence jerked her left arm free and dug her fingers into fur and skin, trying to pull its head back. The teeth pulled loose. Instantly the cat's head lunged berserkly at her throat. Florence blocked its way with her right arm, and the cat's teeth sank into her flesh again. She sobbed in pain and tried to jerk its head away. The cat began to kick its rear legs. Florence grabbed its throat and started squeezing. It began to make a gurgling noise, its rear legs thrashing, clawing at her chest and stomach through the sweater. Suddenly the teeth pulled free. Florence hurled the cat to the floor.

She sat up quickly, gasping for breath. In the faint light from the bathroom she could see the cat roll over and regain its feet. She jumped from the bed and lunged toward the bathroom. The cat hurled itself against her legs, digging teeth and claws into her calves. She cried out, almost falling. Struggling to regain balance, she toppled against the Spanish table, right arm crashing on the telephone. Instantly she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver, swung down at the cat with it. The first blow smashed against her knee. She sobbed and swung again, hitting the cat's head. She began to hit it again and again, battering at its skull until, abruptly, the teeth jerked out. Kicking the cat away, she spun around and dashed for the bathroom. The cat raked to a halt, then darted after her. Lurching through the doorway, Florence slammed the door and fell against it as the cat crashed against the other side and started clawing frenziedly at the wood.

Florence stumbled to the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She gasped in shock, seeing the deep holes in her forehead, blood oozing from the cavities. Tugging up her sweater, she pulled it over her head, groaning at the sight of her chest and stomach crisscrossed with a network of bleeding lacerations, her torn bra spotted with bloodstains.

She looked at her arms, wincing at the perforations the cat's teeth had dug into her flesh. She whimpered, turning on the cold water. Dragging a washcloth off its rack, she held it underneath the faucet until it was soaked, then began to pat it on the bites and scratches. She started crying at the pain, digging teeth into her lower lip. Hot tears blurred her sight.

As she washed the wounds, she heard the cat outside the door, raking its claws through the wood and making the horrible noise in its throat.

12/23 9:14 A.M.

"It's big," Edith said.

Barrett grunted as he jimmied the end of a plank from the side of a plank from the side of the crate stamped FRONT. His movements were excited, overquick. The crowbar slipped.

"Don't overdo it, now."

He nodded, prying at the other end of the plank. She hadn't seen him so worked up in years. "Can I help you?"

Barrett shook his head.

Edith watched uneasily as he leaned forward in his chair and pried the boards loose, cracking several of them, pulling off jagged pieces with his left hand, and tossing them onto the floor. "They packed it well enough," he muttered. She couldn't tell if he was pleased or annoyed by the fact.

The crate was eight by ten feet in width and length, and taller than Barrett by a foot. What was in it? Edith wondered. His machine, yes; but what was his machine, and how was it supposed to end the haunting of a house?

"d.a.m.n!"

She twitched as Barrett cursed and dropped the crowbar with a hiss of pain to clutch at his bandaged thumb.

"Lionel, please don't overdo it."

"All right right," he said impatiently. He picked up the crowbar and returned to the crate.

"Why don't you ask Fischer to help you?"

"Do it myself," he muttered.

Edith flinched as he drove the crowbar in between two planks and started jimmying out one of them. "Lionel, take it easy take it easy," she said. "You look as though you mean to tear that crate apart with your teeth."

Barrett stopped and looked at her, his chest rising and falling heavily, a dew of perspiration on his forehead. He made a sound which might have been amus.e.m.e.nt. "It's just that this is-well, the culmination of all my years in parapsychology," he said. "You can understand why I'm excited."

"And you can understand why I'm concerned."

He nodded. "I'll restrain myself," he promised. "I guess I can spare a few more minutes after twenty years."

Edith leaned back in her chair, relieved. Maybe if she kept him talking while he worked, he wouldn't get too overwrought.

"Lionel?"

"Yes?"

"Should we report that body to the police?"

"We will," he said, "when the week is up."

Edith nodded, wondering what to talk about next.

"Was Fischer really a powerful psychic?" she asked, wondering why the question came to mind.

"At one time, it was generally conceded that he ranked with Home and Palladino."

"What did he do?"

"Oh"-Barrett pried away another plank end from the front of the crate and set the board aside, revealing a line of gla.s.s-fronted dials-"the usual: levitation, direct voice, biological phenomena, imprints, percussion, materialization- that sort of thing. At one sitting, a table that weighed almost five hundred pounds was raised to the ceiling in full light, him with it, and the combined strength of six men couldn't pull it down.