Hell House Part 8

Florence watched as Barrett unrolled the wire for the shoe plates. It disturbed her that Edith had looked up the way she had, when she'd been conscious of nothing.

"Will the foot plates activate the same two bulbs?" she asked.

"Two others."

"Isn't that a lot of light?"

"The combined wattage of all four bulbs is less than ten," he answered as he connected the shoe plates.

"I'd a.s.sumed we'd be in darkness."

"I can't accept darkness as a test condition." Barrett glanced up. "Would you try the foot plates?"

Florence set the plates attached to the soles of her shoes on the pair of plates Barrett had placed on the floor. On the equipment table, two more small bulbs went on. Barrett pushed up, wincing. "Don't be concerned," he said. "There'll be just enough illumination to observe by."

Florence nodded. Barrett's words failed to rea.s.sure her, though. Why do I feel so upset? she thought.

Fischer sat looking at the medium, her luxuriant figure outlined by the skin-tight costume. The sight did not arouse him. Those d.a.m.ned black outfits, he was thinking. How many of them had he worn? The memory of his early teen years was of endless sittings like this, his mother and himself riding from city to city on buses, from one test to another.

He lit another cigarette and watched as Barrett connected wire leads to Florence's arms and thighs, roped her to the chair, then picked up a folded piece of mosquito netting to which tiny bells had been sewn. Shaking it open, Barrett fastened it to the wooden rod so that the netting hung down in the s.p.a.ce uncovered by the draperies. He pulled the small table several inches toward himself. Now the netting filled the s.p.a.ce between the table and Florence, weights on its bottom holding it taut.

Barrett arranged the infrared lights so they'd shine across the surface of the table in front of the cabinet. Switching on the invisible lights, he moved his hand across the cabinet table. There was a clicking noise as the synchronized shutters of the two cameras were activated. Satisfied, Barrett checked the dynamometer and the globe of the telekinetoscope. He set out modeling clay and briefly stirred the melted paraffin wax in its pot on the small electric stove.

"We're ready now," he said.

As if it understood his words, the cat jumped suddenly from Edith's lap and loped across the room, heading for the entry hall. "Isn't that encouraging?" she said.

"Doesn't mean a thing," Barrett told her. Adjusting the red and yellow lights to minimum illumination, he moved to the wall switch and depressed it. The great hall darkened. Barrett took his place at the table, switching on the tape recorder. "December 22, 1970," he said into the microphone. "Sitters: Doctor and Mrs. Lionel Barrett, Mr. Benjamin Franklin Fischer. Medium: Miss Florence Tanner." Quickly he recited the details of arrangements and precautions, then sat back. "Proceed," he said.

The three sat quietly as Florence spoke an invocation and sang a hymn. After she was finished, she began to take in deep breaths. Soon, her hands and legs began to twitch as though she were being subjected to a series of galvanic shocks. Her head began to loll from side to side, her face becoming flushed. Low-pitched groans quavered in her throat. "No," she muttered. "No, not now." Gradually her noises faded, until, following a wheezing inhalation, she relapsed into silence.

"Two-thirty-eight p.m.; Miss Tanner in apparent trance," Barrett said into the microphone. "Pulse rate: eighty-five. Respiration: fifteen. Four electric contacts maintained." He checked the self-recording thermometer. "No change in temperature. Steady at seventy-three-point-two degrees. Dynamometer reading: eighteen hundred and seventy."

Twenty seconds later, he spoke again. "Dynamometer reading decreased to eighteen hundred and twenty-three. Temperature lowering; now at sixty-six-point-six degrees. Pulse rate: ninety-four-point-five and rising."

Edith drew in her legs, pressing them together as she felt coldness underneath the table. Fischer sat immobile. Even sheltered, he could feel the power gathering around him.

Barrett checked the thermometer again. "Temperature drop now twelve-point-three degrees. Dynamometer tension reduced to seventeen hundred and seventy-nine. Pressurometer negative. Electric contacts still maintained. Rate of breath increasing. Fifty... fifty-seven... sixty; rising steadily."

Edith stared at Florence. In the feeble light, all she could make out was the medium's face and hands. She seemed to be lying back against the chair, eyes shut. Edith swallowed. There was a cold knot in her stomach, which even Lionel's a.s.sured tones could not dispel.

She started as the camera shutters clicked. "Infrared rays broken, cameras activated," Barrett said. He looked at the dark blue instrument and tightened with excitement. "Evidence of EMR commencing."

Fischer looked at him. What was EMR? Clearly it was something vital to Barrett.

"Medium's respiration now two hundred and ten," Barrett was saying. "Dynamometer fourteen hundred and sixty. Temperature-"

He broke off at the sound of Edith's gasp. "Ozone present in the air," he said. Remarkable, he thought.

A minute pa.s.sed, then two, the smell and coldness steadily increasing. Abruptly Edith closed her eyes. She waited, opened them again, and stared at Florence's hands. It had not been her imagination.

Threads of pale white, viscous matter were oozing from the medium's fingertips.

"Teleplasm forming," Barrett said. "Separate filaments uniting into single filmy strand. Will attempt matter penetration." He waited until the teleplasm strand was longer, then said to Florence, "Lift the bell." He paused before repeating the instruction.

The viscous tentacle began to rear up slowly like a serpent. Edith drew back in her chair, staring at it as it glided forward through the air, penetrated the net, and headed for the table.

"Teleplasmic stalk through net and moving toward the table." Barrett said. "Dynamometer reading: thirteen hundred and forty, dropping steadily. Electric contacts still maintained."

His voice became a blur of meaningless sounds to Fischer as he watched the moist, glistening tentacle inch its way across the table like a giant worm. A photograph flared briefly in his mind: him, fourteen, deep in trance, a similar extrusion from his mouth. He shivered as the filmy member twined itself around the handle of the tea bell. The tentacle began to tighten slowly. Suddenly it raised the bell, and Fischer's legs twitched spastically as the bell was shaken.

"Thank you. Put it down, please," Barrett said. Edith looked at him, astounded by his casual tone. Her gaze returned to the table as the gray extremity put down the bell, uncurling itself from the handle.

"Will try for specimen retrieval," Barrett said. Standing, he set a porcelain bowl on the cabinet table; at his approach, the tentacle jerked back as though in startled retreat. "Leave a section in the bowl, please," Barrett said, returning to his chair.

The gray appendage started swaying back and forth like the stalk of some undersea plant undulating in the current. "Leave a section in the bowl, please," Barrett repeated. He looked at the EMR recorder. The needle had pa.s.sed the 300 mark. He felt a glow of satisfaction. Turning back to the cabinet, he repeated his instruction once more.

He was forced to speak the words seven times more before the glistening filament began to move. Slowly it started toward the bowl. Edith stared at it, repelled yet fascinated. It looked like an eyeless, gray-scaled serpent. As it reached the bowl, it slithered up across the rim. She flinched as it recoiled. Again it advanced on the bowl, with perceptible caution in its movement. Once again it snapped back soundlessly.

On the fifth advance, the tentacle remained in place, coiling with a languid, spiraling movement, until it filled the bowl. Thirty seconds later it withdrew. Edith started as it disappeared from sight.

Barrett rose and transferred the bowl to the equipment table. Edith glanced at the transparent liquid inside it. "Specimen retained in bowl," Barrett said, looking at it. "No odor. Colorless and slightly turbid."

"Lionel." Edith's urgent whisper made him look up.

Across the bottom half of Florence's face, a cloudy ma.s.s was starting to form.

"Teleplasmic matter being generated across lower part of medium's face," Barrett said. "Issuance from mouth and nostrils."

As he continued speaking into the microphone, describing the materialization and noting the flux of instrument readings, Edith stared at the formation in front of Florence's face. Now it resembled a torn, grimy handkerchief, the lower part of which hung down in shreds. The upper part was starting to rise. It spread with a swaying movement, first obscuring Florence's nose, then her eyes, finally her brow, so that her face was cloaked entirely, the formation like a ragged veil through which her pale features could be seen.

"Teleplasmic veil beginning to condense," said Barrett. This really was remarkable, he thought. For a mental medium to produce such striking teleplasm at her first physical sitting was almost unprecedented. He watched with mounting interest.

The texture of the mistlike veil looked curdled now; in less than half a minute, Florence's face had vanished behind it. Soon, her head, then upper shoulders, were concealed beneath folds of what appeared to be a soggy, grayish shroud. The bottom of this dingy fabric was descending toward her lap, lengthening into a solid strip several inches wide. As it descended, it began to take on coloration.

"Separate filament extending downward," Barrett said. "Reddish hue impinging on the grayness. Stretching tissue seems to be inflamed. Getting brighter... brighter. The color of open flesh now."

Fischer felt numb. His chair seemed to be tilting backward as he watched the altering vesture on Florence's head and body. Sudden panic struck him. He was going under! He dug his nails into his palms until pain overshadowed all else.

The shroud on Florence was becoming more albescent every moment, starting to resemble linen dipped in white paint, transparent in some places, solid in others. Veillike strips and patches were beginning to appear at other spots on her body-her right arm and leg, her right breast, the center of her lap. It looked as though a solid bedsheet had been dipped into some iridescent liquid, then torn apart, the fragments thrown across her indiscriminately, the largest piece settling on her head and shoulders.

Edith pressed back hard against her chair, unaware that she was doing so. She had witnessed physical phenomena before, but never anything like this. Her face was masklike as she watched the teleplasmic sections start to coalesce. Bit by bit, they started to a.s.sume a shape. The filament, now pale again, looked vaguely like an arm and wrist.

"Something taking form," said Barrett.

Twenty-seven seconds later, a white figure stood before the cabinet, garbed in a shapeless robe, s.e.xless, incomplete, its hands like rudimentary claws. There was a mouth, and two dark spots for nostrils, and it had two eyes which seemed to gaze at them. Edith drew in a rasping breath. "Easy," Barrett said. "Teleplasmic figure formed. Imperfectly-"

He broke off as the figure chuckled.

Edith made a stricken noise. "Easy," Barrett told her.

The figure laughed: a rolling laugh, deep and resonant, which seemed to gorge the air. Edith felt her scalp begin to crawl. The figure was turning to look at her The figure was turning to look at her. It seemed to be coming closer. A frightened whimper filled her throat. "Hold still," Barrett whispered.

Suddenly the figure reached for her, and Edith screamed, throwing her arms across her face. With a noise that sounded like the snapping of a giant rubber band, the figure vanished. Florence cried out hoa.r.s.ely, making Edith jump again. Fischer struggled to his feet. "Hold it!" Barrett ordered.

Fischer stood beside the table rigidly as Barrett drew up the netting and shone the red beam of his pencil flashlight into Florence's face. Immediately he turned it off and checked his instruments. "Miss Tanner coming out of trance," he said. "Premature retraction, causing brief systemic shock." He looked at Fischer.

"Help her now," he said.

12/22 4:23 P.M.

Edith woke with a start. She checked her watch and saw that she'd been sleeping more than an hour.

Lionel was sitting at the octagonal table, looking into his microscope and making notes. Edith dropped her feet across the mattress edge and worked them into her shoes. Standing, she walked across the rug. Barrett looked up, smiling. "Feeling better?"

She nodded. "I apologize for what I did before."

"No problem."

Edith made a pained face. "I caused a 'premature retraction,' didn't I?"

"Don't worry, she'll get over it; I'm sure it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to her during a sitting." Barrett looked at her a moment, then asked, "What was it that upset you before the sitting? The examination?"

Edith was aware of restraining her reply. "It was a little awkward, yes."

"You've done it before."

"I know." She felt herself tensing. "I just felt awkward this time."

"You should have told me. I could have done it."

"I'm glad you didn't." Edith managed a smile. "Compared to her, I look like a boy."

Barrett made a scoffing noise. "As if that would matter."

"Anyway, I'm sorry I ruined the sitting." Edith was conscious of changing the subject.

"You didn't ruin anything. I couldn't be more satisfied."

"What are you doing?"

Barrett gestured toward the microscope. "Take a look."

Edith peered into the eyepiece. On the slide, she saw groups of shapeless forms and groups of oval and polygonal bodies. "What am I looking at?" she asked.

"A specimen of that teleplasm prepared in water. What you see are conglomerates of etiolated, lamellar, cohesive bodies, as well as single laminae of varied forms resembling epithelium without nuclei."

Edith looked up chidingly. "Now, do you really think I understood what you just said?"

Barrett smiled. "Just showing off. What I'm trying to say is that the specimen consists of cell detritus, epithelium cells, veils, lamellae, filmy aggregates, isolated fat grains, mucus, and so on."

"Which means-?"

"Which means that what the Spiritualists refer to as ectoplasm is derived almost entirely from the medium's body, the remainder being admixtures from the air and the medium's costume-fibrous vegetable remains, bacterial spores, starch grains, food and dust particles, et cetera. The bulk of it, however, is organic, living matter. Think of it, my dear. An organic externalization of thought An organic externalization of thought. Mind reduced to matter, subject to scientific observation, measurement, and a.n.a.lysis." He shook his head in wonderment. "The concept of ghosts seems dreadfully prosaic compared to that."

"You mean Miss Tanner made that figure from her own body."

"Essentially."

"Why?"

"To prove a point. That figure was undoubtedly supposed to be Belasco's son-a son who, I'm convinced, never existed."

12/22 4:46 P.M.

The cat lay warmly indolent beside her. Its body throbbed with purrs as Florence stroked its neck.

When she'd come upstairs, she'd found it cowering outside her door and, despite her wretchedness, had picked it up and carried it inside. She'd held it in her lap until its trembling had stopped, then had put it on the bed and taken a hot shower. Now she was lying in her robe, the bedspread pulled across her.

"Poor puss," she murmured. "What a place to bring you." She ran the edge of a finger along the front of its neck, and the cat raised its head with a languid movement, eyes still closed. Barrett had said that he needed it as an additional verification of "presence" in the house. It seemed a harsh measure, though, merely to acquire a slight scientific validation. Maybe she could get it taken away by the couple who brought their meals. She'd ask Barrett to let her know the moment the cat had served its purpose.

Florence closed her eyes again. She wished she could sleep, but things kept nagging at her mind. Mrs. Barrett's strained embarra.s.sment-the way she'd jerked around, as though someone were looking at her; Barrett's overzealous safeguards against fraud; the onset of physical mediumship in herself; her inability to go inside the chapel; her concern for Fischer; her feeling of dissatisfaction with herself; her fear that she was giving more importance to Belasco's son than he warranted. After all- She jolted, gasping, as the cat leaped from the bed. Sitting up, she saw it rushing to the door and crouching there, back arched, fur on end, its pupils expanded so completely that its eyes looked black. Hastily she stood and crossed to it. The instant she opened the door, it darted out into the corridor and disappeared.

Something flapped behind her, and she whirled, to see the spread and blankets landing on the rug.

There was something underneath the sheet.

Florence stared at it. It was the figure of a man. She started toward the bed, tightening as she saw that the figure was nude. She could make out every body contour, from the swelling broadness of the chest to the bulge of genitals. She felt a stir of sensual awareness in her body. No, she told herself; that's what he wants. "If you're here only to impress me with your cleverness again, I'm not interested," she said.

The figure made no sound. It lay immobile underneath the sheet, chest expanding and contracting in a perfect simulation of breath. Florence peered at its face. "Are you Emeric Belasco's son?" she asked. She edged along the side of the bed. "If you are, you said that nothing changes. Yet, with love, all things are possible. This is true of life, and true of life beyond life." She leaned across him, trying to make out his features. "Tell me who you are," she said.

"Boo!" the figure shouted. Florence jumped back with a cry. Instantly the sheet collapsed, and there was nothing on the bed. The air began to ring with mocking laughter. Florence tightened with resentment. "Very funny," she said. The laughter rose in pitch, taking on a frenzied quality. Florence clenched her hands. "If practical jokes are all you're interested in, stay away from me!" she ordered.

For almost twenty seconds, it was deathly still inside the room. Florence felt her stomach muscles slowly tightening. Suddenly the Chinese lamp was pitched to the floor, shattering its bulb; only the light from the bathroom kept the room from total darkness. Florence twitched as footsteps thudded across the rug. The door to the corridor was flung open so hard that it crashed against the wall.

She waited for a while before she crossed the room to shut the door. Switching on the overhead light, she moved to the fallen lamp and picked it up. Such anger, she thought. Yet it wasn't only anger; that was clear.

It was a plea as well.

12/22 6:21 P.M.

Florence walked into the dining hall. "Good evening," she said.