Florence gasped in shock, all senses flooded. Daniel stood before her in the mist, white-faced, frightened, gesturing for her to stop. Icy water numbed her feet and ankles, cold wind scored her face, the smell of rot a.s.sailed her nostrils; crying out, she staggered back and fell. Something seemed to rush away behind her. Florence thrashed around and caught a momentary view of someone very tall and dressed in black vanishing into the mist.

She shuddered as the freezing air sliced deep into her flesh. She lay beside the tarn.

She had been walking into it.

With a sound of sickened dread, she pushed up, started running for the house. Her shoes were wet, the bottoms of her stockings. Shivering, she dashed along the gravel path. The blind face of the house loomed darkly from the mist. She ran across the gravel, up the steps. The doorway yawned. She ran inside and slammed the door, falling back against it.

She was shaking from the cold, from fright. She couldn't stop herself. She'd almost walked into the tarn She'd almost walked into the tarn. The knowledge horrified her.

She started as a figure hurried down the hallway from the kitchen. It was Fischer, with a gla.s.s in his hand. Seeing her, he stopped a moment, then advanced again. "What happened?" he asked.

"Is that whiskey?"

Fischer nodded.

"Let me have some."

He handed her the gla.s.s, and Florence drank, choking as the liquor scalded down her throat. She handed back the gla.s.s.

"What happened?" Fischer asked.

"He tried to kill me."

"Who?"

"Belasco," she said. She clutched at his arm. "I saw saw him, Ben. I actually caught a glimpse of him as he left me by the tarn." him, Ben. I actually caught a glimpse of him as he left me by the tarn."

She told him what had happened, how Belasco had made her think she was dancing in the ballroom with Daniel, while he'd led her to the tarn to drown her. How Daniel had warned her at the moment she was going in.

"How did Belasco get control of you?" he asked.

"I must have dozed off. I was tired after sitting, after everything that's happened today."

Fischer looked ill. "If he can get you in your sleep now-"

"No." She shook her head. "He won't again. I'm warned now. I'll retain my strength." She shivered. "Can we go in by the fire?"

When they were sitting in front of the fire, her shoes and stockings off, her feet propped on a stool, a new log crackling on the fire, Florence said, "I think I know the secret of h.e.l.l House, Ben."

Fischer didn't speak for almost half a minute. "Do you?" he asked then.

"It's Belasco."

"How?"

"He safeguards the haunting of his house by reinforcing it," she said. "By acting as a hidden aide for every other haunting force."

Fischer did not respond, but she could tell from the sudden flare of interest in his eyes that she had gotten through to him. He sat up slowly, as though uncoiling, his eyes fixed on hers.

"Think of it, Ben," she said. "Controlled multiple haunting. Something absolutely unique in haunted houses: a surviving will so powerful that he can use that power to dominate every other surviving personality in the house."

"You think the others are aware of it?" he asked.

"I don't know about the others. All I know is that his son is. If he weren't, he couldn't have saved my life.

"It all fits, Ben," she said. "It's been Belasco from the start. He's the one who's kept me from the chapel. He's the one who tried to keep me from discovering Daniel's body last night. He's the one who made it seem that Daniel had bitten me, the one who possessed the cat. He's the one who caused the poltergeist attack on Doctor Barrett, trying to turn us against each other. He's the one who's keeping Daniel's soul imprisoned here.

"Think of what fantastic power he possesses, Ben. To actually be capable of keeping another's spirit from progression, despite despite a consecrated burial. Maybe it's because Daniel is his son, but, even so, it's incredible." a consecrated burial. Maybe it's because Daniel is his son, but, even so, it's incredible."

She leaned back in her chair, looking at the flames. "He's like a general with his army. Never entering the battle, but always controlling it."

"How can he be hurt, then? Generals don't get killed in war."

"We'll hurt him by decreasing the size of his army until he has no one left, until he has to fight his war alone." She looked at him with challenge in her eyes. "A general without an army is nothing."

"But we have only till Sunday."

Florence shook her head. "I'm staying here until the job is done," she said.

She closed the door and moved immediately to her bed. Kneeling beside it, she offered up a prayer of grat.i.tude for the enlightenment which had been given her, a prayer of request for strength to deal with what she had discovered.

When the prayers were ended, she rose and moved into the bathroom to cleanse her ankles and feet; there was still a residue of odor from the tarn on them. As she washed and dried them, she thought about the ma.s.sive project which lay ahead: to release the earthbound spirits from this house, against the will of Emeric Belasco. It almost seemed too much to accomplish.

"But I will," she said aloud, as though Belasco listened. She'd have to be alert, though. What Ben had said was true. "You've been fooled before," he'd said. "Make sure you aren't fooled again."

"I'll be careful," she'd replied.

She would. She recognized the sense in what he'd said. How thoroughly she had been fooled last night into believing that, perhaps, she'd been responsible for the poltergeist attack on Dr. Barrett. How thoroughly she had been fooled this morning into thinking that Daniel was responsible for the bites and for the cat's attack on her. She must not allow herself to be fooled again. Daniel had not been responsible for any of those things. He was tormented, not tormentor.

Florence closed her eyes, hands clasped in front of her. Daniel, listen now, she whispered in her mind. I thank you, with all my heart, for saving my life. But don't you see what it means? If you can thwart your father's will in that way, you can also thwart it by departing from this house. You don't have to stay here any longer. You're free to go if only you believe. Your father has no power to hold you prisoner. Ask for the help of those beyond, and it will come to you. You can can leave this house. You leave this house. You can! can!

Florence opened her eyes abruptly. Moving to the Spanish table, she opened her purse. She took out a pad and pencil, laid the pad on the table, picked up the pencil, and held its point against the paper. Instantly it started moving. She closed her eyes and felt it writing by itself, tugging her hand this way and that. In seconds it stopped, and the feeling of control drained from her hand. She looked at the pad.

"No!" She tore the top sheet off and crumpled it into a ball, flinging it to the floor, "No, Daniel! No!"

She stood beside the table, trembling, staring at the paper, the words engraved on her mind.

One way only.

12/23 6:11 P.M.

Fischer stood at the edge of the tarn, shining his flashlight at the turbid surface of the water. Twice now, he was thinking. Edith first, then Florence. He moved the cone of light across the water, grimacing at the stench which hovered over it. Once when he'd been working in a hospital, an old man had died of gangrenous wounds on his back. The smell of his room had been like this.

He looked around. Footsteps were approaching through the mist. Abruptly he switched off his flashlight and turned. Who was it? Florence? Surely she would not be coming back after what had happened. Barrett or his wife? He couldn't believe that they'd come out here either. Who, then? Fischer tensed as the footsteps drew closer. He could not determine their origin in the mist. He waited, rigid, heartbeat thudding.

They were on him suddenly. Seeing the glow of a lantern, he flicked on his flashlight. There was a strangled gasp. Fischer stared with blank confusion at the two gaunt faces in his light.

"Who's that?" the old man asked. His voice was trembling.

Fischer caught his breath and lowered the beam of light. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm one of the four."

The old woman released a breath which sounded like a groan. "Lord," she muttered.

"I'm sorry, I was startled, too," Fischer apologized, "I didn't realize what time it was."

"You scared the livin' breath from us," the old man said resentfully.

"Sorry." Fischer turned away.

The couple mumbled indistinctly as they trailed him to the house. Fischer held the door for them, then followed as they hurried across the entry hall, looking around uneasily. They were wearing heavy overcoats, the woman a woolen scarf on her head, the man a battered gray fedora.

"How are things in the world?" asked Fischer.

"Mmm," the man responded. The old woman made a sound of disapproval.

"No matter," Fischer said. "We have our own world here."

He moved behind them into the great hall, observing as they set the covered dishes on the table. He saw them looking at Barrett's machine, exchanging glances. Quickly they gathered up the lunch things and started toward the entry hall. Fischer watched their departure, fighting an urge to yell "Boo!" and see what would happen. If they thought a flashlight beam in the face was frightening, what would they think of what had happened in the house since Monday?

"Thank you!" he called as they moved beneath the archway. The old man grunted sourly, and he saw them exchange another look.

When the front door had shut, Fischer moved to the table and lifted the covers of the trays. Lamb chops, peas and carrots, potatoes, biscuits, pie, and coffee. A Meal Fit for a King A Meal Fit for a King, he thought. His smile was dour. Or was it The Last Supper? The Last Supper?

Removing his pea coat, he tossed it onto a chair, setting the flashlight on top of it. He forked a lamb chop onto a plate, added a spoonful of carrots and peas, poured himself a cup of coffee. Community meals seem to have gone by the board since last night, he thought. He sat at the table and drank some coffee, then began to eat. He'd bring some food to Florence in a while.

He began to think of what she'd said. He'd been thinking of it constantly, trying to find loopholes in it. So far he'd been unable to; it made sense, there was no escaping it.

This time Florence was on the right track.

It was a strange, not altogether satisfying certainty he felt. They'd always known that Belasco was here-he and Florence had, at any rate-but the knowledge had been an unexplored one, at least on his part. That they would come to terms with Belasco himself had never really occurred to him. True, he had contacted him in 1940, but the juncture had been evanescent, a nonconnective tissue in the body of h.e.l.l House.

This was more than that. This was integral. He'd tried to pick it apart a dozen different ways without success. It was too logical. By using these anomalous means, Belasco could act in any area without his presence ever being known. He could create an all but incomprehensible tapestry of effects by manipulating every ent.i.ty within the house, shifting from one to the other, always in the background-as Florence had said, a general with his army.

He thought about the record suddenly. It had been no coincidence. It had been Belasco greeting them upon their entrance into his home-his battlefield. He heard the eerie, mocking voice inside his mind again. Welcome to my house. I'm delighted you could come Welcome to my house. I'm delighted you could come.

Fischer turned to see Barrett limping across the room, looking pale and solemn. He wondered if the older man were going to speak to him. He'd said nothing earlier, obviously suffering humiliation on humiliation by the fact that he'd been unable to carry Edith upstairs himself.

He waited. Barrett stopped and looked at his machine with a confused expression. He looked at Fischer then. "Did you do that?" he asked, his voice subdued.

Fischer nodded.

The faintest tremor raised the ends of Barrett's mouth. "Thank you," he murmured.

"You're welcome."

Barrett limped to the table and began to put food on two plates, using his left hand. Fischer glanced at his right and saw how awkwardly the thumb was held.

"I haven't thanked you for what you did this afternoon," Barrett said. "In the steam room," he added quickly.

"Doctor?"

Barrett looked up.

"What happened in here before-"

"I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind."

Fischer felt obliged to speak. "I'm only trying to help."

"I appreciate that, but-"

"Doctor," Fischer interrupted, "something in this house is working on your wife. What happened before-"

"Mr. Fischer-"

"-was not her doing."

"If you don't mind, Mr. Fischer-"

"Doctor Barrett, this is life and death I'm talking about. Did you know she almost walked into the tarn last night?"

Barrett started, looking shocked. "When?" he demanded.

"Near midnight. You were asleep." Fischer paused for emphasis. "So was she."

"She walked in her sleep?" Barrett looked appalled.

"If I hadn't seen her go outside-"

"You should have told me sooner."

"She should have told you," Fischer said. "The fact that she didn't is-" He broke off at the look of offense on Barrett's face. "Doctor, I don't know what you think is going on in this house, but-" should have told you," Fischer said. "The fact that she didn't is-" He broke off at the look of offense on Barrett's face. "Doctor, I don't know what you think is going on in this house, but-"

"What I think is going on is irrelevant to this conversation, Mr. Fischer," Barrett said stiffly.

"Irrelevant?" Fischer looked amazed. "What the h.e.l.l do you mean, irrelevant? Whatever's going on is getting to your wife. It's gotten to Florence, and it's gotten to you. Or maybe you haven't noticed."

Barrett regarded him in silence, his expression hard. "I've noticed a number of things, Mr. Fischer," he finally said. "One of which is that Mr. Deutsch is wasting approximately a third of his money."

Picking up the plates of food and two forks, he turned away.

For a long time after he'd gone, Fischer sat without moving, staring across the great hall.

"Like h.e.l.l," he muttered then. What in the name of G.o.d did Barrett expect him to do?-commit progressive suicide like Florence? If he wasn't handling things the way they should be handled, how come he was the only one unharmed so far?

The truth crashed over him so violently it made him catch his breath. "No," he muttered angrily. It wasn't true. He knew what he was doing. Of the three of them, he was the only one who- The defensive thought broke off in fragments. Fischer felt a wave of nausea rush through him. Barrett was right. Florence was right.