Those thirty years of waiting had been nothing but delusion.

Standing with a m.u.f.fled curse, he strode to the fireplace. No, it was impossible. He couldn't deceive himself so completely. He struggled to remember what he'd done since Monday. He'd known the door would be locked, hadn't he? His mind rejected that. All right, he'd rescued Edith. Only because you couldn't sleep and happened to be downstairs, came the answer. What about saving Barrett, then? Nothing Nothing, said his mind. He'd been available, that was all-and even then he might have fled if it hadn't been for Mrs. Barrett's presence. What was left? He'd pulled the planking off the crate. Wonderful, he thought, in sudden rage. Deutsch hired himself a hundred-thousand-dollar handyman!

"Christ," he muttered. He shouted, "Christ!" He'd been the most powerful physical medium in the United States in 1940-and at fifteen. Fifteen! Fifteen! Now, at forty-five, he was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned, self-deluding parasite, malingering his way through the week in order to collect a hundred thousand dollars. Him! The one who should be doing the most! Now, at forty-five, he was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned, self-deluding parasite, malingering his way through the week in order to collect a hundred thousand dollars. Him! The one who should be doing the most!

He paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. The feeling he had was almost unendurable, compounded of shame and guilt and fury. He'd never felt so meaningless. To walk around in h.e.l.l House like a turtle with its head pulled in, a blind sh.e.l.l seeing nothing, knowing nothing, doing nothing, waiting for the others to accomplish the work he should be accomplishing. He'd wanted to come back here, hadn't he? Well, he was back! Something-G.o.d only knew what-had seen fit to give him a second chance.

Was he going to let it pa.s.s him by, untouched?

Fischer stopped and looked around the great hall with a furious expression. Who the h.e.l.l is Belasco? he thought. Who the h.e.l.l are any of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned dead who glut this house like maggots on a corpse? Was he going to let them terrify him to his dying day? They hadn't been able to kill him in 1940, had they? He'd been a child, a thoughtless, overconfident fool-and even so, they'd been unable to destroy him. Grace Lauter they'd destroyed-one of the most respected mental mediums of the day. Dr. Graham they'd destroyed-a hardheaded, dauntless physician. Professor Rand they'd destroyed-one of the nation's most noted chemistry teachers, head of his department at Hale University. Professor Fenley they'd destroyed-a shrewd, experienced Spiritualist who had survived a hundred psychic pitfalls.

Only he had lived and kept his sanity-a credulous boy of fifteen. Despite the fact that he had virtually begged to be annihilated, the house had been able to do no more than eject him, leaving him on its porch to die of exposure. It had not been able to kill him. Why had he never thought of it in just that way before? Despite the perfect opportunity, it had not been able to kill him it had not been able to kill him.

Fischer moved to one of the armchairs and sat down hurriedly. Closing his eyes, he began to draw in deep breaths, starting to unlock the gates of consciousness before he had a chance to change his mind. Confidence suffused his mind and body. He was not a boy now, but a thinking man; not so blindly confident that he would make himself a vulnerable prey. He would open up with care, stage by stage, not allowing himself to be overwhelmed by impressions, as Florence did. Slowly, carefully, monitoring each step of the way with his adult intelligence, trusting only to himself, not allowing others to control his perception in any way.

He stopped his heavy breathing, waited, tense, alert. Nothing yet. A flatness and a vacancy about him. He waited longer, antennae feeling at the atmosphere. There was nothing. He drew in further breath, opening the gates a little wider, stopped again, and waited.

Nothing. Fischer felt a flicker of involuntary dread cross his mind. Had he waited too long? Had he waited too long? Had his power atrophied? His lips pressed hard together, whitening. Had his power atrophied? His lips pressed hard together, whitening. No No. He still possessed it. He breathed in deeply, inspiring further cognizance into his mind. He felt a tingling in his fingertips, the sensation of a spider web collecting on his face, his solar plexus drawing inward. He had not done this in years; too long. He had forgotten how it felt, that surging growth of awareness, all his senses widening in spectrum. Every sound was heard exaggeratedly: the crackling of the fire, the infinitesimal creaking of his chair, the sound of his breath soughing in and out. The smell of the house became intense. The texture of his clothes felt rough against his skin. He could feel the delicate waft of heat from the fire.

He frowned. But nothing else. What was happening? It made no sense to him. This house had to be gorged with impressions. The moment he'd walked in on Monday he'd sensed their presence like some cloud of influences, always ready to attack, take advantage of the slightest flaw, the least misstep in judgment.

It struck him suddenly. Misstep in judgment! Misstep in judgment!

Instantly he started pulling back. But, already; something dark and vast was hurtling at him, something with discernment, something violent that meant to pounce on him and crush him. Fischer gasped and pressed back hard against the chair, recoiling his awareness desperately.

He was not in time. Before he could protect himself, the force swept over him, entering his system through the c.h.i.n.k still open in his armor. He cried out loudly as it wrenched into his vitals, twisting, clawing, threatening to disembowel him, slice his brain to shreds. His eyes leaped open, staring, horrorstricken. Doubling over, he clapped both hands across his stomach. Something slammed against his back, his head, hurling him out of the chair. He crashed against a table edge, was flung back with a strangling gasp. The room began to spin around, its atmosphere a whirlpool of barbaric force. Fischer crumpled to his knees, arms crossed, trying to shut out the savage power. It tried to rip his arms apart. He fought it, teeth clenched, face a stonelike mask of agonized resistance, gurgling noises in his throat. You won't! he thought. You won't! You won't! won't!

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, s.a.d.i.s.tic 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.

12/23 6:27 P.M.

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. G.o.d 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 ma.n.u.script 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 k.n.o.b; 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 ma.n.u.script 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 told her not to do this! What was the matter with her? 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, b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.e.x 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 b.u.t.tons 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 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? 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 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-" 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 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 pa.s.s 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 had been the house. Everything would be resolved after they left. been the house. Everything would be resolved after they left.

12/23 7:31 P.M.

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 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 ent.i.ties 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 ent.i.ty on the staircase to the bas.e.m.e.nt who had called this house a "G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 Apparitions; Apports 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 h.e.l.l House. A ma.s.sive sense of hopelessness a.s.sailed 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 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."