Hell House

by Richard Matheson

Chapter 24

  " Him! " cried the voice. "The Giant! Him! Father, Father!"

  Fischer sat in rigid silence as the face lost form, the teleplasm rippling. Suddenly it began to steam back into Florence's nostrils. As it vanished, Fischer heard her moan with pain. In less than seven seconds it was gone.

  He sat immobile for almost a minute before standing. He felt numb as he walked into the bathroom, ran some water into a glass, and carried it back into the bedroom, standing motionless beside the chair until she opened her eyes.

  After she had drunk the water in one long swallow, he moved to the wall switch and turned on the hanging lamp beside her bed.

  He sank down heavily on the chair across from hers.

  "Did he come through?" she asked.

  As he told her what had happened, her expression tensed to one of deep excitement.

  " Belasco," she said. "Of course. Of course. We should have realized it. "

  Fischer did not respond.

  "Daniel would never have hurt me. He would never have hurt Doctor Barrett. I knew it couldn't have been him, despite the evidence; it simply didn't feel right. He's as much a victim of the house as anyone. " She looked at Fischer's unconvinced expression. "Don't you see?" she said. " He's being kept here by his father. "

  Fischer regarded her in silence, wanting to believe what she was saying but afraid to commit his mind.

  "Don't you see?" she asked him eagerly. "They're warring together, Daniel trying to escape from Hell House, his father doing everything he can to prevent it by trying to turn me against Daniel, trying to make me believe that Daniel means me harm, when he doesn't. When all he wants is - "

  She stopped so quickly that Fischer's eyes narrowed. "Wants what? " he asked.

  "My help. "

  "That's not what you were going to say. "

  "Yes, it was. I'm the only one who can help. I'm the only one he trusts. Don't you see?"

  Fischer eyed her guardedly. "I hope I do," he said.

  3:47 P. M.

  Edith sat up and slid her legs across the mattress edge. Reaching out, she picked up Lionel's watch from the table and raised its lid. Nearly four o'clock. How could he possibly get his machine ready by tomorrow?

  She stared at him as he slept, wondering if he still believed everything he said. Somehow, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was no longer as confident as he claimed. Not that he would ever show it, not even to her. When it came to his work, he was a man of unrelenting pride, always had been.

  Standing abruptly, Edith moved to the cabinet and opened the door. All right, both of them had warned her. Nothing had happened, had it? The brandy had relaxed her, nothing more. If she was going to stay in this house until tomorrow, she was damned well going to take a few steps to make that stay endurable.

  She carried the decanter and one of the silver cups to the table. Setting down the cup, she pulled out the decanter top and poured the cup full of brandy. Picking up the cup, she drank its contents with a swallow. She threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth open wide, sucking at the air as brandy scalded down her throat. It was like pouring hot syrup into her chest and stomach. Heat pulsed outward, radiating through her veins.

  She poured herself another cupful, took a sip of it, and eased herself onto the table, pushing aside the box with Lionel's manuscript in it. She took another sip of brandy, then swallowed the entire cupful, head laid back again, eyes closed, a look of sensual enjoyment on her face.

  She thought about being in the steam room with Lionel, trying not to face the nagging qualm that, beyond a certain point, she'd been infuriated at his impotence, as if, somehow, it were his fault and not that of the polio. She tightened, thinking that the real reason he wanted her to go to Caribou Falls was that he didn't want to be annoyed by her needs; that he wanted to concentrate on his machine.

  She blinked. That was a terrible thing to think of Lionel. If he'd been able to, he would have made love to her.

  Would he? her mind demanded. Or did he really care at all whether they ever had sex?

  With an impulsive movement, she reached around for the decanter, knocking the box off the table, spilling pages of the manuscript across the rug. She started to get up, then, with a frown, ignored it. Let it lie, she thought. I'll get it later. She closed her eyes, emptying another cupful of brandy into her mouth and swallowing it.

  She slipped off the table, almost fell. I'm drunk, she thought. A momentary pang of guilt assailed her. Mom was right, I am like him, she thought. She fought it off. I'm not! she told her unseen mother; I'm a good girl. " Hell - " She scowled. I'm not a girl at all, I'm a woman. With desires. He should know that. He's not that old. Or that impotent. It was his damned religious mother, not the polio. It was -

  She frowned away the thought, weaving across the bedroom toward the cabinet. Her limbs felt warm and silky, and there was a lovely numbness in her head. They were wrong; getting drunk was the only answer. She thought about the cabinet of liquor in the kitchen. Maybe she'd get a bottle of bourbon from it - maybe two bottles. Maybe she'd just drink herself insensible until tomorrow came.

  She removed the hollowed book so quickly that it slipped from her fingers and thudded on the rug, the photographs scattering. She sank to her knees and started looking at them one by one. She licked her upper lip unconsciously. She stared at a photograph of the two women lying on the great hall table, performing mutual cunnilingus. The room seemed to get hotter and hotter.

  Abruptly she flung away the photograph as though it was burning her fingers. " No," she muttered frightenedly. She started, looking back toward Lionel as he stirred, then pushed clumsily to her feet and looked around the bedroom like a cornered animal.

  She walked across the room quickly. Opening the door, she moved into the hall and closed the door, flinching at the noise; she'd meant to be more quiet. Shaking her head to clear it, she walked to Fischer's room.

  He wasn't there. Edith stared into his room and wondered what to do. Closing the door, she turned and started back along the hallway, drifting to her left until she reached the banister rail. She held on to it for balance as she headed for the staircase. For some strange reason, the house did not seem frightening to her. Further proof that alcohol was just the thing, she thought.

  She had the sensation of floating down the staircase. Vaguely she recalled some film about the South she'd seen at a revival.

  All she could remember clearly was some woman in hoop skirts gliding down the stairs as though she were descending on a track. She felt the same way. She wondered why she felt so confident.

  A glimmer, faint, too fleeting to be captured. Edith blinked and hesitated. Nothing. She continued down the stairs. He's in the great hall, she decided. He was always where the coffee was. She couldn't recall ever seeing him eat. No wonder he was so thin.

  As she crossed the entry hall, she heard a sound of splintering wood. Again she stopped. She hesitated, then moved forward once again. Of course, she thought. She smiled. She'd sever felt so fuzzy in her life. She closed her eyes. I'm floating, said her mind. Father and daughter, drunks forever.

  She stopped in the archway and leaned against it dizzily. She blinked her eyes, refocusing with effort. Fischer had his back to her. He was using the crowbar to pry apart the crate. That's sweet, she thought.

  She started as Fischer spun around, the crowbar raised as though to strike at some attacker. He whirled so quickly that the cigarette between his lips arced to the floor.

  " Kamerad," she said. She raised her arms as though surrendering.

  Fischer stared at her without a sound. She saw his chest rise and fall with agitated breath. "Are you angry?" she began to say.

  He cut her off. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Nothing. " She pushed off from the archway and started toward him weavingly.

  "Are you drunk? " He sounded stunned.

  "I've had a few drinks, if that's any
of your business. "

  Fischer dumped the crowbar on the table, moving toward her. "Lionel will be pleased that you - " She gestured airily toward the machine.

  Fischer reached her, took her arm. "Come on. "

  She pulled away from him. "Come on, yourself. " She staggered slightly, then regained her balance, turning toward the machine.

  "Mrs. Barrett - "

  "Edith. "

  Fischer took her arm again. "Come on. You shouldn't leave your husband. "

  "He's all right. He's sleeping. "

  Fischer tried to turn her, but she wouldn't do it. Snickering, she pulled away from him again. "For Christ's sake!" he snapped.

  A teasing smile drew back her lips. "No, not for his sake. " Fischer looked at her confusedly.

  As she started toward the table, the room was nebulous around her, and she had the vague impression it was filled with people standing just beyond the limits of her vision. That's imagination, said her mind. All there is in here is mindless energy.

  She reached the table and rubbed a finger on its surface. Fischer rejoined her. "You've got to go upstairs. "

  "No, I don't. " She took hold of his right hand. Fischer pulled it away. Edith smiled and rubbed her finger on the table again.

  "This is where they met," she said.

  "Who?"

  "Les Aphrodites. Here. Around this table. "

  Fischer took her arm again. Edith jerked it in against herself so that his hand was pinned against her breast. "Here. Around this table," she repeated.

  "You don't know what you're saying. " Fischer pulled his hand away.

  "I know exactly what I'm saying. Mr. Fischer. " Edith snickered. "Mr. B. F. Fischer. "

  "Edith - "

  He tightened as she pushed against him, sliding her arms around him. "Don't you like me at all?" she asked. "I know I'm not as beautiful as Florence, but I - "

  "Edith, it's the house. It's making you - "

  " The house is doing nothing," she broke in. " I'm doing it. "

  He tried to pull away her arms. She pressed against him harder. "Are you impotent too?" she teased.

  Fischer wrenched her arms loose, pushing her away. "Wake up!" he shouted.

  Fury burst inside her. "Don't tell me to wake up! You wake up! - you sexless bastard. " Edith stumbled back against the table, wriggled up on top of it, and yanked her skirt with clawing fingers. "What's the matter, little man?" she jeered. "Never had a woman?" Grabbing at her sweater front, she jerked it open, popping buttons. Dragging aside the edges, she undid the front hook of her bra and, clutching at her breasts with palsied fingers, held them up, a look of furious derision on her face. "What's the matter, little man?" she ranted. "Never had a tit before? Try it! It's delicious!"

  Sliding off the table, she advanced on Fischer, fingers gouging at her breasts. "Suck them," she said, her voice trembling with hatred. Her face convulsed with sudden fury. "Suck them, you fairy bastard, or I'll get myself a woman who will!"

  His head jerked sideways. Edith scanned the movement, and a sudden weight crashed down on her.

  Lionel was standing in the archway.

  A wave of darkness billowed up at her. Her legs gave way; she started falling. Fischer leaped to catch her. "No!" she screamed. She twisted to the left and fell against a marble statue on a pedestal. She caught at it; the cold stone pressed against her breasts. It seemed as though the face was leering at her Edith cried out as the weight of it fell backward from her grasp and shattered on the floor. She landed on her knees and toppled forward.

  Darkness swallowed her.