Matheson,Richard - Hell House

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HELL HOUSE

by Richard Matheson

Hell House was originally published by The Viking Press, Inc., in 1971.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either

fictitious or are used fictitiously.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010

ISBN 0-312-86885-5

With love, for my daughters

Bettina and Alison,

who have haunted my life so sweetly

HELL HOUSE

-----------------

DECEMBER 18, 1970

-----------------

3:17 P.M.

It had been raining hard since five o'clock that morning. Brontean weather, Dr. Barrett

thought. He repressed a smile. He felt rather like a character in some latter-day Gothic romance.

The driving rain, the cold, the two-hour ride from Manhattan in one of Deutsch's long black

leatherupholstered limousines. The interminable wait in this corridor while disconcerted-looking

men and women hurried in and out of Deutsch's bedroom, glancing at him occasionally.

He drew his watch from its vest pocket and raised the lid. He'd been here more than an

hour now. What did Deutsch want of him? Something to do with parapsychology, most likely. The old

man's chain of newspapers and magazines were forever printing articles on the subject. "Return

from the Grave"; "The Girl Who Wouldn't Die"--always sensational, rarely factual.

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Wincing at the effort, Dr. Barrett lifted his right leg over his left. He was a tall,

slightly overweight man in his middle fifties, his thinning blond hair unchanged in color, though

his trimmed beard showed traces of white. He sat erect on the straight-back chair, staring at the

door to Deutsch's bedroom. Edith must be getting restless downstairs. He was sorry she'd come.

Still, he'd had no way of knowing it would take this long.

The door to Deutsch's bedroom opened, and his male secretary, Hanley, came out. "Doctor,"

he said.

Barrett reached for his cane and, standing, limped across the hallway, stopping in front

of the shorter man. He waited while the secretary leaned in through the doorway and announced,

"Doctor Barrett, sir." Then he stepped past Hanley, entering the room. The secretary closed the

door behind him.

The darkly paneled bedroom was immense. Sanctum of the monarch, Barrett thought as he

moved across the rug. Stopping by the massive bed, he looked at the old man sitting in it. Rolf

Rudolph Deutsch was eighty-seven, bald, and skeletal, his dark eyes peering out from bony

cavities. Barrett smiled. "Good afternoon." Intriguing that this wasted creature ruled an empire,

he was thinking.

"You're crippled." Deutsch's voice was rasping. "No one told me that."

"I beg your pardon?" Barrett had stiffened.

"Never mind." Deutsch cut him off. "It's not that vital, I suppose. My people have

recommended you. They say you're one of the five best in your field." He drew in laboring breath.

"Your fee will be one hundred thousand dollars."

Barrett started.

"Your assignment is to establish the facts."

"Regarding what?" asked Barrett.

Deutsch seemed hesitant about replying, as though he felt it was beneath him. Finally he

said, "Survival."

"You want me--?"

"--to tell me if it's factual or not."

Barrett's heart sank. That amount of money would make all the difference in the world to

him. Still, how could he in conscience accept it on such grounds?

"It isn't lies I want," Deutsch told him. "I'll buy the answer, either way. So long as

it's definitive."

Barrett felt a roil of despair. "How can I convince you, either way?" He was compelled to

say it.

"By giving me _facts_," Deutsch answered irritably.

"Where am I to find them? I'm a physicist. In the twenty years I've studied

parapsychology, I've yet to--"

"If they exist," Deutsch interrupted, "you'll find them in the only place on earth I know

of where survival has yet to be refuted. The Belasco house in Maine."

"_Hell House?_"

Something glittered in the old man's eyes.

"Hell House," he said.

Barrett felt a tingling of excitement. "I thought Belasco's heirs had it sealed off after

what happened--"

"That was thirty years ago." Deutsch cut him off again. "They need the money now; I've

bought the place. Can you be there by Monday?"

Barrett hesitated, then, seeing Deutsch begin to frown, nodded once. "Yes." He couldn't

let this chance go by.

"There'll be two others with you," Deutsch said.

"May I ask who--?"

"Florence Tanner and Benjamin Franklin Fischer."

Barrett tried not to show the disappointment he felt. An over-emotive Spiritualist medium,

and the lone survivor of the 1940 debacle? He wondered if he dared object. He had his own group of

sensitives and didn't see how Florence Tanner or Fischer could be of any help to him. Fischer had

shown incredible abilities as a boy, but after his breakdown had obviously lost his gift, been

caught in fraud a number of times, finally disappearing from the field entirely. He listened, half-

attentive, as Deutsch told him that Florence Tanner would fly north with him, while Fischer would

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meet them in Maine.

The old man noted his expression. "Don't worry, you'll be in charge," he said; "Tanner's

only going because my peopie tell me she's a first-class medium--"

"But a mental medium," said Barrett.

"--and I want that line of approach employed, as well as yours," Deutsch went on, as

though Barrett hadn't spoken. "Fischer's presence is obvious."

Barrett nodded. There was no way out of it, he saw. He'd have to bring up one of his own

people after the project was under way. "As to costs--" he started.

The old man waved him off. "Take that up with Hanley. You have unlimited funds."

"And time?"

"That you don't have," Deutsch replied. "I want the answer in a week."

Barrett looked appalled.

"Take it or leave it!" the old man snapped, sudden, naked rage in his expression. Barrett

knew he had to accede or lose the opportunity--and there _was_ a chance if he could get his

machine constructed in time.

He nodded once. "A week," he said.

3:50 P.M.

Anything else?" asked Hanley.

Barrett reviewed the items in his mind again. A list of all phenomena observed in the

Belasco house. Restoration of its electrical system. Installation of telephone service. The

swimming pool and steam room made available to him. Barrett had ignored the small man's frown at

the fourth item. A daily swim and steam bath were mandatory for him.

"One more item," he said. He tried to sound casual but felt that his excitement showed. "I

need a machine. I have the blueprints for it at my apartment."

"How soon will you need it?" Hanley asked.

"As soon as possible."

"Is it large?"

_Twelve years_, Barrett thought. "Quite large," he said.

"That's it?"

"All I can think of at the moment. I haven't mentioned living facilities, of course."

"Enough rooms have been renovated for your use. A couple from Caribou Falls will prepare

and deliver your meals." Hanley seemed about to smile. "They've refused to sleep in the house."

Barrett stood. "It's just as well. They'd only be in the way."

Hanley walked him toward the library door. Before they reached it, it was opened sharply

by a stout man, who glared at Barrett. Although he was forty years younger and a hundred pounds

heavier, William Reinhardt Deutsch bore an unmistakable resemblance to his father.

He shut the door. "I'm warning you right now," he said, "I'm going to block this thing."

Barrett stared at him.

"The truth," Deutsch said. "This is a waste of time, isn't it? Put it in writing, and I'll

make you out a check for a thousand dollars right now."

Barrett tightened. "I'm afraid--"

"There's no such thing as the supernatural, is there?" Deutsch's neck was reddening.

"Correct," said Barrett. Deutsch began to smile in triumph. "The word is '_supernormal_.'

Nature cannot be transcen--"

"What the hell's the difference?" interrupted Deutsch. "It's superstition, all of it!"

"I'm sorry, but it isn't." Barrett started past him. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Deutsch caught his arm. "Now, _look_, you better drop this thing. I'll see you never get

that money--"

Barrett pulled his arm free. "Do what you will," he said. "I'll proceed until I hear

otherwise from your father."

He closed the door and started down the corridor. In light of present knowledge, his mind

addressed Deutsch, anyone who chooses to refer to psychic phenomena as superstition simply isn't

aware of what's going on in the world. The documentation is immense--

Barrett stopped and leaned against the wall. His leg was starting to ache again. For the

first time, he allowed himself to recognize what a strain on his condition it might be to spend a

week in the Belasco house.

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What if it was really as bad as the two accounts claimed it was?

4:37 P.M.

The Rolls-Royce sped along the highway toward Manhattan.

"That's an awful lot of money." Edith still sounded incredulous.

"Not to him," said Barrett. "Especially when you consider that what he's paying for is an

assurance of immortality."

"But he must know that you don't believe--"

"I'm sure he does," Barrett interrupted. He didn't want to consider the possibility that

Deutsch hadn't been told. "He's not the sort of man who goes into anything without being totally

informed."

"But a hundred thousand dollars."

Barrett smiled. "I can scarcely believe it myself," he said. "If I were like my mother,

I'd undoubtedly consider this a miracle from God. The two things I've failed to accomplish both

supplied at once--an opportunity to prove my theory, and provision for our later years. Really, I

could ask no more."

Edith returned his smile. "I'm happy for you, Lionel," she said.

"Thank you, my dear." He patted her hand.

"Monday afternoon, though." Edith looked concerned. "That doesn't give us too much time."

Barrett said, "I'm wondering if I shouldn't go alone on this one."

She stared at him.

"Well, not alone, of course," he said. "There are the two others."

"What about your meals?"

"They'll be provided. All I'll have to do is work."

"I've always helped you, though," she said.

"I know. It's just that--"

"What?"

He hesitated. "I'd rather you weren't along this time, that's all."

"_Why_, Lionel?" She looked uneasy when he didn't answer. "Is it me?"

"Of course not." Barrett's smile was quick, distracted. "It's the house."

"Isn't it just another so-called haunted house?" she asked, using his phrase.

"I'm afraid it isn't," he admitted. "It's the Mount Everest of haunted houses, you might

say. There were two attempts to investigate it, one in 1931, the other in 1940. Both were

disasters. Eight people involved in those attempts were killed, committed suicide, or went insane.

Only one survived, and I have no idea how sound he is--Benjamin Fischer, one of the two who'll be

with me.

"It's not that I fear the ultimate effect of the house," he continued, trying to

ameliorate his words. "I have confidence in what I know. It's simply that the details of the

investigation may be"--he shrugged--"a little nasty."

"And yet you want me to let you go there alone?"

"My dear--"

"What if something happens to you?"

"Nothing will."

"What if it does? With me in New York, and you in Maine?"

"Edith, nothing's going to happen."

"Then there's no reason I can't go." She tried to smile. "I'm not afraid, Lionel."

"I know you're not."

"I won't get in your way."

Barrett sighed.

"I know I don't understand much of what you're doing, but there are always things I can do

to help. Pack and unload your equipment, for instance. Help you set up your experiments. Type the

rest of your manuscript; you said you wanted to have it ready by the first of the year. And I want

to be with you when you prove your theory."

Barrett nodded. "Let me think about it."

"I won't be in your way," she promised. "And I know there are any number of things I can

do to help."

He nodded again, trying to think. It was obvious she didn't want to stay behind. He could

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appreciate that. Except for his three weeks in London in 1962, they'd never been separated since

their marriage. Would it really hurt that much to take her? Certainly, she'd experienced enough

psychic phenomena by now to be accustomed to it.

Still, that house was such an unknown factor. It hadn't been called Hell House without

reason. There was a power there strong enough to physically and/or mentally demolish eight people,

three of whom had been scientists like himself.

Even believing that he knew exactly what that power was, dare he expose Edith to it?

-----------------

DECEMBER 20, 1970

-----------------

10:39 P.M.

Florence Tanner crossed the yard which separated her small house from the church and

walked along the alley to the street. She stood on the sidewalk and gazed at her church. It was

only a converted store, but it had been everything to her these past six years. She looked at the

sign in the painted window: TEMPLE OF SPIRITUAL HARMONY. She smiled. It was indeed. Those six

years had been the most spiritually harmonious of her life.

She walked to the door, unlocked it, and went inside. The warmth felt good. Shivering, she

turned on the wall lamp in the vestibule. Her eye was caught by the bulletin board:

Sunday Services--11:00 am., 8:00 p.m.

Healing and Prophecy--Tuesdays, 7:45 p.m.

Lectures and Spirit Greetings--Wednesdays, 7:45 p.m.

Messages and Revelations--Thursdays, 7:45 p.m.

Holy Communion--1st Sunday of Month

She turned and gazed at her photograph tacked to the wall, the printed words above it:

_The Reverend Florence Tanner_. For several moments she was pleased to be reminded of her beauty.

Forty-three, she still retained it unimpaired, her long red hair untouched by grayness, her tall,

Junoesque figure almost as trim as it had been in her twenties. She smiled in self-depreciation

then. Vanity of vanities, she thought.

She went into the church, walked along the carpeted aisle, and stepped onto the platform,

taking a familiar pose behind the lectern. She looked at the rows of chairs, the hymnals set on

every third one. She visualized her congregation sitting before her. "My dears," she murmured.

She had told them at the morning and evening services. Told them of the need for her to be

away from them for the next week. Told them of the answer to their prayers--the means to build a

true church on their own property. Asked them to pray for her while she was gone.

Florence clasped her hands on the lectern and closed her eyes. Her lips moved slightly as

she prayed for the strength to cleanse the Belasco house. It had such a dreadful history of death

and suicide and madness. It was a house most horribly defiled. She prayed to end its curse.

The prayer completed, Florence lifted her head and gazed at her church. She loved it

deeply. Still, to be able to build a real church for her congregation was truly a gift from

heaven. And at Christmastime . . . She smiled, eyes glistening with tears.

God was good.

11:17 P.M.

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Edith finished brushing her teeth and gazed at her reflection in the mirror--at her short-

cut auburn hair, her strong, almost masculine features. Her expression was a worried one.

Disturbed by the sight of it, she switched off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom.

Lionel was asleep. She sat on her bed and looked at him, listening to the sound of his

heavy breathing. Poor dear, she thought. There had been so much to do. By ten o'clock he'd been

exhausted, and she'd made him go to bed.

Edith lay on her side and continued looking at him. She'd never seen him so concerned

before. He'd made her promise that she'd never leave his side once they'd entered the Belasco

house. Could it be that bad? She'd been to haunted houses with Lionel and never been frightened.

He was always so calm, so confident; it was impossible to be afraid when he was near.

Yet, he was disturbed enough about the Belasco house to make an issue of her staying by

his side at all times. Edith shivered. Would her presence harm him? Would looking after her use up

so much of his limited energy that his work would suffer? She didn't want that. She knew how much

his work meant to him.

Still, she had to go. She'd face anything rather than be alone. She'd never told Lionel

how close she'd come to a mental breakdown during those three weeks he'd been gone in 1962. It

would only have distressed him, and he'd needed all his concentration for the work he was doing.

So she'd lied and sounded cheerful on the telephone the three times he'd called--and, alone, she'd

wept and shaken, taken tranquilizers, hadn't slept or eaten, lost thirteen pounds, fought off

compulsions to end it all. Met him at the airport finally, pale and smiling, told him that she'd

had the flu.

Edith closed her eyes and drew her legs up. She couldn't face that again. The worst

haunted house in the world threatened her less than being alone.

11:41 P.M.

He couldn't sleep. Fischer opened his eyes and looked around the cabin of Deutsch's

private plane. Strange to be sitting in an armchair in an airplane, he thought. Strange to be

sitting in an airplane at all. He'd never flown in his life.

Fischer reached for the coffeepot and poured himself another cupful. He rubbed a hand

across his eyes and picked up one of the magazines lying on the coffee table in front of him. It

was one of Deutsch's. What else? he thought.

After a while his eyes went out of focus, and the words on the page began to blur

together. Going back, he thought. The only one of nine people still walking around, and he was

going back for more.

They'd found him lying on the front porch of the house that morning in September 1940,

naked, curled up like a fetus, shivering and staring into space. When they'd put him on a

stretcher, he'd begun to scream and vomit blood, his muscles knotting, rocldike. He'd lain in a

coma three months in the Caribou Falls Hospital. When he'd opened his eyes, he'd looked like a

haggard man of thirty, a month short of his sixteenth birthday. Now he was forty-five, a lean,

gray-haired man with dark eyes, his expression one of hard, suspicious readiness.

Fischer straightened in the chair. Never mind; it's time, he thought. He wasn't fifteen

anymore, wasn't naive or gullible, wasn't the credulous prey he'd been in 1940. Things would be

different this time.

He'd never dreamed in his wildest fancies that he'd be given a second chance at the house.

After his mother had died, he'd traveled to the West Coast. Probably, he later realized, to get as

far away as possible from Maine. He'd committed clumsy fraud in Los Angeles and San Francisco,

deliberately alienating Spiritualists and scientists alike in order to be free of them. He'd

existed barely for thirty years, washing dishes, doing farmwork, selling door to door, janitoring,

anything to earn money without using his mind.

Yet, somehow, he'd protected his ability and nurtured it. It was still there, maybe not as

spectacular as it had been when he was fifteen, but very much intact--and backed now by the

thoughtful caution of a man rather than the suicidal arrogance of a teenager. He was ready to

shake loose the dormant psychic muscles, exercise and strengthen them, use them once more. Against

that pesthole up in Maine.

Against Hell House.

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-----------------

DECEMBER 21, 1970

-----------------

11:19 A.M.

The two black Cadillacs moved along the road, which twisted through dense forest. In the

lead car was Deutsch's representative. Dr. Barrett, Edith, Florence Tanner, and Fischer rode in

the second, chauffeur-driven limousine, Fischer sitting on the pull-down seat, facing the other

three.

Florence put her hand on Edith's. "I hope you didn't think me unfriendly before," she

said. "It was only that I felt concern for you, going into that house."

"I understand," said Edith. She drew her hand away.

"I'd appreciate it, Miss Tanner," Barrett told her, "if you wouldn't alarm my wife

prematurely."

"I had no intention of doing that, Doctor. Still--" Florence hesitated, then went on. "You

_have_ prepared Mrs. Barrett, I trust."

"My wife has been advised that there will be occurrences."

Fischer grunted. "One way of putting it," he said. It was the first time he'd spoken in an

hour.

Barrett turned to him. "She has also been advised," he said, "that these occurrences will

not, in any way, signify the presence of the dead."

Fischer nodded, taking out a pack of cigarettes. "All right if I smoke?" he asked. His

gaze flicked across their faces. Seeing no objection, he lit one.

Florence was about to say something more to Barrett, then changed her mind. "Odd that a

project such as this should be financed by a man like Deutsch," she said. "I would never have

thought him genuinely interested in these matters."

"He's an old man," Barrett said. "He's thinking about dying, and wants to believe it isn't

the end."

"It isn't, of course."

Barrett smiled.

"You look familiar," Edith said to Florence. "Why is that?"

"I used to be an actress years ago. Television mostly, an occasional film. My acting name

was Florence Michaels."

Edith nodded.

Florence looked at Barrett, then at Fischer. "Well, this _is_ exciting," she said. "To

work with two such giants. How can that house not fall before us?"

"Why is it called Hell House?" Edith asked.

"Because its owner, Emeric Belasco, created a private hell there," Barrett told her.

"Is he supposed to be the one who haunts the house?"

"Among many," Florence said. "The phenomena are too complex to be the work of one

surviving spirit. It's obviously a case of multiple haunting."

"Let's just say there's something there," said Barrett.

Florence smiled. "Agreed."

"Will you get rid of it with your machine?" asked Edith.

Florence and Fischer looked at Barrett. "I'll explain it presently," he said.

They all looked toward the windows as the car angled downward. "We're almost there,"

Barrett said. He looked at Edith. "The house is in the Matawaskie Valley."

All of them gazed at the hill-ringed valley lying ahead, its floor obscured by fog.

Fischer stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray, blowing out smoke. Looking forward again, he winced.

"We're going in."

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The car was suddenly immersed in greenish mist. Its speed was decreased by the driver, and

they saw him leaning forward, peering through the windshield. After several moments he switched on

the fog lights and wipers.

"How could anyone want to build a house in such a place?" asked Florence.

"This was sunshine to Belasco," Fischer said.

They all stared through the windows at the curling fog. It was as though they rode inside

a submarine, slowly navigating downward through a sea of curdled milk. At various moments, trees

or bushes or boulder formations would appear beside the car, then disappear. The only sound was

the hum of the engine.

At last the car was braked. They all looked forward to see the other Cadillac in front of

them. There was a faint sound as its door was closed. Then the figure of Deutsch's representative

loomed from the mist. Barrett depressed a button, and the window by his side slid down. He

grimaced at the fetid odor of the mist.

The man leaned over. "We're at the turnoff," he said. "Your chauffeur is going into

Caribou Falls with us, so one of you will have to drive to the house--it's just a little way. The

telephone has been connected, the electricity is on, and your rooms are ready." He glanced at the

floor. "The food in that basket should see you through the afternoon. Supper will be delivered at

six. Any questions?"

"Will we need a key for the front door?" Barrett asked.

"No, it's unlocked."

"Get one anyway," Fischer said.

Barrett looked at him, then back at the man. "Perhaps we'd better."

The man withdrew a ring of keys from his overcoat pocket and disconnected one of them,

handing it to Barrett. "Anything else?"

"We'll phone if there is."

The man smiled briefly. "Good-bye, then," he said. He turned away.

"I trust he meant _au revoir_," said Edith.

Barrett smiled as he raised the window.

"I'll drive," Fischer said. He clambered over the seat and got in front. Starting the

motor, he turned left onto the rutted blacktop road.

Edith drew in sudden breath. "I wish I knew what to expect."

Fischer answered without looking back. "Expect anything," he said.

11:47 A.M.

For the past five minutes Fischer had been inching the Cadillac along the narrow, fog-

bound road. Now he braked and stopped the engine. "We're here." he said. He wrenched up the door

handle and ducked outside, buttoning his Navy pea coat.

Edith turned as Lionel opened the door beside him. She waited as he struggled out, then

edged across the seat after him. She shivered as she got out. "Cold," she said, "and that

_smell_."

"Probably a swamp around here somewhere."

Florence joined them, and the four stood silent for a few moments, looking around.

"That way," Fischer said then. He was gazing across the hood of the car.

"Let's take a look," said Barrett. "We can get our luggage afterward." He turned to

Fischer. "Would you lead?"

Fischer moved off.

They had gone only a few yards when they reached a narrow concrete bridge. As they walked

across it, Edith looked over the edge. If there was water below, the mist obscured it from sight.

She glanced back. Already the limousine was swallowed by fog.

"Don't fall in the tarn." Fischer's voice drifted back. Edith turned and saw a body of

water ahead, a gravel path curving to its left. The surface of the water looked like clouded

gelatin sprinkled with a thin debris of leaves and grass. A miasma of decay hovered above it, and

the stones which lined its shore were green with slime.

"Now we know where the odor comes from," Barrett said. He shook his head. "Belasco _would_

have a tarn."

"Bastard Bog," said Fischer.

"Why do you call it that?"

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Fischer didn't answer. Finally he said, "I'll tell you later."

They walked in silence now, the only sound the crunching of gravel underneath their shoes.

The cold was numbing, a clammy chill that seemed to dew itself around their bones. Edith drew up

the collar of her coat and stayed close to Lionel, holding on to his arm and looking at the

ground. Just behind them walked Florence Tanner.

When Lionel stopped at last, Edith looked up quickly.

It stood before them in the fog, a massive, looming specter of a house.

"_Hideous_," said Florence, sounding almost angry. Edith looked at her. "We haven't even

gone inside, Miss Tanner," Barrett said.

"I don't have to go inside." Florence turned to Fischer, who was staring at the house. As

she looked at him, he shuddered. Reaching out, she put her hand in his. He gripped it so hard it

made her wince.

Barrett and Edith gazed up at the shrouded edifice. In the mist, it resembled some ghostly

escarpment blocking their path. Edith leaned forward suddenly. "_It has no windows_," she said.

"He had them bricked up," Barrett said.

"Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps--"

"We're wasting time," Fischer cut him off. He let go of Florence's hand and lurched

forward.

They walked the final yards along the gravel path, then started up the wide porch steps.

Edith saw that all the steps were cracked, fungus and frosted yellow grass sprouting from the

fissures.

They stopped before the massive double doors.

"If they open by themselves, I'm going home," Edith said, trying to sound amused. Barrett

gripped the handle on the door and depressed its thumb plate. The door held fast. He glanced at

Fischer. "This happen to you?"

"More than once."

"Good we have the key, then." Barrett removed it from his overcoat pocket and slid it into

the lock. It wouldn't turn. He wiggled the key back and forth, attempting to loosen the bolt.

Abruptly the key turned over, and the heavy door began to swing in. Edith twitched as

Florence caught her breath. "What is it?" she asked. Florence shook her head. "No cause for

alarm," Barrett said. Edith glanced at him in surprise.

"It's just reaction, Mrs. Barrett," Florence explained. "Your husband is quite right. It's

nothing to be alarmed about."

Fischer had been reaching in to locate the light switch. Now he found it, and they heard

him flick it up and down without result. "So much for restored electrical service," he said.

"Obviously the generator is too old," Barrett said.

"Generator?" Edith looked surprised again. "There's no electrical service here?"

"There aren't enough houses in the valley to make it worth the effort," Barrett answered.

"How could they put in a telephone, then?"

"It's a field telephone," Barrett said. He looked into the house. "Well, Mr. Deutsch will

have to provide us with a new generator, that's all."

"You think that's the answer, do you?" Fischer sounded dubious.

"Of course," said Barrett. "The breakdown of an antique generator can scarcely be

classified as a psychic phenomenon."

"What are we going to do?" asked Edith. "Stay in Caribou Falls until the new generator is

installed?"

"That might take days," said Barrett. "We'll use candles until it arrives."

"Candles," Edith said.

Barrett smiled at her expression. "Just for a day or so."

She nodded, her returned smile wan. Barrett looked inside the house. "The question now,"

he said, "is how do we find some candles? I assume there must be some inside--" He broke off,

looking at the flashlight Fischer had taken out of his coat pocket. "_Ah_," he said.

Fischer switched on the flashlight, pointed the beam inside, then, bracing himself,

stepped acoss the threshold.

Barrett went in next. He stepped through the doorway, seemed to listen briefly. Turning

then, he extended his hand to Edith. She entered the house, clutching at his hand. "That _smell_,"

she said. "It's even worse than outside."

"It's a very old house with no aeration," Barrett said. "It could also be the furnace,

which hasn't been used in more than twenty-nine years." He turned to Florence. "Coming, Miss

Tanner?" he asked.

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She nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes." She took a deep breath, held herself erect, and

stepped inside. She looked around. "The _atmosphere_ in here--" She sounded queasy.

"An atmosphere of this world, not the next," said Barrett dryly.

Fischer played the flashlight beam around the dark immensity of the entry hall. The narrow

cone of light jumped fitfully from place to place, freezing momentarily on hulking groups of

furniture; huge, leaden-colored paintings; giant tapestries filmed with dust; a staircase, broad

and curving, leading upward into blackness; a second-story corridor overlooking the entry hall;

and far above, engulfed by shadows, a vast expanse of paneled ceiling.

"Be it ever so humble," Barrett said.

"It isn't humble at all," said Florence. "It reeks of arrogance."

Barrett sighed. "It reeks, at any rate." He looked to his right. "According to the floor

plan, the kitchen should be that way."

Edith walked beside him as they started across the entry hall, the sound of their

footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.

Florence looked around. "It knows we're here," she said.

"Miss Tanner--" Barrett frowned. "Please don't think I'm trying to restrict you--"

"Sorry." Florence said. "I'll try to keep my observations to myself."

They reached a corridor and walked along it, Fischer in the lead, Barrett and Edith behind

him, Florence last. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of metal-faced swinging doors. Fischer

pushed one of them open and stepped into the kitchen, holding the door ajar for the others. When

all of them had gone inside, he let the door swing back and turned.

"Good Lord." Edith's eyes moved with the flashlight beam as Fischer shifted it around the

room.

The kitchen was twenty-five by fifty feet, its perimeter rimmed by steel counters and dark-

paneled cupboards, a long, double-basin sink, a gigantic stove with three ovens, and a massive

walk-in refrigerator. In the center of the room, like a giant's steel-topped casket, stood a huge

steam table.

"He must have entertained a good deal," Edith said.

Fischer pointed the flashlight at the large electric wall clock above the stove. Its hands

were stopped at 7:31. A.M. or P.M., and on what day? Barrett wondered as he limped along the wall

to his right, pulling open drawers. Edith and Florence stood together, watching him. Barrett

pulled open one of the cupboard doors and grunted as Fischer shone the light over. "Genuine

spirits," he said, looking at the shelves of dust-filmed bottles. "Perhaps we'll raise some after

supper."

Fischer pulled a sheet of yellow-edged cardboard from one of the drawers and pointed the

flashlight at it.

"What's that?" Barrett asked.

"One of their menus, dated March 27, 1928. Shrimp bisque. Sweetbreads in gravy. Stewed

capon. Bread sauce in gravy. Creamed cauliflower. For dessert, _amandes en crème_: crushed almonds

in whipped egg whites and heavy cream."

Barrett chuckled. "His guests must have all had heartburn."

"The food wasn't aimed at their hearts," said Fischer, taking a box of candles from the

drawer.

12:19 P.M.

They started back across the entry hall, each carrying a candle in a holder. As they

moved, the flickering illumination made their shadows billow on the walls and ceiling.

"This must be the great hall over here," said Barrett.

They moved beneath an archway six feet deep and stopped, Edith and Florence gasping almost

simultaneously. Barrett whistled softly as he raised his candle for a maximum of light.

The great hall measured ninety-five by forty-seven feet, its walls two stories high,

paneled in walnut to a height of eight feet, rough-hewn blocks of stone above. Across from where

they stood was a mammoth fireplace, its mantel constructed of antique carved stone.

The furnishings were all antique except for scattered chairs and sofas upholstered in the

fashion of the twenties. Marble statues stood on pedestals in various locations. In the northwest

corner was an ebony concert grand piano, and in the center of the hall stood a circular table,

more than twenty feet across, with sixteen high-backed chairs around it and a large chandelier

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Matheson, Richard - Hell House

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