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, he thought. His smile was dour. Or was it 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 Hell 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 entity 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.
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 - "
"What I think is going on is irrelevant to this conversation, Mr. Fischer," Barrett said stiffly.
" Irrelevant? " Fischer looked amazed. "What the hell 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 hell," he muttered then. What in the name of God 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.
Those thirty years of waiting had been nothing but delusion.
Standing with a muffled 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 , 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! Now, at forty-five, he was a goddamned, 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 Hell House like a turtle with its head pulled in, a blind shell 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 - God only knew what - had seen fit to give him a second chance.
Was he going to let it pass him by, untouched?
Fischer stopped and looked around the great hall with a furious expression. Who the hell is Belasco? he thought. Who the hell are any of the goddamned 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 respec ted 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.
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 his power atrophied? His lips pressed hard together, whitening. 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!
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 chink 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!
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, sadistic 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.