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, 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 Hell 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 Hell 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 entities 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 entity on the staircase to the basement who had called this house a "goddamn 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; 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 Hell House. A massive sense of hopelessness assailed 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, 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."
" I don't trust anyone or anything," he said. "And anyone who does, in this house, is a fool."
"Something has happened."
"A lot of things have happened," Fischer snapped.
"Nothing we can't handle."
" Wrong." He turned on her, his dark eyes filled with venom - and with fear, she saw. "There's nothing in this house we can handle. Nothing anyone is ever going to handle."
"That isn't true, Ben. We've made wonderful progress."
"Toward what? Our mutual graves? "
"No." She shook her head. "We've discovered much. Daniel, for instance; and the way Belasco works."
" Daniel," he said contemptuously. "How do you know there is a Daniel? Barrett thinks you made him up in your mind. How do you know he isn't right?"
"Ben, the body, the ring - "
" A body, a ring," he broke in. "Is that your proof? Your logic for putting your head on the block?"
Florence was shocked at the malevolence in his voice. What had happened to him?
"How do you know you haven't been deluding yourself from the first moment you entered this house?" he demanded. "How do you know Daniel Belasco isn't a figment of your imagination? How do you know his personality isn't exactly what you've made it, his problem exactly what you've made it? How do you know? "
He jarred to his feet, glaring at her. "You're right," he said. "I'm obstructed, shut off. And I'm going to stay shut off until the week is over. At which time I'll collect my hundred thousand clams and never come within a thousand miles of this goddamned house again. I suggest you do the same."
Turning on his heel, he moved across the floor with angry strides. "Ben - !" she called. He ignored her. Florence tried to stand to follow, but she didn't have the strength. She sat slumped on the chair, gazing toward the entry hall. After a while she set her plate aside. His words had had a terrible impact on her. She tried to repress them, but they would not be repressed. All the uncertainties were returning. She'd always been a mental medium. Why should she have, suddenly, become a physical one?
It made no sense, it was unprecedented.
It threatened her faith.
"No." She shook her head. It wasn't true. Daniel did exist. She had to believe that. He'd saved her life. He'd spoken to her, pleaded with her.
Pleaded. Spoken. Saved her life.
How do you know Daniel Belasco isn't a figment of your imagination?
She tried to repel the notion, but it wouldn't leave. All she could think was that if he were a product of her imagination, she would have had him save her life exactly as he did. In trance, she would have taken herself down to the tarn to prove Belasco's murderous intent, then awakened herself at the moment of entering the tarn in order to prove that Daniel existed and wanted to save her life; even given herself the vision of him standing before her, blocking the way; the vision of Belasco fleeing.
" No." She shook her head again. It wasn't true. Daniel did exist; he did.
Are you happy? she thought, the words rising unexpectedly to the surface of consciousness. Yes. Very. The words she'd exchanged with Daniel as she'd danced with him - or thought that she was dancing with him. Are you happy? Yes. Very. Are you happy? Yes. Very.
"Oh, my God," she murmured.
She'd spoken those words in a television play once.
Her mind strained desperately to resist the onrush of doubt - but now the dam of her resistance had fallen, and the dark waters were flooding in. I love you. And I love you. "No," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. You'll never leave me, will you? You'll always be beside me? Yes, my darling, always; always.
She saw him as he'd looked that evening in the hospital, pale, drawn, eyes bright with the glitter of impending death; her beloved David. The remembrance chilled her. He had whispered to her earlier of Laura, the girl he loved. He'd never shared her physical love, and now he was dying, and it was too late.
He'd held her hand so tightly it had hurt, his face a lined, gray mask, his lips bloodless as he'd spoken those words to her: I love you. She had whispered back: I love you, too. Had he known, by then, that it was her in the room with him? Dying, had he thought that she was Laura? You'll never leave me, will you? he'd murmured. You'll always be beside me? And she had answered: Yes, my darling, always; always.
A sob of terror broke inside her. No, it wasn't true! She started crying. But it was true. She had made up Daniel Belasco in her mind. There was no Daniel Belasco. There was only the memory of her brother, and the way he'd died, the loss he'd felt, the need he'd carried to his grave.
"No, no, no, no, no." Her hands were clutching at the arms of the chair, her head slumped forward, shaking, hot tears spilling from her eyes. She couldn't seem to breathe, kept gulping at the air, as if her lungs were bursting. No, it wasn't true! She could not have done this thing, this blinded, terrible, deluded thing! There had to be some way of proving that! There had to be!
She jerked her head up with a gasp, staring at the fire through gelatinous tears. It seemed as though someone had whispered in her ear: two words.
The chapel.
A trembling smile drew back her lips. She wavered to her feet and started toward the entry hall, rubbing at her eyes. There was an answer in the chapel; she had always known that. Now, in an instant, she knew it was the answer she needed; it was proof and vindication.
This time she would get in.
She tried not to run but couldn't help herself. She rushed across the entry hall and past the staircase, skirts rustling, shoes thudding on the floor. Turning the corner, she started down the side corridor, running as fast as she could.
She reached the chapel door and placed her hands against it. Instantly the rush of cold resistance filled her vitals, the grinding churn of nausea. She pressed both palms against the door and started praying. Nothing in this world or in the next was going to stop her now.
The force within the chapel seemed to waver. Florence pressed her weight against the door. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" she said in a loud, clear voice. The force began retreating, drawing backward and inward, as though it were shrinking. Her lips moved quickly as she prayed. "You cannot keep me from this place, for God is with me! We will enter now, together! Open! You cannot repel me any longer! Open! "
Suddenly the force was gone. Florence pushed the door and went inside, switching on the lights. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes and spoke. "I thank thee, Lord, for giving me strength."
After several moments, she opened her eyes and looked around. The dim illumination of the wall lights barely held the darkness at bay. She was standing in a shadow, only her face in light as she searched the room with her eyes. The silence was intense; she seemed to feel its pressure on her eardrums.
Moving forward abruptly, she drifted down the center aisle, averting her shocked gaze from the crucifix above the altar. This was the way; she felt it unmistakably. Unseen filaments were drawing at her.
She reached the foot of the altar and looked at it. A massive Bible with metal clasps was set on top of it. A Bible in this hideous place, she thought, shuddering. Her gaze shifted around the wall. The drawing power was so intense it seemed as though invisible threads were tied to her, pulling her toward . . . what? The wall? The altar? Surely not the crucifix. Florence felt herself drawn forward, forward.
She gasped, all movement frozen, as the cover of the Bible was flung back violently. As she stared at it, the pages began to turn so rapidly that they became a blur of movement. Florence felt a throbbing at her temples. Suddenly the pages stopped, and bending down, she looked at the page which had been uncovered.
"Yes!" she whispered joyously. "Oh, yes! "
The top of the page was titled BIRTHS. Below it was a single faded entry: "Daniel Myron Belasco was born at 2:00 A.M. on November 4, 1903."