10:23 P.M.
Barrett's eyes were slitted as he climbed the stairway slowly, his arm across Edith's shoulders. He tried not to put too much weight on her, tried not to make any sounds of pain. She'd had enough distress today; and it was only temporary, after all.
Another pill, a good night's sleep, and he'd be fit enough by morning. He could endure the pain another day or so. The Reversor was almost ready for use. Another hour's work tomorrow, and he'd be prepared to prove his theory. After all these years, he thought, the final proof. What was a little pain compared to that?
They reached the top of the stairs, and Barrett tried to walk by himself, despite the throbbing in his leg and back. Hobbling weakly, he made a sound which he intended to be wry amusement but which, instead, emerged as one of pain. "After we're home," he said, "I'm going to take a month's vacation. Finish up the last few pages of the book. Relax. Enjoy your company."
"Good." She didn't sound convinced. Barrett patted her shoulder. "It's going to be all right," he said.
Edith opened the door and helped him to the bed. She watched in concern as he sank down heavily on the mattress. "Lie back," she told him. She propped pillows against the headboard, and Barrett hitched himself against them as she lifted his legs onto the bed. He slumped back. "Oh." He forced a smile. "Well, no one can say we aren't earning our money."
" You are." Edith flinched as she pulled off his shoes; they were on so tightly. Peeling off his socks, she began to massage his feet and ankles. Barrett saw that she was trying not to show distress at the swollen look of them.
"I'd better take another codeine," he said.
Edith stood and moved to his bag. Barrett tried to shift his weight on the mattress, hissing at the effort. He felt as heavy as a statue. He wouldn't mention it to Edith, of course, but it might not be amiss for him to undergo a short period of hospitalization after they got home.
He was winding his watch when Edith returned with the pill and a glass of water. Reaching out, he set the watch on the bedside table, then washed down the pill. Edith started to unbutton his sweater.
"That's all right," he said. "I'll sleep in my clothes tonight. It'll be simpler."
She nodded. "All right." She unbuckled his belt and loosened the top of his trousers. "I'll sleep in my clothes, too."
"You may as well."
Edith sat beside him on the bed and, leaning over, pressed herself against him. Her weight on his chest made it hard to breathe, but Barrett said nothing.
"If only today had never happened," she murmured.
"We can work it out." Barrett rubbed her back, wishing he cou'd think of some excuse to get her up that wouldn't hurt her feelings.
"Would you get my tie?" he asked after several moments.
Edith sat up, looking at him curiously.
"It's hanging in the closet."
She rose and got the tie, handing it to him.
"You want to wash up, brush your teeth before you go to bed?" he asked.
"All right."
Barrett lay, half-sitting, on the bed, listening to the sounds she made in the bathroom - the splashing of water as she washed, the brushing of her teeth, the rinsing of her mouth. Symphonie Domestique, he thought.
In hell.
He stared across the room. It was difficult to believe that they had been here only three days. He looked at the rocking chair.
Two nights ago, it had moved by itself. For all the sense of time he felt, it might have been two weeks ago, two months.
His gaze moved lingeringly around the room. Grotesque, he thought. It could be a display room in some museum; the house was a treasure trove of art works. Thousands upon thousands of creations conceived and executed in the name of beauty -
ending up in this house, which had to be the epitome of ugliness.
He blinked, refocusing his eyes as Edith came back into the room. "Can you stand to lie beside me in this tiny bed for one night?" he asked.
"I'd love to."
When she was lying beside him, both of them covered, Barrett started to fasten one end of the tie to her wrist. "I'm doing it so you won't sleepwalk." He tied the other end of the tie to one of the headboard posts. "That should give you enough freedom of movement."
Edith nodded, then, as Barrett put his arm around her, pressed against him, cradling her head in the hollow between his arm and chest. She sighed. "I feel safe now."
11:02 P.M.
If only I could sleep, she thought. Her smile was barren. The human mind, she thought. This afternoon she'd wanted to stay awake until their stay in Hell House was ended. Now she wanted nothing more than to drift into unconsciousness, eliminating eight or nine hours of their remaining time here.
She closed her eyes again. How many times had she closed and opened them now? Forty, fifty, a hundred? She drew in a long, slow breath. That smell; always that fetid smell.
Hell House should be burned to the ground.
She opened her eyes and looked at Lionel. He was deeply asleep. Moving her right hand, she felt the tug of the tie on her wrist. Had he really done it because she'd walked in her sleep last night? Or was it Fischer he was worried about? Did he really fear she'd go to Fischer again? She couldn't fathom what had driven her to him the first time. Had it truly been the house? Or was it something in herself? She'd never had such overt sex desires before - not even about Lionel, much less other men. Or women; she shuddered at the thought. She was frightened and appalled by the things she'd said and done.
She pressed her lips together. It was more than just herself; it had to be. Something had invaded her, some virus of corruption which, even as she lay here, might be spreading its disease throughout her mind and body. She would not believe it was herself alone, some unsuspected evil in her nature starting to emerge. It had to be the house. It had affected others. She could scarcely hope to be immune.
Her chin jerked up. She stared across the room.
The rocking chair had started moving.
"Lionel," she murmured. No. He needed sleep. It's force, she told herself unguided, unintelligent; kinetics taking the path of least resistance - slamming doors, winds, footsteps, rocking chairs.
She wanted to close her eyes but knew that, even if she did, she'd hear the rhythmic squeaking of the chair. She stared at it.
Dynamics. Force. Residuum. Her mind repeated the words again and again.
Yet all the time, she knew, she really knew, that it was someone sitting in the chair - someone whom she couldn't see.
Someone cruel, implacable, waiting to destroy her, waiting to destroy them all. Was it Belasco? she thought in horror. What if he were suddenly to appear, gigantic, terrifying, smiling at her as he rocked? There's no one there! she forced herself to think.
No one there at all!
The chair rocked slowly back and forth. Back and forth.
11:28 P.M.
The room felt hot. Groaning, Florence peeled aside the top blanket and dropped it to the floor. She turned on her side and closed her eyes again. Sleep, she told herself. Tomorrow we'll get back to it again.
A few minutes later she thrashed onto her back and looked at the ceiling again. No use, she thought. She wasn't going to sleep tonight.
Daniel's words had stunned her. She had always thought in terms of working with Dr. Barrett, but it had never occurred to her that such an alliance was an absolute necessity.
She'd almost gone to see him, tell him that they had to solve the problem of Daniel Belasco together. Then she'd realized that it would be a waste of time. As far as Dr. Barrett was concerned, there was no Daniel Belasco; he was a product of her own subconscious. What good would talking to him do? He hadn't accepted the body or the ring. Why should a Bible entry make any difference to him?
She drew aside the covers restlessly and sat up. What was she to do? She couldn't just stand by and let Dr. Barrett force Daniel from the house, without giving him peace. The thought appalled her. To plunge his desolate soul into limbo would be a crime against God.
Yet how could she prevent it? She mustn't even consider what Daniel had asked. She mustn't.
She stood with a mournful sigh and crossed the room. Entering the bathroom, she ran a glass of water. What other way was there, though? her mind probed. She'd been praying steadily since morning, pleading, importuning; all to no avail.
And, by tomorrow, Dr. Barrett would be ready with his machine.
For a moment she had the wild urge to run downstairs and damage the machine. She shook that off, angry at herself for even thinking it. She had no right to stand in Dr. Barrett's way. He was an honest, conscientious man who had devoted his life to his work. That he was so close to the truth was incredible. It was not his fault that the answer he'd found was only partial. He didn't even believe in the existence of Daniel Belasco. Obviously, he could not feel responsible for persecuting him.
Florence put down the glass and turned from the sink. There has to be an answer, she thought; there has to be. She started back into the bedroom.
She stopped with a gasp and looked toward the Spanish table.
The telephone was ringing.
It can't, she thought. It hasn't worked in more than thirty years.
She wouldn't answer it. She knew what it was.
It kept on ringing, the shrill sounds stabbing at her eardrums, at her brain.
She mustn't answer it. She wouldn't.
The telephone kept ringing.
"No," she said.
Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.
With a sob, she lunged across the room and jerked up the receiver, dumping it on the table. She leaned against the edge of the table, suddenly weak, palms pressing on its surface. She could scarcely breathe. She wondered dazedly if she were going to faint.
She heard a thin voice coming from the earpiece. She couldn't hear what it said - a single word repeated - but she knew that it was Daniel's voice.
"No," she mumbled.
The voice kept speaking the same word, over and over. She jerked up the receiver, spoke into it desperately. "No!"
"Please," said Daniel.
Florence closed her eyes. "No," she whispered.
"Please." His voice was pitiful.
"No, Daniel."
"Please."
"No. No."
" Please." She had never heard such anguish in a voice before. " Please."
" No." She could barely speak now. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. Her throat felt clogged.
" Please," he begged.
"No," she whispered. "No, no."
" Please." The voice of someone begging for his very existence. " Please." She was his only hope. " Please." Tomorrow he would be thrust into horror by Dr. Barrett. " Please." There was only the one way. " Please." He started crying. " Please.
Please." The world was gone. There were only the two of them. " Please." She had to help him. " Please." He was sobbing.
" Please! " Dear God, her heart was breaking! " Please! Please! Please! "
She hung up suddenly, a violent shudder racking through her body. All right! she thought. It was the only way. Her spirit guides would help her and protect her; God would help her and protect her. It was the only way; the only way. She believed in Daniel, she believed in herself. There was only the one way; she could see that now with vivid clarity.
Moving to the bed on trembling legs, she sank to her knees beside it, bowed her head, and clasped her hands together tightly.
Closing her eyes, she began to pray: "Dear God, reach down your hand and give me your protection. Help me, this night, to bring to your care the tortured soul of Daniel Belasco."
For five minutes she prayed without cease. Then, slowly, she rose and undid her robe. Removing it, she laid it across the other bed. She shivered as she drew the flannel nightgown over her head. She looked down at her body. Let this be the temple, then, she thought.
Drawing aside the bedclothes, she lay on her back. The room was almost dark, the bathroom door nearly shut. She closed her eyes and started breathing deeply. Daniel, she called in her mind. I give you, now, the love you never knew. I do this freely so that you will gain the strength to leave this house. With God's love and with mine, you shall rest, this night, in Paradise.
She opened her eyes. "Daniel," she said, "your bride is Waiting."
There was a movement near the door. A figure drifted toward her.
"Daniel?"
"Yes, my love."
She held out her arms.
He crossed the room, and Florence felt the drawing from her body as he neared. She could just make out his features, gentle, frightened, filled with need for her. He lay beside her on the bed. She turned to face him. She could feel his breath, and pressing close, she gave her lips to him.
His kiss was long and tender. "I love you," he whispered.
"And I love you."
She closed her eyes and turned onto her back again, feeling his weight shift onto her. "With love," she murmured. "Please, with love."
"Florence," he said.
She opened her eyes.
In an instant, she lay petrified, heartbeat staggering as she gasped at what was lying on her.
It was the figure of a corpse, its face in an advanced state of decomposition. Livid, scaly flesh was crumbling from its bones, its rotted lips wreathed in a leering smile that showed discolored jagged teeth, all of them decayed. Only the slanting yellow eyes were alive, regarding her with demoniacal glee. A leaden bluish light enveloped its entire body, gases of putrefaction bubbling around it.
A scream of horror flooded from her throat as the moldering figure plunged inside her.
