Hell House

by Richard Matheson

God was good.

Against Hell House.

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.

Edith drew in sudden breath. “I wish I knew what to expect.” Fischer answered without looking back. “Expect anything,” he said.

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.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Barrett said. “Are you?” Fischer sounded angry. “I’m sure she’s all right,” said Barrett firmly.

“How do you know he didn’t walk right by us while we were listening?”

He followed Edith inside and shut the door. Edith watched as he limped around the bedroom. To her left were a pair of carved walnut Renaissance beds, between them a small table with a lamp and a French-style telephone on it. A fireplace was centered on the opposite wall, in front of it a heavy walnut rocking chair. The teakwood floor was almost covered by a twenty-by-thirty-foot blue Persian rug, in the middle of which stood an octagonal-topped table with a matching chair upholstered in red leather.

“Belasco was not among them.”

the darkness had been so intense that she had felt it pressing at her eyes.

Edith had closed her eyes, preferring an individual darkness to that of the room.

“Just watch your step,” he cut her off. “The Lord may not have too much influence in Hell House.”

Let’s go, she thought. She tried to speak the words aloud, but something kept her from it.

She

“Shades of Poe.”

Ha

You wake up!—you sexless bastard.”

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.”

Awwwww

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 chuckled self-consciously. “End of discourse.” Leaning over, he kissed her gently on the cheek. “The speechifier loves you,” he said. “Oh, Lionel.” She slipped her arms around his back. “I love you, too. And I’m so proud of you.”