Hell House

by Richard Matheson

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

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

An over-emotive Spiritualist medium, and the lone survivor of the 1940 debacle?

Barrett knew he had to accede or lose the opportunity—and there was a chance if he could get his machine constructed in time.

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

“The word is ‘supernormal. ‘ Nature cannot be transcen—”

what he’s paying for is an assurance of immortality.”

“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.”

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

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.

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

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

“My wife has been advised that there will be occurrences.”

“She has also been advised,” he said, “that these occurrences will not, in any way, signify the presence of the dead.”

“The phenomena are too complex to be the work of one surviving spirit. It’s obviously a case of multiple haunting.”

“Will you get rid of it with your machine?”

“Will you get rid of it with your machine?” asked Edith. Florence and Fischer looked at Barrett. “I’ll explain it presently,” he said.

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.

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.

“Don’t fall in the tarn.”

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

“It has no windows,”

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—”

“The breakdown of an antique generator can scarcely be classified as a psychic phenomenon.”

Fischer switched on the flashlight, pointed the beam inside, then, bracing himself, stepped across the threshold.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 suspended over it. Good place to set up my equipment, Barrett thought; the hall had obviously been cleaned. He lowered his candle. “Let’s push on,” he said.

The theater was designed to seat a hundred people, its walls covered with an antique red brocade, its sloping, three-aisled floor with thick red carpeting. On the stage, gilded Renaissance columns flanked the screen, and spaced along the walls were silver candelabra wired for electricity. The seats were custom-made, upholstered with wine-red velvet.

“What is it?” Edith asked. “Looks like a chapel.” “A chapel?” Florence looked appalled. As she neared the door, she started making sounds of apprehension in her throat. Edith glanced at her uneasily. “Miss Tanner?” Barrett said. She didn’t answer. Almost to the door, she held back. “Better not,” said Fischer. Florence shook her head. “I must.” She began to enter. With a faint, involuntary cry, she shrank back. Edith started. “What is it?” Florence was unable to reply. She sucked in breath and shook her head with tiny movements. Barrett put his hand on Edith’s arm. She looked at him and saw his lips frame the words, “It’s all right.” “I can’t go in,” Florence said, as though apologizing. “Not now, anyway.” She swallowed. “The atmosphere is more than I can bear.”

There were wooden pews for fifty people. In front was an altar; above it, glinting in the candlelight, a life-size, flesh-colored figure of Jesus on the cross.

“Profanation of the sacred,” Barrett said. “A venerable sickness.”

“Welcome to my house,” said Emeric Belasco. “I’m delighted you could come.”

Barrett wound the crank tight, ran a fingertip across the end of the steel needle, and set it on the record edge. There was a crackling noise through the speaker, then a voice. “Welcome to my house,” said Emeric Belasco. “I’m delighted you could come.” Edith crossed her arms and shivered. “I am certain you will find your stay here most illuminating.” Belasco’s voice was soft and mellow, yet terrifying—the voice of a carefully disciplined madman. “It is regrettable I cannot be with you,” it said, “but I had to leave before your arrival.” Bastard, Fischer thought. “Do not let my physical absence disturb you, however. Think of me as your unseen host and believe that, during your stay here, I shall be with you in spirit.” Edith’s teeth were set on edge. That voice. “All your needs have been provided for,” Belasco’s voice continued. “Nothing has been overlooked. Go where you will, and do what you will—these are the cardinal precepts of my home. Feel free to function as you choose. There are no responsibilities, no rules. ‘Each to his own device’ shall be the only standard here. May you find the answer that you seek. It is here, I promise you.” There was a pause. “And now … auf Wiedersehen.”

“Guests would arrive, to find him gone. That record would be played for them.” He paused. “It was a game he played. While the guests were here, Belasco spied on them from hiding.”

“Then, again, maybe he was invisible,” Fischer continued. “He claimed the power. Said that he could will the attention of a group of people to some particular object, and move among them unobserved.”

“It really happened, didn’t it?” “Of course,” he answered, smiling. “A manifestation of simple kinetics: unguided, unintelligent. No matter what Miss Tanner thinks. I should have mentioned that before we left.” “Mentioned what?” “That you’ll need to inure yourself to what she’ll be saying in the next week. She’s a Spiritualist, as you know. Survival of and communication with the so-called disincarnate is the foundation of her belief; an erroneous foundation, as I intend to prove.

Barrett ran his eyes across the instruments already on the table: astatic galvanometer, mirror galvanometer, quadrant electrometer, Crookes balance, camera, gauze cage, smoke absorber, manometer, weighing platform, tape recorder.

Edith put the list down numbly. My God, she thought. What kind of week was it going to be?

The ringing echoes of their footsteps as they walked along the edge of the pool made it sound as though someone were following them.

The ballroom was immense, its lofty, brocaded walls adorned with red velvet draperies. Three enormous chandeliers hung, spaced, along the paneled ceiling. The floor was oak, elaborately parqueted. At the far end of the room was an alcove for musicians.

I feel as if I’m standing in the center of a labyrinth of such immeasurable intricacy that the prospect of emerging is—”

“The challenge is met,” whispered Florence. “Don’t be too quick to accept it,” Fischer warned.

“You’re blocking it off. That’s why you didn’t feel those things.”

“I’m not obstructing anything,” he cut her off. “I’m just not sticking my head on the block a second time. When I came here in 1940, I was just like you—no, worse, much worse. I really thought I was something. Gods gift to psychical research.”

You’re walking around this house like an open nerve. When you really do hit something, it’ll tear your insides out. This place isn’t called Hell House for nothing, you know. It intends to kill every one of us, so you’d damn well better learn to protect yourself until you’re ready. Or you’ll just be one more victim on the list.”

The dining hall was sixty feet in length, and as high as it was wide—twenty-seven feet in both directions. There were two entrances to it—one an archway from the great hall, the other a swinging door leading to the kitchen.

The dining hall was sixty feet in length, and as high as it was wide—twenty-seven feet in both directions. There were two entrances to it—one an archway from the great hall, the other a swinging door leading to the kitchen. Its ceiling was divided into a series of elaborately carved panels, its floor polished travertine, its walls were paneled to a height of twelve feet, stone-blocked above. In the center of the west wall was a giant fireplace, its Gothic mantel reaching to the ceiling. Spaced at intervals above the length of the forty-foot table in the center of the hall hung four immense sanctuary lamps, wired for electricity. Thirty chairs stood around the table, all of them constructed of antique walnut with wine-red velvet upholstery.

“An alternative far more interesting, albeit far more complex and demanding; namely, the subliminal self, that vast, concealed expanse of the human personality which, iceberglike, inheres beneath the so-called threshold of consciousness.

‘His teeth are those of a carnivore. When he bares them in a smile, it gives one the impression of an animal snarling. His face is white, for he despises the sun, eschews the out-of-doors. He has astonishingly green eyes, which seem to possess an inner light of their own. His forehead is broad, his hair and short-trimmed beard jet black. Despite his handsomeness, his is a frightening visage, the face of some demon who has taken on a human aspect’ “

“No, it was innocent at first. Haut monde dinner parties. Lavish dances in the ballroom. Soirées. People traveling from all over the country and world to spend a weekend here. Belasco was a perfect host—sophisticated, charming.

“In June of 1929, Belasco held a version of the Roman circus in his theater,” he said. “The highlight was the eating of a virgin by a starving leopard.

“And, every day, Belasco walked among them, cold, withdrawn, unmoved. Belasco, a latter-day Satan observing his rabble. Always dressed in black. A giant, terrifying figure, looking at the hell incarnate he’d created.”