Hell House

by Richard Matheson

Threads of pale white, viscous matter were oozing from the medium’s fingertips. “Teleplasm forming,” Barrett said. “Separate filaments uniting into single filmy strand. Will attempt matter penetration.” He waited until the teleplasm strand was longer, then said to Florence, “Lift the bell.” He paused before repeating the instruction. The viscous tentacle began to rear up slowly like a serpent. Edith drew back in her chair, staring at it as it glided forward through the air, penetrated the net, and headed for the table. “Teleplasmic stalk through net and moving toward the table.” Barrett said. “Dynamometer reading: thirteen hundred and forty, dropping steadily. Electric contacts still maintained.” His voice became a blur of meaningless sounds to Fischer as he watched the moist, glistening tentacle inch its way across the table like a giant worm. A photograph flared briefly in his mind: him, fourteen, deep in trance, a similar extrusion from his mouth. He shivered as the filmy member twined itself around the handle of the tea bell. The tentacle began to tighten slowly. Suddenly it raised the bell, and Fischer’s legs twitched spastically as the bell was shaken.