Hell House

by Richard Matheson

Barrett persisted. “What happened to Belasco?” “No one knows,” said Fischer. “When relatives of some of his guests had the house broken into in November of 1929, everyone inside was dead—twenty-seven of them. “Belasco was not among them.”

“Shall we take our places?”

The great hall was without a sound. Barrett stared at the place where Florence sat, though nothing was visible to him. Edith had closed her eyes, preferring an individual darkness to that of the room. Fischer sat tensely in his chair, waiting.

“That doesn’t make sense. Why should I suddenly become a physical medium after all these years?”

Science is more than a body of facts. It is, first and foremost, a method of investigation, and there is no acceptable reason why parapsychological phenomena should not be investigated by this method, for, as much as physics and chemistry, parapsychology is a science of the natural.

Morselli expressed it thus: “The time has come to break with this exaggerated, negative attitude, this constant casting of the shadow of doubt with its smile of sarcasm.”

It’s a kind of random mechanics which follows the line of least resistance—sounds and movements which occurred most often in the past, establishing a pattern of dynamics: breezes, door slams, rappings, footsteps, rocking chairs.”

“If you’re all that clever, why are you a prisoner in this house?”

“Go away, and don’t come back until you’re ready to behave.”

She could swear the edges of the shadow were extending like a spreading inkblot.

“I thought I saw your shadow start to grow.”

“It’s possible,” he said, “but following your sleepless night in this particular house, I’m more inclined to think it was imagination.”

Who ever heard of a ghost in a steam room?

Poor man, she thought, stopping by the bed. His face was drawn and pale. She wondered when he’d gotten to sleep. Benjamin Franklin Fischer: the greatest American physical medium of the century, His sittings in Professor Galbreath’s house at Marks College had been the most incredible display of power since the heyday of Home and Palladino. She shook her head with pity. Now he was emotionally crippled, a latter-day Samson, self-shorn of might.

A photograph. A crib. New York. A calendar for 1903. A pregnant woman. The birth of a child; a boy.

“That voice warning us. That pounding on the table. The personality that approached me in my room last night. A young man.” “Who?” asked Barrett. “Belasco’s son.” They looked at her in silence. “You recall that Mr. Fischer mentioned him.” “But didn’t he say that no one was sure whether Belasco had a son or not?” Barrett said. Florence nodded. “But he did. He’s here now, suffering, tormented. He must have gone into spirit at an early age— just past twenty, I feel. He’s very young and very frightened— and, because he’s frightened, very angry, very hostile. I believe if we can convince him to go on, a portion of the haunting force will be eliminated.”

“I never thought electric lights could look so good,

Her neck still hurt from the wrenching she’d given it. Had she really seen a movement? There’d been nothing there. Still, she could have sworn that someone had been looking down into the cabinet.

“Evidence of EMR commencing.”

“Ozone present in the air,”

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.

“Teleplasmic veil beginning to condense,”

“Teleplasmic figure formed. Imperfectly—”

“Miss Tanner coming out of trance,” he said. “Premature retraction, causing brief systemic shock.”

“What am I looking at?” she asked. “A specimen of that teleplasm prepared in water. What you see are conglomerates of etiolated, lamellar, cohesive bodies, as well as single laminae of varied forms resembling epithelium without nuclei.”

the specimen consists of cell detritus, epithelium cells, veils, lamellae, filmy aggregates, isolated fat grains, mucus, and so on.”

Think of it, my dear. An organic extemalization of thought. Mind reduced to matter, subject to scientific observation, measurement, and analysis.”

The cat lay warmly indolent beside her. Its body throbbed with purrs as Florence stroked its neck.

There was something underneath the sheet.

“Are you Emeric Belasco’s son?” she asked. She edged along the side of the bed. “If you are, you said that nothing changes. Yet, with love, all things are possible. This is true of life, and true of life beyond life.”

“If practical jokes are all you’re interested in, stay away from me!”

Such anger, she thought. Yet it wasn’t only anger; that was clear. It was a plea as well.

“Have you seen this couple yet?” she asked, gesturing toward the table, which was set for supper. “No.” She smiled. “Funny if there wasn’t any couple.” Fischer showed no sign of amusement.

“All I was in contact with was a live wire.”

“Ben, you’ve got to leave this house.” Fischer turned to Florence, startled by her words. “You aren’t up to it,” she told him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Florence turned to Barrett for support. “Doctor—” she began, then stopped, seeing how he looked at her as Edith helped him to his feet. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He lurched away. Still moving, he glanced back at her. “You’re the one who’d better leave,” he said. “You’re the one who’s being used, not me.”

“You’re saying"—Edith hesitated—”she did all that?” “Making use of the power in the room,” he said. “Converting it to poltergeist-type phenomena directed at me “

“I accepted her genial attitude toward me at face value. You can never do that with a medium. You never know what’s underneath. It might be absolute hostility, and if it is"—he blew out breath—”by making unconscious use of their power, they can inflict tremendous damage. Especially when that power can be amplified a hundredfold by the kind of energy that fills this house.”

Five more days of this, she thought.

“Please believe me,” Florence said. “I know I’m right. He’s trying to turn us against each other.” She looked at him with anxious eyes. “If you don’t believe me, he’ll have succeeded; can’t you see that?”

“Doctor, we can’t stop the sittings!” “I am doing so, Miss Tanner.” “You think it was me who—” “Not only think it, Miss Tanner, but know it,” he interrupted. “Now, please, I’m in considerable pain.”

Someone’s watching me again, she thought.

Dear God in heaven, there are no such things as ghosts.

That was the horror of the place. It was not amorphously haunted. Hell House had a method. It worked against invaders systematically.

He was crossing the entry hall when he froze in his tracks, his heartbeat leaping. A figure was drifting down the staircase. Fischer blinked his eyes and squinted, trying to see who or what it was; there were no lights on the stairs. He started as the figure reached the foot of the steps and started toward the front door. It was Edith in a pair of light blue ski pajamas, her eyes staring straight ahead. Fischer stood motionless as she glided like a wraith across the entry hall and pulled open the front door. She went outside, and Fischer, starting, ran across the entry hall. He dashed through the open doorway, gasping in shock as he saw that she had disappeared into the mist. He ran across the porch and down the steps, hearing a crackling of frost beneath his tennis shoes as he ran along the path. He saw a blur of movement ahead. Is it really her? he thought in sudden horror. Or was he being tricked? He started slowing down, then caught his breath. The figure was headed toward— “No!” He bolted forward, grabbing. Two emotions flared in him at once—relief that it was flesh and skin he clutched, and fierce elation that he’d thwarted the will of the house. He pulled Edith away from the edge of the tarn. She looked at him without a sign of recognition, eyes like glass.

Was there really something down there?

Shackled to the wall inside the narrow passage were the mummified remains of a man.

Shackled to the wall inside the narrow passage were the mummified remains of a man. Barrett murmured, “Shades of Poe.” “I told you he was here,” Florence said. Fischer stared at the grayish, parchmentlike features of the corpse. Its eyes were like dark, hardened berries, its lips drawn back and frozen in a soundless scream. Obviously, he’d been tied behind the wall while still alive.

“I’m saying that I need more time to digest this information and work out my interpretation of it. I must advise you, however, not to presume that one cadaver with a ring can reverse the scientific convictions of a lifetime.”

Fischer took the ring from Florence. It was made of gold, with an oval crest. Across the crest, in scroll-like letters, were the initials “D. B.”

Yet, always, behind the mask—the face that Hell House had created—cowered the boy; wanting to flee, but incapable of doing so; wanting love, but finding only license.