Hell House

by Richard Matheson

It isn’t the business that matters, but the corruptibility of those who enter it.

“Doctor Barrett, this is life and death I’m talking about. Did you know she almost walked into the tarn last night?” Barrett started, looking shocked. “When?” he demanded. “Near midnight. You were asleep.” Fischer paused for emphasis. “So was she.” “She walked in her sleep?” Barrett looked appalled. “If I hadn’t seen her go outside—” “You should have told me sooner.” “She should have told you,” Fischer said. “The fact that she didn’t is—” He broke off at the look of offense on Barrett’s face. “Doctor, I don’t know what you think is going on in this house, but—” “What I think is going on is irrelevant to this conversation, Mr. Fischer,” Barrett said stiffly. “Irrelevant?” Fischer looked amazed. “What the hell do you mean, irrelevant? Whatever’s going on is getting to your wife. It’s gotten to Florence, and it’s gotten to you. Or maybe you haven’t noticed.”

Those thirty years of waiting had been nothing but delusion.

She wanted to close her eyes but knew that, even if she did, she’d hear the rhythmic squeaking of the chair.

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.

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.

With hideous abruptness, she began to smile.

A flickering in her eyes revealed the change, like the evanescent shimmer of sunlight across a cloud-darkened landscape. Instantly she was herself again; but not emerging from amnesia. It was, instead, a sudden, brutal surfacing to self, with total memory of every vileness she’d been forced to utter.

What if he was not allowed to take her from the house?

He’d been working on the Reversor for more than an hour before they’d eaten, laboring without cease while she dozed in a nearby easy chair. He’d said that it was almost ready now. She turned and looked across the hall at it. Despite its imposing size, it was impossible to believe that it could conquer Hell House.

Then, while Lionel had been working on the Reversor, she’d heard a sound, and starting awake, had seen an old couple crossing the hall, carrying a coffeepot and covered trays.

“To begin with fundamentals,” Barrett said, “all phenomena occur as events in nature—a nature the order of which is larger than that presented by current science, but nature, nonetheless. This is true of so-called psychic events as well, parapsychology being, in fact, no more than an extension of biology.” Fischer kept his eyes on Florence. She had slipped in and out of possession so frequently before. “Paranormal biology, then,” Barrett said, “setting forth the premise that man overflows and is greater than the organism which he inhabits, as Doctor Carrel put it. In simplest terms, the human body emits a form of energy—a psychic fluid, if you will. This energy surrounds the body with an unseen sheath; what has been called the ‘aura.’ It can be extruded beyond the borders of this aura, where it can create mechanical, chemical, and physical effects: percussions, odors, movement of external objects, and the like—as we have seen repeatedly these past few days. I believe that when Belasco spoke of ‘influences,’ he may have been referring to this energy.” Fischer looked at Barrett, ambivalent emotion rising in him. The older man sounded so confident. Was it possible that all the beliefs of his life could be reduced to something one could probe at in a laboratory? “All through the ages,” Barrett continued, “evidence in proof of this premise has been forthcoming, each new level of human development bringing about its own particular proof. In the Middle Ages, for example, much sup...

In extremes of emotion, the field grows stronger, impressing itself on its environment with more force—a force which, if contained, persists in that environment, undischarged, saturating it, disturbing organisms sensitive to it: psychics, dogs, cats—in brief, establishing a ‘haunted’ atmosphere.

Hell House is, in essence, a giant battery, the toxic power of which must, inevitably, be tapped by those who enter it, either intentionally or involuntarily.

“Shortly, my Reversor will permeate the house with a massive countercharge of electromagnetic radiation. This countercharge will oppose the polarity of the atmosphere, reverse and dissipate it. Just as the radiation of light negates mediumistic phenomena, so the radiation of my Reversor will negate the phenomena of Hell House.”

At least they would all be out of Hell House. As the unofficial leader of the group, he felt some pride in that, although it was, perhaps, absurd for him to feel it. Still, the 1931 and 1940 groups had been virtually decimated. This time, four of them had entered Hell House, four would be safely out by tonight.

He reached the archway and pointed at the Reversor with a look of triumph. “There!” he shouted. “There it stands! Your conqueror!”

His presence vanished. Florence gasped in air convulsively. She struggled to her feet and started for the bathroom. “Leaving?” said his voice. She set her mind against its blandishment. Stumbling into the bathroom, she ran cold water and splashed it on her face.

Suddenly it struck her. Horrified, she tried to push up, but was too weak. She had to let them know! Florence struggled fitfully to rise. Clouds of darkness were enveloping her. Everything felt numb. She turned her head and saw her blood running on the floorboards. Help me, God! she pleaded. She had to let them know!

“Important to science.” He turned to the Reversor, set its timer, turned several knobs, then, after hesitating for a moment, threw the switch. For several seconds Edith thought that nothing was happening. Then she heard a resonant hum rise to audibility inside the giant structure and began to feel a throbbing in the floor. She stared at the Reversor. The hum was rising in pitch and volume, the vibration in the floor increasing; she could feel it running up her legs, into her body. Power, she thought—the only thing that could oppose the house. She didn’t understand it, but feeling its heavy throb in her body, its reverberation starting to hurt her ears, she almost believed. She started as, behind the Reversor’s grillwork, tubes began to glow with an intense phosphorescence. Barrett backed off slowly. His fingers trembled as he drew out his pocket watch. Exactly noon. Fittingly precise, he thought. He pushed the watch into his pocket and turned to Edith. “We have to go.” Their coats were on the table by the front door; Barrett had brought them down earlier. Hastily he helped her on with hers. As she assisted him, she glanced toward the great hall. The noise of the Reversor was painful even here now. She could feel its pulsing in the floor beneath her, hear the rattling of a vase nearby. “Quickly,” Barrett said.

“Can’t we go back in the house?” she asked, fleetingly aware of the grotesqueness of her requesting to go back inside Hell House. “Absolutely not. The radiation would kill us.”

“She isn’t here,” he said. “She just stayed long enough to help.”

They took a final look around. Then, without another word, they went outside and moved into the mist. Fischer grunted, mumbled something. “What?” she asked. “Merry Christmas,” he repeated softly.