Hell House by Richard Matheson

Author:Richard Matheson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Horror, Fiction - Horror, Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories, Popular American Fiction, Horror - General, Haunted houses, Horror fiction, Horror tales
ISBN: 9780312868857
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 1999-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

12/23 – 2:21 P.M.

"O Spirit of Immortal Truth," Florence began, "help us, this day, to rise above the doubts and fears of this life. Open our natures to mighty revelations. Give us eyes to see, and ears to hear. Bless us in our efforts to lift the darkness from the world."

The bathroom light cast dim illumination on the place where they sat. Florence sat in the chair beside the table, eyes closed, hands on her lap, knees and feet pressed tightly together. Fischer had pulled the other chair across the floor and sat facing her at a distance of four feet.

"The sweetest expression of spiritual life is service," Florence was saying. "We offer ourselves for the service of the spirits. May they find us ready, and may they, so that naught may impede our free expression, commune with us this day and reveal their light to us. Most of all, may they impart to us the power to communicate with that tortured soul who still hovers in this place, unsanctified, imprisoned: Daniel Belasco." She raised her face. "Attend us, ministering angels. Help us in our effort to lift the burden from this soul. All this we ask in the name of the Eternal and Most Everlasting Spirit. Amen."

There was momentary silence. Fischer heard the crackling noise his throat made as he swallowed. Then Florence began to sing: "'Sweet souls around us, watch us still. Press nearer to our side. Into our thoughts, into our prayers, with gentle helpings glide.'"

When the song was ended, Florence began to take in deep breaths, drawing air into her lungs convulsively through clenched teeth as she rubbed both hands over her body. Soon her month fell open, and her head began to loll back. The heavy breathing continued. Florence slouched down in the chair, head rolling from side to side. At last she was still.

Minutes passed. Fischer began to shiver. Coldness was starting to gather between them, rising slowly like ice water, until he felt as though he were submerged to the waist in it.

He twitched as faint spots of light began to appear in front of Florence. Focuses of condensation; the phrase drifted across his mind. He stared at the spots as they grew in size and number, hovering in the air in front of Florence like a galaxy of pale, miniature suns. His legs felt almost numb now. Soon, he thought.

His fingers dug into the chair arms as teleplasm started oozing from the medium's nostrils. The viscous filaments resembled twin gray serpents gliding downward from her nose. As Fischer watched in dry-mouthed silence, they joined to form a heavier coil, which started to unravel, then began to rise and cover Florence's face. Fischer lowered his eyes. He heard a sound like rustling paper, closed his eyes.

The smell of ozone penetrated his nostrils like the odor of a badly chlorinated swimming pool. Compelled, he opened his eyes and looked up, wincing. The teleplasm had covered Florence's head, hanging over it like a wet, filmy sack.

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