"HellHouse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matheson Richard)

They looked at each other in silence for a long time. Finally she touched his hand. "'But he who buried his talent--'" she began
"Oh, shit." Turning on his heel, he stalked away from her.




6:42 P.M.


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.
The four were sitting at one end of the table, Barrett at its head. The unseen couple from Caribou Falls had left the supper at six-fifteen.
"If no one objects, I'd like to try a sitting tonight," Florence said.
Barrett's hand froze momentarily before continuing to spoon himself a second portion of broccoli. "I have no objection," he said.
Florence glanced at Edith, who shook her head. She looked at Fischer. "Fine," he said, reaching for the coffeepot.
Florence nodded. "After supper, then." Her plate was empty; she'd been drinking only water since they'd sat down.
"Would _you_ care to sit in the morning, Mr. Fischer?" Barrett asked.
Fischer shook his head. "Not yet."
Barrett nodded. There; it's done, he thought. He'd asked and been refused. Since his part in the project required the services of a physical medium, Deutsch couldn't object to his sending for one of his own people. _Excellent_, he thought. He'd get it settled in the morning.
"Well," he said, "I must say that the house has scarcely lived up to its reputation so far."
Fischer looked up from the scraps of food on his plate. "It hasn't taken our measure yet," he said. His lips flexed briefly in a humorless smile.
"I think we'd be mistaken to consider the house as the haunting force," Florence said. "Quite evidently, the trouble is created by surviving personalities--whoever they may be. The only one we can be sure of is Belasco."
"You contacted him today, did you?" Barrett asked. His tone was mild, but Florence sensed the goading in it. "No," she said. "But Mr. Fischer did when he was here in 1940. And Belasco's presence _has_ been documented."
"Reported," Barrett said.
Florence hesitated. Finally she said, "I think it might be well for us to lay our cards on the table, Doctor Barrett. I take it you are still convinced that no such things as ghosts exist."
"If, by that, you mean surviving personalities," said Barrett, "you are quite correct."
"Despite the fact that they've been observed throughout the ages?" Florence asked. "Have been seen by more than one person at a time? Been seen by animals? Been photographed? Have imparted information that was later verified? Have touched people? Moved objects? Been weighed?"
"These are facts in evidence of a phenomenon, Miss Tanner, not proof of ghosts."
Florence smiled wearily. "I don't know how to answer that," she said.
Barrett returned her smile, gesturing with his hands as though to say: We don't agree, so why not let it go at that?
"You don't accept survival, then," Florence persisted.
"It's a charming notion," Barrett said. "I have no objection to it, so long as I am not expected to give credence to the concept of communicating with the so-called survivors."
Florence regarded him sadly. "You can say that, having heard the sobs of joy at seances?"
"I've heard similar sobs in mental institutions."
"_Mental institutions?_"
Barrett sighed. "No offense intended. But the evidence is clear that belief in communication with the dead has led more people to madness than to peace of mind."
"_That isn't true_," said Florence. "If it were, all attempts at spirit communication would have ended long ago. They haven't, though; they've lasted through the centuries." She looked intently at Barrett, as though trying to understand his point of view. "You call it a charming notion, Doctor. Surely it's more than that. What about the religions that accept the idea of life after death? Didn't Saint Paul say: 'If the dead rise not from the grave, then is our religion vain'?"
Barrett didn't respond.
"But you don't agree," she said.
"I don't agree."
"Have you any alternative to offer, though?"
"_Yes_." Barrett returned her gaze with challenge. "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. That is where the fascination lies, Miss Tanner. Not in the speculative realms of afterlife, but _here, today; the challenge of ourselves_. The undiscovered mysteries of the human spectrum, the infrared capacities of our bodies, the ultraviolet capacities of our minds. This is the alternative I offer: _the extended faculties of the human system not as yet established_. The faculties by which, I am convinced, all psychic phenomena are produced."
Florence remained silent for a few moments before she smiled. "We'll see," she said.
Barrett nodded once. "Indeed we shall."


Edith looked around the dining hall. "When was this house built?" she asked.
Barrett looked at Fischer. "Do you know?"
"Nineteen-nineteen," Fischer answered.
"From several things you said today, I have the impression that you know quite a bit about Belasco," Barrett said. "Would you care to tell us what you know? It might not be amiss to"--he repressed a smile--know our adversary."