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

Barrett looked as though he meant to speak. Then he changed his mind and peered down the corridor. "I think that staircase leads down to the pool and steam room," he said. "No point in going there until the electricity's on." He limped across the corridor and opened a heavy wooden door.
"What is it?" Edith asked.
"Looks like a chapel."
"A _chapel?_" Florence looked appalled. As she neared the door, she started making sounds of apprehension in her throat. Edith glanced at her uneasily.
"Miss Tanner?" Barrett said.
She didn't answer. Almost to the door, she held back.
"Better not," said Fischer.
Florence shook her head. "I must." She began to enter.
With a faint, involuntuy cry, she shrank back. Edith started. "What _is_ it?" Florence was unable to reply. She sucked in breath and shook her head with tiny movements. Barrett put his hand on Edith's arm. She looked at him and saw his lips frame the words, "It's all right."
"I can't go in," Florence said, as though apologizing. "Not now, anyway." She swallowed. "The atmosphere is more than I can bear."
"We'll only be a moment," Barrett told her.
Florence nodded, turning away.
As she went inside the chapel, Edith braced herself, expecting a shock of some kind. Feeling nothing, she turned to Lionel in confusion, started to speak, then waited until they were apart from Fischer. "Why couldn't she come in?" she whispered then.
"Her system is attuned to psychic energy," Barrett explained. "Obviously it's very strong in here."
"Why here?"
"Contrast, perhaps. A church in hell; that sort of thing."
Edith nodded, glancing back at Fischer. "Why doesn't it bother him?" she asked.
"Perhaps he knows how to protect himself better than she does."
Edith nodded again, stopping as Lionel did to look around the low-ceilinged chapel. There were wooden pews for fifty people. In front was an altar; above it, glinting in the candlelight, a life-size, flesh-colored figure of Jesus on the cross.
"It _looks_ like a chapel," she started to say, breaking off in shock as she saw that the figure of Jesus was naked, an enormous phallus jutting upward from between the legs. She made a sound of revulsion, staring at the obscene crucifix. The air seemed suddenly thick, coagulating in her throat.
Now she noticed that the walls were covered with pornographic murals. Her eye was caught by one on her right, depicting a mass orgy involving half-clothed nuns and priests. The faces on the figures were demented--leering, slavering, darkly flushed, distorted by maniacal lust.
"Profanation of the sacred," Barrett said. "A venerable sickness."
"He _was_ sick," Edith murmured.
"Yes, he was." Barrett took her arm. As he escorted her along the aisle, Edith saw that Fischer had already left.
They found him in the corridor.
"_She's gone_," he said.


Edith stared at him. "How can she--?" She broke off looking around.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Barrett said.
"_Are_ you?" Fischer sounded angry.
"I'm sure she's all right," said Barrett firmly. "Miss Tannet!" he called. "Come along, my dear." He started down the corridor. "Miss Tanner!" Fischer followed him without making a sound.
"Lionel, why would she--?"
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Barrett said. He called again. "Miss Tanner! Can you hear me?"
As they reached the entry hall, Edith pointed. There was candlelight inside the great hall.
"Miss Tanner!" Barrett called.
"Yes!"
Barrett smiled at Edith, then glanced over at Fischer. Fischer's expression had not relaxed.
She was standing on the far side of the hall. Their footsteps clicked in broken rhythm on the floor as they crossed to her. "You shouldn't have done that, Miss Tanner," Barrett said. "You caused us undue alarm."
"I'm sorry," Florence said, but it was only a token apology. "I heard a voice in here."
Edith shuddered.
Florence gestured toward the piece of furniture she was standing beside, a phonograph installed inside a walnut Spanish cabinet. Reaching down to its turntable, she lifted off a record and showed it to them. "It was this."
Edith didn't understand. "How could it play without electricity?"
"You forget they used to wind up phonographs." Barrett set his candle holder on top of the cabinet and took the record from Florence. "Homemade," he said.
"Belasco."
Barrett looked at her, intrigued. "His voice?" She nodded, and he turned to put it back on the turntable. Florence looked at Fischer, who was standing several yards away, staring at the phonograph.
Barrett wound the crank tight, ran a fingertip across the end of the steel needle, and set it on the record edge. There was a crackling noise through the speaker, then a voice.
"Welcome to my house," said Emeric Belasco. "I'm delighted you could come."
Edith crossed her arms and shivered.
"I am certain you will find your stay here most illuminating." Belasco's voice was soft and mellow, yet terrifying--the voice of a carefully disciplined madman. "It is regrettable I cannot be with you," it said, "but I had to leave before your arrival."