Hell House
Chapter 42
He stiffened as a cry of anguished rage burst from the lips of the dwindling figure in black. For a moment Fischer couldn't react. Then the grin returned. "Oh, no," he said. He started shaking his head. "Oh, no. You couldn't be that small."
He started forward again. "Bastard?" The figure drew back farther. " Bastard? That disturbed you? Oh, Belasco. What a funny little man you really were. What a funny little crawling bug of a ghost. You weren't a genius. You were a nut, a creep, a deviate, a slob, a loser. And a sawed-off little bastard in the bargain!
" BELASCO! " He howled. "Your mother was a whore, a slut, a bitch! You were a bastard, Emeric! A funny little driedup bastard! Do you hear me, Evil Emeric? A bastard, bastard, BASTARD, BASTARD! "
Edith flung her hands across her ears to shut away the hideous wail that gorged the air. Fischer stumbled to a halt, his features washed of fury by the sound. He stared at the nebulous figure behind the altar - cowering, rat-faced, beaten - and it seemed as though he heard Florence's voice in his mind, whispering: Perfect love casteth out fear. And suddenly despite everything, he felt a sickened pity for the figure standing there before him.
"God help you, Belasco," he said.
The figure vanished. For a long time they could hear a screaming, as of someone falling down into a bottomless pit, the sound fading slowly, until the chapel was still.
Fischer moved behind the altar and looked at the section of wall revealed by the torn wallpaper.
He smiled. She'd shown him this too; if only he had known.
Leaning over, he pushed at the wall. It opened with a grating rumble.
A short staircase declined in front of him. He turned to Edith and extended his hand. She didn't speak. Moving across the chapel, she circled the altar and took his hand.
They descended the staircase. At the bottom was a heavy door. Fischer shouldered it open.
They stood in the doorway, looking at the mummified figure sitting upright on a large wooden armchair.
"They never found him because he was here," Fischer said.
They entered the small, dim-lit chamber and crossed to the chair. Despite the feeling Edith had that everything was over, she couldn't help cringing from the sight of Emeric Belasco's dark eyes glaring at them from death.
"Look." Fischer picked up a jug.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure but - " Fischer ran his palms across the surface of the jug. The impressions came immediately. "Belasco set it down beside himself and made himself die of thirst," he told her. "It was his final achievement of will. In life, that is."
Edith averted her face from the eyes. She looked down, leaning forward suddenly. The chamber was so gloomy that she hadn't noticed before. "His legs," she said.
Fischer didn't speak. He set down the jug and knelt in front of Belasco's corpse. She saw his hands moving in the shadows; made a tiny sound of shock as he stood up with a leg in his hands.
"' If thy right eye offend thee,'" he said. "'Extremities.' She was giving us the answer, you see." He ran a hand over the artificial leg. " He so despised his shortness that he had his legs surgically removed and wore these instead, to give him height.
That's why he chose to die in here - so no one would ever know. He had to be the Roaring Giant or nothing. There simply wasn't enough stature inside him to compensate for his shortness - or his bastardy."
He turned abruptly and looked around. Setting down the leg, he crossed the floor and put his hands against the wall. "My God," he said.
"What is it?"
"Maybe he was a genius, after all." He walked around the chamber, touching all the walls, examining the ceiling and the door. "The final mystery solved," he said. "It wasn't that his power was so great that he could resist the Reversor." His tone was almost awed. "He must have known, more than forty years ago, about the connection between electromagnetic radiation and survival after death.
" The walls, door, and ceiling are sheathed with lead."
9:12 P.M.
The two walked slowly down the steps, Edith carrying her suitcase, Fischer carrying Barrett's suitcase and his duffel bag.
"How does it feel?" she asked.
"What?"
"To be the one who conquered Hell House."
"I didn't conquer it," he said. "It took all of us."
Edith tried not to smile. She knew it was true, but wanted him to say it.
"Your husband's efforts weakened Belasco's power. Florence's efforts led us to the final answer. I just polished it off, that's all - and even that would have been impossible if you hadn't saved my life.
"It had to be that way, I guess," he said. "Your husband's mentality helped, but wasn't enough by itself. Florence's spirituality helped, but wasn't enough by itself. It took one more element, which I provided - a willingness to face Belasco on his own terms, defeat him with his own weaknesses."
He made a scoffing noise. "Then again, Belasco may have beaten himself, I suspect that's part of it, too. After all, he'd been waiting thirty years for more guests. Maybe he was so eager to utilize his power again that he overextended himself, made the first mistakes of his existence in this house."
He stopped at the door, and both of them turned. For a long time they stood quietly. Edith thought about returning to Manhattan and to life without Lionel. She couldn't visualize it, but for now a kind of inexplicable peace had taken hold of her.
She had the remnants of his manuscript with her. She'd see to its publication, see to it that people in his field learned what he'd accomplished. After that she'd worry about herself.
Fischer looked around, extending tendrils of unconscious thought. As he did, he wondered, consciously, what lay ahead for him. Not that it mattered. Whatever it was, he had a chance to face it now. It was bizarre that, in this house, where his horror had first begun, he should feel the returning stir of self-assurance.
He turned and smiled at Edith. "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.
He started forward again. "Bastard?" The figure drew back farther. " Bastard? That disturbed you? Oh, Belasco. What a funny little man you really were. What a funny little crawling bug of a ghost. You weren't a genius. You were a nut, a creep, a deviate, a slob, a loser. And a sawed-off little bastard in the bargain!
" BELASCO! " He howled. "Your mother was a whore, a slut, a bitch! You were a bastard, Emeric! A funny little driedup bastard! Do you hear me, Evil Emeric? A bastard, bastard, BASTARD, BASTARD! "
Edith flung her hands across her ears to shut away the hideous wail that gorged the air. Fischer stumbled to a halt, his features washed of fury by the sound. He stared at the nebulous figure behind the altar - cowering, rat-faced, beaten - and it seemed as though he heard Florence's voice in his mind, whispering: Perfect love casteth out fear. And suddenly despite everything, he felt a sickened pity for the figure standing there before him.
"God help you, Belasco," he said.
The figure vanished. For a long time they could hear a screaming, as of someone falling down into a bottomless pit, the sound fading slowly, until the chapel was still.
Fischer moved behind the altar and looked at the section of wall revealed by the torn wallpaper.
He smiled. She'd shown him this too; if only he had known.
Leaning over, he pushed at the wall. It opened with a grating rumble.
A short staircase declined in front of him. He turned to Edith and extended his hand. She didn't speak. Moving across the chapel, she circled the altar and took his hand.
They descended the staircase. At the bottom was a heavy door. Fischer shouldered it open.
They stood in the doorway, looking at the mummified figure sitting upright on a large wooden armchair.
"They never found him because he was here," Fischer said.
They entered the small, dim-lit chamber and crossed to the chair. Despite the feeling Edith had that everything was over, she couldn't help cringing from the sight of Emeric Belasco's dark eyes glaring at them from death.
"Look." Fischer picked up a jug.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure but - " Fischer ran his palms across the surface of the jug. The impressions came immediately. "Belasco set it down beside himself and made himself die of thirst," he told her. "It was his final achievement of will. In life, that is."
Edith averted her face from the eyes. She looked down, leaning forward suddenly. The chamber was so gloomy that she hadn't noticed before. "His legs," she said.
Fischer didn't speak. He set down the jug and knelt in front of Belasco's corpse. She saw his hands moving in the shadows; made a tiny sound of shock as he stood up with a leg in his hands.
"' If thy right eye offend thee,'" he said. "'Extremities.' She was giving us the answer, you see." He ran a hand over the artificial leg. " He so despised his shortness that he had his legs surgically removed and wore these instead, to give him height.
That's why he chose to die in here - so no one would ever know. He had to be the Roaring Giant or nothing. There simply wasn't enough stature inside him to compensate for his shortness - or his bastardy."
He turned abruptly and looked around. Setting down the leg, he crossed the floor and put his hands against the wall. "My God," he said.
"What is it?"
"Maybe he was a genius, after all." He walked around the chamber, touching all the walls, examining the ceiling and the door. "The final mystery solved," he said. "It wasn't that his power was so great that he could resist the Reversor." His tone was almost awed. "He must have known, more than forty years ago, about the connection between electromagnetic radiation and survival after death.
" The walls, door, and ceiling are sheathed with lead."
9:12 P.M.
The two walked slowly down the steps, Edith carrying her suitcase, Fischer carrying Barrett's suitcase and his duffel bag.
"How does it feel?" she asked.
"What?"
"To be the one who conquered Hell House."
"I didn't conquer it," he said. "It took all of us."
Edith tried not to smile. She knew it was true, but wanted him to say it.
"Your husband's efforts weakened Belasco's power. Florence's efforts led us to the final answer. I just polished it off, that's all - and even that would have been impossible if you hadn't saved my life.
"It had to be that way, I guess," he said. "Your husband's mentality helped, but wasn't enough by itself. Florence's spirituality helped, but wasn't enough by itself. It took one more element, which I provided - a willingness to face Belasco on his own terms, defeat him with his own weaknesses."
He made a scoffing noise. "Then again, Belasco may have beaten himself, I suspect that's part of it, too. After all, he'd been waiting thirty years for more guests. Maybe he was so eager to utilize his power again that he overextended himself, made the first mistakes of his existence in this house."
He stopped at the door, and both of them turned. For a long time they stood quietly. Edith thought about returning to Manhattan and to life without Lionel. She couldn't visualize it, but for now a kind of inexplicable peace had taken hold of her.
She had the remnants of his manuscript with her. She'd see to its publication, see to it that people in his field learned what he'd accomplished. After that she'd worry about herself.
Fischer looked around, extending tendrils of unconscious thought. As he did, he wondered, consciously, what lay ahead for him. Not that it mattered. Whatever it was, he had a chance to face it now. It was bizarre that, in this house, where his horror had first begun, he should feel the returning stir of self-assurance.
He turned and smiled at Edith. "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.
