"I'm going back inside."

" Inside? " She looked appalled. "You don't know what it's like in there."

"I have to - "

"You don't know what it's like!" she cut him off. "It killed my husband! It killed Florence Tanner! It would have killed me if you hadn't gotten back! No one has a chance in there!"

Fischer didn't argue.

"Aren't two deaths enough? Do you have to die too?"

"I don't plan to die."

She clutched his hand. "Don't leave me, please."

"I have to."

" No."

"I have to."

"Please don't do it!"

"Edith, I have to."

"No! You don't! You don't! There isn't any reason to go back inside!"

"Edith." Fischer took her hand in both of his and waited for her crying to abate. "Listen now."

She shook her head, eyes closing.

"I have to. For Florence. For your husband."

"They wouldn't want you to - "

" I want it," Fischer interrupted. "I need it. If I leave Hell House now, I might as well crawl into my grave and die. I haven't done a thing all week. While Florence and your husband were doing everything they could to solve the haunting - "

"They couldn't solve it, though! There isn't any way of solving it!"

"Maybe not." He paused. "I'm going to try, though."

Edith glanced up quickly at him, then said nothing, silenced by his look. "I'm going to try," he said.

They were silent. Finally Fischer asked, "You drive, don't you?"

He saw a telltale flare of hope in her expression. "No," she said.

He smiled gently. "Yes, you do."

Edith's chin slumped forward on her chest. "You're going to die," she said. "Like Lionel. Like Florence."

Fischer drew in a slow breath.

"Then I will," he said.

Fischer crossed the bridge and trudged along the gravel path which ringed the tarn. He was alone now. For several moments the realization filled him with such dread that he almost turned and ran.

Edith had been crying when she left; she'd tried, in vain, to control it. Tears running down her cheeks, she'd turned the Cadillac and driven off into the mist. He had to go inside the house now anyway. He couldn't walk to Caribou Falls in this cold.

The bottoms of his tennis shoes made crunching noises on the gravel as he walked. What was he going to do? he wondered.

He had no idea. Had Florence accomplished anything? Had Barrett? He had no way of knowing. He might be confronted with starting from the beginning all over again.

He began to shake, stiffening his back to fight it off. It didn't matter what he had to do. He was here; he'd do it. Edith would bring back food and leave it on the porch for him. How long it lasted didn't matter either. Only one thing counted at the moment.

As he continued walking, he became conscious of the medallion Florence had given him pressed against his chest. He'd told Edith he was doing this for Barrett too, but really it was all for Florence. She was the one he could have helped, the one he should have helped.

The house again, a mist-obscured escarpment up ahead. Fischer stopped and looked at it. It might have stood there for a thousand years. Was there an answer to its haunting? He didn't know. But if he couldn't discover it, then no one could: of that much he was certain.

He padded silently across the porch steps to the door. It was still ajar, the way he'd left it when he'd carried Barrett's body to the car. He hesitated for a long time, sensing that to walk inside would decide, finally and irrevocably, his fate.

"Hell." What fate did he have, anyway? He went inside and shut the door. Moving to the telephone, he picked up the receiver. The line was dead. What did you expect? he asked himself. He dumped the receiver on the table. He was cut off absolutely now. He turned and looked around.

As he crossed the entry hall, he had the feeling that the house was swallowing him alive.

6:29 P.M.

Fischer sat at the huge round table in the great hall, eating a sandwich and drinking a cup of coffee; Edith had brought two sacks of food and left again without a word. It's insane, Fischer was thinking. He'd thought it endlessly for the past hour.

The atmosphere of Hell House was completely flat.

He hadn't even had to open up to realize it. The awareness had developed quickly as he'd toured the house, first upstairs, all the bedrooms, used and unused. If there'd been any presence in the air, he would have sensed it. There was nothing. It was grotesque. What had killed Barrett so violently, then? What had almost killed Edith? He'd felt that presence strongly as he'd rushed down the cellar steps to rescue her before. Now it was gone; the house felt as clear as it had after the Reversor had been used. It wasn't any kind of trick, either; he was sure of that. When he'd opened up the first time yesterday, he'd known that there was something lurking in the house. He'd miscalculated its power and its cunning, but he'd known it was there.

Now it wasn't.

Fischer stared at the floor. One of Barrett's galvanometers was lying near his feet, its side cracked open, springs and coils protruding from the gash like polished entrails. His gaze shifted to the other equipment lying broken on the rug, shifted to the Reversor, and held on the huge dent on its face. Something devastating had struck this room, struck this equipment, struck Barrett.

Where had it gone?

He sighed, and propping the soles of his tennis shoes against the table edge, leaned the chair back slightly. Now what? he thought. He'd come back imbued with fine dramatic resolution. For what? He was no further along than he'd ever been. There wasn't even anything to work with now.

He'd walked through every room on the first floor, stood for almost twenty minutes in the dining hall, looking at its wreckage: the massive table wedged against the fireplace screen, the giant sanctuary lamp battered on the floor, the overturned chairs, the debris of broken crockery and glassware, the coffeepot and serving dish, the scattering of silverware, the dried food, the coffee stain, the sallow blots of sugar and cream. Staring at it all, he'd tried to calculate what had happened. Which one of the two had been correct? Had Florence caused the attack, as Barrett had claimed? Or had it been Daniel Belasco, as Florence had insisted?

No way of knowing. Fischer had walked through the kitchen, out through the west doorway and down the corridor to the ballroom. What had made the chandelier move? Electromagnetic radiation, or the dead?

The chapel. Had Daniel Belasco possessed Florence? - or suicidal madness?

He'd gone into the garage, the theater, the cellar, walked along the pool, into the steam room. What had attacked Barrett there? Mindless power, or Belasco?

The wine cellar. He'd stood there for minutes, staring at the open section of wall. Nothing there; a void.

Where was the power?

Fischer picked up the tape recorder and set it back on the table. Finding the extension cord, he plugged it in, surprised to discover that it still worked. He reversed the spool, then pressed the PLAY button.

"Hold it!" Barrett's voice said loudly. There were shuffling noises. He heard heavy breathing; was it his? Then Barrett said,

"Miss Tanner coming out of trance. Premature retraction, causing brief systemic shock." After several moments of silence, the recorder was turned off.

Fischer reversed the tape farther, played it back. "Teleplasmic veil beginning to condense," said Barrett's voice. Silence.

Fischer remembered the mistlike fabric which had covered Florence's head and shoulders like a wet shroud. Why had she manifested physical phenomena? The question still disturbed him. "Separate filament extending downward," Barrett's voice said. Fischer reversed the spool and switched the recorder to PLAY again. "Medium's respiration now two hundred and ten,"

Barrett's voice was saying. "Dynamometer fourteen hundred and sixty. Temperature - " He stopped as someone gasped; Edith, Fischer recalled. Momentary silence. Then Barrett's voice said, "Ozone present in the air."

Fischer stopped the spool, reversed it, let it run. What could he possibly hope to learn from reliving those moments? They hadn't added up to anything, except to confirm to Florence what she believed, and to Barrett what he believed. He stopped the spool, began to play the tape. "Sitters: Doctor and Mrs. Lionel Barrett, Mr. Benjamin - " Fischer switched it off and ran the tape back farther still.

He stopped and played it, starting as the hysterical voice -  Florence's, yet so unlike hers - cried out, " - don't want to hurt you, but I must! I must! " A momentary silence. The voice near choking with venom as it said: "I warn you. Get out of this house before I kill you all."

Sudden banging sounds. Edith's frightened voice asking, " What's that? " Fischer stopped the spool, reversed the tape, and listened to the threatening voice again. Had it been the voice of Daniel Belasco? He listened to it five times, gleaning nothing from it. Barrett could have been right. It might have been Florence's subconscious creating the voice, the character, the threat.

With a muffled curse, he reversed the tape again and played it back. "Leave house," said the imperious voice of Red Cloud.

Had there ever been such an entity, or had it, too, been a segment of Florence's personality? Fischer shook his head. There was a grunting noise. "No good," said the voice, deep-pitched, but conceivably Florence's, forced to a lower register. "No good.

Here too long. Not listen. Not understand. Too much sick inside." Fischer had to smile, although it pained him. It was such a poor excuse for the voice of an Indian. "Limits," it was saying. "Nations. Terms. Not know what that mean. Extremes and limits. Terminations and extremities." A pause. "Not know."

"Shit," said Fischer, jabbing in the button which stopped the spool. He reversed it farther, switched it on. Silence. "Now, if you'd - " Barrett began. "Red Cloud Tanner woman guide," Florence interrupted in the deep voice. "Guide second medium on this side."

He listened to the entire sitting: the rumbling voice of the Indian; the description of the caveman entity; the "arrival" of "the young man"; the hysterical voice, threatening them; the fierce percussions; Barrett's voice describing the unexpected onset of physical phenomena.

The second sitting: Florence's invocation and hymn; her sinking into trance - the low-pitched, wavering moans, the wheezing inhalations; Barrett's impersonal voice recording instrument readings; his description of the materialization; the rolling laugh; Edith's scream.

The tape moved soundlessly. Fischer reached out and switched off the recorder. Zero, he thought. Who had he been kidding, to come charging back in here like Don Quixote? What a laugh.

He stood. Well, he wasn't leaving. Not until something happened. Not until he started to pick up the threads. There had to be an answer somewhere. All right, he'd walk around the house again. He'd keep on ferreting in corners until he found that little mote of insight he was searching for. The house felt flat, but somewhere there was something still alive, something powerful enough to murder.

He was going to find it if it took a year.

As he moved across the great hall, he began to open up. There seemed no danger to it now. There seemed no point to it, either. Still, he had to do something.

He had scarcely let the last of his defenses down when something pushed him. He was moving into the entry hall, and the unexpected shove almost made him fall. Staggering to one side, he crossed his arms automatically, braced for resistance.

There was no more. Fischer scowled. He knew that he should open up again. Here was something tangible at last. Except that it had caught him by surprise. He didn't dare expose himself the way he had yesterday.

He stood hesitantly, sensing the presence hovering around him, wanting to confront it but afraid to.

Enraged at his weakness, he opened up.

Immediately something clutched his arm and flung him toward the south corridor. Fischer stumbled to a halt. He removed his crossed arms, which had, with instant selfprotection, covered his solar plexus. He had to stop this opening and closing like a goddamned frightened clam!

He opened the door inside himself enough to feel the presence squeezing in. Again he was impelled toward the corridor. It was as though invisible hands were plucking at his clothes, holding his hand, clutching at his arm. He moved along with it, amazed by the blandness of the presence. This was no dark, destructive force. This was like some unseen maiden aunt hastening him to the kitchen for milk and cookies. Fischer almost felt inclined to smile at the feel of it -  insistent, yes, demanding, but totally devoid of menace. He gasped at the sudden thought: Florence! She had sworn the answer lay in the chapel! A rush of joy burst through him. Florence helping him! He pushed in through the heavy door and went inside.

The chapel was oppressively still. Fischer looked around as though to see her. There was nothing.

The altar.

The words had flashed across his mind as clearly as though someone had spoken them aloud. He moved quickly down the aisle, wincing as he stepped across the cat, then the fallen crucifix. He reached the altar and looked at the open Bible. The page he saw was headed BIRTHS. "Daniel Myron Belasco was born at 2:00 A.M. on November 4, 1903." He felt a chilling disappointment. That wasn't it; it couldn't be.

He started as the pages of the Bible were flung over in a bunch. Now individual pages began to whirl by so fast he felt a breeze across his face. They stopped. He looked down, couldn't tell which paragraph he was meant to see. He felt his hand being lifted, let it move to the page. His index finger settled on a line. He bent across the book to read it.

" If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out."

He stared at the words. It seemed as though Florence were standing beside him, anxious and impatient; but he didn't understand. The words made no sense to him.

"Florence - " he started.

He jerked his head up at the tearing sound behind the altar. A strip of wallpaper was hanging down, revealing the plaster wall behind it.

Fischer cried out as the medallion burned against his chest. Reaching frantically inside his shirt, he yanked it out and dropped it with a hiss of pain. It broke in pieces on the floor. Fischer stared at it in dazed confusion. A wedge like the head of an arrow had fallen from the other parts. It seemed to be pointing at -

It came with an appalling rush. Like some native paralyzed to mindless terror by the roar of an approaching tidal wave.

Fischer looked up dumbly.

In the next moment, the power had smashed against him violently, driving him backward. He screamed in horror as it flung him to the floor and covered him with crushing blackness. There was no resisting it. Helplessly, he lay there as the cold force flooded through him, swelling every vein with dark contamination. Now! a voice howled in his mind, triumphantly. And suddenly he knew the answer, just as Florence Tanner had, and Barrett had, and knew that he was being told because he was about to die.

He didn't move for a long time. His eyes did not blink. He looked like a dead man sprawled on the floor.

Then, very slowly, face without expression, he got up and drifted to the door. Pulling it open, he walked into the corridor and headed toward the entry hall. He walked to the front door, opened it, and went outside. Crossing the porch, he descended the broad steps, reached the gravel path, and started walking on it. He stared straight ahead as he walked to the edge of the tarn and stepped into the glutinous ooze. The water rose above his knees.

He seemed to hear a distant cry. He blinked, kept moving. Something crashed into the water with him, grabbed his sweater, jerked him back. There was an acid wrenching in his vitals and he gasped in pain. He tried to throw himself into the water.

Someone tried to pull him back to shore. Fischer groaned and pulled away. The cold hands grabbed him by the neck. He snarled and tried to break away from them. His stomach muscles knotted, and he doubled over, falling to his knees. Icy water splashed across his face. He shook his head and tried to rise, to move into the tarn again. The hands kept pulling at him.

Looking up, he saw, as through a veil of gelatin, a white, distorted face. Its lips were moving, but he couldn't hear a sound. He stared up dazedly. He had to die. He knew that clearly.

Belasco had told him so.

7:58 P.M.

For the past half-hour Fischer had been hunched in the corner of the seat, face as white as chalk, teeth chattering, arms crossed across his stomach, eyes unblinking for minutes at a time, staring sightlessly ahead. His shaking had kept dislodging the blanket from his shoulders; Edith had had to draw it around him repeatedly. Fischer had not responded to her attentions in any way. She might have been invisible to him.

It had taken her what seemed an endless amount of time to prevent him from walking into the tarn. Although his struggles had become progressively weaker, his obvious intention to drown himself had persisted. Like a somnambulist, he had tried stubbornly to wrest himself away from her. Nothing she'd said or done seemed to help. He hadn't spoken, was almost soundless in his single-minded attempt at suicide. Pulling at his clothes, clutching at his hands and arms and hair, slapping his face, Edith had thwarted his efforts again and again. By the time his struggles had finally ended, she'd been as soaked and shivering as he.

She looked around, trying to see the gasoline gauge. She'd been running the motor and heater since she'd gotten him into the car; the Cadillac was warm now. She saw that there was still more than half a tank, and turned back. The temperature did not appear to have the slightest effect on Fischer. His shivering continued unabated. Still, it was more than cold, she knew. She stared at his palsied features. Full circle; she could not avoid the thought.

The 1970 attempt on Hell House was one more item on the list of failures.

Fischer twitched convulsively and closed his eyes. His teeth stopped chattering; his body was immobile. As Edith watched in anxious silence, she saw faint streaks of color returning to his cheeks.

Several minutes later he opened his eyes and looked at her. She heard a dry, crackling sound in his throat as he swallowed.

He reached out slowly toward her, and she took his hand. It was as cold as ice.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She couldn't speak.

"What time is it?"

Edith looked at her watch and saw that it had stopped. She twisted around to look at the dashboard. "Just past eight."

Fischer sank back with a feeble groan. "How did you get me here?"

He listened as she told him. When she was through, he asked, "Why did you come back again?"

"I didn't think you should be alone."

"In spite of what happened to you before?"

"I was going to try."

His fingers tightened on hers.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I was trapped."

"By what?"

"By whom."

She waited.

"Florence told us," Fischer said. "She told us, but I didn't have the brains to see."

"What?"

"The 'B' inside the circle," Fischer answered. "Belasco. Alone."

" Alone? " She couldn't comprehend it.

"He created everything."

"How do you know?"