12:16 P.M.

The cool water rippling against his face felt good. The skin of his burned calf had contracted, making it painful to kick, but he didn't want to stop. Every time he lifted his right hand from the water, the pain in his thumb intensified. I need this, though, he thought. He hadn't been swimming for almost a week.

He reached the shallow end of the pool and stopped, holding on to the coping with his left hand. Edith was sitting on a wooden bench near the steam-room door. "Don't overdo," she said.

"I won't. I'll just do two more laps."

Twisting around, Barrett began to swim again. He closed his eyes and listened to the splashing sounds his arms and feet made.

He wondered how badly the atmosphere of the house was affecting Edith. When he'd waked up, he'd tried to rise without disturbing her, but the moment he'd stirred, her eyes had opened. There'd been a smell of brandy on her breath, and when he'd gotten up he'd seen a decanter of it on the table, a small silver cup beside it. She'd told him that she'd found them in the cabinet and taken one cupful to relax. He'd put the decanter back in the cabinet, telling her she'd taken a serious risk drinking anything in this house. She'd promised not to touch any more.

Barrett's hand touched the far end of the pool and, turning, he started swimming back. We should be out of here by tomorrow night, he thought. If he could get the Reversor functioning without delay, he was certain they could leave by then.

He smiled to himself, wondering if Edith had any concept at all how the Reversor was going to change the atmosphere of the house.

He reached the shallow end and stood up, hissing at the coldness of the air on his body. Edith helped him up the steps and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. "Can you stand a few minutes in the steam room?" he asked.

She nodded, handing him his cane.

"I think it would do me good."

"Yes. Go in." She pulled open the heavy door.

"You'd better remove your outer clothes," he told her.

"All right."

Barrett tossed the towel onto the wooden bench and limped inside the steam room as Edith let the door thud shut. He groaned in pleasure at the feeling of the wet heat on his body. Breathing through his teeth, he felt around until he found a bench. The top of it was burning hot. He eased around the room, feeling with his cane, until it touched the hose. Moving his left hand along its length until he reached the wall, he turned the spigot once. Cold water gushed from the end of the hose.

Barrett washed it over the bench top and sat down, putting aside his cane. Reaching down, he worked the bathing suit across his hips. It slithered down his legs, and he shook it off.

He looked toward the door. Edith was taking rather a long time. He frowned. He didn't want to stand again. Still, he mustn't leave her alone for more than seconds.

He was on the verge of getting to his feet when the door opened and he saw the outline of her figure. He was surprised to see that she had taken all her clothes off. As the door jarred shut, he said, "Over here." He'd have to remember to put in a brighter bulb. The one overhead was either deficient in wattage or covered with grime; probably both.

Edith moved cautiously across the steam-obscured room. She made a faint sound as she walked through the gush of cold water. Barrett pulled the hose until the end was in his hand, then washed off the bench beside himself, wincing as some of the water sprayed against his leg. He tossed down the hose, and Edith sat beside him. Barrett heard her drawing in erratic breaths, trying not to let the hot air down her throat. "All right?" he asked.

She coughed. "I never could get used to breathing in steam rooms."

"Try putting water on your face and taking a breath as you do."

"I'm all right."

Barrett closed his eyes and felt the damp heat seeping into his flesh. He twitched as Edith's hand settled on his leg. He covered it with his. After several moments she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I love you," she said.

Barrett put his arm across her shoulders. "I love you, too," he said. She kissed him on the cheek again, then on the corner of his lips. He felt a stirring in his body as she pressed her lips to his, moving her head as she kissed him. Barrett opened his eyes as one of her hands ran down his stomach. Edith? he thought.

After several moments she swung around and straddled him, her lips never leaving his. He felt her hot, slick stomach thrust against his. Reaching down, she took hold of his sex and began to rub it against herself. Barrett's breath began to labor. The hot air seared his throat and chest. He made a startled sound as she dug her teeth into his lower lip. He could smell the brandy on her breath.

Her lips ran across his cheek, her tongue trailing over the skin. "Make it hard," she whispered in his ear. Her voice was almost fierce. Barrett caught his breath as she grabbed his injured hand and pulled it up against her breast. He jerked it back as fiery pain ran up his wrist. " Don't! " she ordered, clutching it again.

"My thumb!" he cried. The pain was so severe, his vision started blurring. He could hardly breathe, his lungs struggling with the scalding air. Edith didn't seem to hear. She clutched at his organ, groaning so loudly it made Barrett's heartbeat leap. "For Christ's sake, make it hard!" she cried. She jammed her lips on his again.

Barrett couldn't breathe. Gagging, he jerked his head back, slamming it against the tile wall. He cried out in new pain, his face contorted. Edith fell against him, sobbing. Barrett tried to catch his breath. "Edith," he gasped.

She wrenched to her feet and turned away. "Don't," he muttered, reaching for her dazedly. He felt a rush of cold air as she opened the door, saw her outline vaguely. Then the door thumped shut again.

Wincing, he bent over, feeling for the hose. He rubbed cold water on his face, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth.

My God, what's come over her? he thought. He knew that the curtailment of their sex life must have had a damaging effect on her, but she'd never shown desire like this. The house must be affecting her. Standing groggily with his cane, he inched his way across the steam-filled room, grimacing at the increase of heat on his face. The ceiling bulb had all but disappeared from view now, no more than a spot of pale light overhead. Barrett reached the door and felt for the handle. Finding it, he closed his fingers over it and pushed. The door held fast. He pushed it harder. The door wouldn't move. His features tightened. Clutching the handle as hard as he could, he pushed again.

The door refused to budge.

A flicker of uneasiness oppressed him. Barrett willed it off. "Edith?" he called. He hit the door with the palm of his left hand.

"Edith, the door is stuck!"

There was no reply. My God, she didn't go upstairs, he thought with sudden dread. He pushed at the handle again. The door was wedged in its frame. The heat and dampness, he told himself; the door had warped, expanded. "Edith!" he called. He pounded on the door with his fist.

"What is it?" he heard her answer faintly.

"The door is stuck! Try to open it from your side!"

He waited. There was a thump on the door, and he felt it stir. He grabbed the handle again and pulled with all his strength as she thrust her weight against the door on the other side.

The door held.

"What are we going to do?" he heard her ask. She sounded frightened.

Could she possibly use the bench to batter open the door? No, it was too heavy. Barrett scowled. The heat seemed to be getting worse. He'd better turn it off.

"Lionel?"

"I'm all right!" He lowered himself gingerly to his left knee to get below the worst of the heat. He made a worried sound.

Well, there was no other way. He couldn't stay in here. "You'd better get Fischer!" he called.

" What? " He couldn't tell if she hadn't heard or was appalled by what he'd said.

" You 'd-better-get-Fischer! "

Silence. Barrett knew the thought of going alone through the house was terrifying to her. "It's the only way!" he shouted.

Edith didn't answer for a long time. Then he heard her call. "All right! I'll be right back!"

Barrett remained motionless for a while. He hoped to God she didn't run into anything. In her mental state, it could be catastrophic. He scowled. I can't just stay like this, he thought. I'd better turn off that steam.

He looked abruptly to his right; he thought he'd heard a sound. There was nothing but swirling steam. He stared at it with slitted eyes. It was thick and white and coiling, and made shapes. A person with an uncontrolled imagination might see all sorts of things in it.

Barrett hissed. "Ridiculous." He stood and edged his way across the floor until his shins bumped against the edge of the wooden bench. Kneeling again, he reached beneath the bench for the tap wheel. He couldn't find it and began to crawl along the bench, feeling for it.

He froze. He was certain that he'd heard something this time, a kind of -  slithering noise? Barrett shivered despite the heat.

"Ridiculous," he muttered. He continued crawling. No wonder this house had claimed so many victims. Its atmosphere was incredibly conducive to delusions. The sound he'd heard was probably coming from the tap wheel he was searching for - an escape of steam, probably too much pressure. It was getting awfully hot in here.

His hand came in contact with the tap wheel, and he felt a burst of relief. He tried to turn the wheel, but it stuck. He fought off premonition, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg as he wrapped both hands around the wheel. "Stuck," he said aloud, as though to convince somebody in the room that the problem was a normal one. He strained the muscles of his arms and back, trying to revolve the wheel.

It wouldn't move.

"Oh, no." He swallowed, flinching at the scorch of air in his throat and chest. This is not good, definitely not good, he thought. Still, it was a physical problem: a door stuck in its frame, a steam valve stuck - things to be expected in an old house.

Edith would be back with Fischer in a few moments. If worse came to worst, he could lie on the floor and wash his face off with the water while -

He jerked around. The noise again, too definite to be imagination. It was a slithering noise, no doubt of it, like the stirring of some torpid serpent on the floor. Barrett's face hardened. Come on, he told himself, don't go childish on me now. He turned around slowly, leaning his back against the bench and trying to see through the steam. If it was some phenomenon, he had only to keep his wits about him. There was nothing in the house that could harm him so long as he didn't panic.

He listened carefully, wincing at the throb of pain in his thumb. After what seemed to be a minute or more, he heard the sound again, a liquid, sliding noise. He imagined lava pouring slowly down a coal chute, splattering like smoky gruel into a bin. He shuddered. " Stop it," he ordered himself. He was reacting as credulously as Miss Tanner now.

The hose! he thought abruptly. If wet heat could cause the door to warp out of shape, wet coldness might reverse the process.

He began to feel around for the hose.

He heard the sound again, ignored it this time. Psi phenomena abound in realms of credulity. The sentence flashed across his mind. Precisely, he thought. He gulped in breath without thinking, groaning at the fire of it in his throat and chest. Where the hell was that damned hose, anyway? The tile floor was beginning to hurt both legs now.

He felt the gush of water then and made a sound of gruff satisfaction. He reached for the hose, edging his hand across the floor.

He cried out, jerking back his hand. It had touched what felt like hot slime. Barrett held his hand to his face and looked at it.

The light was very dim; he had to squint. He felt his heartbeat catch. There seemed to be a kind of darkish ooze clinging to his palm and fingers. With a gagging sound, he reached down quickly, rubbing his palm on the floor. What in God's name? Melted grout from between the tiles? Some sort of - ?

He jerked around so fast it made his neck hurt. He stared into the roiling steam, heartbeat jolting. The sound had started up again, louder now, moving toward him. Barrett drew back unconsciously, trying to see. He rubbed his hand across his eyes without thinking, smearing some of the slime on his face. He made an angry, sickened noise and rubbed it off with his left hand. It had a vaguely familiar smell. Where the hell is she? he suddenly thought. For an instant he felt a rush of panic as he imagined her not telling anyone, leaving him imprisoned here because of what had happened between them.

"No," he muttered. That was ludicrous. She'd be back any moment. He'd better get to the door and wait. He wavered to his feet and moved haltingly away from the sound, visualizing a gigantic jellyfish heaving its transparent, quivering bulk across the floor at him. "That's enough," he muttered, furious at himself. He had to get to the door. He stared into the steam but couldn't see which way the door was. The noise continued - a dragging, soggy noise. Barrett felt a chill of dread lace up his back. He'd best prepare himself. He mustn't panic.

He cried out in shock as his feet sank into hot, thick slime. He started jumping back and slipped, landing on his left elbow and crying out again as jagged pain shot up his arm. He writhed in agony on the floor.

Suddenly he felt the slime push up against his side like heated gelatin. He thrashed away from it, the odor welling over him.

It was the smell of rot -  the odor of the tarn! It's come inside! his mind cried, terrified. He flung himself to his knees. The door; where was the door? He guessed and, shoving to his feet, hobbled clumsily in that direction.

Something blocked his way - something near the floor that had size and bulk and was alive. With a cry of horror, Barrett fell across it. It reared up, shoving him onto his back, hot and jellylike, reeking of stagnation. Barrett screamed as it flopped across his legs. He struck out wildly with his left foot, feeling it sink into muculent slime, then strike what felt like skin the texture of cooked mushroom.

Suddenly it was before his eyes, bulbous, glistening darkly. "No!" he screamed. He kicked at it again, thrashing back across the floor, until his back slammed violently against the door. He felt the ropy form start oozing up his legs adhesively. Shrieks of terror flooded from his lips. The room began to swirl and darken. He could not dislodge the glutinous weight. He felt the hotness of it sucking at his flesh.

Suddenly the door was shoving in behind him, pushing him directly into the gelatinous form. It struck his face; his screaming mouth was filled with turgid jelly. Coldness washed across his side. He felt hands slip beneath his arms. He thought he heard Edith screaming. Someone started dragging him across the floor. Looking up, he made out Fischer's face above him, pale and indistinct. Just before he lost consciousness, Barrett saw his body. There was nothing on it.

12:47 P.M.

Fischer gulped down coffee, holding the cup with both hands. Once again the couple from Caribou Falls had come and gone, unseen.

He'd been in the theater, searching for the cat, when he'd heard Mrs. Barrett's shouting. Rushing to the entry hall, he'd met her, and she'd told him, frightenedly, that her husband was locked in the steam room.

In there; he'd suddenly remembered Florence's words. Without a word, he'd dashed downstairs, shoved through the swinging doors, and raced along the side of the pool, the rapid padding of his tennis shoes echoing off the walls and ceiling.

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