He'd heard Barrett's screams before he reached the steam-room door. He'd jarred to a halt and almost turned around when Mrs. Barrett had come running in. He'd been unable to retreat before her look of panic. Turning back, he'd sprinted to the steam-room door and thrown his weight against it, to no avail. Mrs. Barrett had come rushing up behind him, begging him to save her husband, her voice unnatural, shrill.

Grabbing one end of the wooden bench against the wall, he'd dragged it to the steam-room door and rammed it hard against it. Immediately the door had given, and dropping the bench, he'd shoved the door in. Inside, Barrett's screams had cut off suddenly, and Fischer had felt his weight against the door and reached around to grab him in the burning steam and pull him out, forced to strain every muscle because of Barrett's weight. By then Barrett's wife was shaking uncontrollably, her face almost gray. Somehow the two of them had managed to get Barrett upstairs and put him on his bed. Fischer had offered to help put Barrett's pajamas on, but Mrs. Barrett, in a tight, almost inaudible voice, had told him she could do it. He'd left immediately and come downstairs.

He set down the empty cup and covered his eyes with his left hand, mind a jumble of confusions. The unlocked door that had been locked by the time they'd reached the house. The restored electrical system that had failed to work. Florence's inability to enter the chapel. The record playing by itself. The cold breeze on the stairs. The tinkling chandelier. The pounding noises during the s��

ance; Florence suddenly, inexplicably, becoming a physical medium. The figure at the s��ance; its hysterical warning to them. The poltergeist attack. Mrs. Barrett being led to the tarn in her sleep; removing her pajamas; acting so peculiarly this morning. The bites on Florence's breasts. The body in the wall; the ring. The attack on Florence by the cat.

Now the attack on Barrett in the steam room.

He slumped back in the chair. Nothing fitted, he thought. Nothing added up. They were exactly nowhere in their quest. But Florence was being torn apart emotionally and physically. Mrs. Barrett was losing control. Barrett had been violently assaulted twice. And, as for himself -

His mind leaped back, remembering. Faces sprang before him: Grace Lauter's, Dr. Graham's, Professor Rand's, and Fenley's.

Grace Lauter working by herself, convinced that she, alone, would solve the mystery of Hell House; not even talking to the rest of them. Him working with Dr. Graham and Professor Rand, who, in turn, refused to work with Professor Fenley because he was a Spiritualist and not a "man of science."

Three demoralizing days before it ended. Grace Lauter with her throat cut by her own hand; Dr. Graham, dead drunk, wandering outdoors to perish in the woods; Professor Rand dying of a cerebral hemorrhage after an experience in the ballroom he'd been unable to describe before he died; Professor Fenley still in Medview Sanatorium, hopelessly insane. Himself found naked on the front porch, horror-ridden, old before his time.

"And now I'm back," he muttered in a trembling voice. "I'm back." He closed his eyes and couldn't stop from shaking. How?

he thought. I'm not afraid to try, but how do I begin? A rage of bewilderment clamped his muscles suddenly. Jerking open his eyes, he grabbed his cup and hurled it far across the room. It's too damn complicated! screamed his mind.

1:57 P.M.

She blinked her eyes. Lionel was awake. She put her hand in his. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, didn't smile. Edith forced control into her voice. "I'll pack our bags," she said. She waited. Lionel returned her look without expression.

"We'll go today," she said.

"I want you to go."

Edith stared at him. "We'll both go, Lionel."

"Not until I'm finished."

She couldn't believe it, even though she'd anticipated his response. Her lips twitched, words unspoken stammering in her mind.

"You go into Caribou Falls," he told her. "I'll join you tomorrow."

"Lionel, I want both of us to go."

"Edith - "

"No. I don't want to hear a word. You can't convince me, anymore, you know what's happening. You would have died down there if Fischer hadn't come. You would have been killed by . . . what? By what? We have to go before this house destroys us all. Now, Lionel. Now."

"Listen to me," he said. "I know it's gone beyond the point of endurance for you. It hasn't for me, however. I'm not going to let what happened frighten me away. I've waited twenty years for this. Twenty long years of work and research, and I'm not about to lose it all because of - something in a steam room."

Edith stared at him, a pulsing at her temple.

"It was a shock," he said. "I admit it. It was a terrible shock. I've never experienced anything remotely like it in my life. But it was not the dead. You hear me, Edith? It was not the dead."

He closed his eyes. "Please," he said. "Go into Caribou Falls. Fischer will drive you there. I'll join you tomorrow."

He opened his eyes after a while and looked at her. "Tomorrow, Edith. After twenty years, there's only one more day before I prove my theory. One more day. I can't retreat when I'm so close. What happened was ghastly, yes, but I can't, I won't let it chase me away." His hand closed tightly over hers. " I'd rather die than leave."

The room was still. Edith felt her heartbeat like a slow, erratic drumbeat in her chest.

"Tomorrow," she said.

"I swear to you I'll end the reign of terror in this house by then."

She stared at him, feeling lost and helpless. She had no faith of her own remaining. She could only cling to his. God help us if you're wrong, she thought.

2:21 P.M.

"O Spirit of Immortal Truth," Florence began, "help us, this day, to rise above the doubts and fears of this life. Open our natures to mighty revelations. Give us eyes to see, and ears to hear. Bless us in our efforts to lift the darkness from the world."

The bathroom light cast dim illumination on the place where they sat. Florence sat in the chair beside the table, eyes closed, hands on her lap, knees and feet pressed tightly together. Fischer had pulled the other chair across the floor and sat facing her at a distance of four feet.

"The sweetest expression of spiritual life is service," Florence was saying. "We offer ourselves for the service of the spirits.

May they find us ready, and may they, so that naught may impede our free expression, commune with us this day and reveal their light to us. Most of all, may they impart to us the power to communicate with that tortured soul who still hovers in this place, unsanctified, imprisoned: Daniel Belasco." She raised her face. "Attend us, ministering angels. Help us in our effort to lift the burden from this soul. All this we ask in the name of the Eternal and Most Everlasting Spirit. Amen."

There was momentary silence. Fischer heard the crackling noise his throat made as he swallowed. Then Florence began to sing: "'Sweet souls around us, watch us still. Press nearer to our side. Into our thoughts, into our prayers, with gentle helpings glide.'"

When the song was ended, Florence began to take in deep breaths, drawing air into her lungs convulsively through clenched teeth as she rubbed both hands over her body. Soon her month fell open, and her head began to loll back. The heavy breathing continued. Florence slouched down in the chair, head rolling from side to side. At last she was still.

Minutes passed. Fischer began to shiver. Coldness was starting to gather between them, rising slowly like ice water, until he felt as though he were submerged to the waist in it.

He twitched as faint spots of light began to appear in front of Florence. Focuses of condensation ; the phrase drifted across his mind. He stared at the spots as they grew in size and number, hovering in the air in front of Florence like a galaxy of pale, miniature suns. His legs felt almost numb now. Soon, he thought.

His fingers dug into the chair arms as teleplasm started oozing from the medium's nostrils. The viscous filaments resembled twin gray serpents gliding downward from her nose. As Fischer watched in dry-mouthed silence, they joined to form a heavier coil, which started to unravel, then began to rise and cover Florence's face. Fischer lowered his eyes. He heard a sound like rustling paper, closed his eyes.

The smell of ozone penetrated his nostrils like the odor of a badly chlorinated swimming pool. Compelled, he opened his eyes and looked up, wincing. The teleplasm had covered Florence's head, hanging over it like a wet, filmy sack. As he stared at it, he saw it being shaped as though by some invisible sculptor, the eye pits pressed in, a ridge of nose appearing, nostrils, ears, a line of mouth. In less than a minute, it was complete; the face of a young man, dark-haired, handsome, grave in its expression.

Fischer cleared his throat. His heartbeat felt unreal. "Have you a voice?" he asked.

There was a labored, gurgling noise like the sound of a death rattle. Fischer felt his skin crawl. After half a minute, the sound stopped, and there was silence again.

"Can you speak now?" Fischer asked.

"I can." The voice was undeniably masculine.

Fischer hesitated, then drew in a quick breath. "Who are you?"

"Daniel Belasco." The lips of the face did not move, but the voice was coming from the pallid features of the young man.

"Was it your body we found behind the wall of the wine cellar this morning?"

"It was."

"We gave you proper services outside. Why are you still here?"

"I cannot leave."

"Why?"

There was no answer.

"Why?"

No answer. Fischer clutched his hands together on his lap. "Did you have anything to do with the attack on Doctor Barrett in the steam room?"

"No."

"Who did it, then?"

There was no answer.

"Did you attack Doctor Barrett in the dining hall last night?" Fischer asked.

"I did not."

"Who did?"

Silence.

"Did you bite Miss Tanner this morning?"

"I did not."

"Who did?"

Silence.

"Did you possess the cat to attack her?"

"I did not."

"Who did, then?"

Silence.

"Who did, then?" Fischer persisted. "Who attacked Doctor Barrett? Who bit Miss Tanner? Who possessed the cat?"

Silence.

"Who?" demanded Fischer.

"Cannot say."

"Why not?"

"Cannot."

"Why?"

Silence.

"You have to tell me. Who attacked Doctor Barrett in the dining hall and steam room? Who bit Miss Tanner? Who possessed the cat?"

He heard a quickening of breath.

"Who?" he demanded.

"Cannot - "

"You have to tell me."

The voice began to plead. "Cannot - "

"Who?" asked Fischer.

"Cannot say - "

"Who?"

"Please - "

"Who?"

He heard something like a sob.

"Him," said the voice.

"Who?"

"Him."

" Who? "

"Him. Him!"

" Who? "

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