11:23 P.M.

Fischer broke the seal on the bottle and unscrewed its cap. He poured two inches of bourbon into a glass and set down the bottle. Picking up the glass, he swirled the liquor around. He hadn't had a drink in years. He wondered if it was a mistake to start again. There had been a time when he couldn't stop once he'd started. He didn't want to sink to that again. Especially here.

He took a sip, grimacing as he swallowed. He coughed, and his eyes watered; he rubbed a finger over them. Then he leaned against the cupboard and began to take tiny sips of the bourbon. It felt comfortingly warm as it trickled down his throat and settled in his stomach.

Better thin it down, he thought. He walked around the steam table and over to the sink, where he turned on the cold water.

After it had cleared, he held the glass of bourbon underneath the faucet and added an inch of water. That was better. Now the relaxation could come without the danger of his getting drunk.

Fischer lifted himself onto the sink counter and took judicious sips of his drink as he thought about the house. What was it doing this time? he wondered. There was a plan; of that he had no doubt. That was the horror of the place. It was not amorphously haunted. Hell House had a method. It worked against invaders systematically. How it did this, no one had ever found out. Until December 1970, he thought, when B. F. Fischer, moving just as systematically -

His right hand twitched so violently as the corridor door was opened that he spilled half his drink across the floor. Florence came into the kitchen, looking harried and exhausted.

"Why aren't you in bed?" she asked.

"Why aren't you?"

"I'm looking for Belasco's son."

He didn't speak.

"You don't think he exists either, do you?"

Fischer didn't know what to say.

"I'll find him," she said, turning away.

Fischer watched her go. He wondered if he should offer to accompany her. He shook his head. Things always happened around her, because she was too open. He didn't want to experience anything more today. He watched her push through the swinging door and disappear into the dining hall. Her footsteps faded. It was still again.

All right, the house, he thought; his plan. Two days had passed. He had the feel of the place now. It was time to start figuring what his approach was going to be. Obviously, it could not consist of working in tandem with Barrett or Florence. He'd have to function on his own. But how?

Fischer sat immobile, staring at the floor. After a while, he took a sip of his drink. It had to be something clever, he thought, something different, something that would circumvent the house's method.

He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the drainboard. Clever. Different. Florence was right about the multiplehaunting idea; that much he could agree on. Belasco and a host of others were in this house. How to best them, though?

After several minutes Fischer put the drink down, jumped abruptly to the floor, and started toward the entry hall. A walk around the house, he thought. All by himself this time, without Florence Tanner to distract his train of thought. Those things she'd "felt." Jesus Christ. He shook his head, a mirthless smile on his lips. Those Spiritualists were too damn much.

He was crossing the entry hall when he froze in his tracks, his heartbeat leaping. A figure was drifting down the staircase.

Fischer blinked his eyes and squinted, trying to see who or what it was; there were no lights on the stairs.

He started as the figure reached the foot of the steps and started toward the front door. It was Edith in a pair of light blue ski pajamas, her eyes staring straight ahead. Fischer stood motionless as she glided like a wraith across the entry hall and pulled open the front door.

She went outside, and Fischer, starting, ran across the entry hall. He dashed through the open doorway, gasping in shock as he saw that she had disappeared into the mist. He ran across the porch and down the steps, hearing a crackling of frost beneath his tennis shoes as he ran along the path. He saw a blur of movement ahead. Is it really her? he thought in sudden horror. Or was he being tricked? He started slowing down, then caught his breath. The figure was headed toward -

"No!" He bolted forward, grabbing. Two emotions flared in him at once - relief that it was flesh and skin he clutched, and fierce elation that he'd thwarted the will of the house. He pulled Edith away from the edge of the tarn. She looked at him without a sign of recognition, eyes like glass.

"Come back inside," he said.

Edith held back stiffly, face expressionless.

"Come on. It's cold out here." He turned her toward the house. "Come on."

Edith began to shiver as he led her. For several frightening moments he thought he'd lost his sense of direction; that they were going to walk into the freezing night to die of exposure. Then he saw, through the swirling mist, the nebulous rectangle of the front doorway, and hurried toward it, one arm around Edith, drawing her along beside him. He led her up the porch steps and into the house, pushing the door shut as they went inside. As quickly as he could, he guided her across the entry hall and into the great hall. Standing Edith before the hearth, he bent over and picked up a log, tossing it onto the coals. He grabbed a poker and jabbed at the log until it caught fire. Tongues of flame leaped upward cracklingly. "There we go," he said. He turned to look at Edith. She was staring at the mantel, her expression taut, unreadable. Fischer turned and looked. There were pornographic carvings on the mantel he hadn't noticed before.

Edith's groan was one of such revulsion that Fischer looked back sharply. She was shivering. He pulled off his sweater and held it out to her. She didn't take it. Her eyes were fixed on his face. "I'm not," she said.

Fischer stiffened as she reached up and began to remove her pajama top. "What are you doing?" he asked. His heartbeat quickened as she pulled the pajama top over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her skin was covered with gooseflesh, but she didn't seem aware of being cold. She started to work the pajama bottoms over her hips. Her blank expression was unnerving. "Stop it," Fischer told her.

She didn't seem to hear. She pushed down hard, and the pajama bottoms slipped down her legs. She stepped out of them and moved toward Fischer. "No," he muttered, as she stepped up close to him. She pressed against him with a moan and slid her arms around his back. She pushed her loins against him. Fischer started as she kissed his neck. She started reaching down to touch him. Fischer pulled back. Edith's eyes were blank. He braced himself and slapped her as hard as he could.

Edith spun around with a gasp and almost fell. Fischer grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet. She stared at him in shock. Suddenly she looked down at herself; gasping in horror. She yanked free of his grip so violently that it made her stagger backward. She almost fell again. Regaining her balance, she snatched her pajamas off the floor and held them in front of herself.

"You were walking in your sleep," he told her. "I found you outside, starting to go into the tarn."

She didn't respond. Her eyes were wide with fear. She backed away from him, heading toward the archway.

"Mrs. Barrett, it was the house - "

He broke off as she whirled and ran across the room. He started after her, then stopped and listened. After almost a minute, he heard a door being closed upstairs. His shoulders slumped. Turning, he stared into the fire.

Now the house was getting to her as well.

11:56 P.M.

Something kept drawing her to the cellar. Florence descended the stairs and pushed through the swinging metal door that opened on the swimming pool. She remembered the feeling she'd had when she and Fischer had looked into the steam room yesterday: a sense of something perverted, something unwholesome. She could not resign that feeling to what she felt about Belasco's son. Still, she had to be sure.

Her footsteps echoed and re-echoed as she walked along the edge of the pool. She blinked. Her eyes were tired. She felt badly in need of sleep. But she couldn't go to bed the way things were. Before she slept, she had to prove - to herself; at least - that Belasco's son was not imagination.

She pulled open the door to the steam room, looked inside. The pipe valve had been fixed, she saw. The room was filled with steam. She stared into the curling depths of it. There was something in there, without a doubt, something terribly malignant. But Belasco's son was not that way. His fury was defensive. He was desperately in need of help, and desperately desired that help, yet, at the same time, had such scarified malaise of soul that he fought against help in almost suicidal fashion.

She turned from the steam room and walked back along the length of the pool. She'd better warn Dr. Barrett not to use the steam room. She looked around. If Belasco's son was not here, why had she felt a compulsion to come to the cellar? There was only the pool and steam room. No, that wasn't true; she remembered now. There was a wine cellar across the corridor.

The moment she remembered it, it seemed as though a burst of cognizance exploded through her. An excited smile beginning on her lips, she hurried to the swinging door and pushed it open. Running across the corridor, she opened the wine-cellar door and felt around for a light switch. After a moment she found it, pushed it up. The light was dim, the overhead bulb filmed with dust and grime.

Florence walked into the room and looked around. The feeling was intense. Her gaze jumped from wall to wall, across the empty wine racks. Suddenly it froze on the wall across from the door. She stared at it. Yes, she thought. She started toward it.

She cried out as unseen hands clutched her by the throat. She reached up and began to grapple with the hands. They were cold and moist. She yanked them away and staggered to the side. Regaining direction, she lunged for the wall. The hands grabbed her arm and slung her sideways. She reeled across the floor and crashed against a wine rack. "Don't!" she cried. She turned and looked around the room. "I'm here to help!"

She pushed away from the wine rack, started for the wall again. Again the hands were on her, clutching at her shoulders. She was turned and hurled away. She almost hit the door before she caught her balance, whirling. " You will not deter me." She started forward slowly, praying in a soft, determined voice. The hands grabbed hold of her again. They jerked free as she spoke out loudly: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!" Florence rushed to the wall and pressed herself against it. She was flooded with awareness. "Yes!" she cried. A vision leaped across her mind: a lion's den - a young man looking at her pleadingly. She sobbed with joy. "Daniel!" She had found him! " Daniel! "

DECEMBER 23, 1970

6:47 A.M.

The distant scream cut like a knife into Edith's sleep. She twitched awake, staring upward in confusion. A sound of rustling made her jerk around. Lionel was propped on his left elbow, looking at her.

"What was it?" she asked.

Barrett shook his head.

"I mean, was it real?"

Barrett didn't answer.

The second scream made her gasp. Barrett caught his breath. "Miss Tanner." He dropped his legs across the mattress edge and felt for his slippers. Edith started sitting up. She gasped again as Lionel's legs gave way. He fell against his bed, hissing at the pain in his thumb.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded once and pushed erect again, grabbing for his cane. Edith stood up, pulling on her quilted robe. She followed Lionel quickly to the door. He pulled it open, and they moved into the corridor, Lionel hobbling badly. Edith walked beside him, buttoning her robe. She glanced toward Fischer's room. Surely he had heard.

Barrett stopped at Florence Tanner's door and knocked three times in quick succession. When she failed to answer, he opened the door and went inside. The room was dark. Edith felt herself stiffen with anticipation as Lionel flicked up the wall switch.

Florence Tanner was on her back, arms clutched across her chest. Barrett limped to her bed, Edith close behind him. "What is it?" he asked.

Florence stared at him with narrowed, pain-glazed eyes. He leaned down, wincing at the pull of stiffened muscles. "Miss Tanner?"

She shuddered, digging teeth into her lower lip to keep from crying. Slowly she withdrew her arms, and Edith started as she saw him begin to unbutton the medium's gown. There were two damp patches on it, one above each breast. Florence closed her eyes as Barrett drew aside the edges of the gown. Edith shrank back.

There were deep teeth marks ringing the nipples on Florence's breasts.

Abruptly Florence pulled the blankets to her chin. Despite her will, a sob convulsed her throat; she tried in vain to check it.

"Don't fight it," Barrett told her. Florence sobbed again, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Edith stared at Florence as she cried. For the first time since they'd met, the medium seemed vulnerable, and Edith felt a rush of sympathy. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked.

Florence shook her head. "I'll be all right."

Edith glanced aside as Fischer entered the room and joined them by the bed. "What happened?" he asked.

Florence hesitated before drawing down the covers briefly. Edith tried not to look, but couldn't help herself. Her breath shook as she saw the bites on Florence Tanner's breasts again.

"He's punishing me," Florence said.

Edith's face went blank. She glanced at Lionel, who was looking at the medium without expression.

"I found him last night," Florence told him. "Daniel Belasco."

There was heavy silence. Barrett looked embarrassed. Florence managed a smile. "No, I'm not imagining it." She laid a hand on her breasts. "Did I imagine these?"

Barrett gestured inconclusively.

"His body is in the wine cellar."

Edith could see how awkward Lionel felt. She knew that he wanted to be sympathetic but didn't know what to say that wouldn't hurt her further.

"Will you help exhume the body?" Florence asked.

"I would, but after last night, I'm afraid I'm in no condition for heavy labor."

Florence stared at him in disbelief. "But, Doctor, he's there. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Miss Tanner - "

Florence turned to Fischer. "Will you help me, then?"

Fischer looked at her in silence. He had heard her scream, Edith realized abruptly; heard but been afraid to come until Lionel had arrived. Now he was afraid to offer help. It was not surprising. Whenever something violent occurred, Miss Tanner was always there.

When he didn't answer, Florence clenched her teeth, forcing back a sob. "All right, I'll do it myself." The pain of the bites seemed to overwhelm her, and she closed her eyes.

"I'll help you," Fischer said.

Florence opened her eyes and tried to smile. "Thank you."

Barrett put his hand on Edith's arm and started turning.

"Are you so afraid I might be right, Doctor?" Florence asked him.

Barrett looked at her appraisingly. At last he nodded. "Very well. We'll go downstairs with you. I can't dig, however, if that's what you intend to do."

"Ben and I will do that," Florence told him.

Edith glanced at Fischer. He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at Florence without expression. Suddenly she felt a shiver plaiting up her back.

Was there really something down there?