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Authors: Richard Matheson
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smile of sarcasm."
It is a sorry condemnation of our times that those words were published sixty years ago—because the negative attitude of which Morseili wrote still persists. Indeed—
"Lionel?"
Barrett looked up from his manuscript.
"Can I help?"
"No, I'll be finished in a few moments." He looked at her propped against a bank of pillows. She was wearing blue ski pajamas, and with her short hair and slight figure she looked, somehow, like a child. Barrett smiled at her. "Oh, it can wait," he said, deciding with the words.
He put the manuscript back in its box, looking briefly at the title page: "Borders of the Human Faculty, by Lionel Barrett, B.S., M.A., Ph.D." The sight of it gratified him. Really, everything was going wonderfully. The chance to prove his theory, ample funds for retirement, and the book almost completed. Perhaps he'd add an epilogue about the week here; maybe even do a thin, appending volume. Smiling, he extinguished the candle on the octagonal table, stood, and crossed the room. He had a momentary vision of himself as some baronial lord crossing a palace chamber to converse with his lady. The vision amused him, and he chuckled.
"What?" she asked.
He told her, and she smiled. "It is a fantastic house, isn't it? A museum of treasures. If it weren't haunted—" Lionel's expression made her stop.
Barrett sat down on her bed and put aside his cane. "Were you frightened before?" he asked. "You were very quiet after the sitting."
"It was a bit unnerving. Especially the coldness; I can never get used to that."
"You know what it is," he said. "The medium's system drawing heat from the air to convert it into energy."
"What about those things she said?"
Barrett shrugged. "Impossible to analyze. It might take years to trace down each remark and determine its source. We only have a week. The physical effects are where the answer lies."
He broke off as she looked across his shoulder with a gasp. Twisting around, he saw that the rocking chair had begun to move.
"What is it?" Edith whispered.
Barrett stood and limped across the room. He stood beside the chair and watched it rocking back and forth. "It's likely the breeze," he told her.
"It moves as though someone were sitting in it." Edith had unconsciously pressed back against the pillows.
"No one's sitting in it, that I guarantee you," Barrett said. "Rocking chairs are easy to set in motion. That's why the phenomenon is so frequent in haunted houses. The least application of pressure suffices."
"But—"
"—what applies the pressure?" Barrett finished for her. "Residual energy." Edith tensed as he reached out and stopped the chair. "See?" His hand had withdrawn, and the chair remained motionless. "It's dissipated now." He pushed the chair. It rocked a few times, then was still again. "All gone," he said.
He returned to her bed and sat beside her. "I'm not very good parapsychologist material, I'm afraid," she said.
Barrett smiled and patted her hand.
"Why does this residual energy suddenly make a chair rock?" she asked.
"No specific reason I've been able to discover. Although our presence in the room undoubtedly has something to do with it.
It's a kind of random mechanics which follows the line of least resistance—sounds Sand movements which occurred most often in the past, establishing a pattern of dynamics: breezes, door slams, rappings, footsteps, rocking chairs."
She nodded, then touched the tip of his nose. "You have to sleep," she said.
19
Barrett kissed her on the cheek, then stood and moved to the other bed. "Shall I leave the candle on?" he asked.
"Would you mind?"
"No. We'll use a night light while we're here. No harm in it."
They settled down, and Edith looked up at the shell design carved in the walnut ceiling panels. "Lionel?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"Are you sure there are no such things as ghosts?"
Barrett chuckled. "Nary a one."
10:21 P.M.
The hot stream of water sprayed off Florence's upper chest and rivuleted down
It is a sorry condemnation of our times that those words were published sixty years ago—because the negative attitude of which Morseili wrote still persists. Indeed—
"Lionel?"
Barrett looked up from his manuscript.
"Can I help?"
"No, I'll be finished in a few moments." He looked at her propped against a bank of pillows. She was wearing blue ski pajamas, and with her short hair and slight figure she looked, somehow, like a child. Barrett smiled at her. "Oh, it can wait," he said, deciding with the words.
He put the manuscript back in its box, looking briefly at the title page: "Borders of the Human Faculty, by Lionel Barrett, B.S., M.A., Ph.D." The sight of it gratified him. Really, everything was going wonderfully. The chance to prove his theory, ample funds for retirement, and the book almost completed. Perhaps he'd add an epilogue about the week here; maybe even do a thin, appending volume. Smiling, he extinguished the candle on the octagonal table, stood, and crossed the room. He had a momentary vision of himself as some baronial lord crossing a palace chamber to converse with his lady. The vision amused him, and he chuckled.
"What?" she asked.
He told her, and she smiled. "It is a fantastic house, isn't it? A museum of treasures. If it weren't haunted—" Lionel's expression made her stop.
Barrett sat down on her bed and put aside his cane. "Were you frightened before?" he asked. "You were very quiet after the sitting."
"It was a bit unnerving. Especially the coldness; I can never get used to that."
"You know what it is," he said. "The medium's system drawing heat from the air to convert it into energy."
"What about those things she said?"
Barrett shrugged. "Impossible to analyze. It might take years to trace down each remark and determine its source. We only have a week. The physical effects are where the answer lies."
He broke off as she looked across his shoulder with a gasp. Twisting around, he saw that the rocking chair had begun to move.
"What is it?" Edith whispered.
Barrett stood and limped across the room. He stood beside the chair and watched it rocking back and forth. "It's likely the breeze," he told her.
"It moves as though someone were sitting in it." Edith had unconsciously pressed back against the pillows.
"No one's sitting in it, that I guarantee you," Barrett said. "Rocking chairs are easy to set in motion. That's why the phenomenon is so frequent in haunted houses. The least application of pressure suffices."
"But—"
"—what applies the pressure?" Barrett finished for her. "Residual energy." Edith tensed as he reached out and stopped the chair. "See?" His hand had withdrawn, and the chair remained motionless. "It's dissipated now." He pushed the chair. It rocked a few times, then was still again. "All gone," he said.
He returned to her bed and sat beside her. "I'm not very good parapsychologist material, I'm afraid," she said.
Barrett smiled and patted her hand.
"Why does this residual energy suddenly make a chair rock?" she asked.
"No specific reason I've been able to discover. Although our presence in the room undoubtedly has something to do with it.
It's a kind of random mechanics which follows the line of least resistance—sounds Sand movements which occurred most often in the past, establishing a pattern of dynamics: breezes, door slams, rappings, footsteps, rocking chairs."
She nodded, then touched the tip of his nose. "You have to sleep," she said.
19
Barrett kissed her on the cheek, then stood and moved to the other bed. "Shall I leave the candle on?" he asked.
"Would you mind?"
"No. We'll use a night light while we're here. No harm in it."
They settled down, and Edith looked up at the shell design carved in the walnut ceiling panels. "Lionel?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"Are you sure there are no such things as ghosts?"
Barrett chuckled. "Nary a one."
10:21 P.M.
The hot stream of water sprayed off Florence's upper chest and rivuleted down
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