Read Online Hell House by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Matheson
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between her breasts. She stood in the shower stall, head back, eyes shut, feeling the ribbons of water lace across her stomach and down her thighs and legs.
She was thinking about the tape recording of her sitting. Only one thing in it seemed of import: that crazed and trembling voice which had told them to get out of the house or be killed. There was something there. It was amorphous, just beginning, but most compelling. Can't you see I'm helpless? she heard the pitiful voice in her mind. I don't want to hurt you, but I must!
It could be part of the answer.
She twisted off the faucets and, pushing open the shower door, stepped out onto the bathmat. Hissing at the cold, she grabbed a bath towel from its rack and rubbed herself briskly. Dry, she pulled the heavy flannel gown across her head and thrust her arms into its full-length sleeves. She brushed her teeth, then moved across the bedroom with the candle, set it down, and got into the bed closest to the bathroom door. She thrashed her legs to warm the sheets, then stretched out, pulling the bedclothes to her chin. After a while, her shivering stopped. She wet two fingers and, reaching out, crimped the candle flame between them.
The house was massively silent. I wonder what Ben is doing, she thought. She clucked in distress. Poor, deluded man. She brushed aside the thought. That was for tomorrow. Now she had to think about her part in the project. That voice. Whose had it been? Beneath its threatening had been such despair, such harrowed anguish.
Florence turned her head. The door to the corridor had just been opened. She looked across the darkness of the room. The door closed quietly.
Footsteps started toward her.
"Yes?" she said.
The footsteps kept approaching, muffled on the rug. Florence started reaching for the candle, then withdrew her hand, knowing it was not one of the other three. "All right," she murmured.
The footsteps halted. Florence listened carefully. There was a sound of breathing at the foot of the bed. "Who's there?" she asked.
Only the sound of breathing. Florence peered into the darkness, but it was impenetrable. She closed her eyes. Her tone was even, undismayed. "Who is it, please?"
The breathing continued.
"You wish to speak to me?"
Breathing.
"Are you the one who warned us to get out?"
The sound of breathing quickened. "Yes," she said. "It is you, isn't it?"
The breathing grew more labored. It was that of a young man. She could almost visualize him standing at the foot of the bed, his posture tense, his face tormented.
"You must speak or give me some sign," she said. She waited. There was no reply. "I wait for you with God's love. Let me help you find the peace I know you hunger for."
Was that a sob? She tightened. "Yes, I hear, I understand. Tell me who you are, and I can help you."
Suddenly the room was still. Florence cupped her hands behind her ears and listened intently.
The sound of breathing had stopped.
With a sigh of disappointment, she reached to the left until her fingers found the matchbook on the chest of drawers. Striking one, she lit her candle and looked around. There was still something in the room.
"Shall I put out the candle?" she asked.
Silence.
"Very well." She smiled. "You know where I am. Anytime you want—"
She broke off, gasping, as the bedspread leaped into the air and sailed across the foot of the bed, then stopped and settled downward flutteringly.
A figure stood beneath it.
Florence regained her breath. "Yes, I can see you now," she said. She estimated height. "How tall you are." She shivered as Fischer's words flashed across her mind. "The Roaring Giant," he was called . She stared at the figure. She could see its broad chest rise and fall, as though with breath.
"No," she said abruptly. It was not Belasco. She began to rise, easing the bedclothes from her body, gazing at the figure. She let her legs slide off the mattress, stood. The head of the figure turned, as though to watch her while she
She was thinking about the tape recording of her sitting. Only one thing in it seemed of import: that crazed and trembling voice which had told them to get out of the house or be killed. There was something there. It was amorphous, just beginning, but most compelling. Can't you see I'm helpless? she heard the pitiful voice in her mind. I don't want to hurt you, but I must!
It could be part of the answer.
She twisted off the faucets and, pushing open the shower door, stepped out onto the bathmat. Hissing at the cold, she grabbed a bath towel from its rack and rubbed herself briskly. Dry, she pulled the heavy flannel gown across her head and thrust her arms into its full-length sleeves. She brushed her teeth, then moved across the bedroom with the candle, set it down, and got into the bed closest to the bathroom door. She thrashed her legs to warm the sheets, then stretched out, pulling the bedclothes to her chin. After a while, her shivering stopped. She wet two fingers and, reaching out, crimped the candle flame between them.
The house was massively silent. I wonder what Ben is doing, she thought. She clucked in distress. Poor, deluded man. She brushed aside the thought. That was for tomorrow. Now she had to think about her part in the project. That voice. Whose had it been? Beneath its threatening had been such despair, such harrowed anguish.
Florence turned her head. The door to the corridor had just been opened. She looked across the darkness of the room. The door closed quietly.
Footsteps started toward her.
"Yes?" she said.
The footsteps kept approaching, muffled on the rug. Florence started reaching for the candle, then withdrew her hand, knowing it was not one of the other three. "All right," she murmured.
The footsteps halted. Florence listened carefully. There was a sound of breathing at the foot of the bed. "Who's there?" she asked.
Only the sound of breathing. Florence peered into the darkness, but it was impenetrable. She closed her eyes. Her tone was even, undismayed. "Who is it, please?"
The breathing continued.
"You wish to speak to me?"
Breathing.
"Are you the one who warned us to get out?"
The sound of breathing quickened. "Yes," she said. "It is you, isn't it?"
The breathing grew more labored. It was that of a young man. She could almost visualize him standing at the foot of the bed, his posture tense, his face tormented.
"You must speak or give me some sign," she said. She waited. There was no reply. "I wait for you with God's love. Let me help you find the peace I know you hunger for."
Was that a sob? She tightened. "Yes, I hear, I understand. Tell me who you are, and I can help you."
Suddenly the room was still. Florence cupped her hands behind her ears and listened intently.
The sound of breathing had stopped.
With a sigh of disappointment, she reached to the left until her fingers found the matchbook on the chest of drawers. Striking one, she lit her candle and looked around. There was still something in the room.
"Shall I put out the candle?" she asked.
Silence.
"Very well." She smiled. "You know where I am. Anytime you want—"
She broke off, gasping, as the bedspread leaped into the air and sailed across the foot of the bed, then stopped and settled downward flutteringly.
A figure stood beneath it.
Florence regained her breath. "Yes, I can see you now," she said. She estimated height. "How tall you are." She shivered as Fischer's words flashed across her mind. "The Roaring Giant," he was called . She stared at the figure. She could see its broad chest rise and fall, as though with breath.
"No," she said abruptly. It was not Belasco. She began to rise, easing the bedclothes from her body, gazing at the figure. She let her legs slide off the mattress, stood. The head of the figure turned, as though to watch her while she
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