Hell House Read Online Free
answer, do you?" Fischer sounded dubious.
"Of course," said Barrett. "The breakdown of an antique generator can scarcely be classified as a psychic phenomenon."
"What are we going to do?" asked Edith. "Stay in Caribou Falls until the new generator is installed?"
"That might take days," said Barrett. "We'll use candles until it arrives."
"Candles," Edith said.
Barrett smiled at her expression. "Just for a day or so."
She nodded, her returned smile wan. Barrett looked inside the house. "The question now," he said, "is how do we find some candles? I assume there must be some inside-" He broke off, looking at the flashlight Fischer had taken out of his coat pocket." Ah ," he said.
Fischer switched on the flashlight, pointed the beam inside, then, bracing himself, stepped across the threshold.
Barrett went in next. He stepped through the doorway, seemed to listen briefly. Turning then, he extended his hand to Edith. She entered the house, clutching at his hand. "That smell ," she said. "It's even worse than outside."
"It's a very old house with no aeration," Barrett said. "It could also be the furnace, which hasn't been used in more than twenty-nine years." He turned to Florence. "Coming, Miss Tanner?" he asked.
She nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes." She took a deep breath, held herself erect, and stepped inside. She looked around. "The atmosphere in here-" She sounded queasy.
"An atmosphere of this world, not the next," said Barrett dryly.
Fischer played the flashlight beam around the dark immensity of the entry hall. The narrow cone of light jumped fitfully from place to place, freezing momentarily on hulking groups of furniture; huge, leaden-colored paintings; giant tapestries filmed with dust; a staircase, broad and curving, leading upward into blackness; a second-story corridor overlooking the entry hall; and far above, engulfed by shadows, a vast expanse of paneled ceiling.
"Be it ever so humble," Barrett said.
"It isn't humble at all," said Florence. "It reeks of arrogance."
Barrett sighed. "It reeks, at any rate." He looked to his right. "According to the floor plan, the kitchen should be that way."
Edith walked beside him as they started across the entry hall, the sound of their footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.
Florence looked around. "It knows we're here," she said.
"Miss Tanner-" Barrett frowned. "Please don't think I'm trying to restrict you-"
"Sorry." Florence said. "I'll try to keep my observations to myself."
They reached a corridor and walked along it, Fischer in the lead, Barrett and Edith behind him, Florence last. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of metal-faced swinging doors. Fischer pushed one of them open and stepped into the kitchen, holding the door ajar for the others. When all of them had gone inside, he let the door swing back and turned.
"Good Lord." Edith's eyes moved with the flashlight beam as Fischer shifted it around the room.
The kitchen was twenty-five by fifty feet, its perimeter rimmed by steel counters and dark-paneled cupboards, a long, double-basin sink, a gigantic stove with three ovens, and a massive walk-in refrigerator. In the center of the room, like a giant's steel-topped casket, stood a huge steam table.
"He must have entertained a good deal," Edith said.
Fischer pointed the flashlight at the large electric wall clock above the stove. Its hands were stopped at 7:31. A.M. or P.M., and on what day? Barrett wondered as he limped along the wall to his right, pulling open drawers. Edith and Florence stood together, watching him. Barrett pulled open one of the cupboard doors and grunted as Fischer shone the light over. "Genuine spirits," he said, looking at the shelves of dust-filmed bottles. "Perhaps we'll raise some after supper."
Fischer pulled a sheet of yellow-edged cardboard from one of the drawers and pointed the flashlight at it.
"What's that?" Barrett asked.
"One of their menus, dated March 27, 1928. Shrimp bisque. Sweetbreads in gravy. Stewed
"Of course," said Barrett. "The breakdown of an antique generator can scarcely be classified as a psychic phenomenon."
"What are we going to do?" asked Edith. "Stay in Caribou Falls until the new generator is installed?"
"That might take days," said Barrett. "We'll use candles until it arrives."
"Candles," Edith said.
Barrett smiled at her expression. "Just for a day or so."
She nodded, her returned smile wan. Barrett looked inside the house. "The question now," he said, "is how do we find some candles? I assume there must be some inside-" He broke off, looking at the flashlight Fischer had taken out of his coat pocket." Ah ," he said.
Fischer switched on the flashlight, pointed the beam inside, then, bracing himself, stepped across the threshold.
Barrett went in next. He stepped through the doorway, seemed to listen briefly. Turning then, he extended his hand to Edith. She entered the house, clutching at his hand. "That smell ," she said. "It's even worse than outside."
"It's a very old house with no aeration," Barrett said. "It could also be the furnace, which hasn't been used in more than twenty-nine years." He turned to Florence. "Coming, Miss Tanner?" he asked.
She nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes." She took a deep breath, held herself erect, and stepped inside. She looked around. "The atmosphere in here-" She sounded queasy.
"An atmosphere of this world, not the next," said Barrett dryly.
Fischer played the flashlight beam around the dark immensity of the entry hall. The narrow cone of light jumped fitfully from place to place, freezing momentarily on hulking groups of furniture; huge, leaden-colored paintings; giant tapestries filmed with dust; a staircase, broad and curving, leading upward into blackness; a second-story corridor overlooking the entry hall; and far above, engulfed by shadows, a vast expanse of paneled ceiling.
"Be it ever so humble," Barrett said.
"It isn't humble at all," said Florence. "It reeks of arrogance."
Barrett sighed. "It reeks, at any rate." He looked to his right. "According to the floor plan, the kitchen should be that way."
Edith walked beside him as they started across the entry hall, the sound of their footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.
Florence looked around. "It knows we're here," she said.
"Miss Tanner-" Barrett frowned. "Please don't think I'm trying to restrict you-"
"Sorry." Florence said. "I'll try to keep my observations to myself."
They reached a corridor and walked along it, Fischer in the lead, Barrett and Edith behind him, Florence last. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of metal-faced swinging doors. Fischer pushed one of them open and stepped into the kitchen, holding the door ajar for the others. When all of them had gone inside, he let the door swing back and turned.
"Good Lord." Edith's eyes moved with the flashlight beam as Fischer shifted it around the room.
The kitchen was twenty-five by fifty feet, its perimeter rimmed by steel counters and dark-paneled cupboards, a long, double-basin sink, a gigantic stove with three ovens, and a massive walk-in refrigerator. In the center of the room, like a giant's steel-topped casket, stood a huge steam table.
"He must have entertained a good deal," Edith said.
Fischer pointed the flashlight at the large electric wall clock above the stove. Its hands were stopped at 7:31. A.M. or P.M., and on what day? Barrett wondered as he limped along the wall to his right, pulling open drawers. Edith and Florence stood together, watching him. Barrett pulled open one of the cupboard doors and grunted as Fischer shone the light over. "Genuine spirits," he said, looking at the shelves of dust-filmed bottles. "Perhaps we'll raise some after supper."
Fischer pulled a sheet of yellow-edged cardboard from one of the drawers and pointed the flashlight at it.
"What's that?" Barrett asked.
"One of their menus, dated March 27, 1928. Shrimp bisque. Sweetbreads in gravy. Stewed
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