11:43 P.M.

Fischer jerked up, gasping, at the sound of screaming in the next room.

For several moments he sat frozen, bound by dread. Then something drove him to his feet and carried him across the room.

Flinging open his door, he lunged into the corridor and rushed to the door of Florence's room, twisted the knob, and pushed.

The door was locked.

"Oh, my God." He looked around in panic, the sound of Florence's mindless screams draining him. He glanced at the door to the Barretts' room as it opened suddenly and Edith peered out, her expression taut and stricken.

Lurching across the corridor, Fischer grabbed a heavy wooden chair and dragged it to the door. He started crashing it against the wood. The screaming broke off. He kept slamming the chair against the door. One of its legs snapped off. "Damn!" He battered at the door dementedly, seeing, on the edge of vision, Barrett and Edith hurrying toward him.

Suddenly the jamb was splintered and the door flew open. Hurling the broken chair aside, Fischer reached inside and switched the light on, then rushed into the room.

The sight of Florence made him gag. He heard the sound of Edith being sick. "Dear God," Barrett muttered.

She was naked, lying on her back, her legs spread far apart, her eyes wide open, staring upward with a look of total shock.

Her body was bruised and bitten, scratched, gouged, and running with blood.

Fischer looked at her face again, the face of a woman who had just been driven mad. Her lips stirred feebly. Compelled, he leaned over to hear. At first there were only rattling noises in her throat. Then she whispered, " Filled." She stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. " Filled."

He was unable not to ask. "With what?"

With hideous abruptness, she began to smile.

DECEMBER 24, 1970

7:19 A.M.

Fischer sat slumped in an armchair, staring at Florence. He hadn't closed his eyes all night. When Barrett's pills had finally put her to sleep, he'd dragged the heavy armchair to her bedside; and Barrett and Edith had gone back to their room, Barrett with the promise that he'd return in several hours to take over watching. He'd never returned. Fischer had not expected it. He knew how badly Barrett had been physically and mentally abused the last two days in Hell House.

He shivered as a chill ran through him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and yawned, wondering what time it was. He could use some coffee. Straining to his feet, he trudged into the bathroom, twisted the cold-water faucet, and cupped his right hand underneath the icy stream. Bending over, he splashed the water into his face, hissing at the sting of it. He straightened up and gazed at his reflection in the cabinet mirror. Water was dripping from his chin. He puffed out breath and misted drops of water on the mirror surface. Reaching out, he slid a bath towel from its rack and patted it against his face.

He went back into the bedroom and stood beside the bed, looking at Florence. She looked at peace; a beautiful woman, asleep. It had not been that way during the night. Despite the sleeping pills, she had dozed erratically, limbs twitching, whimpering at times as though in pain, trembling periodically with paroxysmal seizures. He had been tempted to wake her from whatever terrors she had been experiencing. It had proven unnecessary. At unexpected intervals, she had jolted awake on her own, eyes staring, face disfigured by a look of dread. Each time, he'd held her hand, trying not to wince when her grip became painful, her clutching fingers as white as bone. She'd never spoken. After a while her eyes had fallen shut, and in seconds she had gone to sleep again.

Fischer blinked, refocusing his eyes. Florence was awake and looking at him. Her face had no expression. It was as though she'd never seen him before.

"How are you?" he asked.

She made no reply, gazing at him fixedly, her eyes those of a doll, glasslike, unmoving.

"Florence?"

There was a crackling sound in her throat as she swallowed. Fischer rose and walked into the bathroom, returning with a glass of water. "Here." He held it out.

Florence didn't stir. Fischer held the glass awhile, then set it on the bedside table. Florence's gaze shifted to the place where he had put it, then sprang back to his face.

"Can you speak?" he asked.

"Have you been here all night?"

Fischer nodded.

Her gaze shifted again, moving to the chair, then back again to probe at Fischer's eyes. "There?" she asked.

"Yes."

She made a noise of cynical amusement. " Stupid." She ran an appraising gaze over his body. "You could have slept with me."

Fischer waited guardedly.

She pulled the covers down from her chest. "Who put on my nightgown?"

"I did."

Florence smiled with derision. "Fun?" she asked.

"After we cleaned you off."

Something flared in her eyes - a nova of awareness. Her body was convulsed by a wrenching shudder. "Oh, my God," she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes. "He's inside me." She reached out tremblingly for him.

Fischer took her hand and sat beside her on the bed. "We'll get rid of him."

She shook her head.

"We will." He squeezed her hand.

Florence pulled her hand away so fast he couldn't hold it. She began unbuttoning the front of her nightgown.

"What are you doing?"

Florence paid no attention. Breathing hard, she yanked aside the edges of her gown, exposing her breasts. Fischer winced at the sight of them. The teeth marks around her nipples looked purplish and infected. Florence clutched a hand around each breast, compressing and pulling them erect, their nipples hardening. "Look at them," she said.

Fischer grabbed her hands and forced them to her sides. In the instant that he did so, Florence lost rigidity and, with a faint groan, turned her head on the pillow. Fischer pulled the covers to her chin. "I'm taking you out of here this morning," he said.

"He lied to me." Her voice was strengthless. "He said it was the only way."

Fischer felt ill. "You still believe there's a Daniel - "

"Yes!" She turned back suddenly. "I know there is. I found the entry of his birth inside the chapel Bible." She saw his look of startlement. "He let me in to prove that he existed. He's the one who always kept me out. He learned about my brother, picked it from my mind - just as you said. He knew I'd believe him, because the memory of my brother's death would make me believe." She clutched at Fischer's hand again. "Oh, God, he's inside me, Ben; I can't get rid of him. Even as I'm speaking to you, I can feel him in there, waiting to take over."

She began to shake so violently that Fischer drew her up and put his arms around her. "Shhh. It's going to be all right. I'll take you out of here this morning."

"He won't let me go."

"He can't stop you."

"Yes he can; he can."

"He can't stop me."

Florence jerked away from him and thrashed back, thumping hard against the headboard of the bed. "Who the fucking hell are you?" she snarled. "Maybe you were hot stuff when you were twelve, but now you're shit. You hear me? Shit!"

Fischer stared at her in silence.

A flickering in her eyes revealed the change, like the evanescent shimmer of sunlight across a cloud-darkened landscape.

Instantly she was herself again; but not emerging from amnesia. It was, instead, a sudden, brutal surfacing to self, with total memory of every vileness she'd been forced to utter.

" Oh, God, please help me, Ben."

Fischer held her tightly, sensing the congested turmoil in her mind and body. If only he could dig inside her like some psychic surgeon, rip away the cancerous mass, and fling it from her. He couldn't, though; he didn't have the power or the will.

He was as much a victim of this house as she was.

Fischer drew back. "Get dressed. We'll leave."

Florence stared at him.

"Now."

She nodded; but it seemed the jerk of a marionette's head as the operator moved the string from overhead. Drawing aside the bedclothes, Florence rose and walked to the bureau. Fischer watched as she drew some clothes from its drawers and started for the bathroom.

"Florence - "

She turned to face him. Fischer braced himself. "You'd better dress in here."

The skin grew taut across her cheekbones. "I have to piss. Is that all right?"

"Stop it!" Fischer shouted.

Florence jerked so hard she dropped her clothes. She looked at him bewilderedly.

"Stop it," he repeated quietly.

Florence looked painfully embarrassed. "But I have to . . ." She couldn't finish.

Fischer stared at her sadly. What if she became possessed in there, did something harmful to herself?

He sighed. "Don't lock the door."

She nodded once and turned. Entering the bathroom, she closed the door. Fischer listened for the sound of the lock, relaxing gradually when it didn't come. Standing, he walked across the room and picked up the clothes she'd dropped.

He looked around with relief as Florence opened the bathroom door and came out. Without a word he handed her her clothes and turned away. He sat on the bed with his back to her. "Keep talking while you dress."

"All right." He heard the rustle of her nightgown as she took it off. He closed his eyes and yawned. "Did you sleep at all?"

she asked.

"I'll sleep when you're out of here."

"You're going too, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think I'm vulnerable as long as I'm shut off from the house, not fighting it. I might stay. I have no qualms about lifting a hundred thou from old man Deutsch's bank account. He won't miss it." He paused. "I'll give you half of it."

Florence didn't speak.

"Talk," he said.

" Why talk? "

The tone of her voice made him twist around. She was standing by the bureau, naked, smiling at him. "Take off your clothes now," she said.

Fischer stood up quickly. "Fight it."

"Fight what?" she asked. "My love of cock?"

"Florence - "

"Strip. I want to wallow. Like a pig." She started toward him angrily. "Strip, you bastard. You've wanted to fuck my ass all week; now do it!"

She seemed to think his sudden movement toward her indicated interest, and she ran to him. Fischer grabbed her wrists and jerked her to a halt. "Fight it, Florence."

"Fight what? My - ?"

" Fight it."

"Let me go, goddamnit!"

" Fight it!' Fischer gouged his fingers into her wrists until she gasped in pain and rage.

"I want to fuck!" she screamed.

" Fight it, Florence!"

"I want to fuck, I want to fuck! "

Releasing her left wrist, Fischer slapped her face as hard as possible. Her head snapped to the right, her expression one of shocked amazement.

When her head turned back, he saw that she'd been given back her mind. For several moments she stood trembling, gaping at him. Then she glanced down at her body, shamed. "Don't look," she begged.

Fischer released her other wrist and turned away. "Dress," he said. "Forget your bags; I'll bring them later. Let's get out of here."

"All right."

God, I hope it is all right, he thought. He shuddered. What if he was not allowed to take her from the house?