Free Hell House by Richard Matheson

drifted toward it.
    "You're not Belasco, are you? Such pain would not be in Belasco. And I feel your anguish. Tell me who—"
    The bedspread suddenly collapsed. Florence stared at it awhile, then leaned over to pick it up.
    She reared with a gasp as a hand caressed her buttocks. Angrily, she looked around the room. There was a chuckling— low-pitched, sly. Florence drew in a shaking breath. "You've proved your sex to me, at any rate," she said. The chuckling deepened.
    Florence shook her head in pity. "If you're all that clever, why are you a prisoner in this house?"

20
    The chuckling stopped, and all three blankets flew from the bed as though someone were pulling them away in rage. The sheets went next, the pillows, then the mattress cover. In seven seconds, all the bedclothes lay in scattered heaps across the rug, the mattress shifted to the side.
    Florence waited. When nothing more occurred, she spoke. "Feel better now?"
    Smiling to herself, she started gathering up the bedclothes. Something tried to pull a blanket from her hands. She jerked it back. "That's enough! I'm not amused!" She turned to the bed. "Go away, and don't come back until you're ready to behave."
    As she started to remake the bed, the corridor door was opened. She didn't even look around to watch it shut.
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    DECEMBER 22, 1970
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    7:01 A.M.
    I'm afraid not." Barrett drew his foot from the water. "Maybe it'll be warm enough by tomorrow morning." He dried the foot and pulled his slipper on again. Pushing to his feet, he looked at Edith with a rueful smile. "I could have let you sleep."
    "That's all right."
    Barrett looked around. "I wonder if the steam room works."
    Edith pulled the heavy metal door and held it open for him. Barrett limped inside and turned to watch her follow. The door thumped shut. Barrett raised his candle and peered around, then leaned forward, squinting.
    "Ah." Setting down his cane and candle, he eased himself into a kneeling position. He reached underneath and tried to turn the tap wheel of the steam outlet.
    Edith sat across from him and leaned against the tile wall, straightening as the chill of it pierced her robe. She stared at Lionel sleepily. The flickering of their candles and his bobbing shadow on the walls and ceiling seemed to pulse against her eyes. She closed them momentarily, then opened them again. She found herself beginning to appraise the shadow hovering on the ceiling over Lionel. It seemed, somehow, to be expanding. How could that be? There was no movement of air in the room; the candle flames burned straight up now. Only Barrett's shifting as he labored with the tap wheel was reflected on the walls and ceiling.
    She blinked and shook her head. She could swear the edges of the shadow were extending like a spreading inkblot. She shifted on the bench. The room was still except for Lionel's breathing. Let's go, she thought. She tried to speak the words aloud, but something kept her from it.
    She stared at the shadow. It hadn't gone across that corner before, had it? Let's get out of here, she thought. It's probably nothing, but let's go.
    She felt her body going rigid. She was sure she'd seen a patch of lighted wall go black. "Lionel?" The sound she made was barely audible, a feeble stirring in her throat. She swallowed hard. "Lionel?"
    Her voice came so abruptly that Barrett jerked around with a gasp. "What is it?"
    Edith blinked. The shadow on the ceiling looked normal now.
    "Edith?"
    She filled her lungs with air. "Let's go?"
    "Nervous?"
    "Yes, I'm . . . seeing things." Her smile was wan. She didn't want to tell him. Still, she had to. If it did mean something, he would want to know. "I thought I saw your shadow start to grow." He stood and picked up his cane and candle holder, turning back to join her. "It's possible," he said, "but following your sleepless night in this particular house, I'm more inclined to think it was imagination."
    They left the steam room and