Paramnesia; Paresthesia; Percussion; Phantasmata; Poltergeist phenomena; Possession; Precognition; Presentiment; Prevision; Pseudopods; Psychic photography; Psychic rods; Psychic sounds; Psychic touches; Psychic winds; Psychokinesis; Psychometry; Radiesthesia; Radiographs; Raps; Retrocognition; Scriptograph; Sensory automatism; Skin writing; Skotography; Slate writing; Smells; Somnambulism; Stigmata; Telekinesis; Teleplasm; Telescopic vision; Telesthesia; Transcendental music; Transfiguration; Transportation; Typtology; Voices; Water sprinkling; Xenoglossy.
Edith put the list down numbly. My God, she thought. What kind of week was it going to be?
2:53 P.M.
The garage had been built to accommodate seven automobiles. Now it was empty. As they entered, Fischer thumbed off his flashlight, enough daylight filtering through the grimy door windows for them to see. He looked at the greenish mist which pressed against the panes of glass. "Maybe we should keep the car in here," he said.
Florence didn't answer. She was walking across the oilspotted floor, turning her head from side to side. She paused by a shelf and touched a dirty, rust-flecked hammer.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"Maybe we should keep the car in here."
Florence shook her head. "If a generator can be tampered with, so can a car."
Fischer watched the medium move around the garage. As she passed close by, he caught a scent of the cologne she wore.
"Why did you give up acting?" he asked.
Florence glanced at him with a fleeting smile. "It's a long story, Ben. When we've settled down a bit, I'll tell it to you. Right now, I'd better get the feeling of the place." She stopped in a patch of light and closed her eyes.
Fischer stared at her. In the dim illumination, the medium's ivory skin and lustrous red hair gave her the appearance of a Dresden doll.
After a while she returned to Fischer. "Nothing here," she said. "You agree?"
"Whatever you say."
Fischer switched on his flashlight as they ascended the steps to the corridor. "Which way now?" she asked.
"I don't know the place that well. I was here only three days."
"We'll just explore, then," Florence said. "No need—" She broke off suddenly and stopped, head twisted to the right, as though she heard a noise behind them. "Yes," she murmured. " Yes . Sorrow. Pain." She frowned and shook her head. "No, no."
At length she sighed and looked at Fischer. "You felt it," she said.
Fischer didn't answer. Florence smiled and looked away. "Well, let's see what else we can find," she said.
12
"Have you read Doctor Barrett's article in which he compares sensitives to Geiger counters?" she asked as they walked along the corridor.
"No."
"It's not a bad comparison. We are like Geiger counters in a way. Expose us to psychic emanations, and we tick. Of course, the difference is that we are judge as well as instrument, not only picking up impressions, but evaluating them as well."
"Uh-huh," said Fischer. Florence glanced at him.
They started down the flight of stairs across from the chapel, Fischer pointing the flashlight beam at their feet. "I wonder if we're going to need the full week," Florence said.
"A full year wouldn't be too long."
Florence tried to make her sound of disagreement mild. "I've seen the most abstruse of psychic problems solved overnight.
We mustn't—" She stopped, hand clamping on the banister rail. "This goddamn sewer," she muttered in a savage voice. She jolted in dismay and shook her head. "Oh, dear. Such fury. Such destructive venom." She drew in trembling breath. "A very hostile man," she said. "No wonder. Who can blame him, imprisoned in this house?" She glanced at Fischer.
Reaching the lower corridor, they moved to a pair of swinging metal doors with porthole windows in them. Fischer pushed at one of the doors and held it open for Florence. As they went inside, their footsteps sounded sharply on a tile floor and reverberated off the ceiling.
The pool was Olympic size. Fischer shone
Edith put the list down numbly. My God, she thought. What kind of week was it going to be?
2:53 P.M.
The garage had been built to accommodate seven automobiles. Now it was empty. As they entered, Fischer thumbed off his flashlight, enough daylight filtering through the grimy door windows for them to see. He looked at the greenish mist which pressed against the panes of glass. "Maybe we should keep the car in here," he said.
Florence didn't answer. She was walking across the oilspotted floor, turning her head from side to side. She paused by a shelf and touched a dirty, rust-flecked hammer.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"Maybe we should keep the car in here."
Florence shook her head. "If a generator can be tampered with, so can a car."
Fischer watched the medium move around the garage. As she passed close by, he caught a scent of the cologne she wore.
"Why did you give up acting?" he asked.
Florence glanced at him with a fleeting smile. "It's a long story, Ben. When we've settled down a bit, I'll tell it to you. Right now, I'd better get the feeling of the place." She stopped in a patch of light and closed her eyes.
Fischer stared at her. In the dim illumination, the medium's ivory skin and lustrous red hair gave her the appearance of a Dresden doll.
After a while she returned to Fischer. "Nothing here," she said. "You agree?"
"Whatever you say."
Fischer switched on his flashlight as they ascended the steps to the corridor. "Which way now?" she asked.
"I don't know the place that well. I was here only three days."
"We'll just explore, then," Florence said. "No need—" She broke off suddenly and stopped, head twisted to the right, as though she heard a noise behind them. "Yes," she murmured. " Yes . Sorrow. Pain." She frowned and shook her head. "No, no."
At length she sighed and looked at Fischer. "You felt it," she said.
Fischer didn't answer. Florence smiled and looked away. "Well, let's see what else we can find," she said.
12
"Have you read Doctor Barrett's article in which he compares sensitives to Geiger counters?" she asked as they walked along the corridor.
"No."
"It's not a bad comparison. We are like Geiger counters in a way. Expose us to psychic emanations, and we tick. Of course, the difference is that we are judge as well as instrument, not only picking up impressions, but evaluating them as well."
"Uh-huh," said Fischer. Florence glanced at him.
They started down the flight of stairs across from the chapel, Fischer pointing the flashlight beam at their feet. "I wonder if we're going to need the full week," Florence said.
"A full year wouldn't be too long."
Florence tried to make her sound of disagreement mild. "I've seen the most abstruse of psychic problems solved overnight.
We mustn't—" She stopped, hand clamping on the banister rail. "This goddamn sewer," she muttered in a savage voice. She jolted in dismay and shook her head. "Oh, dear. Such fury. Such destructive venom." She drew in trembling breath. "A very hostile man," she said. "No wonder. Who can blame him, imprisoned in this house?" She glanced at Fischer.
Reaching the lower corridor, they moved to a pair of swinging metal doors with porthole windows in them. Fischer pushed at one of the doors and held it open for Florence. As they went inside, their footsteps sounded sharply on a tile floor and reverberated off the ceiling.
The pool was Olympic size. Fischer shone
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