Hell House by Richard Matheson

the tentacle jerked back as though in startled retreat. "Leave a section in the bowl, please," Barrett said, returning to his chair.
    The gray appendage started swaying back and forth like the stalk of some undersea plant undulating in the current. "Leave a section in the bowl, please," Barrett repeated. He looked at the EMR recorder. The needle had passed the 300 mark. He felt a glow of satisfaction. Turning back to the cabinet, he repeated his instruction once more.
    He was forced to speak the words seven times more before the glistening filament began to move. Slowly it started toward the bowl. Edith stared at it, repelled yet fascinated. It looked like an eyeless, gray-scaled serpent. As it reached the bowl, it slithered up across the rim. She flinched as it recoiled. Again it advanced on the bowl, with perceptible caution in its movement. Once again it snapped back soundlessly.
    On the fifth advance, the tentacle remained in place, coiling with a languid, spiraling movement, until it filled the bowl.
    Thirty seconds later it withdrew. Edith started as it disappeared from sight.
    Barrett rose and transferred the bowl to the equipment table. Edith glanced at the transparent liquid inside it. "Specimen retained in bowl," Barrett said, looking at it. "No odor. Colorless and slightly turbid."
    "Lionel." Edith's urgent whisper made him look up.
    Across the bottom half of Florence's face, a cloudy mass was starting to form.
    "Teleplasmic matter being generated across lower part of medium's face," Barrett said. "Issuance from mouth and nostrils."
    As he continued speaking into the microphone, describing the materialization and noting the flux of instrument readings, Edith stared at the formation in front of Florence's face. Now it resembled a torn, grimy handkerchief, the lower part of which hung down in shreds. The upper part was starting to rise. It spread with a swaying movement, first obscuring Florence's nose, then her eyes, finally her brow, so that her face was cloaked entirely, the formation like a ragged veil through which her pale features could be seen.
    "Teleplasmic veil beginning to condense," said Barrett. This really was remarkable, he thought. For a mental medium to produce such striking teleplasm at her first physical sitting was almost unprecedented. He watched with mounting interest.
    The texture of the mistlike veil looked curdled now; in less than half a minute, Florence's face had vanished behind it. Soon, her head, then upper shoulders, were concealed beneath folds of what appeared to be a soggy, grayish shroud. The bottom of this dingy fabric was descending toward her lap, lengthening into a solid strip several inches wide. As it descended, it began to take on coloration.
    "Separate filament extending downward," Barrett said. "Reddish hue impinging on the grayness. Stretching tissue seems to be inflamed. Getting brighter . . . brighter. The color of open flesh now."
    Fischer felt numb. His chair seemed to be tilting backward as he watched the altering vesture on Florence's head and body.
    Sudden panic struck him. He was going under! He dug his nails into his palms until pain overshadowed all else.
    The shroud on Florence was becoming more albescent every moment, starting to resemble linen dipped in white paint, transparent in some places, solid in others. Veillike strips and patches were beginning to appear at other spots on her body—
    her right arm and leg, her right breast, the center of her lap. It looked as though a solid bedsheet had been dipped into some iridescent liquid, then torn apart, the fragments thrown across her indiscriminately, the largest piece settling on her head and shoulders.
    Edith pressed back hard against her chair, unaware that she was doing so. She had witnessed physical phenomena before, but never anything like this. Her face was masklike as she watched the teleplasmic sections start to coalesce. Bit by bit, they started to assume a shape. The filament, now pale again, looked