MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  A student raised his hand. He was a young man in his thirties and was wearing a business suit; he did not appear the "type" to take this kind of a class.

  "How have you made all this possible? I mean, it sounds as if you will have to spend a lot of time at the mansion."

  Holzer jumped at the question, almost welcoming it.

  "Not really, my young lad." Holzer walked from behind his podium, explaining. "By a connection with the local authorities of the area, I have obtained the right to visit Manchester House, and also&" The professor directed everyone's attention toward the projection screen. "Something new for this kind of study. In keeping with the times, we have installed a webcam."

  Holzer took the remote control and pointed it toward the huge screen. He pressed a few buttons and the screen clicked over to a video feed from inside the Manchester House mansion.

  "I'll be damned," Holzer heard the student say as he sat back down.

  The projection screen clicked to life, showing static at first, but slowly, all started to see inside Manchester House. Nothing fancy could be seen at first: Just an empty room, old sofa, and an innocent-looking sheet of hanging plastic. It appeared as if the room had once been prepared for a paint job. However, time and neglect had taken their toll. A small trickle of water could be seen dripping into the picture frame, indicating that there was a leak in the mansion's roof. As the webcam started to focus in on the invading trickle of water, everyone noticed rot and mildew on the nearby walls. It had been some time since the mansion had been prepared for an honest paint job. The video feed caused a rise in excitement throughout the class.

  "Ladies and gentlemen&Manchester House."

  In the room, as projected on the huge screen, a wind started to pick up the sheet of hanging plastic. A heavy sound was heard, as if someone were breathing too hard into a microphone. The picture rippled, turning to static. Holzer, surprised at such a quick loss of picture, tried his best to retrieve it. Embarrassed, he could not.

  "Well, we will try to perfect that."

  A laugh was heard through the classroom.

  "I would like to thank you all for coming, and look forward to your future attendance," Holzer stated. "Class dismissed."

  All the students left. Holzer walked to his podium, picked up his papers, and started to exit. Before he could do so, however, he ran face to face into the hungry eyes of Leslie Guthrie.

  "Oh, Miss Guthrie. You gave me quite a start." Holzer started to fidget. "What can I do for you?"

  "I thought your class rather interesting."

  "Well, I thank you. That's what I try for. I like a student who is entertained as well as enlightened."

  Leslie moved closer to Holzer, her breasts clearly visible for the old man to see. It was obvious that the young lady wished to make a move, hoping that Holzer would invite advancement. Holzer did not see life in that way. To him, his passions were found in a book. He was a man, and as a man he felt the need for companionship, but dear God! Not with a child.

  "Miss Guthrie," Holzer said, his voice filled with a soft finality, "no."

  "No?" Leslie repeated, with false doe-eyed surprise.

  "No." Holzer stated, "I do not involve myself with my students. You will have to seek&enlightenment elsewhere in those matters. However, if it be your own mind you wish to focus on in the future, dear child, I would welcome you. You show promise in your disbelief. That is all that I ask: a way of challenging you to question your perceptions."

  Leslie Guthrie's frame sank with disappointment. She started to tread back to her seat, putting her books away. "I will stay in your class, Professor. I had hoped, however&" She looked back, questioning.

  "Hope can move mountains, Miss Guthrie, but will not move me in the matters on which you need to be moved. I would suggest an object for your attentions a little&younger, and perhaps a little more hungry for the feast." On the last comment, Holzer had to laugh.

  "Thank you, Professor."

  "No, my child," Holzer said. There was no malice in his voice. "Thank you for giving me the chance to know that I can still turn a head or two. I do not have the chance to do such things, and fear that my days in that activity are behind me. Thank you for allowing me to feel young once more. I look forward to seeing you in my class, child. Take care."

  Holzer waved a confident hand in the air and left Leslie to her humility and embarrassment.

  The girl was alone in the room. "Well, that went great," Leslie huffed, putting her books into her bag.

  She was going to fail if she didn't get above an A in this class, and now she knew that she had to do it the hard way. Her parents would stop sending money if she didn't start to produce and she knew it. "I'm not going to be forty-two years old and the manager of a hamburger joint. I'm going to make something out of my life, God damn it!"

  The room echoed with the sound of rustling plastic. There was the faint sound of heavy breathing. The effect confused and frightened Leslie.

  "What the hell was that?"

  Leslie picked up her bags and started to head toward the door. The lights of the room went dark, clicked off by a timer. The effect caused the young student to drop her bag.

  "Oh, crap." The bag opened upon hitting the ground, allowing her books to fall out, scattering on the floor.

  As Leslie bent down to fumble and find her books, placing them back into her bag, she saw the large projection screen click on, showing the interior of Manchester House.

  "The professor would be glad to know that his camera is working again."

  Shallow breathing echoed through the empty classroom.

  Leslie got the uneasy feeling that she was no longer alone. For reasons she could not explain, she stopped picking up her books and focused all her attention onto the projection screen. The young woman started to shake with fear.

  She saw the same dirty room, couch, and hanging piece of plastic. She heard the same dripping sound caused by the leaking roof and could just make out the rot forming on the background walls. It was a house of neglect, just like the slums she had been forced to live in as a child. How many nights had she promised herself that she would do anything not to end up in one of those nightmares ever again. Even sleep with her teacher if she had to.

  Something moved in the picture. All looked as it did when the class had first gazed upon the interior of the house, however this time the projection slightly changed.

  "What the hell?" Leslie said, rubbing her eyes. Was she seeing things? Was the guilt of trying to use a good man such as Professor Holzer finally getting to her, or was she just going mad?

  A black shape started to move into the picture frame. It started to take on form. Substance. Identity. It started to look like a young girl no older than twelve.

  The Shape weaved closer to the camera. Her image started to dominate the entire projection screen. The heavy breathing sound began to intensify and the beating of a human heart could be heard. In horror, Leslie muffled her ears.

  "Stop it!" she cried, tripping, hitting the floor. She had tripped over one of her schoolbooks.

  The Shape on the screen moved closer, its face or head starting to dominate the screen, turning the whole picture black. It was as if the Shape had moved only inches away from the camera lens located inside Manchester House. What was going on here? Professor Holzer had said nothing about any of this!

  "Go away!" Leslie cried, throwing a book at the screen in desperation.

  The Shape opened its eyes, glaring down at her. The eyes were filled with a hatred and level of disgust that tore at the heart of Leslie's being. The eyes moved as she moved, and were aware of her actions.

  The breathing intensified.

  Leslie grabbed all her books and fled the room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "What's her problem?" a student blurted out, catching Holzer by surprise.

  Holzer was absently walking down one of the passageways of the college, not paying attention to where he was going. He had been putting his papers in orde
r. Behind him, he saw a flock of students. All were in a rush, hoping to borrow a moment of his time.

  Reacting towards the student's statement, Holzer looked up in curiosity.

  Holzer saw Leslie Guthrie darting across the campus parking lot, heading for what he presumed was her car. Holzer could see that the poor woman was obviously disturbed about something. He just couldn't bring himself to believe that her dire condition was about him.

  "Miss Guthrie has details in her study practices which require her to behave in rather unorthodox ways," Holzer finally brought himself to say, just below a whisper. "Well, I'm off to Manchester House."

  "Professor, may I ask a question?"

  "Yes, of course." Holzer noticed a young African-American woman looking up at him from rimmed glasses. They made her look older than her years. The woman was uneasy, but curious.

  "It's great that we are studying this case with you, sir, but&"

  "But what?"

  "How did you obtain such a fantastic coup?"

  The most important question. One that Holzer would bring himself to ask over and over again months, indeed years, later.

  In Holzer's eyes, there was a great uneasiness.

  * * *

  Two weeks earlier&

  Manchester House had claimed another life.

  Atchison, Kansas was a quiet small town filled with the conservative values of Middle America. The kind of town, people, and way of life depicted by Norman Rockwell on Saturday Evening Post magazine covers. At one time, this town had been the seat of western commerce, the home of a famous aviator, and the birthplace of an American industry business power. Now the town was ideal for living one's life in and escaping the terrors of the big cities. Crime was an event that happened but sparingly, and always to someone you did not know.

  That was until Manchester House decided to take matters into its own accursed hands-metaphorically.

  Lt. Albert Wells entered the rotted out house for what had to be the ninth time. And each time he entered, he knew it was to pick up another body. Having served the city of Atchison for over thirty years, he'd only had to look at eleven bodies-and nine were from this damned mansion. Settling in, he could hear the commotion of people moving about and noticed that everyone was working in the middle of a crime scene. Wells took notice of a body bag lying on the floor of the mansion's main hall.

  "Why did I have to eat a big breakfast this morning?" Wells grumbled, trying his best to control his urge to throw up.

  Wells knelt down toward the body bag, silently asking to see the remains of Manchester House's latest victim. The remains of Jean Mallia flashed quickly into the Atchison detective's eyes. He couldn't help it. Wells puked out his breakfast.

  "You okay, Lieutenant?" a patrolman asked, handing Wells a handkerchief.

  "Got a breath mint, son?" was all Wells could bring himself to say as he wiped his mouth.

  Jean Mallia was the town crazy. Always a pain in the ass, and always up in your face. But, all in all, Wells like him. Nervous breakdowns and drug addiction aside, the detective thought Mallia a likable man.

  Mallia was a skeleton of a man and appeared to have been dead for months. The stench alone, rising from the thick black plastic bag, was enough to let Wells know this. The corpse appeared to Wells to be that of a dried-out victim, weighing no more than seventy pounds. It was as if all life had been slowly removed from this man, making him look the part of a World War II concentration camp survivor-only this man did not survive.

  "What happened to this man?" Wells asked, his voice dripping with fearful curiosity.

  Flashbulbs clicked and popped wildly away as several police photographers took pictures of Mallia's remains. Wells, from the corner of his eye, only saw flashes of the corpse, wanting not to tempt fate with a second round of heaving.

  Lt. Wells stood over the body bag, finally bringing himself to look down at the body.

  "Is there something I can do for you, sir?" a patrolman asked.

  "I knew this man," Wells said to finally break the silence. "I saw him just two days ago."

  There was an awkward pause. The patrolman started to nervously tap his pencil on his notebook pad. "Then you must have known how sick he was."

  "Sick?" Wells barked. "Hell, no, he wasn't sick. The man was as healthy as you or I. He was a veteran, for Christ's sake! I arrested him more times than my fair share. He was a hulk of a man. He enjoyed life."

  The patrolman looked down at the body and took in its present state of decay. He started to take notes, not wanting Wells to see the deep look of disbelief that clearly had flashed upon his face.

  "Don't get me wrong here, son," Wells tried to explain. "I knew him from my Army days. He's a veteran of the First Gulf War, for Christ's sake! That's what turned him into a nut." Wells looked down at Mallia's body, pondering. "Someone who could clearly take care of himself."

  The patrolman stopped writing. "Then how did he&"

  "I don't know," Wells interrupted, angry. "But I will find out."

  Both men moved to the main hall of the mansion. Like most mansions built in the late nineteenth century, a main hall connected all major rooms of activity. The entire main hall ran the length of the house and was, in its tired dilapidated state, nothing more than a tunnel of plaster and rot. Wells could just make out the original red velvet wallpaper underneath the mold. The air was filled with the stench of decay; several bodies of dead rats littered the floor. What Mallia saw in this house simply was beyond the policeman's logic.

  Wells and the patrolman noticed the hanging plastic tarps.

  There were at least half a dozen, and they were starting to run the entire length of the hall. Wells surmised that Mallia had plastered the tarps on the walls using common duct tape. He shook his head, laughing silently. Sloppy.

  "Looks like he was getting ready to paint or something."

  Wells took a cigarette from his coat jacket and lit it, walking through the tunnel of plastic. He turned away from Mallia as the body bag was zipped back up and the body was removed from the home.

  "Something," Wells absently repeated, looking up at the hanging sheets of plastic. He shook his head with great wonderment. "Did you know that this place used to be the grandest house in all of Atchison?"

  "You don't say."

  "Terrible how things go to waste."

  As Wells and the patrolman started to walk away from the crime scene, Wells noticed a fellow detective approaching. Anderson was his name. Nice guy. Single. Had a problem getting a lady because of perpetual bad breath. A good and honest man who did his job well. He noticed that the advancing detective was holding a book of some kind.

  "Anderson?" Wells inquired, squinting his eyes, adjusting them to the darkness ahead of him. The mansion had terrible lighting, even in the daytime. "What have you got there?"

  Anderson stepped out of the dark and into the faint light the sun was giving off from a nearby skylight. "Found a book in the victim's belongings. Looks like a diary or some such thing."

  "Journal," Wells corrected.

  "Huh?"

  "Only virgin prom queens looking to get laid by Prince Charming write in diaries, Anderson." Wells had to control his facial features. Anderson was standing about seven feet from him, but he could already smell the stench coming from the young man's green teeth. It was amazing what a calcium deficiency could do to one's teeth. "Let me see that thing."

  "Just have it back on my desk by morning." Anderson turned up his collar and made a body motion that he was ready to leave. "I gotta go."

  "See you, then."

  Wells started to fumble through the journal. It appeared that Mallia was also a writer of sorts. His subject: ManchesterHouse.

  "Looks like our victim had a hobby."

  "What?" the patrolman asked.

  "This house." Wells motioned around the hall. "It appears that Mallia was trying to figure out a mystery."

  "Mystery?"

  "That's what it says here." Wells closed the book.
"I'll let you know."

  The patrolman continued with his notes as Wells walked away from him, wanting to explore the house.

  "Wells!" someone shouted.

  The detective turned to see his captain glaring down at him from the stairs above. It was obvious that his superior had been standing there for some time and had observed Anderson handing him the victim's journal. The only thing that Wells couldn't understand was why his captain was even there. Sure, murders were rare in Atchison, but not when it came to Manchester House. Hell, this was old hat! Every rookie was warned from day one about this damn place. Why would the captain even waste his time?

  "Wells, what have you got there?"

  "The victim's journal, sir." Wells held it up for the captain to see.

  Something was wrong. Did Wells see fear in the captain's eyes?

  "Something bothering you, Wells?" the captain finally asked.

  "Captain, I can't seem to bring all the pieces together on this case." Wells tried to explain. He placed the journal under his right arm. "Things just do not add up."

  "What? This case? Manchester House?" The captain gave the house a look of disgust and challenge. It was obvious that in his time he'd had to pick up his share of bodies from inside these walls. Wells could see that the old man was tired of the paperwork. Police budget was tight as it was. "Cripes! We can't afford all of this. We are behind enough on our caseload as it is. Just close it up. Suicide or some such thing. I'll back you up on it."

  Wells let out a surprised laugh, controlling it just in time. Instead he exhaled, coughing. The subtle action caught his captain's attention.

  "Something bothering you, Wells?"

  The detective squirmed, awkward.

  "Wells?" the captain repeated, demanding an answer.

  "Close it up?" Wells said, "Captain, I&"

  "Manchester House has just claimed another," the captain blurted out. He gave the house a hard look of disdain. "I don't know why they just do not tear this damn place down."