CHAPTER FOUR
Approaching a road which appeared more out-of-the-way than normal, Holzer knew that his team was close. Instructing Sinclair to turn the car off the state highway, they all found themselves on a muddy dirt path which did not appear to be the kind of pathway friendly toward automobiles.
"Doc, I think we're running out of places to drive here," Sinclair nervously suggested.
Holzer peered out the front windshield and noticed that the car was surrounded by thick forest. There was no way that they could back up or turn off the road. Their only direction was forward.
It started to rain.
"Well, this is the road to the mansion," Holzer stated, looking at his notes. "There is no other road."
"You sure do know how to pick them, Doc."
The car continued forward. Upon certain turns down the winding pathway, Holzer had to put his fears in check, as the car dodged sharp turns, slopes, and rocky hills. It was obvious that Manchester House was not easy to get to. And once someone had made the fatal choice to venture toward it, there was no turning back until one reached his or her destination. Or that is what Holzer assumed. One would hope that if there was a way to the mansion that there was a way out.
Sinclair suddenly stopped the car.
The rain started to fall heavily.
"What's wrong?" Miranda asked, leaning forward. "Why have you stopped?"
"Look," Sinclair explained, motioning all to peer at what he was seeing. "I'll turn on the brights." With a flip of his wrist, Sinclair turned on the car's bright headlights.
"Oh dear," Holzer found himself saying.
In front of the car blocking the way to the mansion was a fallen tree. The tree was huge enough to stop a Sherman Tank, let alone the car they were in. The tree was old and the damaged trunk appeared to have just fallen.
"What do we do now?" Teresa asked, concerned.
"Looks like we're walking," Sinclair grunted, doing his best to hold back both his disappointment and his anger.
"But it's raining," Miranda protested.
All eyes fell to Holzer who, in his own way, did not want to leave the dry car and venture into the woods, over a dead tree, and walk God knew how far until they reached an ancient mansion which wasn't known for its warm welcomes.
"How far away is Manchester House from where we now are, Professor?"
Holzer studied his map. "Not even a half mile, I believe."
"We'll all be soaked to the bone by the time we arrive," Miranda stated. "Perhaps we should wait until the rain clears?"
"We can't," Holzer explained. "I only have so much time until the City Council becomes aware of our presence. Once they find out, we will have to leave."
Everyone let out a tired sigh.
"How will our equipment handle all of this?" Holzer asked Sinclair.
"Give me a minute and I will pack all that we need in a few waterproof bags I happen to carry with me and we can all hike to the mansion with a portion of all of these on our backs," Sinclair said, thinking about his possible future actions. "I got all our bases covered, Doc. Nothing I haven't done before. The question is can all of you handle the weight?" The cameraman looked around, silently studying his group's faces, looking for the answer to his question.
"I should have no problem," Holzer said, directing his attentions towards the women. "Ladies? Is there a problem?"
Miranda held back a dry laugh. "I'm an archaeologist. I live in a backpack."
For what seemed like a few minutes, each member remained quiet, listening to the rain. Holzer knew what each of them was doing. Each of them was debating if this trip was worth walking in the rain for.
"Investigations like these do not grow on trees, people," Holzer stated.
Miranda was the first to respond. "Oh, hell, let's get on with it." With that, Miranda kicked open the car door and trotted off into the pouring rain.
"Gutsy woman," Sinclair said, giving Holzer a comical wink. "I like that."
Turning off the engine and getting out of the car, Sinclair headed for the trunk. Obviously he wanted to divvy up the equipment for all the team. Reluctantly, both Holzer and Teresa followed. Within seconds they were all as wet as ducks.
Sinclair gave each member a bag, covered with a waterproof slip. All were impressed with the fact that he had anticipated this and had just the right amount of items needed to accomplish a safe trip up to the mansion. Holzer was right about one thing: Sinclair would not be a SOURCE member if he weren't the best in his field.
"Let's go," Holzer finally said.
The car was left behind. Just in case, Holzer left a note inside, informing anyone who found the car that, should they not return at a respectable time, who and where they were. Not wanting the worst to happen, the professor was prepared for it.
* * *
As Holzer and his team ventured past the fallen tree, it was obvious that there would have been no way that they could have pushed the thing off the road with their car. The thick tree was too old and too huge to move. It would have been like an ant trying to push a house out of his way.
The team soon approached another road in a sea of trees leading up to Manchester House. It was even more isolated than the trail their car had been left on, and Holzer even heard some concern from the two women of the group, stating that this was "getting worse by the hour."
Then, as the trees parted, all beheld the sinister shape of Manchester House.
"Dear God," Teresa said shifting the equipment she was holding from her left hand to her right.
The mansion seemed to represent no particular style in building. It was Victorian in stance, Gothic in style, and somewhat contemporary in approach. Constructed of brick, wood, stone, and iron, it was almost impossible to characterize. Three stories tall, and containing at least two towers, a steeple, and broken-out stained glass windows. Manchester House did show off some of her former glory. After all, a railroad tycoon designed the building.
No matter what her former glory was, Manchester House affected all who saw her. She was just&bad. Not one member of Holzer's team seemed to be ignoring that fact. It took a while for each to start moving forward.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sinclair noticed several burnt-out and worn-down houses surrounding the mansion, hidden in the thick woods.
"What are those houses, Doc?"
Holzer craned his neck to where Sinclair was pointing. "Those were the houses of Mr. Manchester's workforce. They all worked for the Atchison-Manchester Railroad Empire."
"But why are they all here?"
"Manchester believed in having his employees close at hand," Holzer explained. "He was a man of his times. Cruel and demanding. He controlled all his employees like they were subjects of his own little kingdom. And without labor laws or unions, they pretty much were. Several died here of exhaustion and lack of food while he lived, in their presence, in the lap of luxury."
"What a bastard," Teresa said, her voice dripping with disgust.
"Yes," Holzer confirmed.
Sinclair, however, spotted something about the workers' village that all the others didn't, or failed, to notice. In his travels all over the world, he knew of such practices that were still going on, even in the twenty-first century.
"Doc," Sinclair pointed out, "notice the windows of the houses facing Manchester House."
Holzer paused, looking back. His eyes filled with curiosity. "Interesting," was all that he could say.
Many of the houses near Manchester House seemed to have their facing windows shuttered and nailed shut. Although most were rather decorative and made to flatter the small shanty houses, it was as if the dwellers of these homes didn't want to see the mansion at all. Were they afraid of Manchester House as well? Was this why William Manchester had to force his main workforce to live near his influence?
"I sense a great deal of pain in these woods, Professor," Teresa finally managed to say. She was shivering. Was it only from the rain? "Abortions, murder, and capital gain th
rough vice."
"Do you feel that you are in contact with something, Teresa?" Miranda asked, placing a caring hand on the psychic's shoulder.
"No. Just a feeling."
Holzer had enough of looking at this mini ghost town. His focus was on the mansion that loomed above them. As if on a hill, the house viscerally called out to them, like a false prophet to its latest victim. This last feeling did not escape the professor.
"Let's go," Holzer finally brought himself to say.
Manchester House appeared to have been poorly maintained and there had been little or no human influence on the place in years. Holzer had been made aware of several individuals who had tried to fix up the house over the last fifty years, but to no avail. The house harbored great disaster to those who tried.
"I'm under the understanding that a man will be out in the morning to bring us oil lamps and heaters," Holzer said. "We'll have to rough it for now."
Sinclair let out a tired huff. "Nice house, Doc. Can Boris Karloff come out and play?"
Everyone let out a moan, letting Sinclair know that his joke was not appreciated.
"I'll get out my camera," Sinclair said, stopping just long enough to open up his bags, grab the camera that he needed, and turn it on.
The entire team started heading toward the house.
* * *
Sinclair tried his best to blink the dripping rainwater out of his eyes as he focused his night-vision lens on his fellow team members. He silently laughed, filming a minor portion of Miranda Wingate's ass as she walked in front of him. Damn! She was a nice-looking woman, but way out of his league. Sinclair wasn't exactly a ladies' man.
In any case he started to film, seriously concentrating on his job.
Sinclair focused on Holzer as the professor started to take a set of keys out of his vest pocket. They were old keys, rusty, reminding Sinclair of the skeleton keys he'd played with at his grandmother's house while living in Boston.
"Neat keys, Doc," Sinclair found himself saying.
Holzer nodded his head in acknowledgment. It wasn't long before they were all standing at the mansion's front doors. A sign of relief was heard from all for finally being out of the rain. The whole trip from car to mansion only took forty minutes.
Holzer turned to look into the lens of Sinclair's camera.
"Now it will be the job of both Teresa and Miranda to probe the house, hopefully bringing light on why so many families have lost their lives here." Holzer pointed at Sinclair, causing the cameraman to force a clear focus on his subject. "Mr. Sinclair, you will be our eyes. I want you to record everything. Understood?"
Sinclair moved his camera up and down, mocking a positive agreement to Holzer's demands.
"You should all know that another will be joining us soon. He will arrive in his own good time." Holzer let out a dry laugh. "He always does."
"Who is it, Doc?" Sinclair asked, curious.
Holzer wanted to blurt out the answer. Although not a fan of the paranormal, Sinclair would have known the missing team member's name. He was, in fact, a legend in the SOURCE member ranks. The missing team member was also one of the original founders like Holzer. All the man had to do was enter a room and it was his to control-he had that kind of a persona.
"I'll keep that a secret for now," Holzer finally said. "In any case, he is well-versed in cases such as this."
This was the moment of truth. There was nothing more to do than enter the house. Holzer placed the key into the front door's keyhole, turning it. The ancient device clicked a few times and sprang to life loudly. He turned the doorknob, opening the door with a rusty squeak.
Sinclair leaned forward, making sure to get the moment recorded on digital tape.
"Shall we go in?" Holzer invited, motioning the others to venture into the mansion. In the distance, all the team members could hear rolling thunder. An ominous omen, perhaps?
* * *
Sinclair taped everything.
As Holzer opened the front door to the mansion, Sinclair focused on all the team's faces through his electric eye of the camera. The entire picture was in black and white and very grainy. As everyone started into the house, something caught Sinclair's attention. Was it a shape? Was there another person in the house? Did Holzer forget to inform him that the other person joining the team had just shown up? In any case, something did catch Sinclair's eye-and that of his camera.
Sinclair, out of an instinct grown from many years as a wartime cameraman, turned his attention toward the shape that had caught his eye and focused his camera on the house's main staircase. There was a Shape at the top of the stairs. It was crouched over, like a crab or spider, and suddenly stood upright. A fiery aura showing itself as a bright white outline surrounded the whole figure. Sinclair's eyes tightened on the surprising figure. Was it a young woman? A girl? Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him.
"What the hell!" Sinclair said, taking the camera away from his face, blinking his eyes. He moved the camera in front of him, as if trying to inspect it.
Checking his camera, Sinclair was visibly shaken. The skeptical cameraman was seen blinking his eyes, wiping away nervous sweat, as Holzer and the other team members joined him. It was not like him to blurt out in panic like that, and the others knew that when Sinclair said something while seriously filming, one would have been a fool not to pay attention.
"What's wrong?" Holzer asked, panic-stricken, looking all around the mansion, as if trying to desperately see what Sinclair had seen.
Sinclair, fighting the nervous vomit growing in his throat, looked up at the main staircase with his own eyes and without the aid of his camera.
There was nothing there.
* * *
Holzer slowly approached Sinclair, paying close attention towards the man's emotional state. Something had shaken him up. Holzer cautiously looked up at the main staircase, seeing nothing of importance. At least nothing that would cause such a seasoned news reporter as Sinclair to sweat and fidget so.
Sinclair shook his head rather absently and gave his camera a disturbed look. "It was just a trick of the light, Doc." He smiled up at Holzer. "Happens all the time, believe me."
But by the look on the cameraman's face, Holzer knew it to be something more. As much as Holzer wished to push the matter, he had the good taste not to.
"Nothing wrong here, Doc," Sinclair stated, returning to his filming, placing the camera to his right eye. "Just a bit of the jitters. I'd kill for a cup of joe right now."
"I have a thermos filled with some." Holzer smiled with pride, realizing that he too would need some coffee before the night was out. "Perhaps later?"
Sinclair was trying to lose himself in the glory of the job, filming all that he could see. "Yeah, Doc. Whatever you say."
As Sinclair panned the staircase, Holzer noticed him momentarily stop his filming, giving the top of the stairs a worried look. Holzer, following his cameraman's example, paused, looking up at the stairs.
They were ordinary stairs. Nothing to brag about. It was quite obvious to Holzer that at one time these wooden stairs had been highly polished, finely crafted, and indeed prideful additions to a wonderful house. Now, however, they were as molded, forgotten, and water-damaged as the rest of the old dwelling. Still, there had been something. Something in the air. Something that seemed to grab at the most primal emotions deep within Holzer's soul. Then, finally, there was another feeling. A feeling of having been watched. A feeling of not being alone.
Holzer filed the emotions away as the jitters of investigating an anticipated case.
The professor, realizing that he was alone, rushed into the mansion's main hall, joining the others on his team.
Entering the main hall of the house, Holzer almost tripped over a mound of rotting newspapers as he noticed his team staring at something out of his line of sight. What he finally saw amazed him. Hanging from almost everywhere, huge plastic tarps held in place by wide lines of duct tape lined the entire molded and waterlogged
surfaces of the home. A calm wind carried itself through the rooms, causing some of the plastic tarps to sway, giving Holzer and all an ethereal feeling.
"Whoa!" Sinclair started to joke. "Looks like Martha Stewart puked in here or something."
There was a moment of pause.
"My police friend stated that the last owner was preparing to restore the place," Holzer tried to explain.
"Went a little crazy with the plastic though, didn't he, Doc?"
The team continued through the plastic tarps. In the air, Holzer and his team could just make out a thin layer of dust floating in front of them, almost playing with their senses, and looking like a veil of smoke. The whole sight gave the interior of the mansion an eerie feeling.
"What's this stuff in the air, Doc?" Sinclair finally asked, placing his camera back to his eye, filming.
"Could be minute traces of ectoplasm," Holzer stated. "You are filming all of this, are you not, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Is the Pope Catholic, Doc?"
Holzer started to grumble under his breath.
* * *
As Sinclair and Holzer continued to talk, Teresa Gonzalez started to use her mind to probe Manchester House. It took some time for her to clearly open up. Taking in a house was nothing like looking into the soul of a person. No, this was a subtle thing which even her parents could never understand. A house was a layered vortex, filled with the emotions and demons of her past owners. Like a vessel filled with an unknown liquid, not really poison or drinkable; one had to be very cautious if they chose to venture into its depths.
:What are you doing, little girl?:
She took off her gloves and started to place her hands against the walls, exploring her environment. A look of uneasiness came across her face. She started to shiver.
:Little whore! Stop and I might allow you to live. I am not one to be trifled with. I run this house now!:
Teresa had barely heard what both Sinclair and Holzer had been debating. She could sense that the house was aware. It knew of their presence inside her bowels and clearly did not want them there. Still, there was "another" there, never far from them, watching, waiting, and willing to do anything, even kill.
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