Kyle started pulling off long pieces of duct tape, whistling a nervous little song. He was almost frantic in his happiness, which appeared to be forced upon him. He started talking. He seemed to be addressing Cindy but, strangely, she was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere at all.
"Honey," Kyle said, biting off a piece of duct tape. "You really are going to love what I have to do to the place. There is so much to do&so much to do."
Kyle continued to "plastic up" the house. He started to question his sanity as he took a plastic sheet and started to cover up the pile of furniture in the middle of the room. What the hell was he doing? If he wasn't insane, this was something that if he was just remodeling or painting he shouldn't have to touch or tape down.
Still, realizing this, he continued working and talking to himself-to Cindy-in an almost controlled way.
"So much to do, dear," Kyle repeated, inspecting his work.
Kyle approached a corner of the hallway leading to the basement door and started taping away on a plastic column which appeared to have just been placed there. Kyle mumbled to himself, wondering where the damn thing came from. It was hollow and appeared to have something inside it. Kyle couldn't bring himself to look at the object lying within.
No. He couldn't do that.
"I know&I know!" Kyle said to no one. "But you said that&you said&" Kyle started to cry, realizing, screaming-a mad man. "Of course I am. I'm a happy man."
Kyle was forced to look into the hollow column.
His eyes filled with awareness and tears.
He strained to keep the smile on his face.
Inside the thing, Kyle saw the remains of his wife Cindy. Her hands seemed to be frozen, clawing away at the plastic tomb she was encased in, giving him the impression that she had been buried alive. Her fingers, bloody stubs of insane panic, stuck helplessly to the plastic. Kyle gasped, noticing that she had been violently stabbed, her throat was cut, and her eyes had been removed.
"So that was what I put in the kitchen skillet," Kyle remarked, referring to Cindy's missing eyes.
Kyle couldn't control himself any longer. He started to laugh uncontrollably.
He was mad.
"Everything's all right now," Kyle stated, tapping on the plastic, playing with Cindy's dead body. "Remember, honey? Remember what they said?" He paused, staring off into space as if witness to a movement or shadow no one else was privy to. "I'm a very happy man!"
Overcome with an urge to keep moving, Kyle started to hang up another row of plastic tarps.
He reached for a new roll of duct tape.
* * *
One month later&
Several weeks had passed and no one had seen Kyle or Cindy and people were starting to get worried. They were both warned about purchasing Manchester House, but to no avail. They were not native to the town and the townies hadn't taken to either of them rather well.
It was only after Kyle's friends had demanded that Lt. Wells take some people out to the house to see if all was okay that anyone discovered what had happened.
"Going to scrape up another poor bastard at the mansion, Al?" someone had joked as he went to his patrol car.
Lt. Wells said nothing. He was only thankful for the fact that, at least this time, the call to go to the mansion had come before he had a chance to eat dinner.
"They should tear that damn place down to the ground, then burn the ground," was all Wells could bring himself to say.
Approaching the mansion, all looked normal. It always did.
Wells entered the mansion with the set of keys the Atchison Police had always kept on hand. Both Kyle and Cindy had been informed that the City Council would not sell the property to them unless this last was agreed to. He and his accompanying detective inspected several rooms of Manchester House. The entire house was covered with plastic. Empty rolls of duct tape could be seen littering the floor as the detective and his man passed everything.
There was no sign of life.
"Mr. Peters?" Wells said, almost in a whisper. The quiet of the place had caused his voice to magnify and carry. "AtchisonPolice. Some of your friends had been concerned&" He trailed off, never expecting an answer.
Wells spotted his patrolman looking toward the mansion's staircase. The young man's hand went toward his gun's handle. Something was terrifying the man.
"What's the matter, son?" Wells swallowed hard and joined his fellow law officer.
Both Wells and his partner finally found Kyle Peters. He was a living skeleton.
"Sweet Jesus on a twisted crutch," the young patrolman stated as he made the sign of the cross.
Kyle Peters was lying on the floor near the bottom of the staircase in a pile of his own excrement. Bloated flies buzzed about the pale man, feasting off both him and his remains. Kyle was looking up at the ceiling, fighting for each breath he was taking. A hollow gurgling sound was heard rising in his mouth, letting both Wells and his partner know of the agony he was in.
"He's still alive," the patrolman said, amazed.
"Barely."
Wells bent down to inspect the horrid sight of Manchester House's latest victim, hoping to whatever tired god who cared, that this man was the last body he would have to carry out of this cursed place. Wells prayed, but he knew that it would do no good. There would be more bodies, of that he was sure.
"He won't be alive for long," Wells stated, fighting back the horrid smell rising up from Kyle Peters' body.
"Shouldn't we do something for him, Lieutenant?"
Wells paused, looking at the horrible victim. "Pray for him."
In one hand, Kyle Peters was carrying the same butcher knife he had used to kill his wife-this would later be proven by the County Coroner when compared with the wounds on Cindy's body. Both officers were scared half to death as they heard the telephone ring. The sound of buzzing flies was almost deafening.
"What happened here?" Wells asked.
The patrolman walked away from Kyle, inspecting the rest of the house. "My mother says that this house sits on the Gates of Hell. That the original owner went mad after making a deal with the devil."
"Superstition, son." It was hard to make the argument over a living corpse.
"I&am&a&happy&man&" Kyle Peters whispered.
With a painful spasm, Kyle breathed his last breath, moving his head only far enough to open his eyes, looking at Wells. Up till now, the unfortunate man's eyes had remained closed.
Wells panicked, jolting back in surprise at what he saw.
Kyle Peters' eyes were completely red, and Wells soon noticed his pupils were no longer circular, they seemed to have a spiral in them, making them look alien. Kyle's body quivered one last time. His battle was over. He was dead.
Wells, however, would never forget the eyes.
It would not be the last time that eyes such as these would look up at him, wondering, questioning, and never blinking.
* * *
Teresa's hands froze on the walls of the mansion, trying their best to pick up all the information she had been reading about both Kyle and Cindy. There was nothing more for the house to offer. The only other thing she could sense was that the young patrolman quit the force shortly after his encounter with the house. He killed himself two months later. Lt. Wells had attended his funeral.
:No one leaves my sphere of influence, child. I am all&here!:
Holzer moved forward from the corner of the staircase, noticing a small smear on the floorboards at the base of the stairs. He was studying Teresa's face, still locked in a trance; Holzer saw her eyes flash open and heard her gasping with great concern.
Pulling her hands away from the banisters of the staircase, Teresa was surprised to notice that she was no longer near the kitchen. Her exploring into the home's past had caused her to walk in her visions, and the rest of her team had decided to follow. All were transfixed on her every move.
Teresa was rather shaken up. The rest of the team came rushing to her aide, all except Sinclair, who was too fascinated i
n what was going on to leave his camera. He had documented everything.
"Teresa?" Miranda shouted, taking hold of her friend. "Are you all right? Teresa?"
Teresa, as if fighting her way back to our world and our consciousness, let out a loud scream as she blinked back to life. On her face was both confusion as well as genuine terror.
"Professor Holzer&" Teresa finally managed to say. "Professor!"
Holzer touched the frightened psychic on the shoulder gently. "Right here, Teresa. What is it?"
"The evil in this house knows we are here," Teresa cried. Her eyes seemed to show the professor knowledge he couldn't seem to understand at the moment. "It's watching us. Curious at why we are here."
Holzer, upon hearing this, picked up his EMR device and started waving it around the room. He silently motioned Sinclair to follow him.
"Smelling something, Doc?"
"Start filming," Holzer ordered, paying close attention to his readings. "Teresa may be right. And if she is, I want it on film. Got that?"
Sinclair paid close attention toward his camera, making sure that he was doing what Holzer desired. Miranda started to closely comfort Teresa, who still appeared to Holzer to be shaken up a bit.
This did not escape Sinclair's attention either. He started to fumble his equipment and was not really able to stand still in one place. At each sound, his camera darted to that location.
"This place gives me the creeps," Sinclair finally brought himself to say, controlling the level of his voice.
Miranda looked up at him, slightly amused at the fact that the cameraman was doing his best to remain calm, to give the appearance of being brave. Holzer, taking a negative ion detector out of his bag, noticed this look and smiled. He theorized that, if given the chance, Sinclair could easily win Miranda's heart if he wanted it. The tragic fact was Sinclair did-he just thought himself out of Miranda's league.
The tragedy of young love.
Miranda held Teresa, doing her best to avoid eye contact with Sinclair, but couldn't help but glance a longing stare up at him. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said since I've known you."
Sinclair never left his camera.
"You should hear me when I really try," he joked, adjusting the lens.
The cameraman continued to film, following Holzer. Teresa regained her composure and approached the professor.
"Professor Holzer, please!" Teresa said, almost a scream.
Teresa fought, pulling herself away from Miranda, who was surprised at her friend's sudden burst of panic. It was not like Teresa to fall on her face so hard. She was not one to panic at the first sign of trouble. Not after exploring the minds and hearts of so many of society's monsters, killers, and child predators. Whatever was bothering the young psychic was enough to strongly consider it as a formidable force. Teresa had managed to get Holzer's attention. Sinclair turned toward them, filming.
The mansion turned quiet.
For a few minutes, there was nothing more than the grainy black and white viewfinder of Sinclair's camera.
"What's the matter, Teresa?" Holzer asked, stopping only long enough to place a careworn hand on the young psychic's shoulder. "Why, child, you're trembling."
Teresa was somewhat embarrassed about the old man's last comment, but continued with her warnings. This was something that the entire team needed to know. This was something that the house was telling her. Something that every fiber of her being needed to say.
"Professor, we have to leave this place," Teresa cried, almost on the verge of tears. "It is not for us to be here. Not anymore."
All the team members turned curious.
"What are you trying to say, Teresa?" Holzer said, looking down at his instruments. "I don't understand."
Teresa was uneasy. "It&knows that we are here."
"It?" Holzer repeated. "You mean the house? Is that the evil force you mentioned? The house?"
Teresa started to shake uncontrollably. There was something she seemed to sense that the rest of the team could not.
"I do not know, Professor. I only know that if we do not leave, now, we may never get the chance to. I feel a force that is both frightened and hungry for the company of others. It will not let those that it is holding go. There is no rest. No loving white light. It cannot go to the light, so in its anger it will not allow other souls to venture beyond. That is where we are standing. In the middle of all of this." Teresa paused, crossing herself. "That is why the house is so angry."
Sinclair stopped filming. "Ahh, Doc, I don't know about you, but she's starting to scare the hell out of me."
Holzer gave Sinclair a hard glance. He clearly did not appreciate what he was hearing from Sinclair. "Just keep filming."
Holzer knew that he was starting to lose command of his team. If he were to succeed in this investigation, he had to gain it back just as quickly. He turned his attention back toward Teresa, deeply sympathizing with the fears she was being bombarded with. Still, she was a professional. She knew the risks.
"We will find the solution, Teresa," Holzer comforted. "And with that answer, we will clear this house."
Holzer started to really study Teresa's features. She was indeed a pretty young woman, almost too pretty. Holzer had to wonder if anyone other than her parents had ever used her because of her angelic features. There was a motivation for profit coming from this girl, even he was aware of that.
Teresa gave him a controlled terrified look. He admired the way she genuinely tried to calm herself. Holzer had never seen her so aeffected or so scared by what her inner eye had seen. He made a mental note: Take an EKG reading of her mind once they returned to the college.
"We are here to help this place, not harm," Holzer proclaimed, patting the young woman on the shoulder.
"I do not think so," Teresa said. "The house doesn't want our help."
Each member of the team gave the other a worried glance. Uneasiness filled the air surrounding them. In the far distance, they all heard the sound of rustling plastic coming from one of the tarps being subtly attacked by the cold October wind.
"Let's head back towards the kitchen," Holzer suggested. "That does seem to be the focal point and the eye of the storm, so to speak. It should be the calmest there. Yes?"
Meekly, Teresa agreed.
They all headed back toward the kitchen.
* * *
After such a drama, the kitchen of Manchester House wasn't so inviting toward the members of the team. Sinclair's camera was lit up, and this time the room was somewhat under the influence of lights. Holzer had to direct Teresa back into the room. Clearly, the young psychic did not want to enter.
"There, you see," Holzer stated, "the same as when we left it. Really, Teresa, this is a fantastic opportunity for you. This house is one of the greatest mysteries of our respected fields. Believe me when I say we will all benefit from this investigation."
"All right, Professor." Teresa smiled, surrendering to his eagerness.
The sounds of rustling plastic suddenly stopped.
The house turned as silent as a tombstone.
"Ahh, Doc?" was all Sinclair could bring himself to say.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Everyone was alert.
A series of noises were heard growing in the darkness of the kitchen, causing all in the group to become curious. So curious that even Sinclair momentarily stopped his filming. This last had caused Holzer some concern.
Sinclair hated surprises. He was nothing like his comrades. Things that went bump in the night did not concern him so. He was only interested in the things in the night that he could put a label on-things that he could immediately identify.
These noises were of the kind that Sinclair could not identify. That concerned him more than the harsh looks Holzer was glaring at him.
"Don't stop filming," Holzer barked.
"Hold your wad, Doc," Sinclair nervously challenged.
With his hand shaking just a little,
Sinclair took out a cigarette lighter, lit it, and proceeded to discover where the sounds were coming from and what the cause had been.
"Whatever that is, guys, it's coming from in here," Sinclair said. Everyone seemed to notice the tone of controlled fear in the cameraman's voice. His hand, holding the cigarette lighter, shook slightly.
Sinclair and the rest of the team started to turn their attentions toward the kitchen floor.
Everyone gasped in surprise.
Rats!
To the team's horror, they all discovered that the bodies of the rats on the floor were moving-no longer dead. Alive! Rats from varying shapes and sizes started to rush the team, causing them to leave the kitchen in terror. Upon exiting, Holzer noticed that several of the rats were still in their respected forms of decay. This was quite impossible, but it was happening.
CHAPTER SIX
Holzer did all that he could to hold back the level of disgust and fear growing up inside of him. As a child, he had always had an instinctive fear for rats. He was not surprised to see that his fellow members shared that same terror.
The house does not want our help.
Holzer allowed that phrase to rattle around in his head as he and Sinclair fought to reach the kitchen's exit. The women of the group had managed to leave both men far behind, heading toward the main staircase. After such panic ran out, the women soon left the staircase, embarrassed and trying their best to save face in front of the men.
The team members reassembled in the main hall.
They all were suddenly attacked by a well of silence. No more squeaking rats. All that was heard were their heavy breathing and the rustling of hanging plastic.
Gathering his thoughts and trying to control his own surprise and disbelief, Holzer motioned toward Sinclair. The cameraman was checking his equipment, doing his part to make sure that nothing had been broken during the panic.
"Tell me that you got that all on tape." Holzer's voice was almost a pleading prayer. Quite often in the world of parapsychology, the fantastic occult side of the business was never properly recorded for the later scientific scrutiny that would surely follow.
This time, all went well.
MANCHESTER HOUSE Page 6