The Bloody Hand, knowing of the approaching detective, slowly dropped back into the deadly abyss from which it had arisen, letting go of the doorknob.
* * *
The detective approached the door, noticing that it did indeed shut before he could reach it. He stared at it, knowing that he did not have a search warrant to investigate-something in him wanted to grab the doorknob, but all he could do was stare down at it. Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention.
:Here's a little gift for a curious blowfly. See what you can do with it!:
On the floor near the basement door, Wells could see a simple candy wrapper.
"What have we got here?" the detective said, holding back the level of excitement growing inside of him. He almost smiled.
Wells picked up the candy bar wrapper, investigating it. It was the kind of wrapper used by charity organizations to help raise money via sales of chocolate bars. The same kind Leslie Dean was trying to sell. Wells started to whistle a curious tune. He re-entered the main hall; his face fixed with a look of determination.
:You know the truth, then? How nice.:
As Lex re-entered the main hall to finish his talk with Wells, the cook failed to see the look he was getting from the detective. Lex was too busy thinking and gloating about the call he had just had with his agent. Wells got the impression that Lex was walking on very dangerous ground. No man deserved the power that Lex seemed to control. No one deserved that much success.
It was time to make the game more interesting.
It was time to tip his hand.
"That was my agent," Lex stated, motioning back toward his phone, explaining. "He's trying to get my show in Great Britain. Well&where were we, detective?"
Wells put his hands in his coat pocket, preparing. "We were sestablishing that you had no visitors."
"Correct," Lex said, sitting back down in his chair. "I have had no guests. Terrible, though. That sweet, sweet, child."
Wells cleared his throat.
:I will protect you. Do not falter from the attacks on your person. I am here beside you, my favorite child.:
Wells stepped forward, holding the candy wrapper in front of Lex. Seeing the small piece of paper, all the color started to leave the cook's bloated features. Wells could see by Lex's sheer horror that the cook thought that he had picked up and cleaned up all the evidence. Wells simply stood there waiting.
:Fool! In your haste to have your tasty morsel orally pleasure you, you forgot the candy wrappers. The candy you ate while she cried, pleading for you to let her go. Oh, the sweet, sweet pleasure of seeing her bloodied naked body wobbling and bleeding while she cried, hoping for humanity where there was none to give. Oh! The sweet joy we had when you attacked her three more times, feeling her wet treasures as you attacked from the rear-from the front-from her head! When we killed her. The squeaky noises! The way her female fruit tasted-smelled- Oh! You are my favorite child.:
Lex cleared his throat. Trying to hold back the terror.
"Yes, Mr. Lex," Wells continued, waving the candy wrapper. "It was a very terrible thing. Care to add anything to the present conversation, sir?"
Wells could see that Lex was squirming in his chair, trying to think of a way to explain the paper away. Wells stood there, motionless, holding up the candy wrapper.
He seemed to love every minute of it.
"That's a candy wrapper." Lex nervously laughed.
"Ah, yes, sir," Wells insisted, "it is."
"I bought that one from a small boy outside a store."
Wells gave the cook a long look. Great tension started to fill the room.
:I will protect you.:
"Are you sure about that, sir?"
"I know where I buy my things, detective," Lex shouted, annoyed. He rose from his chair, turning defensive. "Am I under suspicion or something?"
"No, sir." Wells held up his hands in a cautionary gesture. "Just asking some questions."
Meekly, Lex started to grab for the candy wrapper in Wells' hand. The detective silently stopped him and placed the paper in his coat pocket. This last action, Wells observed, caused paranoia to grow in Lex's features. Lex thundered toward the mansion's front door.
"Well, then, since this is not an official action, I wish you to leave." Lex opened his front door, motioning Wells to exit. "I have started to bake a wonderful quiche that needs to be attended to."
Wells started to leave. The detective paused only long enough to stare Lex down. As if to say to the cook he would be back, and this time nothing would kick him out until he got all the answers he sought. After a few seconds, Wells left, causing Lex to wonder about his guilt. Alone, the cook closed the door.
* * *
:Look at me!:
As Lex closed his front door, he turned. The Shape stood behind him.
Her figure was rigid. Calm. Dripping with what appeared to be water, but smelled nothing like anything remotely similar to the liquid. Her hair was matted over her face. Her eyes peered out from behind her long hair, glaring a hateful glee at her latest victim. She started to sway from side to side. The sound of rustling plastic filled the air around the two of them.
Lex was not allowed to move or be himself.
He was nothing but a puppet. A puppet whose strings were all tied up in knots. Helpless to do nothing but dangle where the puppet master allowed him to dangle.
Lex was in a panic and was starting to breathe heavily. Uncontrollably. Frantically.
"You said that they would never know!" Lex paused only long enough to pick up a half-used roll of industrial duct tape. "You promised to take care of me!"
Lex ventured to a nearby window, pulling off a long piece of duct tape. The man was placing a plastic tarp against the windows, taping it up.
Lex began to cry. He could not stop what he was doing.
The Shape, enjoying the whole sight, turned her attention to the basement door. A slow grumble could be heard coming from the basement of the mansion. There were the sounds of movement, as if several bodies were behind the door trying to get out. Quite strangely, the door popped open, allowing the escape of the darkness.
The Shape disappeared.
* * *
Twelve days later&
"I got the bastard!" Wells stated with triumph as he headed toward Manchester House.
After leaving Manchester House, Wells had the lab work on the recovered candy wrapper sent to Kansas City. The lab stated that there was a 99.9997 per cent certainty that the recovered wrapper came from the lot of candy bars assigned to Leslie Dean to sell. It also helped the case solidify against Gilbert Lex when, upon further investigation, the Kansas City Crime Lab had discovered Leslie Dean's DNA on the wrapper found by Wells.
They had him.
Approaching Manchester House, the line of police cars had to look like something out of a grand movie scene, where the town sheriff cornered the criminals and called out the entire police force to help foil the plans of less honest men. In fact, Atchison had seven cars available at the time. So in point of fact Wells had called up all of the town's reserves.
When the cars came to a stop in front of the mansion with sirens blaring, all the patrolmen were surprised that there was not one peep of surprise coming from inside Manchester House. No windows being peeked out of. No blasting gunfire. Not even so much as a desperate attempt at escape. In point of fact: there was nothing.
Wells left his car, disappointed. He expected some kind of protest. Some kind of action from Lex. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He silently ordered police officers out of their cars and had them all follow him. They all approached the mansion's front door.
With several police officers behind him, Wells knocked on the front door loudly. There was no answer.
The door of the mansion was kicked open and both Wells and several police officers rushed in. Wells spearheaded the invasion, holding up a warrant.
"Police!" Wells shouted. "We do have a warrant."
They wer
e greeted by the house's silence. The police officers put away their guns as Wells shouted for Lex. All spread out looking for their suspect.
"Mr. Lex?" Wells shouted. "This is the Atchison Police. You are wanted for questioning in the murder of Leslie Dean." He paused, trying to listen for movement. Nothing. "Mr. Lex?"
Wells silently motioned two officers to follow him. They all headed toward the kitchen.
"Smells like something's on the stove, sir," one of the officers commented.
Wells gave the man a hard look.
Wells entered the kitchen, after being directed there by the police officer. They were both guided to the room's stove where they spotted a boiling pot of soup. There was a sweet smell invading the whole room. One officer, upset, rushed out of the room vomiting.
"This is not good," Wells stated, annoyed.
"Sir?" an officer said, motioning Wells toward the stove and a boiling pot of soup.
Wells saw the pot. The meal had only just begun to boil, giving him the impression that it had been placed on the stove minutes before. Turning off the fire under the soup, Wells and the police officer noticed an abnormal amount of smoke coming up from the oven.
Wells' stomach began to tighten.
"Open it up," Wells said, motioning the police officer toward the oven's door.
Wells focused his attention on the oven as the police officer opened it. A burnt corpse was seen balled up inside. As an arm flopped outward, startling all, Wells could see it was what was left of Lex's body. Both Wells and the police officer backed away in disgust. A police photographer rushed in, taking pictures.
"Dear sweet Jesus," Wells whispered.
Between the photographer's flashbulbs, Wells got a good look at the burnt corpse. It was Gilbert Lex. He was a skeleton of a man and was covered with cuts, burns, and the remnants of a horrible beating. In short, he appeared to Wells to be in the same condition he had found Leslie Dean in. As Wells closed in on Lex to get a better look between the flashbulbs, he noticed Lex's eyes-they were looking up at him.
Lex, though dead, seemed aware; but this was totally impossible. Nerves and the cold air hitting the hot skin caused Lex's face to form a sneer or smile of some kind.
Wells noticed Lex's eyes: they were tinted blood red, and instead of a normal pupil Wells saw a spiral-like pattern running through the eyes. They were almost alien-looking and seemed to give all in the room an uneasy feeling.
The sight was getting to Wells. His breakfast decided that it wanted to come up for some air. Embarrassed, the detective left the kitchen.
Wells' attention was drawn toward the basement door. A noise. A movement?
Wells saw the basement door and focused his attention on the doorknob. It slowly turned, then stopped. As Wells approached the door, he heard the slight giggle of a little girl.
CHAPTER NINE
Teresa's hands stopped at the basement door. She soon awoke from her trance.
:That is all that I'm giving to you, little child.:
"Professor?" Teresa said, her voice trembling. She was exhausted.
Teresa put her hand on the doorknob and started to turn it.
:Do not venture further! I warn you.:
Holzer had been walking behind Sinclair the whole time, for almost an hour, while Teresa was in her trance. She had led them through various rooms of the mansion, telling and re-telling the story behind Gilbert Lex's bizarre death. Of how he was spared a lengthy trial by becoming one of the hundreds of victims of Manchester House. In Teresa's trance, she had stopped at the basement door. Sinclair had filmed everything.
"Got it, Doc," Sinclair whispered.
Holzer patted the man on the shoulder with satisfaction. Upon hearing Teresa call for him, he left Sinclair's side, motioning the man to continue with his filming.
The house, it seemed, had turned incredibly dark. The team's only source of light were the bright lights Sinclair had attached to his camera.
"Yes, Teresa, what is it?" Holzer asked, gingerly approaching the young woman.
Teresa's hands seemed to move closer to the door. The paint chips and water-damaged lines of the thing seemed to beckon to her, causing her to proceed cautiously. However, in her excitement to find out more from the house, her common sense kept her from actually touching the surface of the door. Her instincts told her not to cross that particular line.
"The kitchen is an important focal point, sir. But the basement seems to be the intelligence guiding the force." Teresa started to breathe rather heavily, as if suddenly stopping from a long run. "I sense thousands of souls here, guys. Souls desperately wanting to go away from the bonds of this world but cannot." She paused, horrified. "Something is holding them all here, at bay, fighting. A ghostly war. A war for control."
"What's holding them here, Teresa?" Miranda asked, gently pulling Teresa away from the door. "Here, come back to us. That's it. I think that you have had enough for a while."
"What is keeping the spirits all here, Teresa?" Holzer repeated. He tried to ignore the stern look he was getting from Miranda.
"I don't know." Her eyes looked up at Holzer's. They were pleading-haunted.
Holzer carefully headed toward the basement door, keeping in mind the powerful statements Teresa had just made. Reaching for the door, the professor noticed that it was locked.
"It was open, Professor." Teresa's voice contained a hint of warning in it that bothered the professor.
Holzer turned to Sinclair, annoyed. "Is there a key to this door, Sinclair?"
"You got me, Doc. I'm just the guy with the camera."
Hearing all of this, and concerned more about Teresa's mental well being, Miranda let out a tired moan. This caused both men to give her a concerned look.
"What?" Sinclair asked, looking away from his camera.
"Can't the two of you see that what we need here is a little diplomacy to open the damn thing?" Miranda had become extremely impatient with her team members.
"Huh?" Sinclair asked, lost.
"Break it in!" Miranda shouted.
Miranda took the camera away from Sinclair, forcing the cameraman to approach the door. Spitting into his hands, Sinclair prepared to use brute force to open the tiny basement door. Holzer, observing this, did all he could to keep from smiling.
Sinclair, reaching for the door, started to pull on it wildly. His failure caused Miranda and Teresa to laugh out loud. Sinclair took it all with a grain of salt-a grain big enough to choke a goat, but still he took it with controlled grace.
"A guy just can't get a break, can he?" Sinclair said, looking straight into Miranda's eyes.
Walking away from the door, Sinclair cursed under his breath. The door started to open on its own accord. The house was soon permeated with a foul odor which seemed to come from the darkness below.
:Do you not like what you are finding?:
The team shook the feeling of being watched.
Still laughing at Sinclair's folly with the door, Miranda reacted towards the foul smell. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she started to become ill-vomiting.
"Are you okay, Miranda?" Holzer asked, patting her on the back.
Miranda coughed out the last of her vomit, wiping away the mess from her lips. "God, how I hate that feeling. I'm okay. I don't know what came over me just now. I'm fine, thank you."
"Smells like six-month-old dead dog or something," Sinclair said. He turned his attention toward Miranda. "You sure you're okay?"
Miranda looked up, smiling. "I'm fine."
All focused their attention on the open basement door.
* * *
It awoke.
Deep inside the basement, it walked past and through several sheets of plastic tarps. The tarps appeared to be dripping with blood. It heard a scream of some kind, coming from an unknown animal. Perhaps the miserable cry of a long-forgotten prey? Shadows and movement were playing havoc with its senses-too many souls to keep track of.
It looked up toward the basement's staircase, f
rightened.
There was something coming into the basement.
:Nooooooooo!:
The Shape took her form once again.
* * *
The camera buzzed once more to life and Holzer took his place at the lead position.
"Ready when you are, Doc."
Now behind his camera, Sinclair started to document the team members' descent into the basement. Sinclair focused his attention on Holzer, who was waving both his EMR detector and Negative Ion device, looking for what science was too damn blind to see. Sinclair was not yet a believer like the rest of the team, but one thing was certain: a camera only recorded what it saw-what they were seeing was incredible.
"Is that camera secure and protected?" Holzer asked, looking over his shoulder.
"Just as you have specified, Doc," Sinclair reassured. "No problem."
Sinclair could see that their surroundings were getting darker. The only light seemed to be coming from the digital camera. Sinclair could hear the sounds of rustling plastic.
"What is it with this place and plastic?" Sinclair asked.
"I really do not know," Holzer said, looking around at the cameraman. "I at first thought it was just for the maintenance of the house as a whole. But upon hearing the statements from Mrs. Gonzalez, and by what we all have witnessed, I'm starting to believe differently."
"It is quite a manifestation, if I do say so myself," Miranda agreed. "In some cultures, it is considered proper that a curtain exists between our world and the world of the dead. Professor, perhaps that is what the sheets of plastic represent. A barrier between our world and the spirit world."
"Perhaps," Holzer agreed. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We are progressing nicely here and I do not want our investigation ruined by speculations. Not until we have the facts to back them up, that is. For now we will assume that the plastic sheets are just that-plastic."
"Sounds good to me, Doc." Sinclair paused. "But what about the dripping water?"
Holzer looked up at the camera, puzzled.
MANCHESTER HOUSE Page 9