MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  From Lars, there was no response. He remained silent. Doing his duty.

  Lars handed Night an impossibly large carrying case in which Night placed his small medical bag from before. This case was as much a part of Night as a rifle was to a soldier. It was his conjure kit. His Swiss Army knife for all occasions.

  It was then that Holzer noticed Lars' injuries.

  "What happened to Lars?"

  "Huh?" Night asked, trying his best to look surprised.

  Holzer pointed to Lars' bleeding forehead. "What happened?"

  Night gazed at his servant blankly. "Must have tripped coming to this cursed place. The man's a damn fool, I think. But I keep him because he's a good friend and can bake one hell of a cherry pie when forced to."

  Both Holzer and Night stared at each other silently for a long time. Holzer knew that he was being fed bullshit. Still, the matter was soon dropped.

  "Again, Ingrid, I thank you for coming," Holzer said, slightly ashamed. "We had all but given up our investigation."

  Night, momentarily, was concerning himself with the preparation of his conjure kit. He gave his friend an understanding glance.

  "Think nothing of it," Night reassured him. "I have been where you are now, my friend. And you will conquer, for I am here to help you."

  Holzer couldn't help it. He started to smile.

  "I have work to start, my friend," Night said, turning serious.

  Night looked inside his conjure kit. His hands explored several curious objects, from ancient Native American charms to stakes needed to kill a vampire--all methods known to assault evil. Night focused his attention on a long black cloak and a huge leather book. He brought these out of the case. The room became lit with a series of flashes and thunderous lightning coming from the storm. Or was it the storm?

  Night placed the black cloak over his long trench coat. This seemed to enhance his seriousness-almost making him look like a nightmare created by Tim Burton. Taking his leather book, he broke this image by kissing the book lovingly, with a sacred feeling. He turned his attention toward the mansion's basement door.

  "Take care," Night whispered to the house, challenging it. "Here I come."

  Night ventured further into the house, heading toward the basement door via the main hall. Trotting along faithfully behind, Holzer could see Lars carrying Night's conjure kit if needed.

  Entering the main hall, Holzer saw Night open his book and kneel in the middle of the room. Behind him, Lars removed a small bottle of oil, sprinkling it in a circle around Night. After doing this, Lars silently stood by his master. Night started to pray.

  Holzer turned his attention toward Sinclair and was both surprised and proud that the cameraman was filming everything. In the time it took Night to set himself up and visit with Holzer, Sinclair had fixed the device. Holzer couldn't be more proud of the man.

  Sinclair, noticing Holzer's surprise, gave the college professor a festive thumbs up display.

  Holzer returned to studying Night's plan of attack. If anything else were to come from this night, it would be that what happened next would not be boring.

  Night started to raise his voice. His prayers took on a life of their own. Powerful. Dignified. Not to be taken lightly.

  "My superior nature worketh through thee&" Night said, challenging the house. "Happy art thou if thou canst grasp this truth. For by understanding that not thy weak self but my all-knowing mind looketh out upon the world through thine eyes, shalt thou have faith to let me see! Then shalt thou overcome the evil of thy senses by devoting them wholly to my use."

  The house stood incredibly still.

  Night paused, listening.

  Lars stood vigilant. Sinclair continued filming. Holzer held his breath.

  The flask of blessed oil Night was holding was an artifact that he had been carrying with him for years. It was said that this oil had been used by Noah to light the lamps of the Ark during his long voyage to the mountains of Ararat. Or that is what the monks at Mt. Ararat told Night when they gave the substance to him in honor of who he was and what he represented.

  Chanting ancient prayers forgotten by most men of this world, Night sprinkled the oil on the floor toward the basement door. Whatever influence the evil of this mansion had, it seemed to be coming from that door. This was not just a job to Night. This was not old hat. This was life and death. He was both a professional and aware of what he was doing-what nature of beast he was facing. Just like any working soul in the world, this was his job and he took it seriously. He had to. If he didn't, people would die.

  A rumbling roar could be heard coming from the basement. Night and Lars looked at each other.

  "The beast has made itself known," Night proclaimed. "Let us prepare to test it then, shall we, Lars?"

  Lars stood ready.

  If not a witness to all of this, the team members and Holzer would have laughed at the pure melodrama that they were hearing. The only thing that kept any one of them from rolling their eyes, laughing, or just leaving the room was the fact that Ingrid Night was deadly serious about the whole affair. Night found value in what he was doing and that was enough for him.

  So even though Night looked tired and in his own pool of pain, he was aware of his surroundings. He was also aware of Holzer's skepticism.

  "Be careful what you think, Jonathon," Night warned. "The beast is aware of you."

  Holzer didn't know what to say. In fact, during times like this, when watching Night at his work, the scared little child who only wished to stare in amazement always seemed to come to the surface. Although a scientist and dedicated to logic, Night always managed to scare the hell out of Holzer. And Holzer hated it.

  Hearing the warning, though, Holzer took it seriously.

  Teresa broke away from the group and ventured out toward Night. Lars, noticing the girl, only looked on.

  "What is it?" Night asked, irritated.

  "Mr. Night," she asked.

  "Yes?"

  "Look at the tarps."

  "Tarps?"

  "They're glowing." Teresa put a surprised hand up to her face, astonished.

  Night turned from his book, studying the young girl by his side. She was brave, he gave her that. She also seemed to have a great power. A power that, if disciplined, could be used to combat evil and that he respected. Closing his book and lightly placing it down by his feet, he made sure that it was still within the blessed circle. "Hmm."

  Throughout the mansion, wherever there was a hanging plastic tarp, and there were many, they all started to glow with a bright green tint. The house had so much illumination in it, it almost appeared as if all the lights were on.

  "Sinclair," Holzer ordered. The professor motioned with his hands as if to alert the cameraman to what he was already seeing.

  "No need to ask, Doc," Sinclair said, filming. "I got it."

  Night started to see a writing of some sort appearing all over the house. Cryptic writing. Arabic. Russian. German. Some Latin. But, more important, he noticed Hebrew. Ancient. Cabbalistic.

  "Wait a minute!" Night blurted out. He held up a shaky hand. "Nobody move!"

  All in the group paused. The level of conviction in Night's voice was enough to cause Teresa to break herself out of whatever trance she was in; realizing that she had ventured toward Ingrid Night, she sought the safety and familiarity of her friend's company. Night noticed Teresa being comforted by the taller woman and admired the friendship.

  "What is it, Ingrid?" Holzer asked.

  Night slowly moved his hands, showing Holzer the symbols that had been painted, drawn, or magically placed all over the house. Holzer, noticing the things that Night had been privy to, smiled, his excitement growing.

  Holzer took out his EMR detector.

  Night made a face. "Why do you need that thing, heh?"

  "It gets me through the night."

  "Try faith, my friend," Night grumbled. "Anyway, I preferred the old EMF devices you used to carry. They were less noisy than these
new inventions of yours."

  Holzer waved the device in the air, taking note at what he was seeing from his side of the investigation. "Faith, like life, has many different levels of support."

  "True."

  "What have we got here?"

  Night rubbed his chin-he needed a shave. "Someone has been here before. Many times. Trying to investigate what we have come here to seek. Recently, perhaps only just a few years ago, some of these spells were cast."

  "Appears that none were successful," Holzer said, turning off his EMR device and placing it back in his jacket pocket.

  "Jonathon," Night said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "if it were not for some of these symbols, charms, and spells, I fear that you would have been dead long before Lars and I arrived. A very skilled Cabbalist placed those symbols on the walls there. I fear, however, that the man placed them there at the cost of his life."

  A creak went through the main hall, causing both men to dart their eyes up, looking to see if they were alone. Several of the hanging plastic tarps moved, as if some unseen thing had brushed them, passing by. There was no one there. There was only the wind.

  "We have walked into something more powerful than either one of us had thought, my friend," Night stated. "Great danger waits."

  "Why don't we just leave and come back with greater numbers?"

  Night turned to his friend, giving Holzer a hard look. "We could bring the United States Marines and it would do us no good. The beast here is aware of who we are and can destroy us accordingly."

  "Impossible."

  Night put his hand on Holzer's shoulder. "Jonathon, I love you like a son. You are a great soldier on the side of good. A man I would like on my side in any battle."

  "Thank you&" Holzer tried to say.

  "But!" Night barked, interrupting. "You do not think! That has always been your problem. You need to think the way that I do. Evil cannot be explained. It cannot be tamed like a dog in the wild. It only wishes to feed off of you and to destroy who you are. If it does this, it extinguishes a great light of good. That is what this house wants to do. You see that, do you not?"

  Holzer went through all the facts he knew about Manchester House. The various killings, disappearances, the several missing children that the area had been plagued with over the decades, the rise in crime in a rather sleepy town, the insanity that came from being lost in the woods. The cases he had studied of the home's past owners. All these seemed to back up what Night was trying to explain.

  "Ingrid," Holzer stated, looking at his friend hard, "I agree with what you are staying..."

  "But?" Night said, smiling.

  "But we founded SOURCE because we both knew that good also has many different levels. Many different means of attacking evil and the forces of darkness that plague our society. My approach is no more right or wrong than yours." Holzer paused, diligent in his thoughts but cautious in his actions. "So please keep your thoughts about my scientific analysis to yourself. We have a damn job to do."

  Night looked into Holzer's eyes for a long time, never moving and never saying a word. With the same conviction, Holzer stared back.

  "You are right, my friend." Night's features softened. "I ask for forgiveness. I was trained by a very wise but old-fashioned teacher. We see things differently, but we are the same in our goals. Join me, and together let's go kick some ass."

  Holzer couldn't help but let out a tired laugh.

  Both men shook hands.

  The house turned still.

  All eyes darted around, noticing the glow from the tarps diminishing.

  "The beast is with us, Jonathon," Night said, picking up his book, opening it to a marked page. "Join your friends. Stay away from the circle. Mind where you step. These symbols on the floor, I fear, will be needed by all of us tonight."

  The Shape soon appeared.

  At the top of the main staircase, looking timid, fragile, and scared, the tiny image of the teen-aged girl glared down at the team through the thick matting of the black hair that hung over her face.

  Night looked up at her.

  :LEAVE&.HERE&.NOW.:

  The threat seemed to come from everywhere. But all who heard it knew that it came from the Shape. Although her lips never moved, it was she who uttered the warning.

  "I think not, my friend," Night stated. "You see, I have traveled far and I take that personally."

  Several of the plastic tarps started to drip with ooze that resembled blood.

  "Nice parlor trick," Night commented, his face turning hard. "But I am serious."

  From the corner of his eye, Night saw Sinclair move forward, peering through the eyepiece of his camera, paying little attention toward anything but what he was filming. Night tiredly huffed out a loud sigh-the cameraman had no idea of the danger he was in.

  "Boy, this is so great," Sinclair stated, focusing the lens on the camera. Most new camera guys always relied on their camera's computer to auto focus-not him. Auto focus was for wimps. "Jeez, this is good."

  "Mr. Sinclair!" Night yelled, pointing a warning finger at the young cameraman. "Do not go any further. I warn you, boy!"

  Sinclair was too involved to listen.

  The Shape turned her attentions toward Sinclair and his camera.

  Sinclair could see the white, dead eyes of the Shape peer down at him from the top of the main staircase. He wondered why the girl favored the stairs when she made her presence known. The ghost could be seen in the basement, the front yard, and anywhere else one could think of, but when in a state of confrontation, the Shape always seemed to prefer the stairs. Or was it just his imagination? He had a habit of always formulating a plan, action, or idea half-cocked.

  In any case, the stare of hatred caused Sinclair to pause.

  His right foot had come to rest on the bottom step.

  Sinclair had crossed the line of no return.

  The Shape started to moan. Moving from side to side. Chanting.

  "Holy Father!" Night said, flipping through his leather-bound book.

  "What?" Sinclair asked, turning his camera from Night to the Shape repeatedly. "What did I do?"

  "Get the hell away from the stairs!" Miranda yelled, terror clearly on her face.

  The house turned deathly still.

  Only the sounds of the Shape chanting softly and the rustling of plastic could be heard.

  Also the responsive chants by Night.

  "Sinclair," Holzer whispered, "please, while you can, stop filming and back away from the stairs."

  Sinclair mockingly laughed. He turned his camera toward the Shape. "Not to worry, Doc. I've been through worse."

  The Shape's eyes turned hard. Looking away from her chanting, she momentarily stopped her swaying, pointing a bony finger down at Sinclair and his camera.

  :Die!:

  Sinclair stopped. Frozen.

  "Sinclair?" Miranda asked, her voice trembling.

  Night momentarily looked up from his chanting, flipping a page of his book. He looked at Holzer, shaking his head. This was going to be a tough one.

  "Doc, I can't move," Sinclair finally said. His voice was shaking.

  Every muscle in Sinclair's body seemed to be controlled by another force other than his brain. Try as he might, the cameraman couldn't move. And once he discovered that he couldn't move, he started to freak out. Without wishing to, he stopped filming, turned off his camera, and tossed it across the room.

  The camera smashed into thousands of pieces.

  There would be no more filming.

  The Shape continued her chanting. She started to slightly move her finger, causing the house to grumble with power.

  Sinclair's eyes began to water. His head started to throb with pain. Blood dripped from his nose. The last thing Sinclair heard before his passed out was Miranda screaming.

  "Stop!" Night yelled. He crouched down into his blessed circle, clearing his throat. "It's impolite to avoid your attacker."

  The Shape turned toward Night, dropping
Sinclair like a puppet.

  "Get him!" Holzer ordered.

  Night noticed Holzer rush toward Sinclair as he and the two women dragged the cameraman to safety. Sinclair was knocked out, but even from the distance he was away from the fool, Night could see that the man was still alive.

  "We have business, you and I," Night said.

  The Shape stepped forward, chanting louder.

  Night tried to hear what the evil was saying but could not make out the words. "The hand of the prophet stands strong, knowing that the light of good is behind its actions. Be gone! Unclean ghost of sorrow. Be gone! Specter of pain. I stand here, a soldier of the eternal, drawing a line in the sand. A line that you shall never pass."

  wNight, his eyes turning hard, closed his book with a loud thud.

  "Lars!" he shouted.

  Lars, approaching his master, brought him the remaining flask of oil. Taking it, thanking his friend silently, Night started splashing the blessed liquid at the Shape.

  :Nooooooooo!: The Shape started to cry.

  Night rose to his feet, meekly putting out his right hand. He stood there waiting. Like a combat soldier, Lars reached into Night's conjure kit, handing his master a tiny device. Clicking it open, inspecting it, Night appeared to be holding a weapon which looked to be part shotgun and part crossbow. Made of iron, silver, and oak, it looked more from the seventeenth century than the current one. Ancient writings seemed to be carved all over the wood, matching the writing and symbols Holzer and Night had discovered from before.

  Round One was over.

  It was now time to get down to serious business.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Holzer looked on with an almost jealous admiration. Ingrid Night seemed unaffected by the serious events and phenomena that he was facing. There was nothing in Night's world but the successful goal of completion. Holzer honestly knew that if faced with similar circumstances on his own, his doubts would have destroyed him. So it was that the college professor stood looking at Night, gawking like an ignorant street urchin, not knowing what to expect next.

  There was a deep friendship between both Holzer and Night which was stronger than brotherhood. There was also a dark secret and an unknown hurt that kept them from fully embracing total fellowship. Night hated evil and fought it toe to toe whenever possible. But Holzer knew that there was something that Night hated worse than the evil he tried to destroy-himself.