MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  "Everyone breathe easy," Teresa cautioned. "Let's all relax. The events we have been through in the last several hours have more than disturbed our cosmic energies and we need to start focusing on the positives in order for this to work."

  "Get me a pizza and I'll consider it," Sinclair said, his eyes closed.

  Teresa opened one eye, giving the cameraman a hard look. She decided not to say anything, hoping that not doing so would help reshape her focus.

  "Spirits of the other world, we speak to you as voyagers of the truth," Teresa began. In the base of her voice, everyone could hear a tiny hum-as if she were meditating at the same time she was talking. In a figure eight motion, Teresa started to move the crystal planchette. "We speak openly to the spirit of the little girl residing in this house. Please step forward and tell us why you are here among us. We wish nothing more than to help you in your plight."

  Everyone remained quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were those of Teresa moving her planchette, the burning oil of the lantern, and Night's stomach grumbling, which he gave all who heard it a sorrowful apologetic bow.

  "We seek contact," Teresa asked, almost pleading.

  All eyes fell to the crystal planchette on the Ouija board. It was starting to take on a mind of its own. Although everyone's fingers were on the tiny device, it was hard to feel a free movement on the thing. As if another intelligence was starting to invade and take over. No more were the team moving the crystal in a figure eight pattern. It was moving illogically-haphazardly.

  "What is the root of your anger?" Teresa asked, her voice starting to tremble. Everyone started to notice a chill building in the air. The psychic herself, however, started to sweat.

  The planchette started moving around to certain letters on the board.

  B&R&I&D&E&

  "Bride?" Miranda asked. "Was she once a bride to someone?"

  "Were you once a bride?" Teresa repeated.

  Again the board came to life. Again everyone's hands were forced as if by magic to seek out certain letters.

  H&E&R&

  "Her?" Miranda asked. "What does that mean?"

  "The spirits are sometimes terrible spellers," Teresa explained. "We just need to be patient."

  "Her." Sinclair studied the phrase. "Terrible speller. Perhaps she means "here."

  Teresa started to smile. "Perhaps. Good work."

  Sinclair nodded his head in satisfaction.

  The planchette continued to move.

  L&I&E&S&

  "Lies?" Holzer asked. "Just what is that one directed at? Is she lying, or are we supporting someone else's lie?"

  "I believe that she was the victim of a lie, Professor," Teresa theorized. "Perhaps that's the reason for her anger. If this woman was from the nineteenth century, then she could have been a 'settling mail bride.' They were very common in that day and age."

  "Settling mail bride?" Sinclair asked.

  "I'm familiar with the term," Miranda explained. "Men of the American West found it hard to find women to marry, once they settled in the untamed territories. That is to say, it was hard to find white women. So several enterprising individuals started businesses-mostly fly by night-in which a man could pay as little as fifty dollars and up to two thousand to contact, invite, and finally marry a white women from the East." Miranda paused. "Quite common, actually."

  "How do you know so much about all of that?" Sinclair asked, looking at Miranda uneasily.

  "I read," she said with a huff. "You should try it once in a while."

  Sinclair said nothing. He only stuck out his tongue.

  The sound of rustling plastic filled the room.

  The lantern burned brightly. Its flame adjusted without a soul touching it.

  "Let go of the board!" Teresa shouted. "There is someone here."

  The room turned incredibly cold.

  Night and Lars opened their conjure kit. They were ready.

  Teresa looked up at the top of the main staircase. They were no longer alone.

  The Shape seemed to be leering down again at her guests. This time, however, there was a subtle difference. Unlike before, she appeared more human. More tranquil. No longer peering through a veil of long dark hair, The Shape's face was visible. She appeared as a young woman in her late teens, possibly no older than sixteen or seventeen. Very beautiful. She gave the impression of being a vain woman when she was alive, quite proud of her shapely figure, which did seem to catch the eye of all the men in the room, including Ingrid Night.

  The Shape changed, turning hard.

  "STOP!" it said. Her voice seemed to echo throughout the house. Several windows, the lucky ones that were still in one piece, shattered at the sound of her voice.

  The Ouija board darted upward, as if an invisible hand had smacked the game away from its participants. Only Sinclair was amazed at the action. Holzer, Teresa, and Miranda seemed to sense that sooner or later there would be an encounter. In fact they had been hoping for it.

  "Good!" Holzer stated. "A full-torso vaporous apparition of the kind only once encountered that I know of. The Texas case involving our study at the Alamolast summer."

  "Fantastic detail," Miranda surmised.

  Teresa gave each of her colleagues a warning glance. "This is not the time, guys. Please."

  Night stepped forward. He was holding his crossbow. "I would listen to her."

  The Shape turned, looking at Ingrid Night. Reacting quite like a cat, hissing and spitting out vulgarities at the old man, The Shape's appearance returned to normal. Dead. Cadaverous.

  Without warning, The Shape started screaming. Her voice was so powerful that it started to rattle the plaster off the walls. So much pain, anger, and regret dripped from her voice that by itself told the story of her earthly life.

  "He locked me in the cellar and raped me!" the Shape screamed. "When I failed to have his child, the one he forced me to carry, he raped me again. To show him that I was in control of my life, I killed both myself and the child while he watched!"

  "Oh my God," Teresa said, her voice a rattling whisper, terrified. "What kind of a man could do that to such a dear young thing?"

  "You'd be surprised what the mind of man is capable of," Night sneered.

  Holzer started to rise, pointing a digital thermometer in the Shape's direction. "Temp is down twenty degrees here. This is fantastic."

  "Jonathon," Night warned, his voice trying its best to control its volume. "I would watch what you are doing. This is a tricky time for both your psychic and the spirit."

  "As you say, Ingrid."

  Holzer was too involved in what he was doing to notice that his foot was about to land on a couple of pieces of glass. In old folklore, discussed by Miranda before they had reached the mansion, some spirits-especially witches-could not stand the sound of breaking glass. They turned violent and would do anything to stop the horrid sound. Even kill.

  Holzer's foot shattered both pieces, causing him to stumble, almost falling to the ground, knocking over the Ouija board.

  Night closed his eyes, preparing himself for the coming storm.

  "Professor!" Teresa warned, almost yelling. "Watch your step. Don't!"

  The sound echoed through the house, the sound of glass shattering under the pressure of leather shoes grinding blown glass. It was a hollow, horrid sound. Antiseptic.

  The Shape broke her trance and was no longer controlled by the conduction of the séance. She blinked her eyes is surprise, glaring down at Holzer and his team through the cloak of her bloodied matted hair. Again she took on the veil of a walking corpse, angry, in control, and dangerous.

  "OUT!" she cried. "ALL OF YOU!"

  Holzer stepped forward, placing his hands up in a gesture of peace. "We mean you no harm."

  "I WILL HARM!" the Shape warned.

  The house started to fill with the smell of electrical static. Sparks of energy could be both seen and felt, developing from all around. It was as if the Shape was trying to gather up all the residual energ
y soaked up since the first encounter with Holzer and his team, wanting to turn it against them.

  "This could be bad," Night stated, putting out his hand. "Lars!"

  Without thought, Lars reached into Night's conjure kit, pulling out another vial of blessed oil so that the old man could pour it into his crossbow.

  Holzer still remained the focus of the Shape's surprise and anger. She looked around the room, trying to find a means to his end. There was nothing lethal she could use. Nothing with any kind of force.

  Until she spotted the Ouija board.

  The tiny crystal planchette on the Ouija board started to shudder and move on its own. Some members of the séance started to move their hands away from the board in violent response to what the crystal device was doing.

  "What's going on here?" Miranda asked, looking to Teresa for an answer.

  Teresa, not knowing how to explain what they were all seeing, just looked at her friend, shaking her head, lost.

  The planchette started to float in the air, twirling like a top.

  It suddenly stopped. Its silver tip aimed and pointed at Holzer.

  "Jonathon! Watch yourself," Night warned, aiming his crossbow at the floating object. Under his breath, he again started to chant the prayers and charms he had used earlier in the night. The planchette darted through the air, like an arrow trying to land on its mark. Its mark was Holzer.

  Night aimed, held his breath, and pulled the trigger, sending out a stream of blessed oil from his ancient weapon.

  The planchette was heading toward Holzer's heart and surely would have reached its mark if it had not been for Night's marksmanship. Instead, the holy stream of oil he projected from his weapon caused the silver-tipped planchette to change its course, hitting the professor in the left shoulder, burying deep within his flesh.

  Holzer, screaming in pain, fell backward. Instinctually, he grabbed at his shoulder; learning that the planchette was halfway buried into his flesh. Blood shot out in flows. Within seconds, the left side of his jacket was covered with blood.

  In a final scream and a gust of wind, the Shape disappeared.

  Night's eyes opened, realizing that although he had saved his friend's life he had failed. "Damn," he mumbled, dropping the crossbow. The old man ran to Holzer's aid.

  Lars caught the weapon before it hit the ground.

  "Professor Holzer!" Miranda shouted, beating Night to his side. With great speed, she tore through his jacket and his shirt, inspecting the wound. The look on the pathologist's face was not an encouraging one.

  "Mr. Night, please, take hold of the professor's shoulders," Miranda ordered, reaching for her small medical bag. Although she was a pathologist, general medicine was no stranger to her.

  Night awkwardly settled down by Holzer's head, nestling it on his lap.

  "That's it, hold him up, please." Miranda reached for a syringe and needle, filling it with an antibiotic. "I'm going to give him something for the infection that will come from this environment."

  "What about the bleeding?" Night asked, panic in his voice.

  "The planchette is keeping that under control."

  "What?"

  "If we remove it now, he will bleed to death and cause more harm to his system than what he is presently going through." Miranda injected Holzer, then took out a small emergency surgical kit. "Now, slowly and by the numbers, we have to remove the planchette."

  Night studied Miranda's hands. They were shaking and almost a pale white.

  "You love this man, do you not?" Night asked.

  "As a father, yes."

  Both made eye contact. An understanding was formed.

  "Let's do this then," Night said with a respectful bow toward Miranda.

  Miranda wrapped her hands softly around the planchette sticking out of Holzer's shoulder. Touching the crystal game piece, she made the professor wince in pain. Holzer's face was dripping with blood and sweat. He was already starting to show signs of a high fever. Whatever the infection was, it was working fast upon him.

  Miranda took a deep breath. She closed her eyes.

  "Dear God, don't let me fuck up."

  "Amen," Night responded.

  Miranda pulled the planchette out of Holzer's shoulder.

  Blood sprayed everywhere.

  Had the planchette hit an artery?

  Working with lightning speed, Miranda grabbed a few clamps and started to stop the bleeding vein by tiny vein.

  "How bad is he?" Sinclair butted in.

  "Shut up!" Miranda barked. "I haven't the time for you just now, thank you."

  Sinclair retreated, insulted.

  Miranda returned to her work. She would apologize later.

  "The damage is really not that bad," Miranda said, directing her gaze toward Night. "We just have to stop the bleeding."

  "You cannot?" Night asked, his voice a whisper.

  "Not here," Miranda said, her voice near panic. "This man needs to be taken to a hospital."

  "Or?"

  "He will die from a massive loss of blood."

  Night leaned away from Holzer's face, studying the frantic look on Miranda's. She was doing her best to stop the main line of blood loss by clamping off the cut veins and the one major artery that seemed to have been damaged in the encounter. The second line of bleeding, from the flesh and abrasion itself, was proving to be more of a challenge. Especially since Miranda's surgical kit was missing a vital piece-stitches and needle.

  "Lars!" Night yelled, holding out his hand.

  Lars leaped into action. He reached into Night's conjure kit and pulled out a leather bag which sounded as if it were filled with water or a liquid of some kind. The deaf man blew some of the dust off the leather bag which resembled a wine sack from ages past, coughed, and handed it to his master.

  "Do you ever wonder how a deaf man can hear you call out his name?" Miranda asked, doing her best to control her curiosity and desperation, staring at Night's latest product from his kit.

  "No," Night flatly said. "I only know that he knows. And for me that is enough." Night paused only long enough to pull out the ancient cork of the leather bag. "In any case, this should help."

  Miranda took the bag, smelling the open top. She pulled away from the container, giving Night a repulsive reaction. The bag smelled like it was filled with the essence of rotten eggs.

  "Dear God! What is this crap?"

  "Pour it on the wound, please," Night instructed.

  "Not until you tell me what it is," Miranda insisted. "Is it sanitary?"

  "More so than you," Night said, his eyes alive with conviction. "It is his only hope of a stable recovery. Now, pour it on the wound, please."

  Miranda, quite a champion of modern medicine, hated the idea of helping Holzer with a substance she really knew nothing about. What if it was dangerous? Would Holzer have an allergic reaction? Would it, in turn, cause his death? She couldn't live with that. Still, there was a look in Ingrid Night's eyes showing the pathologist his level of concern, love, and friendship which seemed to alleviate all those fears.

  Her hands shaking, she turned the leather bag downward, waiting for the thick substance inside to pour out upon Holzer's wound.

  Night started to pray. Silently.

  "I hope this works," Miranda sarcastically said, shaking her head with doubt.

  The substance in the leather bag was dark black, thick as molasses, and smelled of death. Dripping on the damage caused by the crystal planchette, the thick ooze covered Holzer's wound like tar. Holzer only winced once, as the substance first touched his skin. Then, seconds later, the substance started to harden like a bandage, covering the wound but, more important, stopping the blood.

  "What?" Miranda said, looking up at Night, and at the leather bag in amazement. "Mr. Night, what is this stuff?"

  "Something very&ancient." Night lovingly smiled. He could read the need to know the secret behind the substance in Miranda's eyes.

  "What are its properties?" Miranda asked, excited.
"As a medical professional, I know that this stuff's as good as gold. What is it?"

  "I cannot tell you that."

  "Why not?"

  "The substance was given to me under an oath of trust. If I tell you its secrets, the spell used to make it work will cease." Night paused. "I am sorry."

  Regretfully, Miranda handed the leather bag to Night who, upon receiving it, placed the cork back onto its resting place and handed the bag to Lars, who quickly placed it into Night's kit, buried again.

  Subtle rays of a rising sun started to prick through the mansion's windows. The passing of time had continued, and before the investigative team inside the mansion knew it another night had passed, inviting the possibilities of a new day.

  Sinclair turned off all the flashlights and lanterns, relaxing.

  Manchester House filled with the comforting rays of the morning sun.

  Holzer slept.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Everyone took turns at watching both Holzer and Sinclair, the latter finally falling asleep out of complete exhaustion. Miranda realized that she had been so worried about Holzer's health and well-being that the hell Sinclair must have gone through just to get back into the house was a triumph of its own. Night tried to console her, as much as a man like Night could, but she just couldn't forgive herself. She took the first watch and wiped the sweat off both men's brows.

  "This man Sinclair, I do not like him," Night mentioned, eating an egg Lars had provided him with. "I admire his eye. Able to seek out the fascinating in such a dull saccharine world, but I do not like him."

  Miranda gave Night a harsh look.

  "Do not think badly of me, Miss Wingate. I am his friend. I would protect him with my life, if need be. But," Night paused, thinking, "I do not like him."