MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  "You are a very strange man, Mr. Night." Miranda placed the wet rag she had been using back in a small bowl she had found in the kitchen and sat beside Night. Before she could do or say anything, Lars, silently walked beside her, giving her an egg. She looked up at Lars with fascination.

  "How&" she started to say, and then decided not to pursue her question.

  Miranda just ate her breakfast in silence.

  "You are not the only people who have stories about this place, you know."

  "True," Miranda stated. "Our SOURCE teams have several tomes of information on this house alone. I even survived a rather horrifying night at the Sallie House."

  "The Sallie House?"

  Miranda gave Night a look of shock. "You have never heard of the Sallie House? You?"

  Night brought up his hands in a defensive mode. "I don't get out much."

  "Well, let me tell you, it was one of the first investigative cases that involved both myself and the professor."

  "Why don't you call him Jonathon?" Night asked, studying Miranda closely.

  Miranda, as if being asked to stop breathing, gave Night a startled look. "Oh, I could never do that."

  "Respect?"

  "Respect," Miranda confirmed. With a rather worried look on her face, she glanced over her shoulder, giving Holzer a careworn stare. "He is rather important to me. And not as a lover, as others might surmise. He is my&."

  "Teacher?" Night finished.

  Miranda smiled. "Exactly."

  Both remained quiet, listening to Lars rummage around in Night's conjure kit looking for something.

  "You said you knew some stories about those who once lived here?" Miranda asked, curious.

  "A few stories," Night stated, nodding his head in agreement.

  Miranda moved forward, rubbing her hands with anticipation. "Care to share one?"

  Night looked over Miranda's shoulder at Teresa sleeping in the corner. Alone with Miranda, the old man leaned forward as if wishing to share a dirty secret with her. Both prepared themselves for the telling of the tale&

  * * *

  Winter 1979

  Atchison, Kansas was in an uproar-someone was moving into Manchester House! And more important than that, it was someone who had bought the miserable place. For decades the city had tried to ignore the fact that the house even existed. After the series of murders that had taken place back in 1967 near the house-almost in its shadow-the city council tried their best to tear the place to the ground. One thing stood in their way, however, and that was the Manchester family.

  The last of the Manchesters, Winnie Manchester, aged ninety-three and a great grand niece of William Manchester the original owner, owned the land and had donated it to the Atchison Historical Society after her death in 1963. So in essence Manchester House was listed as a historical site. This was where one of the largest railroad companies came from. This was where Grant had stayed one night while traveling through to his famous victory in Vicksburg-and that was before the mansion was even built. History, in some rare instances, was more powerful than politics.

  So it was deemed by the entire city to forget that Manchester House even existed--hoping, for the most part, that it would rot itself away from mere neglect.

  That was until it was purchased and remodeled.

  People were actually moving into the house.

  Everyone in the small Kansas town thought that they were either crazy or stupid.

  * * *

  Burt Helms stood meekly by his wife as she ordered him about, making sure that the move into their new home was a perfect one. Helms was a timid man, an accountant who worked with numbers, made a great deal of money, and then handed it over to his dominating wife Sharon who knew how to spend it. Burt Helms was so timid, in fact, that when he and Sharon were in a room together, especially with guests in attendance, Helms was never remembered, never talked to, and, indeed, forgotten on the spot. When Sharontalked, he would only smile, eyes glazed, nodding his head.

  Burt Helms was not an attractive man. And Sharon was the only woman he could get to be his wife. So Burt Helms always asked himself, what could he do?

  "Damn it, Burt!" Sharon yelled, pointing a bony finger at him, scolding the man. "You got to keep your eye on these movers. They will rob you blind if you don't."

  "Yes dear."

  Helms looked up at the movers, who were busy walking a couch up the main staircase onto the second floor lounge. His expression was one of deep embarrassment and pity as he noticed that both movers had clearly heard what his wife said. Helms noticed a harsh look coming from the older of the two movers, who in turn gave Burt Helms a look of disgust.

  "Keep an eye on them!" Sharon huffed, walking up to her husband, slapping him on top of the head. Her slap was more for control than for harm. Sharon hit her husband's head in the same way a master would try to control a dog.

  Helms just stood there in silence, noticing the pitiful laughs coming from both the movers.

  Silence.

  Sharon Helms, for all her rudeness, was an attractive lady to look at. She was ten years Burt Helms' senior, but for her age she was stunning. She had no great love for her younger husband and would often tell her lovers-she kept many on the side-that she loved his money, not the man. Burt Helms was the answer to her rich dreams and he made sure she was supplied with only the best that life could offer. All this discomfort ever cost her was a night in bed-once in a great while, that is.

  "Hate to be married to that one," Helms heard one of the movers whisper.

  He bore it well, realizing, again, that he was the center of a sad joke.

  "Dear," Helms tried to say, his voice always in a soft, low tone, "please be more careful about the volume of your thoughts. Those men heard you."

  "I don't care what those men think!" Sharonhuffed. Her face was nose to nose with that of her husband's. "You would be a pauper if it were not for me and my guidance. Don't you know that?"

  "Yes dear."

  Sharon absolutely hated the way her husband allowed her to boss him around. There were times, although they were rare, when he did such a dear and enchanted act for her, proving his love, that she honestly wished that he would grow a set of balls so that she could love him. But then her husband was never really good in bed.

  "Oh, Burt, where would you be without me?"

  Burt Helms just remained silent. His eyes seemed to look off into the distance.

  "I don't know, dear," he finally said.

  Sharon gave him a sly, controlled laugh. Looking up at the movers, she noticed that one of them, the youngest, was staring down her blouse, admiring the fullness of her breasts. Unlike most women, who would find such an act uncouth, Sharonthrived on the attention. She glared at the young man who, obviously knowing that he had been caught, looked away in embarrassment.

  "Be back soon, love," Sharon said to her husband, emptily waving at him. She climbed the stairs.

  Standing still, staring into the house, Burt Helms tried to ignore the laughing sounds Sharon was giving, flirting with the young mover. He tightened his fists, closing his eyes.

  :She does not love you! You are nothing more than an end to a means!:

  Burt Helms looked up at his wife, at an angle from which neither mover nor wife could see him. What he saw killed him a little at a time.

  "No," he whispered.

  Sharon had her blouse open and the young mover was fondling her breasts and seemed to be nowhere near the human emotion of embarrassment. In fact, the young mover was doing his best to make love with Sharon. The old mover seemed to be nowhere within Mr. Helms' sight.

  :She is a harlot, not meant for a man such as you. Stay with me and I will warm your heart to the task at hand.:

  "Task?" Helms found himself saying out loud. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.

  He found himself in the kitchen.

  "How did I get in here?" he asked.

  It had been years since Helms had sleepwalked.

  :I will take care o
f you, dear man.:

  A cold chill filled the kitchen, causing Helms to shiver severely. God! It was cold. So cold that Helms could almost see his breath. Ice started to form on the kitchen windows.

  "This isn't right," Helms said, exasperated. "This is September. Where in the hell is all the ice coming from?"

  A shadow started to fall on the kitchen.

  Burt Helms was no longer alone.

  * * *

  The Shape had been asleep for a long time and only now had become aware of the people within her walls. She had been watching this couple and found a kindred spirit in Burt Helms. Beyond her evil, she did feel a microscopic bit of sorrow for him. She had made a rather entertaining little decision in which Burt Helms would not be allowed to die. No, he would live to tell the tale.

  As the tiny little man turned to leave the kitchen, he came face to face with her. They seemed to stare at each other for a long time.

  * * *

  Burt Helms turned to leave the kitchen, only to be stopped by a strange figure standing in the kitchen doorway.

  "What?" His terror lingered, testing his sanity.

  The Shape glared at him through the bloodied long mat of her black hair. Her eyes seemed to hold him in place like those of a cobra's. He couldn't move. His body had to remind itself that it needed to breathe.

  To Helms, this strange figure looked like one of the many street urchins he had encountered while on travels in India. Hungry little children too tired to beg. Hands extended, pleading-forever pleading-for attention and for food. A stench of death filled his nostrils as he tried to gain control of his motor skills once more.

  "Kill her," the Shape whispered.

  "Excuse me?"

  "KILL HER."

  Burt Helms mildly blinked his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the Shape was gone. He was alone in the kitchen. He thought it best to forget the episode and returned to finding his wife.

  Walking back toward the staircase, the timid man hadn't far to go. All he had to do was follow the sound of his wife moaning. Soon he saw her walking back down the stairs. Burt Helms noticed a harsh look from the young mover, who had his hand on Sharon's shoulder.

  "Hey, man, you got a cold beer?" the young mover asked, almost ordering.

  "In the icebox."

  "Can I have one then?"

  Before Helms could offer, the mover had walked in, got a can of beer, opened it, and headed back to his work.

  "You&" Helms tried to say, losing his nerve to go forward with his actions.

  :See how those you cannot stand use you? Come to me and I will raise you above all my other children&:

  The mover drank the last of his beer, emptying the small can in record time. Crushing the can, and giving Helms a contemptible laugh, the mover dropped the empty can on the floor, heading back to his work.

  Sharon's blouse had been buttoned haphazardly-clearly showing that it had been opened in a moment of passion.

  "Honey, can you fix us both a salad?" Sharonasked, walking away from her husband on a blissful cloud. "I've suddenly got an appetite."

  Helms glared in silence, then headed back toward the kitchen.

  "Yes dear."

  Burt Helms failed to see the sad figure of the Shape glaring down at him from the top of the main staircase.

  * * *

  Helms started to prepare a salad for both him and his wife. In a silent rage, the man found himself cutting carrots with a little bit more than the usual energy. In fact he had cut his thumb, not realizing that he had done so. Not until Sharon came in and spotted the pool of blood.

  "Burt!" Sharon yelled, coldly concerned. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "What?" Helms asked, glaring at his wife over his shoulder.

  Sharon rushed into the kitchen, seeing the pool of blood forming at her husband's feet, and honestly thought that the man had been stupid enough to cut off one of his fingers. She was worried about the man killing himself-that is, until he changed his will.

  Grabbing Burt Helms by the bloody hand, Sharon pulled him over to the kitchen sink and ran cold water over his thumb. His thumb, dripping with thick blood, appeared to be seriously damaged. After frantically wiping away all the sticky red substance on the wound, however, Sharon was both relieved and angry to discover that Burt had only grazed the top of his thumb, cutting just below the skin. Her husband had always been an easy bleeder.

  "Jesus, Burt!" Sharon shouted, wrapping a paper towel around Helms' thumb. "You scared me to death."

  "Really?" For a moment Helms was pleased to see that the woman really cared about him.

  "You're a clumsy brat, do you know that?" Sharon huffed. "Fix the salad and bring it into the living room. You silly man. Ruin a dinner by bleeding on it. No sex for you tonight!" With that she huffed out of the room.

  Burt Helms knew there would be no sex. Sharonneedn't inform him. He would try. She would refuse.

  Life as a married man.

  Helms picked up the two salads and left the kitchen.

  Later they had a fight, and Helms found himself sleeping on the couch.

  * * *

  In the dark of night, the mansion's kitchen was a silent tomb.

  The pool of Helms' blood was still there, almost dry.

  It started to boil.

  It started to move.

  It started to move itself in a spiral-like pattern.

  The blood slowly seeped into the floor, never to be seen again. In fact, when both Helms' got up the next morning, both forgot about not cleaning up after Burt's accident.

  Manchester House had gotten its first taste of blood in over twelve years.

  And it was hungry.

  * * *

  In the cold basement of the mansion, vast plastic sheets started to drip with thick layers of blood. In the center of all this, the Shape stood in the dark maze, silently looking up and through the floorboards.

  Above her, a wet stain started to form, filling with liquid. Filling with blood.

  The Shape meekly started to smile.

  The liquid forming above her was blood. Burt Helms' blood.

  The Shape opened her mouth, waiting.

  A cold wind blew through the basement, causing a rustling sound of plastic to echo. The number of plastic tarps seemed to double, making it almost impossible for a mortal man to walk through the basement and not get caught in a web of plastic and decay.

  The room filled with the stench of death.

  "Mine!" the Shape whispered.

  The blood started to drip.

  The Shape lapped her tongue, drinking in the blood until the offering ran out.

  The basement filled with the moans of several thousands of tortured souls as the Shape started to chant spells and words best left forgotten and unheard.

  * * *

  Two weeks later&

  "Damn it, Burt!" Sharon yelled.

  A hush filled the main hall of Manchester House as several dinner guests saw Sharon slap her husband, and slap him hard.

  Burt Helms' crime was serving her a soda with no ice.

  "Can't you do anything right?" Sharon yelped, not realizing that she had suddenly become the center of attention.

  Burt Helms had changed since they had first moved into Manchester House. Unlike Sharon, who was doing her part to at least try to blend in with the people of Atchison, Kansas, he was more of a hermit. Sharon even commented a few times that he hadn't been spending enough time at work. He wasn't even making his monthly visits to the main office in Kansas City. For him to avoid his work was like asking a fish to step out of the water.

  In truth, Sharon was upset because while Helms continued to stay in the new house, she couldn't invite over her young lovers. Helms knew. He just chose to ignore.

  Rubbing the side of his face and lowering his eyes like a four year old, Helms side-glanced his guests, seeing the looks of pity, embarrassment, and comic insult.

  Sharon handed Helms back her drink.

  "Go fix it," she ordered. "A
nd go fix it right.

  Helms, ashamed, ventured toward the kitchen.

  "Never mind him," Sharon stated to an attractive young man with blond hair. "He's a joke, but I keep him around because he does serve a purpose."

  Helms wanted to turn and attack. He wanted to do so many things, but fear kept him from everything. He was a coward, plain and simple. For that, he was ashamed.

  Helms entered the kitchen to fix his wife her drink.

  * * *

  :Do not worry so!:

  Helms never told his wife or his associates of the voices he had been hearing since they had first entered their new home. He hadn't told anyone of the secret whispers he had heard in the dark of night, of things and people he could never understand. He certainly didn't want to tell his wife about the little girl.

  The little girl shared herself with him. Not in a physical way. More mental. Pure.

  He couldn't control his emotion any more. Burt Helms began to cry.

  :Things will be better soon&:

  The kitchen lights were turned off. It had bothered Sharon greatly that her husband preferred the kitchen dark, but as long as he prepared good meals and everything was clean, it did not concern her too much.

  "I want&"

  :Yes! What do you want?:

  "Control," Helms said, his voice dripping with hate.

  :Then you shall have it.:

  The kitchen turned eerily cold.

  The Shape appeared.

  Burt Helms smiled.

  The Shape smiled.

  "I want to&" Burt Helms tried to say, but the Shape put her hand to his lips, stopping him.

  Startled, Helms eyed the Shape, who was shaking her head no in silence. Her image and company had been helping Helms through many difficult weeks. Sharon was becoming more controlling, and even he was starting to believe that his marriage to her had become a liability.

  "Prepare&" the Shape whispered. Her eyes filled with a devilment that Helms at first could not understand.

  The kitchen shook.

  It breathed.

  The kitchen, it seemed, came to life.

  The Shape's eyes were directed toward the room's ceiling. Helms tried to follow her gaze, but he found that he was paralyzed, frozen, looking at her corpselike face. She was a beauty to him, and he was sure that she knew of his growing feelings toward her.