MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  "DO NOT GO ANY FARTHER, SIR," the Shape warned. She seemed to be cautiously looking about, as if expecting eavesdropping or trouble. "I CAN DO NO FUTHER SERVICE. I WISH YOU TO LEAVE NOW."

  Night was genuinely touched. He lowered his weapon.

  "I mean you no harm," Night stated, holding up a peaceful hand. "I only wish to know you more."

  The Shape, realizing that Night had relaxed his guard, changed her appearance. Her kindness was soon replaced with hateful evil. Her attractive lines were soon overpowered by a clinging dread that reeked with the smell of the dead.

  "Oh shit&" Night whispered.

  Night realized that he had been tricked.

  The Shape raised her hands, allowing a flame of evil to shoot out of them, attacking Ingrid Night where he stood.

  The flame was nothing like that found in the physical world. That was the first thing Night noticed about the orange-like light which seemed to engulf him. Powerful streams of light continued to attack him, making it incredibly hard for the man to breathe.

  "You think you can stop me by making me not breathe?" Night laughed. His lungs were starting to explode from lack of air, and the contemptible laugh he tried to imitate was only for show. Inside, however, Night was wracked with pain. "Little lady, I have crapped out worse shits than you."

  Night raised his crossbow.

  Taking aim, he shot straight at his mark.

  "NOOOOO!" the Shape yelled. Her face showed both horror and surprise at the fact that Night still had the strength to raise such a heavy weapon.

  The crossbow shot out a long stream of the ancient blood, hitting the Shape squarely in the center of her own small chest. A thundering if not grumbling crash was heard as the dark blood made contact.

  Within seconds, the Shape's flesh began to burn.

  Then to both Night's surprise and the SOURCE team's horror, the Shape did something neither expected: she began to cry like a frightened child.

  Night could hear genuine concern coming from behind him.

  "Be careful!" Night warned the SOURCE team, putting a cautious hand in the air, backing his teammates away from him. "It could be a trap. Keep up your guard, I beg you all."

  The Shape was not looking well. The holy blood was doing its best to destroy her. That was its function. Night knew this.

  "Take that, you bitch!" Night barked.

  The pain must have been weakening the Shape, for it was not long before the flames coming from the Shape's hands stopped. Now she was the one in pain. The tables had turned and she found herself to be the hunted.

  "Mommie!" the Shape cried. Only this time there was no power vibrating from her tone. No evil. No pretense. Just regular human pain and desperation.

  "Dear God," Teresa was heard saying from behind Night.

  Night turned his attention toward the psychic. "Be extra careful where you place your sympathies, child."

  Teresa looked at Night with a shocked expression. "Look at her, Mr. Night."

  Night cautiously glanced back, his guard never down. He was fooled once-never again.

  Blood was starting to pour from the Shape's openings. Bloodstains started to spot in the crotch of the tiny girl's skirt and red crimson trickles started to mat up her long black hair. The Shape was doing all that she could to stop the bleeding. And from time to time she looked back toward the heart of the plastic maze, expecting help.

  "There is no help for you, child," Night stated sadly. "I am a servant of God and you are now within the presence of His might. There is only salvation for you where you stand, guided by both my hand and your heart."

  "Mommie!" the Shape repeated, blood slopping out of her mouth.

  This last caused Teresa to act.

  "Teresa!" Night yelled, holding up a warning hand. "Don't!" The old man didn't move from his own footing-he was too surprised to see the young psychic show so much courage, considering he, at first meeting, had considered her the team's weakest link.

  The Shape turned her gaze from Night, casting her tender eyes toward the caring psychic. Blood continued to ooze out of her mouth. In point of fact, the tiny girl-spirit was becoming nothing more than a walking bloody rag. Her dress was even starting to trickle tiny showers of blood.

  "You poor, poor, baby," Teresa started to say, reaching out to hold and comfort the Shape.

  All on the SOURCE team froze.

  All eyes stayed glued to Teresa, remembering what had happened to Ingrid Night earlier.

  The Shape started to cry, embracing Teresa with the longing of a very lonely soul. Teresa, sensing the spirit's isolation, started to pat her on the head, stroking her fingers through the Shape's blood-soaked hair. Teresa had to do her best to hold back a huge layer of disgust, realizing that she too was now covered with blood.

  "I want my mommie," the Shape cried.

  "Sweet dear," Teresa soothed. "Sweet, sweet dear."

  A rumble was heard rising from the center of the maze. An alien language unlike any spoke upon the earth started to echo through the air. Ancient and quite mysterious, all on the team started to pay the thundering voice some attention.

  Holzer soon noticed the horrid look of bewilderment on Night's face.

  "What is it, Ingrid?"

  Night had his eyes closed, doing his best to reach out with his senses. He was trying to will himself to understand what the voice was saying. It wasn't working, and it showed in the worry lines of his brow.

  "It is an ancient language," Night surmised. "I would almost say that it is related to the ancient Judaic."

  "Hebrew?" Holzer added.

  "No," Night insisted, "quite older. I believe however that this demon is speaking the common language of Moses."

  "Then it should be Hebrew," Holzer said. "But I don't even recognize it."

  "Hebrew has changed over the centuries, my friend," Night explained. "It has been corrupted by the many forces, armies, and conquerors that have maintained and held the Jewish race throughout history." Night paused, laughing ironically. "The greatest corrupter of the mother tongue has been the Jews themselves. An argument for another time, however."

  "Well, do you know what it's saying?" Sinclair asked, irritated.

  Night gave the cameraman a harsh look. "No!"

  The Shape stopped her crying.

  Everything turned quiet.

  "HEEEEEEHHHHHH." The Shape started to groan. She pulled away from Teresa, startling the psychic.

  "What's wrong, baby?" Teresa asked.

  The psychic's eyes widened with horror.

  A smell of rot permeated the air.

  Teresa slowly started to step away from the Shape.

  Teresa was terrified to see that the Shape's appearance had changed again. She was no longer a pleasant looking spirit of a preteen girl. The Shape was now a rotting corpse covered with mold, skeletal and stinking of rot.

  "YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS PLACE&" the Shape started to scream. A flap of flesh that at one time had been the Shape's bottom lip fell down from the gaping mouth, hanging and dangling. A mist started to ooze out of the ghost's mouth and blood continued to escape the many openings that were forming.

  The Shape was no more than a walking dead vision of hell as it plainly existed in the superstitious mind of man.

  "Dear God!" Miranda exclaimed, holding back the urge to vomit.

  "This is how she must now look," Holzer added.

  "Done so by the blood of the blessed Carpenter, my friend," Night concluded. Stepping forward, Night grabbed hold of Teresa, pulling her back to stand with the rest of her team members. "You have done your duty as a psychic, dear lady, I give you that. Now I ask you to help me do my duty."

  Teresa, still taken aback by the sudden change in the Shape's appearance, nodded her head in agreement. Slowly, anger started to grow within her. She did not like the fact that her charity had been taken advantage of.

  "The chick is toast!" Sinclair added, grabbing his camera, aiming it.

  "Taking a picture?" Miranda asked.
>
  "Not yet."

  Miranda gave the cameraman a surprised look. "This not amazing enough for you?"

  "I have only one picture left," Sinclair stated. "Who knows what we may be facing ahead?"

  Night broke the bickering by waving his hand toward the team.

  "Jonathon, ready your people."

  Holzer knew what Night was referring to, and opened up his conjure kit. The college professor then handed out several charms and potions to each member. As each member took the charm or vial holding unknown oil or liquid, they gave Professor Holzer a blank, begging for guidance look of desperation.

  "Ready," Holzer stated, closing the conjure kit.

  "We must now attack her in force," Night ordered, taking his own charm out for all to see. Night was holding the silver Star of David he had used earlier in the night. "She will never be more weakened than she is now."

  There was a pause.

  The Shape sneered at the team members. Her eyes clearly showed fear.

  "This is so cool!" Sinclair barked, jumping just a little, looking like an excited schoolboy.

  Everyone froze, giving the cameraman a surprised glance.

  "Well&" Sinclair squirmed, uneasy. "You know&"

  Everyone returned to the task at hand.

  "Now, hold up your weapons," Night ordered.

  Each member, not really knowing what else to do, held up the respective items Holzer had handed them from Night's conjure kit. Each in turn focused on Ingrid Night, very much requesting, silently, guidance from him.

  "Evil that stands in front of us," Night started to chant, slowly stepping forward.

  The Shape started to snarl in fear of Night. Several loose teeth fell from the girl's upper jaw.

  "Brought here to this place beyond your powers. I call on you to seek the rest you so deeply deserve. Be gone, unclean spirit. Go to the glory that is our God!" With that, Night flung out the symbol of his faith, allowing it to do its respective power. He silently pleaded for the others to join him.

  "Let's do this, guys," Holzer added, holding out his symbol. By all appearances, Holzer appeared to be holding a pagan symbol of some kind, quite possibly Egyptian.

  Everyone attacked the Shape.

  "Noooooo!" the Shape pleaded as she was meekly forced down onto her knees. She raised her hands up in a childlike defensive mode.

  Night would not allow anyone to show mercy. Not this time. "Keep going!" he ordered. "The light of good is present. I am a servant of the living God. His hand guides me."

  The Shape found herself on the ground, flat on her back. She started to tremble and shake the way an epileptic might during a seizure.

  "Please, do not do this to me," the Shape pleaded, blood once more pooling from her mouth. A huge gap of flesh started to fall away from her forehead, showing bone.

  "Rest now, unclean spirit," Night challenged, silently ordering all the SOURCE team members to gather around the crippled specter. All pushed their icons toward the Shape, making her scream more in agony.

  The Shape appeared to be in pain. Her body was starting to show signs of decay, becoming nothing more than a bloodied skeleton in a rag of a dress-now tatters. As Night continued his prayers, with each thrust of his words the Shape appeared to sink deeper into the earth. She was once more being buried alive. Only this time by those who sought to help.

  "MASTER!" the Shape finally yelled, her jaw breaking away from her skull, landing upon her chest, and then innocently rolling between Sinclair's feet. A gasping, unholy sound was heard gurgling out of the Shape's now useless mouth.

  RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!

  The sound was unearthly.

  And it was fast approaching the SOURCE team.

  Ingrid Night brought his attention to the top of the earthen mound. He could see both shadow and movement.

  Whatever it was, it was big.

  "Jonathon," Night said, his voice trembling with fear.

  "Yes?" Holzer's throat turned dry. His voice was barely above a whisper.

  "Prepare for the worst."

  All the team members banded together, readying themselves for the main horror which had held Manchester House for centuries. None knew what to expect. All were frightened beyond comfort.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Lt. Albert Wells, pulling back on the hammer of his pistol, slowly opened the front door of Manchester House. He usually arrived with a sense of dread, but seeing a car crumpled up like a ball of tissue paper and thrown two hundred feet away from the main road leading to the mansion was enough to send up red flags to any cynic. Wells had traced the VIN number of the car, or what was left of it, to discover that the college had been the last to obtain the vehicle.

  "There's nothing left of the damn thing!" the young officer with Wells stated, trying his best to open one of the car's doors. He couldn't. Too much damage.

  "What could have done this?" Wells asked.

  The young cop seemed to have a theory. "Looks like something picked the car up, crushed it, and threw the damn thing like an unwanted toy."

  Wells remained silent, glaring at his officer.

  There had been an uncomfortable moment when Wells could feel a thousand eyes on him. He could hear and sense that the woods were aware. As a child, grandparents and friends alike had always told him that the woods around Manchester House were haunted. The house alone wasn't enough to scare most people, but almost everyone in Atchison avoided the woods around the site.

  Wells, thinking of his retirement, kept this last to himself.

  "Let's go toward the house," he finally said.

  It took Wells and his officers thirty minutes to reach the shantytown, and then up toward the house.

  "Looks like looters have been here, sir," the young officer pointed out, remarking about the fresh damage to the homes in the shantytown.

  "Or our missing friends could have run into some trouble," Wells suggested.

  "Impossible, sir."

  Wells gave his officer a surprised look. "Why do you say that?"

  "I know this house, sir," the young officer remarked. "No one has ever died in the shantytown. All have been&taken in the mansion itself."

  Reaching the front door of the mansion, Wells could only agree. He silently ordered his officer to pull his gun and both found themselves entering the mansion, wishing that neither were there.

  The mansion appeared deserted. Too damn quiet.

  Wells held his breath, hearing nothing but the subtle sound of rustling plastic.

  "Professor Holzer?" Wells shouted. He entered the mansion pointing his weapon up and down and then left and right.

  Behind Wells, the young police officer followed his superior's actions. Nothing was left to chance. Wells in fact had been rather impressed with the officer's actions and made a mental note to place a commendation in the young man's file after all this was wrapped up.

  There was no answer. The house remained calm.

  "Looks clear," Wells insisted, silently ordering his officer to lower his weapon.

  "Shall I holster it?" the young man said.

  "Are you kidding?" Wells said. "Keep it at your side until we find out what has happened to the professor and his investigation team." Wells paused. "There are supposed to be at least six people here."

  The young police officer looked around the mansion unimpressed. "Seems quiet to me, sir."

  Wells gave the officer a long glare. "Just start looking."

  The young man seemed to realize that he had angered Wells, and started to do what Wells suggested. Before he could reach the foot of the main staircase, his superior interrupted the young officer.

  "Hey!" Wells barked at the cop.

  The young man turned, giving Wells a curious stare.

  "Keep on your toes," Wells warned. "This house knows we are here."

  The young officer nodded his head. "I know. I can feel it."

  Wells waved the young man on, hoping that his fears regarding Professor Holzer were just those
of a shell-shocked investigator.

  The mansion had not changed much from the last time he found it several days ago. It was still dank and wet and appeared to have a constant dripping sound coming from somewhere, but curiously enough no one could ever find the origin of the sound. Still, with all the water damage in the place, there was really no need to do so.

  Wells found himself in the main hall heading for the front parlor room near the mansion's main kitchen. The site had several memories attached to them-all bad. He could still see fresh in his mind the bodies he had to drag out of each room several years before, and was hoping that when he retired to his bed later this night he would not be haunted by the same nightmares he had after each terrible episode.

  CLICK!

  The metallic sound caught Wells' attention.

  He had stepped on something.

  Looking down at his right shoe, the detective slowly removed his foot, revealing a camera-like device. It was tiny enough to be ignored if one did not know what to look for. The camera was about the size of an old-fashioned 110-mm camera.

  "What the devil are you?" Wells asked to no one in particular. He bent down, picking up the tiny broken device. "Looks like you have been through hell and back."

  Inspecting the camera, Wells discovered that it was from the college-this was evident due to the fact that the college's logo and address were blazingly printed on the back of the camera. Holzer had stated that he was installing a webcam, but he never said that it would be such a small thing.

  "Lieutenant!"

  The sound of the young officer's voice captured Wells' attention; however it was the level of horror in the man's tone which caused Wells to pause. Whatever it was that had caused a trained police officer to project such trauma, the seasoned detective wasn't sure if he was ready for another series of body bags.

  Wells dropped the broken webcam, making a mental note to pick it up later. He was quite sure that he could get it studied by the Kansas City CSI lab later.

  Passing through the main hall beyond the staircase Wells met the young officer, who was standing in front of the stairwell leading down to the mansion's main kitchen. Wells discovered the old feeling of dread coming up in his throat as he saw the expression on the officer's face.