"What's wrong?" Wells asked, almost tired.
All the young man could do was mutely point toward the closed kitchen door.
Wells, not really wanting to look, followed the officer's pointing finger. Glancing at the kitchen door, Wells looked beyond the green mold which seemed to have recently claimed the rich wood and discovered to his horror a fresh pool of thick red blood trickling through the bottom of the door.
"Is that what I thick it is?" the young officer asked.
"Well, son," Wells stated, taking out an evidence bag, "it sure in hell isn't ketchup."
Scooping some of the blood into his evidence bag, Wells could hear the young man gulping down the urge to vomit. He sympathized. However, if the man wanted to remain an Atchison Police Officer, he would have to get used to this-particularly if Manchester House continued to stand.
"What's that noise?" the young man asked, craning his neck.
Wells froze.
There was a soft scratching sound coming from inside the kitchen.
"I don't know." Wells folded up the evidence bag and placed it in his right coat pocket.
The scratching noise seemed to get louder, and every so often both officers thought they could hear a squeaking sound accompanied with the noise.
Against his better judgment, Lt. Wells opened the kitchen door. He tried his best to hide the fact that his hand was shaking.
The kitchen was dark, considering it was the middle of the day. For some unknown reason, the original builder of the house did not wish to have too much light entering the room. This made no sense to anyone who loved to cook, because any chef would tell you that light was more a friend than an enemy to food preparation.
"Oh, shit!" the young officer yelled, pointing his arm toward the kitchen floor. "Would you look at that."
Wells cast his tired eyes toward the kitchen floor. The very floor on which he had stood several years ago looking into the alien eyes of Gilbert Lex. Haunted by that image for almost a decade, what Wells was witnessing now was more horrifying.
Rats!
Several rats which appeared to be more dead than alive squeaked and moved upon the kitchen floor, yelling for some kind of mercy. Some of the tiny creatures seemed to be molded to the tile on the floor by the very rot of their bodies. What the two police officers were witnessing was beyond science-this was biblical shit. This was the stuff of a horror writer's nightmares.
"How can most of those things be alive, Lieutenant?"
Wells shook his head, not really knowing how to answer the question.
In any case, both Wells and his sidekick soon discovered where the blood was coming from.
Chewing and feasting in the middle of the kitchen, several new and rather healthy looking rats were devouring a severed arm. It looked to be dressed in an old Union officer's uniform-Civil War era in appearance.
Having seen his fill, Wells slammed the kitchen door shut.
Both officers vomited.
* * *
A search was completed of the Manchester House about twenty minutes after both officers had gotten sick. There was that awkward silence both men expressed after throwing up all over the main hall's floor. Embarrassment. Then anger at the fact that both had allowed the circumstances to get the better of them.
"Check the entire house from top to bottom," Wells ordered.
The young officer, all too eager to get away from the studying eyes of his superior, followed his orders to the letter.
No one was found.
It was as if all six people on the investigation team led by Professor Holzer had disappeared. More victims of the mansion? Wells sincerely hoped not.
Pulling his phone out of his coat pocket, Wells made the familiar Manchester Call to his captain.
"Captain?" Wells stated, the tone of his voice always the same on these calls.
"Ah, shit!" the captain was heard saying. Wells thought he could hear his Captain's hand hit his desk in frustration. "It's Manchester House, isn't it?"
"Yes sir."
"How many?"
"Sir?"
"Bodies," the captain explained. "How many bodies this time?"
"None."
"None?"
There was a long pause. Neither wanted to break the silence.
"Captain?"
"Yeah! I'm here."
"There are six people missing."
"Missing?"
Wells turned uneasy. "Captain, I approved a team of paranormal investigators to investigate Manchester House about a week ago."
"You did what?"
Wells squinted. The level of controlled anger and surprise in his captain's voice guaranteed him at least to be on duty on all major holidays for the next ten years. The seasoned police officer prepared for the worst.
"I know a college professor, sir, quite capable of handling such things."
"Well, obviously not Manchester House."
Long pause.
"Sir, I think we need to send out another investigative team," Wells suggested. "At least to be sure."
The captain let out a tired exhale. "Damn. Six people, you say?"
"Yes sir," Wells confirmed. "That is what the dean of the college said."
"Christ, they were from the college?"
"Yes sir."
"Why couldn't it be a city college and not some damn Ivy League institution?"
"Sir, I will be here with one of my men waiting."
The captain, it had sounded on the phone, slammed his fist on the desk once more as if preparing himself for another trip to another murder scene he didn't really want to see.
"I'll be there is about an hour."
"I'll send my man up to guide you through."
"I know the way, Wells."
"Yes sir." Wells tried to explain. "Still, there's a site of an abandoned car I think you and the CSI guys should see."
The captain let out a tired grunt and hung up.
Wells remained frozen, listening to the familiar dial tone. Closing his phone, he instructed his man to walk back toward the road to wait for the investigation unit. This investigation, Wells had concluded, would not be a happy one.
"What did you find, Professor?" Wells asked himself, giving the empty halls of Manchester House a curious look. His eyes darted back toward the closed kitchen door. He couldn't hear anything on the other side.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Wells opened the kitchen door and saw only dead rats in various stages of decay littering the floor. Nothing more.
There was movement out of the corner of his eye.
Wells tried to pay it no mind. Indeed he had seen the same thing every time he arrived at the mansion.
From the corner of his eye, Lt. Wells thought he had seen a teenage girl staring at him. He tried to pay it no mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The entire SOURCE team seemed to cower behind the towering figure of Ingrid Night who in his own right was just as terrified and uncertain as those who sought comfort from him.
The thundering sound of the oncoming monster, which all could now see approaching them, peered up and over the earthen mound, looking down into the eyes of the towering old man. Night dared not show any fear-which was what the beast wished to see.
"Ingrid, what the hell's going on here?" Holzer finally asked, holding on tight to the light device that Miranda had handed him about an hour ago.
Night did not loosen his gaze on the oncoming form massing above them all.
"I had feared that he was here."
"Who?" Holzer asked.
Night looked at his friend with a level of genuine fear Holzer had rarely seen in his friend's eyes. "I dare not speak his name."
Holzer left the moment alone, not wishing to press more information from his friend. He only stood there, watching the looming figure approach.
"Jonathon, we are witnessing a sight not seen since Adam and Eve left paradise." Night's face was practically beaming with excitement.
"Okay, someone g
et off their soap box and let the rest of us know what's going on here?" Sinclair said, his voice shaking.
"I have chased this thing my whole life," Night explained. "Always I have been too late. Always he has escaped me." Night paused, laughing. "No wonder I could not track him down. He has been here all this time."
"Ingrid," Holzer asked, irritated, "who?"
Night almost spoke the name of the beast, but stopped just in time. Instead, he motioned Holzer toward him, whispering the monster's name into his friend's ear. Upon hearing the name, the college professor's face turned an ashen white.
"Impossible," Holzer said, almost in a whisper.
"It is true, my friend," Night reassured.
"But he was destroyed eons ago," Holzer challenged. "By the Druids, if I'm not mistaken."
"Held in place by the dreams, desires, and prayers of a hundred forgotten gods, my friend." Night opened up his conjure kit. He took out an oblong wooden box about seven inches in length and four inches in depth. "However, we have one thing on our side."
"And what is that, Mr. Night?" Miranda asked. The British woman was doing her best to hide her terrified expression with a look of business-like fascination.
"Me, Miss Miranda," Night said with no ego attached. "I know this son-of-a-bitch better than I know my mother. I know what annoys him."
In her fear, Miranda started to wrap her arms around Sinclair's waist.
"I would not do that," Night warned, pointing a stern finger at Miranda. "Not in front of him. Not here."
"Why not?" Miranda asked, insulted.
"He feeds on lust," Night explained. "Although the two of you, Miss Miranda and Mr. Sinclair, appear to dislike each other, there is an underlying sexual tension that even I can feel when I am around the two of you."
"What has that got to do with all of this?" Holzer asked.
"Everything, Jonathon," said Night. "The beast works through our hidden desires, growing in both strength and evil power. By giving you what you secretly desire, or have felt, he can rise and become more powerful."
"And that is why the Shape is so powerful?" Teresa added, stepping forward.
Night turned toward the psychic, giving her a look of pride. "Very good!"
Teresa gave Night a look of satisfaction.
"Imagine, if you can, the unwanted lust of a young woman wrongly used." Night suggested, "What is lust if not another layer of wrath or revenge? These two spirits were made to complement each other. And as I had said, the Shape is the Ankou, or guardian, of this damned place."
"How do we stop him?" Sinclair asked, holding onto Miranda.
There was a long pause.
"I know of ways to repel," Night explained.
"But how do we stop him?" Holzer asked, determined.
"I do not know, Jonathon," Night stated, embarrassed. "He is one of the original demons of hell. He was there in Eden with the angels and God. You cannot stop a power such as this so easily."
"But why Atchison, Kansas?" the college professor asked.
"Perhaps it has something to do with the land's history."
"Or the Lancelot-Pool ley lines?"
"Perhaps," Night accepted, "But we must prepare for battle. He will be here soon."
All in the group gave Night a crazed look.
"Should we leave?" Holzer asked.
"And go where?" Night shook his head. "We are trapped here in this world until we either overcome this evil or command it to allow us to leave." Night laughed ironically. "That will take more than asking the fucking thing 'pretty please'."
Sinclair tiredly laughed at Night's dry humor.
The skies above the SOURCE team started to fill with imposing storm clouds. All eyes turned skyward. There was a feeling of being watched and controlled humbling one's own sense of security. A foul smell permeated the air, giving off an aroma of death and decay.
"The beast comes!" Night warned, his voice filling with fear.
Holzer pointed toward the oblong wooden box Night had taken out of his kit. "Ingrid, what have you got there?"
Night held the box up for all in the group to see. "This is our get out of jail card. When the time comes, it could be our only hope."
"Will it work?" Miranda asked, her eyes frozen on the impending cloud opening up before them.
Night paused. "I don't know."
"What!" the members of the SOURCE team said almost in unison.
Night made a helpless gesture. "I've never fought this entity in battle before. I'm going on training alone."
"Ahh!" Sinclair said in frustration.
The cloud above them started to thin and dissipate. A towering, hairy, inhuman figure started to appear before them.
Holzer turned away from the incredible sight, realizing that they had all momentarily lost sight of the Shape.
"Where's the girl?" the professor asked.
At their feet was a human-shaped hole in the earth, empty, where once there had been the defeated corpse of the Shape. Now, only well-fed worms and insects looked up at them, resting in the deep hole the Shape had almost been buried in with Night's prayers and magic.
"She has been saved by the evil forces which control her, Jonathon," Night decided "Pay her no mind, for she will return. I'm counting on it."
Holzer noticed a certain turn of Night's smile which always had seemed to iterate that his mysterious friend had a master plan in store for the unfortunate foe who faced him. Knowing Night the way he did, Holzer relaxed, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.
"Behold!" Night said, pointing a shaking finger toward the powerful influence of Manchester House.
As the massive cloud above them all started to dissipate, Holzer got a chance to see the evil behind the legend of Manchester House. And as Night and he exchanged glances as to what they were witnessing, it was quite obvious to Night that the college professor had no words for what his eyes were showing him.
"Dear God!"
"Precisely, dear friend," Night said, tipping his hat.
The beast was horrid. If ever there were an earthly word for it, it was horrid.
The smell of death was everywhere. And still there lingered in the air a distinctive after-smell which all knowing adults could relate too. The air smelled of lust. Pure and simple lust. Lust brought on by half-planned sex and unwashed sheets. Death and sex. Both seemed to be the calling card of the demon the team was facing.
The demon in question towered above the SOURCE team, looking more like a bear than a demon. It had three huge heads facing in different directions. One head appeared to be that of a man. The man appeared Neanderthal in nature, but clearly the first head was that of a man. His hungry eyes bugged outward, gazing and coveting all in their sight. His face was hungry and bored, his mouth a filth of sloth and decay.
The next head, the one hanging down to the left, was that of a bull. A prize farmer would have been envious of the head the members of the investigation team were looking at. For it was the most magnificent specimen of bull breeding ever shown upon the earth. Its only drawback: the nose of the bull would not stop dripping. Thick nasal liquid poured out of the head's openings, giving the proud bull the look of a creature suffering from a sickness.
The last and clearly most horrid head was that of an ogre. Gorging himself with the rotted corpses of the earthen mound at his cock-like feet, his scales, hair, and bat-like wings took up the remainder of the demon's body. All together, it was about the size of a battle tank.
Clearly it would take more than Ingrid Night to stop him.
"Demon who sits at the left hand of Satan," Night started to pray.
Someone forgot to tell that little fact to Ingrid Night.
* * *
Holzer, dumbfounded, looked down at the crossbow weapon Night had suddenly thrust into his hands, and for a minute questioned the sanity of his warrior friend.
"Ingrid," Holzer asked, shifting the crossbow from hand to hand. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I need your h
elp, Jonathon," Night explained. "Your&zeal."
"My zeal?"
"Yes." Night paused, exhaling deeply. "You are a passionate man, sir. This job requires passion."
"But I don't&"
"You will learn!" Night barked.
Holzer absently started to inspect his weapon. Finding the opening where he had seen Night pour his blessed oils in, the professor looked meekly up at his friend, waiting. Night nodded his head with understanding.
Night produced the oblong wooden box he had taken from his kit. Opening it, both men's senses were suddenly hit by the strong smell of rotting fish.
"What is that stuff, Ingrid?" Holzer asked, waving his hand in the air.
"The only thing recorded in the world of man that can stop this thing, Jonathon," Night said. He picked up a fragile crystal flask containing a mercury-like substance which did reek of the smell of rotted fish. He poured some of the oil in both crossbows.
"What is it?"
"I do not know," Night explained.
Holzer returned the comment with a blank stare.
"It is said," Night tried to explain, keeping a watchful eye on the demon which was calmly staring down at his five visitors, "that the flesh of a fish known only to the angels of heaven can destroy him."
Miranda, stepping forward from the crowd, said, "May I examine the liquid?"
Night gave the woman a startled look.
"Do you object?" Miranda asked, surprised.
"No," Night clarified. "I just do not remember reading anywhere of a woman being allowed to touch this substance. I honestly do not know if you can."
Miranda let out a tired exhale of frustration. She grabbed the container, gently taking it from Night's hand. The old man cautiously waited for a reaction. When there was none, he relaxed briefly.
"The last thing I need to hear right now are the chauvinist renderings of an antique god," Miranda huffed. She raised the liquid into what light there was and tried to peer through it. "Appears to be mercury." She sniffed the air. "Smells like fish. Mercury has no apparent smell, though. May I have a sample for later study?"
"No!" Night huffed.
Miranda gave Night another insulting stare. "Mr. Night, I am a scientist."
"It is not that, my dear," Night stated, holding up his hands in gentle surrender. "The flask was given to my order on a sacred trust. By my life, I will not break it."
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