Manchester House (13 page)

“By all the known laws of science, and a few unknown, we should all be dead right about now.” Holzer paused. “To answer your question, Teresa:,I really don’t know what’s going on here.”

In his mystified state, Holzer accidentally dropped his glasses. Realizing that they had hit the basement floor, he bent over to pick them up.

“Damn!”

Holzer reached for the broken glasses, realizing painfully that they were cracked in the right lens.

Something started to stir in the basement.

Something brought to life by the sound of breaking glass.

“Some ghosts hate the sounds of breaking glass, Professor,” Teresa brought herself to say, seeming to sense that they were no longer alone.

Holzer swallowed hard, doing his best to keep his mind from panicking.

Holzer wanted to panic.

* * *

Holzer looked up, noticing his surroundings. A flash of confusion, shock, and horror came across his face. Even with his glasses off, he could see that something was terribly wrong.

“What the&?” The professor did his best to control the fear in his voice.

The interior of the basement had changed slightly-almost appearing as if it were another room-a larger room than possible for the house it was resting under. The hundreds of plastic tarps had become thousands. The tarps seemed to be forming a maze of some kind. Its design seemed to be to confuse the team and trap them. In the middle of all of this madness, standing just feet away from Holzer, they all saw the Shape and what could only be called an army of the undead, looking coldly on.

“I do not like the look of this,” Miranda whispered, holding a hand over her mouth.

“Whatever this is, Miranda,” Holzer warned, “it appears to be real. So we need to treat it as such.” Holzer turned to face Sinclair. “You filming all of this, son?”

Sinclair eyed Holzer with surprise-it was the first time Holzer had ever addressed him as “son”.

“Nothing is going to keep me from filming this stuff, Doc. Don’t you worry about me. Go and do your thing.”

Holzer nodded.

All figures seemed frozen in their tracks.

Water was dripping everywhere.

:It’s not water.:

Holzer turned his attentions to the army of the undead before them. He could not see details because they were all standing behind a plastic film, but he could see that they were many. Both male and female were represented in their ranks and appeared to be from several time periods. Their identities were all a mystery. The one thing Holzer was certain of was that the thousands of undead eyes that were staring at him and his team members through the plastic film were all angry at seeing invaders coming fresh into their world.

The Shape started to move.

She was in command.

The Shape, it was discovered, was the only entity that was standing outside the plastic and was the only one Holzer could see fully. Her head was bowed down and no one could see her face-her long black hair hid her features. She appeared to be a young girl in her teen years. Tiny. Fragile. Very dangerous.

“She is important to all of this, Professor,” Teresa said, holding back her excitement. “Beyond the obvious-that she is here, that she is in command-there is something not yet discovered about this entity that is the key to all the hauntings, killings, and disappearances. Solve the mystery of this girl and you will solve the mystery behind Manchester House.”

Holzer took what he was hearing from the psychic all in. “Are you able to make contact, my dear?”

“Possibly.” Teresa raised her hands cautiously. “It will take some doing. She is quite angry.”

“Why?”

Teresa tried to probe with her mind, her eyes closed. “It seems that she has been doing her best to warn us away from this place.”

“What?” Holzer asked, startled. “Again, why?”

Holzer and the rest of his team started to not only see a change taking place in the room but could feel it as well. They all started to see a substance resembling blood drip down some of the plastic sheets.

Stepping forward, Teresa tried to make contact.

:You will not succeed, child. I will see to that!:

Teresa waved her hands in the air, closing her eyes. “Why are you here? What drives you to haunt this place? Please&we are here to help you.”

Holzer silently ordered Sinclair to start filming all of this. Sinclair, just as dumbfounded and horrified as the others, blankly stared on. The professor got his attention, and the camera was activated.

The encounter was now being recorded.

* * *

“What the fuck am I doing here?” Sinclair whispered as his hands tightened around his camera. His world once more became the night-vision-green of his camera lens. He was more terrified now than he was during the bombing of Baghdad in the first Gulf War.

As Sinclair clicked on the last of his lights, he saw the basement from the tiny camera’s point of view. Cameras did not lie. This was not the room of a nineteenth-century basement. This room appeared to stretch on for miles. This room seemed larger than the property Manchester House resided on, for Christ’s sake! It all appeared just too impossible for the cameraman to believe in.

Sinclair could see that Teresa was fast approaching the Shape. Her arms extended outward, she was doing her best to make peaceful contact.

Keeping everything in focus, the cameraman had to admire the psychic’s courage.

“We come as friends,” Teresa pleaded, only feet away from where the Shape was standing. “Let us help you.”

The camera momentarily focused on Holzer. He had found another EMR reader and was frantically monitoring the room.

“Dear God, we should all be dead right now!” Holzer said, reacting to the EMR readings. Sinclair had never seen the professor’s face so livid.

Sinclair awkwardly turned the camera back toward Teresa.

Deep in a trance, Teresa’s face was dripping with sweat. Her face looked both focused and fatigued. Sinclair could see that this encounter was taking a lot out of her.

“What are your intentions?” Teresa asked, curious.

Sinclair zoomed in on the image of the Shape. Opening her eyes suddenly, the entire team could hear a thunderous series of eerie screams and noises in reaction to the cold and evil look The Shape was giving Teresa.

“Oh shit&” Sinclair whispered, trailing off.

Sinclair’s camera suddenly blinked black.

All the batteries went dead.

There would be no more filming.

* * *

“Power’s out, guys.” Sinclair apologized, checking his equipment. “Don’t know what to tell ya.”

Moans went all around. Someone had a flashlight.

Something started to stir in the basement, and it was frightening.

Without warning, a sudden burst of psychic energy attacked Teresa, sending her hurtling across the room, crashing against a nearby wall.

The Shape glared on, a sneer forming on her features.

Grabbing hold of her chest and in a great deal of pain, Teresa was helped to her feet by all the team members. They were now aware of the fact that this had become more than an academic exercise-this was serious.

Holzer wiped the dirt off Teresa’s face. “Teresa! Are you okay?”

Teresa coughed. Everyone noticed a subtle trickle of blood coming out of the corner of her mouth.

“I think so, Professor,” Teresa said, controlling her pain, coughing. “I’m hurting, though.”

All eyes suddenly turned back toward the Shape.

:You are now my play toys!:

Standing alone, the Shape glared at the team through her long dark hanging hair. No longer in the basement decorated with plastic, duct tape, or dripping blood. Her undead army had vanished. She took one solitary step forward.

“GET&OUT&NOW!” the Shape slowly uttered. Her voice was ragged, slow, controlled, and filled with hate. Yet in all of that there was also something else-fear. But fear of what?

After a few moments, the Shape started to slowly move forward. As she did this, light bulbs, electrical outlets, and even the camera Sinclair was holding, all started to explode. Holzer took action and ordered all to leave the basement.

“Do what she wants,” Holzer ordered. “Leave!”

Holzer was under the fear that if they did not heed the Shape’s advice, she would kill all of them once she had ventured close enough. Having witnessed her actions toward Teresa, the college professor wasn’t going to take the chance. Not while they were still one man short.

“Ingrid,” Holzer prayed, running up the basement stairs, following the rest of his team. “Where are you?”

:What was that?:

The Shape stopped her pursuit of the invaders. Something had caught her attention. Something old. Something powerful.

Something within her circle of influence.

Something&

Ingrid Night had walked for almost three straight days to reach this point in the rainy woods of Atchison, Kansas. He had fasted for those days, saying special prayers passed down to him by wise and ancient men trying to make him pure. If he was to fight an evil force that even Jonathon Holzer could not bring himself to understand, he expected the worst.

The rain had made it difficult for the journey but had helped to clear his mind of trivial and worldly things. With his thoughts focused on arriving at the appointed spot, he could not afford to think about thoughts left in the world of man.

His only enemy was time. His only companion was his faithful servant, Lars.

The cold damp road called to the both of them.

An evil trembled at the sense of them.

Without knowing it, Ingrid Night stopped, looking at what appeared to be a gigantic wall of forest and weeds. Nothing existed, in his eyes, which could be called evidence that a house was nearby. No sign of Holzer and his team.

For almost an hour, with the rain falling all around him soaking him to the bone, Ingrid Night stared into the dark woods.

He never moved.

He never blinked.

He did nothing.

Lars sneezed, wiping away a small stream of snot from his lower lip. Night smiled. Lars was not a tidy man. Good at his job as an able assistant, yes, but not a neat man.

Lars was also a deaf mute. Incredibly accurate at reading lips and body language, but hell when it came to having a conversation with the man.

Night turned his head, giving Lars a cold look.

Lars, his eyes regretting his actions, gave his master a tearful glance of regret. The sickly-looking beagle-faced old man peered through his think eyeglasses-without them he was totally blind-and shrugged his shoulders. What was there to do but find the entrance.

The entrance that some evil force was trying to hide from them.

“The evil knows that we are here, my friend,” Night stated, patting Lars on the shoulder. Night towered over his assistant in height and together they looked like father and son, but that was where the family resemblance stopped.

“So the evil wants to hide itself from us?” Night questioned. Rain poured down the front of the hat he was wearing, making it almost impossible for him to see more than just a few feet ahead. “Well, that’s nice. The evil wants a fight; so we will give him one. Will we not, Lars?”

Lars stood by his master’s side, silent. Ready.

Night rather slowly placed out his right hand.

Lars responded.

Reaching into a coat pocket, Lars pulled out a small white candle. Nothing particularly special about the object-a common candle which could be found in any department store. Still, there was a hint of a nervous shake in Lars’ hands, in the handling of the thing, which gave one the impression that this was no ordinary candle.

“Then we are ready,” Night insisted.

For almost another hour, Night and his companion studied the woods.

The portal was nearby. Of that Night was certain.

* * *

Night lit a single match. “I have it,” he whispered, nodding his head toward Lars, informing him to make ready.

Lars, picking up their equipment, patiently waited for Night to take action.

Night lit up his candle.

“We begin here!” Night shouted. He raised the lit candle to face the bitter cold and wet of the night air. Although the rain was pouring down, the flame from the candle was not affected. In fact, the tiny flame grew brighter. “And I saw in the right hand of Him that sat upon the throne a book sealed with seven seals.” Night began to pray out loud. “And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, ‘Who is worthy to open the books and to loose the seals thereof?’”

Night paused, waiting.

The flame grew to be an enormous height. From the tiny candle in Night’s hand, a nine-foot flare shot out, igniting the darkness. The trees and bushes, vines and dirt responded. A quivering started to take place in the thickness of the woods. And something was made aware.

“I am!” Night yelled to the woods. “I am strong enough to open the seals, you son-of-a-bitch!”

The thunderous noise, as if a huge vault had been suddenly burst open, echoed throughout the area in which Night and Lars were standing. Yells, screams, and voices of the damned began to attack the two. Night felt no discomfort, not even grabbing at his ears or having the need to care. Lars couldn’t hear a damn thing to begin with, which made him vital in Night’s goals. If Night failed, Lars was there to see them through. A demon had trouble seducing a deaf mute.

“Show yourself, you heathen! You whore of the world!” Night commanded.

A small earthquake could be felt under Night’s and Lars’ feet.

“So, it opens.”

As if by magic, and with one blink of the eye, Night and Lars could easily see the lone dark road Holzer and his team had ventured down hours before. Why the road was hidden Night couldn’t say-nor did he care. This was what he had come to expect after so many decades of fighting evil throughout the world. Evil had only one function on the earth according to Ingrid Night, and that was to be destroyed. There was no understanding quality to evil-only its death.

“Well, Jonathon.” Night sighed heavily, picking up a small medical bag. “I hope that you have some coffee waiting for me. I am awfully damn tired right now.”