Manchester House (3 page)

“Go away!” Leslie cried, throwing a book at the screen in desperation.

The Shape opened its eyes, glaring down at her. The eyes were filled with a hatred and level of disgust that tore at the heart of Leslie’s being. The eyes moved as she moved, and were aware of her actions.

The breathing intensified.

Leslie grabbed all her books and fled the room.

“What’s her problem?” a student blurted out, catching Holzer by surprise.

Holzer was absently walking down one of the passageways of the college, not paying attention to where he was going. He had been putting his papers in order. Behind him, he saw a flock of students. All were in a rush, hoping to borrow a moment of his time.

Reacting towards the student’s statement, Holzer looked up in curiosity.

Holzer saw Leslie Guthrie darting across the campus parking lot, heading for what he presumed was her car. Holzer could see that the poor woman was obviously disturbed about something. He just couldn’t bring himself to believe that her dire condition was about him.

“Miss Guthrie has details in her study practices which require her to behave in rather unorthodox ways,” Holzer finally brought himself to say, just below a whisper. “Well, I’m off to Manchester House.”

“Professor, may I ask a question?”

“Yes, of course.” Holzer noticed a young African-American woman looking up at him from rimmed glasses. They made her look older than her years. The woman was uneasy, but curious.

“It’s great that we are studying this case with you, sir, but&”

“But what?”

“How did you obtain such a fantastic coup?”

The most important question. One that Holzer would bring himself to ask over and over again months, indeed years, later.

In Holzer’s eyes, there was a great uneasiness.

* * *

Two weeks earlier&

Manchester House had claimed another life.

Atchison, Kansas was a quiet small town filled with the conservative values of Middle America. The kind of town, people, and way of life depicted by Norman Rockwell on Saturday Evening Post magazine covers. At one time, this town had been the seat of western commerce, the home of a famous aviator, and the birthplace of an American industry business power. Now the town was ideal for living one’s life in and escaping the terrors of the big cities. Crime was an event that happened but sparingly, and always to someone you did not know.

That was until Manchester House decided to take matters into its own accursed hands-metaphorically.

Lt. Albert Wells entered the rotted out house for what had to be the ninth time. And each time he entered, he knew it was to pick up another body. Having served the city of Atchison for over thirty years, he’d only had to look at eleven bodies-and nine were from this damned mansion. Settling in, he could hear the commotion of people moving about and noticed that everyone was working in the middle of a crime scene. Wells took notice of a body bag lying on the floor of the mansion’s main hall.

“Why did I have to eat a big breakfast this morning?” Wells grumbled, trying his best to control his urge to throw up.

Wells knelt down toward the body bag, silently asking to see the remains of Manchester House’s latest victim. The remains of Jean Mallia flashed quickly into the Atchison detective’s eyes. He couldn’t help it. Wells puked out his breakfast.

“You okay, Lieutenant?” a patrolman asked, handing Wells a handkerchief.

“Got a breath mint, son?” was all Wells could bring himself to say as he wiped his mouth.

Jean Mallia was the town crazy. Always a pain in the ass, and always up in your face. But, all in all, Wells like him. Nervous breakdowns and drug addiction aside, the detective thought Mallia a likable man.

Mallia was a skeleton of a man and appeared to have been dead for months. The stench alone, rising from the thick black plastic bag, was enough to let Wells know this. The corpse appeared to Wells to be that of a dried-out victim, weighing no more than seventy pounds. It was as if all life had been slowly removed from this man, making him look the part of a World War II concentration camp survivor-only this man did not survive.

“What happened to this man?” Wells asked, his voice dripping with fearful curiosity.

Flashbulbs clicked and popped wildly away as several police photographers took pictures of Mallia’s remains. Wells, from the corner of his eye, only saw flashes of the corpse, wanting not to tempt fate with a second round of heaving.

Lt. Wells stood over the body bag, finally bringing himself to look down at the body.

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?” a patrolman asked.

“I knew this man,” Wells said to finally break the silence. “I saw him just two days ago.”

There was an awkward pause. The patrolman started to nervously tap his pencil on his notebook pad. “Then you must have known how sick he was.”

“Sick?” Wells barked. “Hell, no, he wasn’t sick. The man was as healthy as you or I. He was a veteran, for Christ’s sake! I arrested him more times than my fair share. He was a hulk of a man. He enjoyed life.”

The patrolman looked down at the body and took in its present state of decay. He started to take notes, not wanting Wells to see the deep look of disbelief that clearly had flashed upon his face.

“Don’t get me wrong here, son,” Wells tried to explain. “I knew him from my Army days. He’s a veteran of the First Gulf War, for Christ’s sake! That’s what turned him into a nut.” Wells looked down at Mallia’s body, pondering. “Someone who could clearly take care of himself.”

The patrolman stopped writing. “Then how did he&”

“I don’t know,” Wells interrupted, angry. “But I will find out.”

Both men moved to the main hall of the mansion. Like most mansions built in the late nineteenth century, a main hall connected all major rooms of activity. The entire main hall ran the length of the house and was, in its tired dilapidated state, nothing more than a tunnel of plaster and rot. Wells could just make out the original red velvet wallpaper underneath the mold. The air was filled with the stench of decay; several bodies of dead rats littered the floor. What Mallia saw in this house simply was beyond the policeman’s logic.

Wells and the patrolman noticed the hanging plastic tarps.

There were at least half a dozen, and they were starting to run the entire length of the hall. Wells surmised that Mallia had plastered the tarps on the walls using common duct tape. He shook his head, laughing silently. Sloppy.

“Looks like he was getting ready to paint or something.”

Wells took a cigarette from his coat jacket and lit it, walking through the tunnel of plastic. He turned away from Mallia as the body bag was zipped back up and the body was removed from the home.

“Something,” Wells absently repeated, looking up at the hanging sheets of plastic. He shook his head with great wonderment. “Did you know that this place used to be the grandest house in all of Atchison?”

“You don’t say.”

“Terrible how things go to waste.”

As Wells and the patrolman started to walk away from the crime scene, Wells noticed a fellow detective approaching. Anderson was his name. Nice guy. Single. Had a problem getting a lady because of perpetual bad breath. A good and honest man who did his job well. He noticed that the advancing detective was holding a book of some kind.

“Anderson?” Wells inquired, squinting his eyes, adjusting them to the darkness ahead of him. The mansion had terrible lighting, even in the daytime. “What have you got there?”

Anderson stepped out of the dark and into the faint light the sun was giving off from a nearby skylight. “Found a book in the victim’s belongings. Looks like a diary or some such thing.”

“Journal,” Wells corrected.

“Huh?”

“Only virgin prom queens looking to get laid by Prince Charming write in diaries, Anderson.” Wells had to control his facial features. Anderson was standing about seven feet from him, but he could already smell the stench coming from the young man’s green teeth. It was amazing what a calcium deficiency could do to one’s teeth. “Let me see that thing.”

“Just have it back on my desk by morning.” Anderson turned up his collar and made a body motion that he was ready to leave. “I gotta go.”

“See you, then.”

Wells started to fumble through the journal. It appeared that Mallia was also a writer of sorts. His subject: ManchesterHouse.

“Looks like our victim had a hobby.”

“What?” the patrolman asked.

“This house.” Wells motioned around the hall. “It appears that Mallia was trying to figure out a mystery.”

“Mystery?”

“That’s what it says here.” Wells closed the book. “I’ll let you know.”

The patrolman continued with his notes as Wells walked away from him, wanting to explore the house.

“Wells!” someone shouted.

The detective turned to see his captain glaring down at him from the stairs above. It was obvious that his superior had been standing there for some time and had observed Anderson handing him the victim’s journal. The only thing that Wells couldn’t understand was why his captain was even there. Sure, murders were rare in Atchison, but not when it came to Manchester House. Hell, this was old hat! Every rookie was warned from day one about this damn place. Why would the captain even waste his time?

“Wells, what have you got there?”

“The victim’s journal, sir.” Wells held it up for the captain to see.

Something was wrong. Did Wells see fear in the captain’s eyes?

“Something bothering you, Wells?” the captain finally asked.

“Captain, I can’t seem to bring all the pieces together on this case.” Wells tried to explain. He placed the journal under his right arm. “Things just do not add up.”

“What? This case? Manchester House?” The captain gave the house a look of disgust and challenge. It was obvious that in his time he’d had to pick up his share of bodies from inside these walls. Wells could see that the old man was tired of the paperwork. Police budget was tight as it was. “Cripes! We can’t afford all of this. We are behind enough on our caseload as it is. Just close it up. Suicide or some such thing. I’ll back you up on it.”

Wells let out a surprised laugh, controlling it just in time. Instead he exhaled, coughing. The subtle action caught his captain’s attention.

“Something bothering you, Wells?”

The detective squirmed, awkward.

“Wells?” the captain repeated, demanding an answer.

“Close it up?” Wells said, “Captain, I&”

“Manchester House has just claimed another,” the captain blurted out. He gave the house a hard look of disdain. “I don’t know why they just do not tear this damn place down.”

The captain rushed down the stairs and headed for the front doors. He never looked Wells in the eye. Wells was doing all that he could to keep the look of astonishment off his face. The captain had always been a man of great integrity. Never was he known for faking a report. Still, here at the scene of a murder, the captain was telling Wells to lie on the cause of death just to ease the caseload.

As quick as he could, the captain left. Wells was alone.

“What the hell was that all about?” he finally asked himself.

Wells continued his trek through the house, venturing toward the basement door. He’d dragged several bodies out of this house from the basement. Shaking off a cold shiver, he started to twist the doorknob.

The knob would not budge. The door was locked.

“Anyone check the basement?” Wells shouted.

“Locked,” someone answered.

“Hmm…”

He pulled hard at the door, hoping that it would open with brute strength. Nothing happened. The door was soundly locked.

The sound of rustling plastic could be heard on the other side of the basement door. Someone, by the sound of it, was moving around down in the basement. Or that was what Wells thought he heard.

Wells placed his ear to the door, concentrating.

The detective could hear a faint scratching sound as if someone, although very weak, was scratching the other side of the door. Of this Wells was certain. He remembered one case-the victim fell down the steps, breaking both legs. Alone, the victim had climbed up the staircase and had started scratching away at the door, and had done so until he died. When discovered, Wells found fingernails embedded on the other side of the door. And dear God! The smell of rot. The man was horrid-looking.

Placing his hand to his mouth, the detective moved away from the door.

* * *

Back in his office, with only a few other police officers straggling behind him, Wells started to work on his case file. It was hard for him to follow his captain’s orders, but what was he to do? He was too damn old to look for another job and too set in his ways to start kissing ass if he did. The only alternative was to use an outsider.

Wells picked up his phone, dialing a phone number given to him by his daughter. He remembered what she had told him. “Dad, if ever you come across anything abnormal, or anything that needs explaining outside of normal science, give this man a call.”

Wells studied the business card his daughter had given to him. He’d had it for five years, thinking that he would never have to use it. Now, he was in a position where he had to, for Mallia’s sake.

Professor Jonathon L. Holzer, Ph.D.

Department of Parapsychology

The S.O.U.R.C.E. Institute, Ltd.

1-888-4-SOURCE

Wells dialed the number.

The phone rang at least twelve times before someone picked it up on the other end.

“Hello?” a tired voice answered.

“Professor Holzer?” Wells waited, momentarily allowing the silence to ring out. It was always an awkward instance, when a stranger awoke another in the middle of the night. “You probably do not remember me. My name’s Albert Wells. My daughter took a class of yours&”

Suddenly there was a great presence of excited energy on the other end of the phone. “Yes, of course!” Holzer exclaimed, fully awake now. “What can I do for you? If memory serves; you are a police detective&correct?”

Wells had to smile with admiration. His daughter was right. Holzer was a walking steel trap-he never forgot a name.