Manchester House (6 page)

“What’s wrong?” Holzer asked, panic-stricken, looking all around the mansion, as if trying to desperately see what Sinclair had seen.

Sinclair, fighting the nervous vomit growing in his throat, looked up at the main staircase with his own eyes and without the aid of his camera.

There was nothing there.

* * *

Holzer slowly approached Sinclair, paying close attention towards the man’s emotional state. Something had shaken him up. Holzer cautiously looked up at the main staircase, seeing nothing of importance. At least nothing that would cause such a seasoned news reporter as Sinclair to sweat and fidget so.

Sinclair shook his head rather absently and gave his camera a disturbed look. “It was just a trick of the light, Doc.” He smiled up at Holzer. “Happens all the time, believe me.”

But by the look on the cameraman’s face, Holzer knew it to be something more. As much as Holzer wished to push the matter, he had the good taste not to.

“Nothing wrong here, Doc,” Sinclair stated, returning to his filming, placing the camera to his right eye. “Just a bit of the jitters. I’d kill for a cup of joe right now.”

“I have a thermos filled with some.” Holzer smiled with pride, realizing that he too would need some coffee before the night was out. “Perhaps later?”

Sinclair was trying to lose himself in the glory of the job, filming all that he could see. “Yeah, Doc. Whatever you say.”

As Sinclair panned the staircase, Holzer noticed him momentarily stop his filming, giving the top of the stairs a worried look. Holzer, following his cameraman’s example, paused, looking up at the stairs.

They were ordinary stairs. Nothing to brag about. It was quite obvious to Holzer that at one time these wooden stairs had been highly polished, finely crafted, and indeed prideful additions to a wonderful house. Now, however, they were as molded, forgotten, and water-damaged as the rest of the old dwelling. Still, there had been something. Something in the air. Something that seemed to grab at the most primal emotions deep within Holzer’s soul. Then, finally, there was another feeling. A feeling of having been watched. A feeling of not being alone.

Holzer filed the emotions away as the jitters of investigating an anticipated case.

The professor, realizing that he was alone, rushed into the mansion’s main hall, joining the others on his team.

Entering the main hall of the house, Holzer almost tripped over a mound of rotting newspapers as he noticed his team staring at something out of his line of sight. What he finally saw amazed him. Hanging from almost everywhere, huge plastic tarps held in place by wide lines of duct tape lined the entire molded and waterlogged surfaces of the home. A calm wind carried itself through the rooms, causing some of the plastic tarps to sway, giving Holzer and all an ethereal feeling.

“Whoa!” Sinclair started to joke. “Looks like Martha Stewart puked in here or something.”

There was a moment of pause.

“My police friend stated that the last owner was preparing to restore the place,” Holzer tried to explain.

“Went a little crazy with the plastic though, didn’t he, Doc?”

The team continued through the plastic tarps. In the air, Holzer and his team could just make out a thin layer of dust floating in front of them, almost playing with their senses, and looking like a veil of smoke. The whole sight gave the interior of the mansion an eerie feeling.

“What’s this stuff in the air, Doc?” Sinclair finally asked, placing his camera back to his eye, filming.

“Could be minute traces of ectoplasm,” Holzer stated. “You are filming all of this, are you not, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Is the Pope Catholic, Doc?”

Holzer started to grumble under his breath.

* * *

As Sinclair and Holzer continued to talk, Teresa Gonzalez started to use her mind to probe Manchester House. It took some time for her to clearly open up. Taking in a house was nothing like looking into the soul of a person. No, this was a subtle thing which even her parents could never understand. A house was a layered vortex, filled with the emotions and demons of her past owners. Like a vessel filled with an unknown liquid, not really poison or drinkable; one had to be very cautious if they chose to venture into its depths.

:What are you doing, little girl?:

She took off her gloves and started to place her hands against the walls, exploring her environment. A look of uneasiness came across her face. She started to shiver.

:Little whore! Stop and I might allow you to live. I am not one to be trifled with. I run this house now!:

Teresa had barely heard what both Sinclair and Holzer had been debating. She could sense that the house was aware. It knew of their presence inside her bowels and clearly did not want them there. Still, there was “another” there, never far from them, watching, waiting, and willing to do anything, even kill.

:Do not test me, child! You have been warned.:

Teresa shook her head violently.

“That’s not it, Professor,” Teresa blurted out, surprising everyone around her. The tone in her voice dripped with so many traumas and panic, it was unlike her to sound that way. “The plastic-the duct tape-wasn’t placed here for home improvement&”

Teresa removed her hands from the walls, trying to shut her psychic powers down. It was becoming too much for her to take in all at once.

“No,” she continued, shaking violently. “It was ordered here by something. Something more sinister-more self-absorbed. I’m sorry; I can’t explain why I feel this way.”

The team stopped, paying close attention to Teresa, who was clearly starting to show a great level of fear-almost traumatic in its own right.

“Teresa, are you all right?” Miranda asked, lovingly hugging the scared young woman. “Do you need a drink or something, love?”

Teresa shook her head.

“The kitchen’s this way, people,” Holzer ordered, looking over his shoulder, hoping that all with Teresa was okay. “Follow me.”

Teresa started putting her gloves back on hurriedly-in a panic-as if she did not wish to know anything more about what was happening in the main hall.

Manchester House’s kitchen awaited.

* * *

Holzer led everyone to the dark interior of the mansion’s kitchen. Although small, the room was surprisingly equipped with the best cooking utensils of their time. This was an above average kitchen, and strangely so.

“This is nice, Doc,” Sinclair stated, looking around with his camera.

“The only room to be successfully remodeled by the previous owners,” Holzer explained. “And, as I was informed by my police friend, the driest.”

Everyone let out an ironic laugh.

As they all entered the room, they started to hear a crunching sound at their feet. All were deeply impressed with the condition of the room. It was almost as if the room did not fit, or belong, with the wet rot that was going on outside. Sinclair taped everything with his camera, and the others were doing their best to track everything from their respective sciences.

Holzer set his equipment down, opening up his waterproof bag.

“Miranda, could you start by taking a few E.M.R. readings, please?”

“Right,” Miranda responded, reaching into her side bag which she had carried separately from the rest Sinclair had provided.

Miranda pulled out her E.M.R. reader. Calmly, she started to wave it across the room, its tiny beeping sound echoing throughout.

E.M.R. stood for Electro-Magnetic Radiation. This device tracked and detected untapped energy, believed by most parapsychologists to be the essence of ghosts. The display on the tiny black box was like that of any electronic detection devices. The display started to spike, causing the device to peak out.

“Dear God!” Miranda exclaimed in a gasp of surprise.

Then just as fast as the readings had started the display on the tiny device petered out-nothing.

Miranda’s face showed all that she was surprised at what her equipment had just done. As she moved, her friends could make out the previous crunching noises that they had heard before. This sound soon captured her own curiosity, and hearing that the sound was coming from her shoes, she took out a little flashlight to see what was on the floor making this noise.

“Okay, what the hell’s going on here?” Miranda asked, looking down at her feet. In her hand, she was still holding onto the EMR device. Again, the device started to click to life. “Oh my!” Miranda said, gasping with disgust.

On the kitchen floor, everyone could see a flood of dead rats-about thirty or more in all. The tiny bodies ran from freshly killed to long dead and molded to the floor. Sinclair, quite comically, gasped out in disgust-everyone that knew him knew that he hated rats.

“Holy hell!” Miranda blurted out, almost vomiting. “That’s rather disgusting.”

The entire group started to watch where they were stepping.

Holzer took out his own EMR reader in great anticipation and started to wave it around the room. All heard the familiar high-pitched whine coming from the hand-held machine. He, like Miranda, was surprised at what he was seeing on the machine’s indicator.

“There is evidence that the kitchen, for some reason, is a focal point in the home,” Holzer exclaimed, amused at his own findings. “Perhaps that is why the rats have chosen this place to die.”

Sinclair’s hands started to shake as he continued his filming. “I don’t know, Doc. Rats are really tough little guys. Takes more than a focal point to kill them.”

Holzer nodded his head in agreement. He noticed that Miranda was looking at Sinclair, who was too busy filming to see that she was staring at him intently. Her stare was not the stare of anger but secret admiration. Holzer had always suspected that something silent existed between Miranda and Sinclair; however, the latter had no idea of this fact. Noticing Holzer studying her, Miranda rather clumsily returned to her duties.

“Teresa,” Holzer said, placing his EMR detector into his back pocket. “Could you please do a reading of the kitchen to see what its importance is to this house?”

“Professor, I&” Teresa tried to explain, not really wanting to explore any further, at least not until she had a chance to recover from her first encounter.

“I know that you are tired, my dear,” Holzer accepted, placing a cautious hand in the air. “But could you please try?”

How could she refuse such an honest request? In moments such as this, when he really wanted to know the whole truth, Holzer reminded Teresa of a child wanting to know if the man at the foot of his Christmas tree was indeed Santa or his father.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” was all she could say.

“Good show!”

Teresa again took off her gloves.

* * *

All the eyes of the team stayed on Teresa as she once again spread her awareness into the very core of Manchester House. What would the house say about its kitchen? She was both curious and cautious.

Teresa found herself walking out of the kitchen for some unknown reason. She started to observe the room around her, totally allowing herself to get into the scenes evolving in her mind’s eye. At first, the woman was afraid-uneasiness crossed her face. Soon, however, she placed her hands against the outside of the swinging kitchen door.

“Easy now,” Miranda whispered.

The warning did not go unheard. Teresa was just too far into her trance to acknowledge it.

“She going to be okay, Doc?” Sinclair was heard saying.

“Just capital, Mr. Sinclair.”

Teresa continued.

:You do not want to know this, child. Do not go any further!:

Teresa’s eyes were forcing themselves shut, although she wanted to open them desperately. She was starting to read the room. A flash of discomfort hit her face and suddenly, as if being made aware of a terrible secret, blinked her eyes open, looking straight at Holzer. On her face was sheer terror.

Teresa’s mind seemed to travel back into the past, allowing her to see Manchester House as it used to be.

:Do not bother with these things! Get out while you can, child&:

* * *

Summer, 1982

Teresa could see the kitchen of Manchester House. It was bright and appeared to be cleaned up. Music was playing in the background, which could be used to date the time she was reading. She could hear two people laughing. Two people not of her own group. Two people from the mansion’s past.

Kyle and Cindy Peters.

Manchester House was supposed to be their perfect little wedding nest. The home was cheap, it was a great “fixer-upper”, and it was away from people. That was what they both wanted. When Kyle and Cindy Peters had decided to buy the house, they were stunned to see the Atchison City Council get involved. Hell! Their real estate agent was on the council.

“What do you plan to do with the house?”

“Are you sure you want to buy this one?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

All the questions started out as too much.

Then with buying the mansion and forking over so much money just to add electric, water, and gas, Kyle at least could understand the caution, if not the curiosity. The project at hand was enough to overwhelm him, but his new bride loved the place. She saw potential in the mansion’s rotted walls. This was where she envisioned her children growing up. Her destiny. His legacy.

“I’ve always heard about this place, Kyle,” Cindy had said, trotting around in the main hall as the real estate agent called his main office on his cell phone. “It’s a magical place. Do you know there are people who fear this house? That’s ridiculous.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

The house cleared that day. No red tape. It was the fastest deal Kyle had ever made. And being a stockbroker he knew.

They moved in, made love, and prepared to build their life together.

Cindy had trouble sleeping.

* * *

Both Kyle and Cindy entered the kitchen. They were laughing and locked in a loving embrace. Both were exploring and kissing. Giggling, they both fell to the floor. On top of her husband, Cindy kissed him, feeling his arousal toward her actions. Both, for the moment, were completely content.