Manchester House (17 page)

“What’s with the Lone Ranger there?” Sinclair asked, pointing a tired finger toward Ingrid Night.

“Sinclair!” Holzer barked. “Mind your readings. Shout out if they approach the danger zone.”

“Is the danger zone the white mark you painted on the main meter, Doc?”

Holzer turned, looking at the cameraman. “Yes.”

“Then we’re way past worrying.”

Holzer swallowed hard. He turned on his tape recorder. “SOURCE team here at Manchester House on October thirtieth at or around two in the morning. Team has been victim of paranormal activity equaled by no records on file. Subject haunt appears to be a teen-aged girl having both incredible powers and strength and a presence which causes one to pause. Who or what she was in life remains a mystery. This must be understood should haunt be listed in files by subject matter. All laws of known science seem to be in question in the structure’s basement. Note: Must study mansion’s design to see if this has something to do with the displacement phenomena experienced earlier tonight.”

Holzer turned off his tape recorder and instinctively looked up at Night.

Night, it appeared, had heard all that Holzer had said and was doing his best not to smile. Holzer knew that smile-Night was agreeing with his actions.

Night started to slowly pour another vial of blessed oil into the weapon he had been holding. Whatever the weapon was, for it was definitely something Holzer could not recognize, it appeared to be designed to shoot the oil like a squirt gun.

Night took slow aim at a nearby wall.

“Ingrid, what are you doing?” Holzer asked, his voice filling with dread.

“My version of understanding evil.”

“Please, don’t.”

Night, for a moment, looked at Holzer from the corner of his eye. While never losing his target or his aim, he coldly smiled and allowed himself to laugh.

Night pulled the trigger.

Lars, reacting the way a combat soldier would to a tossed grenade, hit the floor, landing in a prone position. Motionless.

Holzer turned to his team members, panic on his face.

“Okay, everyone hit the ground. Things will be getting pretty hairy here in a minute.”

“Like they aren’t right now, Doc?” Sinclair said, turning off all their equipment. “I wish that I had my camera right now.”

“So do I, Mr. Sinclair,” Holzer agreed. “So do I.”

All the team members huddled near the rotted out sofa that Holzer had first seen when he had introduced Manchester House back in his classroom via the Webcam. God! That seemed like a million years ago.

A slight spring-activated click was heard coming from Night’s weapon. Holzer studied the thing. It did closely resemble a crossbow.

From the crossbow, the blessed oil created a sort of liquid arrow, hitting the wall across the main hall near the entrance to the kitchen. Holzer was impressed with the fact that Night had guessed that the kitchen was a main focal point of the house.

As the liquid arrow flew across the room, Night handed the weapon back to Lars, who unfolded it, disassembled the weapon into three pieces, and placed it back into Night’s conjure kit. And all this was done before the arrow had hit its mark. Both Lars and Night worked together like a well-oiled machine.

Holzer almost envied the way the two were so close. He had been trying for years to anticipate what the dark lone figure that was Ingrid Night would do next. To Holzer, Night was a mystery. To Lars, he was as easy to read as the Sunday morning funny papers.

The liquid arrow hit the wall near the kitchen with a thunderous force, splashing onto the wall, scattering in a butterfly effect across the whole of the target. After a few seconds the oil started to bubble, burn, and sink into the ancient plaster. The house started to react, creaking and roaring with fury. The oil was having the same effect on the body of the house as acid would have on living flesh.

Night remained in his circle, not a bit surprised. Again he picked up his leather-bound book, reading from it.

“What the hell was that stuff he shot onto the wall?” Sinclair asked, peeking up over the back of the sofa.

“It sure as hell wasn’t grape juice,” Holzer said, totally surprised at what he was seeing.

The hole in the wall caused by the liquid arrow had grown. Chunks of plaster started to fall, hitting the floor. The effects of the weapon appeared not to be stopping. It was as if the oil was trying to burn out all the accumulated evil that Manchester House had managed to store up over the years and the house didn’t like it. Not at all.

Night grumbled, clearing his throat. “I come from the night,” Night challenged, his voice rising with each passing moment. Holzer noticed that the man’s hands were starting to shake. Was Night becoming frightened? “A warrior seeking answers. The force knows me for what I am. The moment approaches. The evil attacks. It knows that I am here!”

While this was happening, Holzer noticed that Lars was taking objects out of Night’s conjure kit. He tried to see what they were, but couldn’t make them out. The tiny little man placed odd stones, arranged in a pattern unknown to the professor, at Night’s feet. Upon completing this arrangement of stones, Lars soon joined his master by his side.

The house turned remarkably calm again. Only the sounds of the team and the bubbling of the nearby wall were heard.

“What the hell is he doing?” Holzer asked. Under his breath, there was a wave of uncertainty that did not suit him.

“EMR readings are off the chart again!” Teresa stated, waving the tiny device in the air.

“Can’t seem to get the Negative Ion Detector to work, Professor Holzer,” Miranda stated, hitting the tiny black device with the palm of her hands.

All Holzer could do was wait for Ingrid Night to conclude the form of investigation he was doing. Only then would the college professor get the answers he needed from his mysterious friend.

* * *

Night closed his eyes, sensing the house around him. Deep inside his soul, he feared that the house was studying him, trying to discover a weakness. Something that it could use to deceive him, make him sloppy. Night knew that the house would have a long time to study him and hoped that he found the answer to its weakness before the house could destroy him. It was very capable of doing so. Of that Night had no doubt.

Looking up at the oil he had shot out of his gun, Ingrid Night noticed that it was glowing a bright green. The weapon was about to ignite.

Night covered himself and Lars with his thick cloak. He knew that he would have use of it sooner or later. Night turned his attention to Holzer, who was surprised by his sudden crouching movements. “You better take cover, Jonathon. It awakens.”

The team had little time to react.

* * *

The basement door of the mansion suddenly burst open, and coming from the blast Holzer noticed that the house was filling with hurricane-like winds. The walls began to peel, cracking almost to the point of collapse. Lightning sparked the night’s darkness and a roar unknown to human ears could be heard bellowing from the darkness. Holzer had only known such a roar once before-and it was during a case that had almost killed him twenty years ago. Every fiber in the professor’s body gave him the impression that he and his team were about to die.

Then something mysterious happened.

Nothing.

“Holy shit, Doc!” Sinclair barked, coughing dry leaves out of his mouth. “What was all of that?”

“Incredible,” Miranda said.

“Things appear&different, Professor Holzer,” Teresa said.

“What do you mean, Teresa?” Holzer said, brushing dirt off his jacket.

The psychic looked around the house, trying to shake off what she was feeling. She couldn’t seem to put into words the images that were suddenly flashing through her mind. All she could do was look out the windows, pointing at what she was seeing.

“Dear God!” Teresa softly said.

Holzer looked out the mansion’s window. All he believed, all he knew, vanished in an instant.

The outside of the mansion was no longer what the team could call Atchison, Kansas. Swirls of purple clouds and dark images of death could be seen swimming through the air. This was not the world of the living. This was not the human world at all. It was as if Manchester House had been picked up by some powerful hand and tossed into another dimension.

The evil was now in control.

Holzer, almost in a panic, dropped his EMR detector on the floor and thundered over to where Night was standing, glaring at him in a controlled rage.

Night placed his hand out, warning silently: Be careful where you stand.

Holzer stayed away from the charmed circle of blessed oil.

“Ingrid,” Holzer fumed, clearing his throat nervously. “What in the hell have you done here?”

“I have taken us to where the beast lives, Jonathon.” Night dryly smiled. “This should be of great importance to you.”

“In what way?”

“This is where all Manchester House’s victims go before they die,” Night explained, grandly pointing to the alien worlds buzzing by the house’s windows. “This is the true face of the evil behind this house and, I dare say, the entire town.”

“Town?”

“Did you not know, my friend?” Night asked, “The entire town of Atchison sits in the middle of the biggest damn ley line I have ever encountered.”

Holzer, totally taken by surprise, said nothing. He only blinked his eyes several times, staring up at Night mutely.

“The main reason this land has any source of power is the vortex in which it is set, my friend.” Night chuckled. “As a soul dies, it is free to leave the earth, to whatever promise of a better life-if there is one-that it prefers. Here, because of the vortex, when a soul dies it is forced to remain. Here. In this house. On this land. Forever in torment.” Night pointed to the spiritual world attacking the outside of the house.

Amazed, Holzer peered out the window.

The grounds and identifying lines of the mansion’s property looked the same to Holzer. All the trees, the road up to the house, and even the trash left behind by people unknown all looked the same. Only the sky appeared different. Purple. Flowing with ectoplasm. In this purple mist, one could clearly see the spirits of the departed souls that had ventured on these lands long ago. Screaming children, mothers and fathers. Animals. Men. Women. Whites. Blacks. Indians. All could be seen.

“Incredible,” Holzer said, his voice almost a whisper. “Sinclair, I wish your camera was working.”

“It would do no good, Jonathon,” Night explained. “They would not appear on the film. Not in this world.”

“Figures.” Holzer huffed. “You know that I’m against all of this.”

“Yes. I know.”

Holzer walked away from the window, allowing the other members of his team to observe what he had just seen. They were all on the verge of panicking. Especially Sinclair, who could not bring himself to believe all of this.

“This is nuts, Doc. You don’t really believe that this guy’s made us all land in the Twilight Zone? Do you?”

Everyone remained silent.

“You guys are buying all of this!” Sinclair shouted, not believing any of it.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Night insisted, “this is as real as it gets. Do not laugh at the gods. They might be listening.”

“Yeah?” Sinclair challenged. “Fuck you!”

Night laughed. “You misunderstand me, my friend. Yes. We are friends here. I do not like you, Mr. Sinclair, but I am your friend. That is the truth.”

“Oh, someone keep me from kicking this guy’s ass!” Sinclair huffed, stepping forward toward Night.

Ingrid Night only smiled, not impressed at all.

Before Sinclair could reach Night, Lars stepped in front of the cameraman, blocking his way. Sinclair, seeing the man standing in front of him, shorter, leaner, and indeed weaker, fumbled with his uncertainty.

Lars silently looked up at Sinclair, challenging.

“Shut up!” was all Sinclair could say.

Night, surprised at what Sinclair had told his deaf mute friend, raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Now that’s funny.”

Sinclair huffed away, joining the two women of Holzer’s group.

Night would have laughed if his eyes hadn’t met Holzer’s again. Like a disapproving father, the college professor looked on.

“You have always been a pain in my ass. Do you know that?”

“We are the same in our passions, Jonathon.”

“You always seem to get the SOURCE team you are assigned to in deep trouble,” Holzer stated. “Why is that?”

“Me?” Night’s face flashed with honest surprise. “What did I ever do?”

“SOURCE Team Fifteen.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.”

Before Holzer or Night could go any further with their conversation, a sudden and violent shaking of the house interrupted them both. All were surprised to hear a beast-like roar echoing up from the mansion’s basement as the house started to change at first by degrees and then later far beyond what they were used to in the real world.

“Professor, what’s happening here?” Teresa’s voice sounded pained. She kept rubbing the side of her head, wishing to stop a sudden throbbing that was occurring at her temples. Perhaps this dimension was too much for those of the psychic arts? Holzer had to wonder.

Manchester House started to become very bright. The walls seemed to be growing anew. They all seemed to lose their age, mold, and water damage. The house took on a new lease, appearing much the way it had when it was first built. It was beautiful. Its beauty took even Holzer by surprise.

“Don’t move, Jonathon,” Night warned, placing a gentle yet firm hand on his friend. “I do not wish to lose you this night.”

Holzer took what Night had said seriously. “Is there danger of me moving?”

“More than you know.”

From the corner of his eye, Holzer saw Night’s face look around the house. Holzer prided himself on the knowledge he had obtained through the years working with this man. He even thought that having a doctorate in parapsychology would be enough to match wits with Night. However, like most schoolboys, Holzer learned that there were certain things that one could never learn in school. And by reading Night’s face, Holzer could easily see that his friend was no stranger to what they were going through.