Manchester House (19 page)

Manchester House had returned to her normal time and space.

The mysterious light disappeared as fast as it appeared, causing the house to look once more the isolated island of evil that it had been known to be.

Only those inside the house knew differently.

* * *

Holzer and his crew had been busy setting up an infrared sensor device around the room they and Night had been occupying, hoping to catch some scientific fact which seemed to support the fantastic phenomena they had been witness to. Teresa had tried to probe the walls of the house, but to no avail. Again, Night tried to explain to the group of scientists that their science would not work in the dimension they had visited. He knew. He had tried the art of science several times within the course of his life.

Still, they tried.

“I’m getting nothing from the infrared, Professor,” Miranda stated, huffing out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t understand. I personally checked this device before we packed it in the car.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” Teresa said as she tried to comfort Miranda. “I’m getting nothing myself.”

“Looks like we have to&” Holzer began.

The thunderous opening of the mansion’s front door interrupted all. Shooting into and onto the wet floor were both Sinclair and Lars.

“What the hell?” Holzer concluded, his eyes bugging out over his glasses in surprise. “Sinclair? Is that you?”

Opening his mouth, exhausted and shaking from either fright or the cold, Sinclair started coughing out huge amounts of mud and water. He couldn’t talk. And in his exhaustion his eyes soon rolled white. He collapsed on the spot.

Lars on the other hand got up, brushed leaves from his long blond hair, and meekly joined Ingrid Night at his side, waiting for his master to leave the blessed circle. There was a tension growing between both servant and master, fearing the worst.

Holzer gawked on in surprise.

No one asked why Sinclair was covered from head to toe with wet mud.

* * *

Ingrid Night left the blessed circle grinning like a banshee. He looked out the window, realizing that the return of his friend and Mr. Sinclair had triggered a reaction, causing Manchester House to return back to the world of the normal.

All was well.

“Are we out of it, Ingrid?”

Night looked down at Holzer. “For now.”

Miranda had had enough. Thundering toward Night, her features seemed to explode with rage. “I demand to know what’s going on here, sir?”

“Who are you?” Night asked calmly.

“Doctor Miranda Wingate.”

“Your purpose?”

“I’m a pathologist and archeologist,” Miranda explained.

“Well, until I find a mummy who has been killed with a shotgun, please leave me alone.”

Night walked away from the woman, ignoring the look of dismay he had placed on her face. He seemed not to care.

“Holy shit!” Sinclair said, darting back to life, shaking the layers of mud off his face.

Night, who had just sat down by the team member’s scientific equipment, looked up from his cloak, grinning ear to ear. He had warned the cameraman of what would happen. “You are not far from the truth, Mr. Sinclair.”

Sinclair looked up at Night, exhausted.

“All evil is something once holy that has fallen into shit.”

“Ingrid,” Holzer tiredly challenged.

Lars broke the scene by providing Night with a tiny china cup filled with hot tea. Taking the beverage, Night silently thanked his friend, sipping the beverage with the greatest of joy.

“That is what we are facing here, Jonathon,” Night said, sipping his tea. He burned his tongue, giving the cup a hard glance. “This shit, however, remembers the joys of being holy. That’s what gives it a bad attitude.”

“In what way, Ingrid?” Holzer soon joined his friend and once more Lars provided yet another cup of hot tea from thin air. The professor accepted the tea.

Both sat sipping silently. Outside, it began to rain yet again.

“The spirit in question, Jonathon, this little girl shape is angry at the world. Not only is she angry at the fact that she is dead. This, understandably, would ruin anyone’s plans. She is angry because she cannot grow any older.”

“But,” Holzer began, holding back the urge to laugh, “she’s dead. She’s not going to get any older. That’s the nature of the beast, Ingrid. Once you’re gone, you’re gone.”

“True.” Night finished his tea. “However, you are wrong. The spirit can grow old, if given the chance.”

“All right, I’ll accept that for now,” Holzer said. “But what’s the spirit’s motivation? What’s causing the anger?”

“Puberty.”

Holzer blinked his eyes dryly. “Excuse me?”

“She cannot reach puberty.”

“Ah,” Holzer said, motioning Lars to refill his cup. “Ingrid, she’s dead.”

“And her ghost cannot reach womanhood. This is what she wants more than eternity itself. She cannot reach that goal. She blames this house. She blames this town. She blames us.”

“Us?”

“We are here, are we not?”

“I get that,” Holzer said, his voice turning irritated. “I’m still having trouble with this puberty thing. I’ve studied hundreds of ghosts, but never one that was pissed because it couldn’t get its groove on.”

Night, surprised, could only laugh at what he was hearing.

Holzer stared back at his friend with eyes rapidly blinking.

“Do not hate yourself so, Jonathon,” Night said, leaning forward. “The spirit world is open to many beliefs. I have only given you mine. But I tell you now, this little girl is a dangerous bitch. Watch her!” Night paused, taking yet another cup of tea from Lars.

Holzer looked at Lars. “Where does he come up with half this stuff, Ingrid?”

“I don’t know,” Night said, sipping his tea.

Holzer looked on, watching his friend sip at his tea, thinking. Thinking about the possibility of a spirit aging on its own. This was an aspect of the afterlife that he never considered. Were not most superstitions about the other world generally the same? Was it not the center of belief that what one could not achieve in this life would be promised to them in the other? What would a little girl want? She’d want to grow up and be a woman. She’d want to know love. She’d want a man. She’d want children of her own one day.

Perhaps Night was right on this one.

While Holzer was giving it all serious consideration, Lars produced yet another cup of tea for him to sip. So, sitting alone on old orange crates, Night and Holzer considered the very nature of death.

The others&they were lucky enough to keep their wits about them.

* * *

Miranda patted down Sinclair’s forehead with a wet paper towel while he rested his eyes. The man had literally been through hell and back. She had so many questions for him, but knew that it would do no good. Sinclair, although an upbeat guy, took himself way too seriously. His ego would sooner or later get in the way of any scientific information or facts. Still, she smiled, noticing that the cameraman was in R.E.M. sleep-what was he dreaming? She had to wonder.

“You,” Night said.

Miranda looked up, surprised at the harsh voice directed at her. “Yes?”

“You had stated that you were involved with law enforcement?”

“Pardon?”

“I get a cop vibe from you, madam,” Night said, surveying her up and down. “Are you a cop?”

“I was. Now I’m a member of SOURCE. On the side, however, I am also an archeologist.”

“But not a cop?”

“I worked as a pathologist&once.”

Both Holzer and Miranda made brief eye contact. Night noticed this. There was a secret there, but one Night knew would be beyond him at the moment. He curbed his curiosity.

“Not Scotland Yard?”

“No,” Miranda stated, stopping her administering to Sinclair’s forehead. “With the RCMP, Homicide Division, Edmonton, Alberta.”

“Canada!” Night huffed. “I have worked there, you know.”

“Yes?”

“Clean,” Night said. “Very clean.”

Lars stood outside the little circle of people gathered around the lantern that was lit, doing his best not to participate. Night noticed the uneasy look of concern Miranda was giving the man.

“You care for his comfort, do you not?” Night said, motioning toward Lars.

“I do not understand why he distances himself from everyone,” Miranda explained uneasy. “We are all equals here. That’s all I meant.”

Night shook his head solemnly. “And you do not like the servant-master relationship you are seeing then?”

“No, sir,” Miranda stated, her eyes filling with fire, “I do not.”

Night laughed, handing an empty teacup back to Lars, who was there instantly to remove the dish. Miranda noticed a kind glance from Lars, who seemed to be interested in what she was saying.

“Do not worry yourself so, young lady. Although your sense of camaraderie is quite admirable, Lars&well, he’s a bit of a loner. Like me, young lady, he is only here to fight evil.”

“Evil can be many things, Mr. Night,” Miranda stated, an eyebrow arched. “Not just the Devil. Evil can be going forward half-cocked, destroying without understanding one’s actions.”

Night stared at the young woman hard. “You are right.”

“Will Sinclair be okay?” Teresa asked, sipping on her cup of tea.

“You are the child with the inner eye, are you not?” Night pondered. He studied Teresa as a scientist would a bug under a microscope. “You do not look old enough to tie your shoes.”

“Teresa is one of the most powerful psychics I have ever encountered,” Holzer added.

Night looked at his friend with amazement. “I will take your word for it, Jonathon.”

“Mr. Night?” Teresa asked.

“Yes, my dear?”

“What is wrong with this house?”

Night gave the question some thought. “Well, where to begin?”

“The beginning,” Holzer said.

“Thank you, Jonathon.” Night paused, looking at Teresa and Miranda with great kindness. “This house has the unfortunate happenstance of standing between four huge ley lines which are connected with the Lancelot-Pool Line.”

“The what?” Teresa asked.

“The Lancelot-Pool Line. This line was discovered in the late eighteen-nineties. The whole world seems to be connected through it. It is a line of incredible power. Tribes all over the world worship it in one way or another.”

“Ridiculous,[” Miranda huffed.

“Not so ridiculous, Miss Wingate,” Night challenged. “Ever hear of Moses parting the Red Sea?”

“Yes.”

“The Lancelot-Pool Line passes right through that part of the world. Quite near the site where most biblical scholars say the incident took place. Area 51, that great UFO mecca in the American West, lies right on top of it.” Night paused. “The line ends here in Atchison, Kansas.”

“Where does it begin?”

Both Holzer and Night looked at each other. Their eyes explained the finality of Night’s answer. “No one knows where the line begins. It is just too saturated across the globe, following no apparent pattern.”

“It has been known to change with the ages,” Holzer concluded.

“Exactly, my old friend.” Night huffed, admiring Holzer’s intelligence.

There was a long moment of pause.

Holzer broke the silence.

“Ingrid.”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Would I not do otherwise, friend?” Night looked up at Holzer with a fatherly pride, almost teary-eyed. “In any case, Jonathon, you were correct. There is paranormal activity here within these tortured walls. Not unlike a case I had back during the Korean War. That one was a pain! Whoa!”

Sinclair opened his eyes, waking up.

“Ah!” Night chuckled. “Foolish young man, listen to me next time. If it were not for Lars here, you would be waltzing around for all eternity with the other lost souls claimed by this house.”

“What can I say,” Sinclair said, rubbing the base of his neck. He paused only long enough to take a cup of tea from Lars. “I was wrong.”

“Then you are not such a fool after all.” Night laughed. “It is a brave man who can admit such a thing in front of his closest friends.”

Sinclair wanted to say something, but much to his credit he did not. Instead, he just rubbed his head and accepted another cup of hot tea from Lars, who was more than happy to oblige.

“You should consider yourself a lucky man anyway, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Why, may I ask?”

Night pointed toward his silent servant with great excitement. “Lars likes you! That does not come easy for him.”

Lars, emotionless, started rummaging through Night’s personal objects. He glanced up at Sinclair, seeming to sense that the cameraman was looking at him. Lars paused long enough to return a respectful nod in Sinclair’s general direction.

Sinclair, having nothing better to do, returned the gesture with a wave of his hand.

While this was happening, Teresa was going over her own performance during all of this, and was not pleased at the way she had been handling herself. She wasn’t up to par, and that irritated her. It was time that she earned her keep and pulled her own weight on the team.

“Mr. Night?” Teresa asked, standing up. She moved toward him, making the old man look up at her. She admired his eyes, and could have sworn that she saw them turn at least six different colors before they finally relaxed on her with a cool grey.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Is it now possible for me to use my sight?”

Night gave the question some thought, pulling out an old pocket watch, winding it. Teresa almost gasped in surprise, noticing an old Nazi Eagle across the front cover of the tiny golden object.

“Do you like my watch, little girl?”

“Oh!” Teresa looked away in honest embarrassment. “I do apologize for staring. I just noticed&”

Night sharply closed the pocket watch’s cover, cutting off the psychic’s words. He gave the young black woman a sharp but heavily controlled look of anger. Somewhere in that anger, however, was a huge level of personal disgust fighting to float to the top.

“The watch was my father’s.” Night paused, longing to change the subject. “I see no reason why you should not be allowed to use your inner eye. The evil is quite busy trying to break the spells I have laid, and we have the time.”