Manchester House (20 page)

“How long?”

“Believe me, you will know when we have run out of time.” Night moved closer to the light of the lantern. “In any case, what is your plan?”

“I wish to hold a séance.”

“A séance?” Night’s brows darted up with surprise. “Why?”

“I am a medium as well.” Teresa tried to explain. “With the help of my blessed crystals—I call them Apache Tears—and a Ouija board, perhaps we can contact this angry child. I’m still under the belief that we can help her. I would like to have the chance.”

Teresa’s honest attempt to help and her need to redeem herself in her comrades’ eyes moved Night. The old man found Holzer looking at him, studying his reactions. Night shifted in his chair. He did not like his student formulating theories on the master. Holzer noticed Night’s uneasiness and smiled.

“You pick good students, Jonathon.”

“I learned from the best, sir.”

Night comically winked at Holzer. “Of course you did.”

“Then it’s settled,” Teresa said, grabbing her personal bag.

Opening up her own equipment, Teresa noticed that she was getting a lot of curious stares from Miranda, Sinclair, and, ironically enough, Night. Holzer was busy setting up his equipment, hoping to gain some knowledge, facts, and other data of a paranormal nature for further study once they left this cursed place.

Pulling out a small bag of crystals and a Ouija board, she was ready to get down to her “craft.”

“Want to help me, Mr. Night?” Teresa asked.

Night put his hands up in a negating gesture.

“No disrespect intended, young lady, but no, I do not want to help.”

“Why not?”

“I take what you do seriously, that is all.” Night paused, uneasy. “I do not care much for Ouija boards.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, you know.”

“There are things I know to be afraid of, miss.”

Night’s hard stare caused a shiver of coldness to flutter through Teresa, and she tried her best to avoid eye contact with the old man for almost five minutes. He continued his stare until he realized he was getting a return stare from Miranda.

“You can help me, Miranda,” Teresa said, handing the Ouija board to the British woman.

“Certainly,” Miranda said, following Teresa’s lead. “This should prove to be quite fascinating. At any rate, I could write up an interesting paper for the SOURCE newsletter.”

“Good!” Teresa huffed. “‘Bout time that rag got some meat in it.”

“Hey!” Holzer said, his voice dripping with protest.

Both women started giggling.

It took about an hour for everything to be set up.

* * *

“My friend, we have to talk.”

Holzer looked up from his instruments and saw that Ingrid Night had a rather disturbing look on his face, which always had caused Holzer to pause whenever he saw it. From experience, Holtzer knew that troubled waters lay ahead.

“Can it wait?” Holzer asked, motioning to Night that he was rather involved in the study of Teresa’s upcoming séance.

“I’m afraid not, Jonathon.” Night cleared his throat, whispering in Holzer’s ear. “This is serious.”

Dropping his equipment on a nearby table that was rotted, blackened from fire, and just as dirty as the rest of the house, Holzer and Night entered another room. Private.

Lars blocked the door for absolute security.

“Ingrid, what’s with the cloak-and-dagger routine?”

“Remember the Huntington case we were on a few years ago?” Night blurted out.

Holzer gave the question some thought.

“The case we both failed at,” Night reminded.

“Yes.”

“This is worse.”

Holzer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was the great slayer of evil calling it quits? Had the avenger of good finally met his match?

“You don’t think that we can solve this one, do you?” Holzer asked.

“There are some things, my friend, that are best left as mysteries.” Night paused. “Still, I fear for you and your young friends.”

“Are you leaving?”

Night remained quiet for more time than Holzer had thought possible. The pause caused the professor to move away from Night in shock.

“I&can’t,” Night finally responded.

Holzer started to relax. “Now that’s the Ingrid Night I have come to admire.”

“This case may bring about a death or two,” Night finally warned. “I did not wish to face this fact, Jonathon, but I just cannot stand by and see you dead. You would not have the good sense to stay that way, my friend. And I would not desire to meet you on the field of battle as an enemy.”

Holzer laughed. “Ingrid, if I were to return as a ghost, believe me, I would run away from you.”

“Then we are in this to the end, I fear?”

“To the end.”

Night patted Holzer on the shoulder. There was a level of pride in the old man’s eyes, which almost made Holzer uneasy. “Let’s do this then.”

“Ingrid?” Holzer asked. The professor’s eyes were filled with worry.

“Yes?”

“These people with me are very important to me.”

Night seemed to sense what his friend was getting to. He held up a strong hand of reassurance. “I will protect them as if they were my own. Have no fear.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.”

“Agreed.”

“Why didn’t I stay a psychologist?” Holzer nervously laughed. “I could be in Beverly Hills, making millions right now. No! I wanted to be a parapsychologist. Learn the unknown. Stupid!”

“You would have died long before you would have been buried, dear boy,” Night stated. “Listening to the spoiled drivel of fat rich kids, under-sexed and over-paid wives, and why they want to have sex with their mothers! Bah! Zombies, all of them.”

“Still, they pay with cash.”

Night could not argue with that, and gave Holzer an ironic laugh.

Both men left the room, walking back to join Teresa, who was busy setting up her séance.

Neither seemed to notice the subtle sounds of rustling plastic, a wind starting to pick up, or the returning sound of dripping water.

Manchester House had once more become aware.

* * *

The lantern was lowered to a dim flame, causing the main hall of the mansion to take on the look of a macabre shadow play. Everyone in the group, with the exception of Night and Lars who only looked on, sat around Teresa’s tiny Ouija board-which was handmade, blessed, and charged with the cosmic energy of Teresa’s birth date. Birthdates and their energy were thought to be very important to the owner of a Ouija board-it helped with the connection to the spirit world. Holzer was rather impressed with the board’s planchette. It was made out of a charged crystal and had a sharp silver point—a beautiful piece of artwork.

“Everyone breathe easy,” Teresa cautioned. “Let’s all relax. The events we have been through in the last several hours have more than disturbed our cosmic energies and we need to start focusing on the positives in order for this to work.”

“Get me a pizza and I’ll consider it,” Sinclair said, his eyes closed.

Teresa opened one eye, giving the cameraman a hard look. She decided not to say anything, hoping that not doing so would help reshape her focus.

“Spirits of the other world, we speak to you as voyagers of the truth,” Teresa began. In the base of her voice, everyone could hear a tiny hum-as if she were meditating at the same time she was talking. In a figure eight motion, Teresa started to move the crystal planchette. “We speak openly to the spirit of the little girl residing in this house. Please step forward and tell us why you are here among us. We wish nothing more than to help you in your plight.”

Everyone remained quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were those of Teresa moving her planchette, the burning oil of the lantern, and Night’s stomach grumbling, which he gave all who heard it a sorrowful apologetic bow.

“We seek contact,” Teresa asked, almost pleading.

All eyes fell to the crystal planchette on the Ouija board. It was starting to take on a mind of its own. Although everyone’s fingers were on the tiny device, it was hard to feel a free movement on the thing. As if another intelligence was starting to invade and take over. No more were the team moving the crystal in a figure eight pattern. It was moving illogically-haphazardly.

“What is the root of your anger?” Teresa asked, her voice starting to tremble. Everyone started to notice a chill building in the air. The psychic herself, however, started to sweat.

The planchette started moving around to certain letters on the board.

B&R&I&D&E&

“Bride?” Miranda asked. “Was she once a bride to someone?”

“Were you once a bride?” Teresa repeated.

Again the board came to life. Again everyone’s hands were forced as if by magic to seek out certain letters.

H&E&R&

“Her?” Miranda asked. “What does that mean?”

“The spirits are sometimes terrible spellers,” Teresa explained. “We just need to be patient.”

“Her.” Sinclair studied the phrase. “Terrible speller. Perhaps she means “here.”

Teresa started to smile. “Perhaps. Good work.”

Sinclair nodded his head in satisfaction.

The planchette continued to move.

L&I&E&S&

“Lies?” Holzer asked. “Just what is that one directed at? Is she lying, or are we supporting someone else’s lie?”

“I believe that she was the victim of a lie, Professor,” Teresa theorized. “Perhaps that’s the reason for her anger. If this woman was from the nineteenth century, then she could have been a ‘settling mail bride.’ They were very common in that day and age.”

“Settling mail bride?” Sinclair asked.

“I’m familiar with the term,” Miranda explained. “Men of the American West found it hard to find women to marry, once they settled in the untamed territories. That is to say, it was hard to find white women. So several enterprising individuals started businesses-mostly fly by night-in which a man could pay as little as fifty dollars and up to two thousand to contact, invite, and finally marry a white women from the East.” Miranda paused. “Quite common, actually.”

“How do you know so much about all of that?” Sinclair asked, looking at Miranda uneasily.

“I read,” she said with a huff. “You should try it once in a while.”

Sinclair said nothing. He only stuck out his tongue.

The sound of rustling plastic filled the room.

The lantern burned brightly. Its flame adjusted without a soul touching it.

“Let go of the board!” Teresa shouted. “There is someone here.”

The room turned incredibly cold.

Night and Lars opened their conjure kit. They were ready.

Teresa looked up at the top of the main staircase. They were no longer alone.

The Shape seemed to be leering down again at her guests. This time, however, there was a subtle difference. Unlike before, she appeared more human. More tranquil. No longer peering through a veil of long dark hair, The Shape’s face was visible. She appeared as a young woman in her late teens, possibly no older than sixteen or seventeen. Very beautiful. She gave the impression of being a vain woman when she was alive, quite proud of her shapely figure, which did seem to catch the eye of all the men in the room, including Ingrid Night.

The Shape changed, turning hard.

“STOP!” it said. Her voice seemed to echo throughout the house. Several windows, the lucky ones that were still in one piece, shattered at the sound of her voice.

The Ouija board darted upward, as if an invisible hand had smacked the game away from its participants. Only Sinclair was amazed at the action. Holzer, Teresa, and Miranda seemed to sense that sooner or later there would be an encounter. In fact they had been hoping for it.

“Good!” Holzer stated. “A full-torso vaporous apparition of the kind only once encountered that I know of. The Texas case involving our study at the Alamolast summer.”

“Fantastic detail,” Miranda surmised.

Teresa gave each of her colleagues a warning glance. “This is not the time, guys. Please.”

Night stepped forward. He was holding his crossbow. “I would listen to her.”

The Shape turned, looking at Ingrid Night. Reacting quite like a cat, hissing and spitting out vulgarities at the old man, The Shape’s appearance returned to normal. Dead. Cadaverous.

Without warning, The Shape started screaming. Her voice was so powerful that it started to rattle the plaster off the walls. So much pain, anger, and regret dripped from her voice that by itself told the story of her earthly life.

“He locked me in the cellar and raped me!” the Shape screamed. “When I failed to have his child, the one he forced me to carry, he raped me again. To show him that I was in control of my life, I killed both myself and the child while he watched!”

“Oh my God,” Teresa said, her voice a rattling whisper, terrified. “What kind of a man could do that to such a dear young thing?”

“You’d be surprised what the mind of man is capable of,” Night sneered.

Holzer started to rise, pointing a digital thermometer in the Shape’s direction. “Temp is down twenty degrees here. This is fantastic.”

“Jonathon,” Night warned, his voice trying its best to control its volume. “I would watch what you are doing. This is a tricky time for both your psychic and the spirit.”

“As you say, Ingrid.”

Holzer was too involved in what he was doing to notice that his foot was about to land on a couple of pieces of glass. In old folklore, discussed by Miranda before they had reached the mansion, some spirits-especially witches-could not stand the sound of breaking glass. They turned violent and would do anything to stop the horrid sound. Even kill.

Holzer’s foot shattered both pieces, causing him to stumble, almost falling to the ground, knocking over the Ouija board.

Night closed his eyes, preparing himself for the coming storm.

“Professor!” Teresa warned, almost yelling. “Watch your step. Don’t!”

The sound echoed through the house, the sound of glass shattering under the pressure of leather shoes grinding blown glass. It was a hollow, horrid sound. Antiseptic.

The Shape broke her trance and was no longer controlled by the conduction of the séance. She blinked her eyes is surprise, glaring down at Holzer and his team through the cloak of her bloodied matted hair. Again she took on the veil of a walking corpse, angry, in control, and dangerous.