Manchester House (39 page)

The entire SOURCE team were finding themselves smiling and cheering silently.

“Greatest man I have ever known,” Teresa found herself saying, wiping tears out of her eyes.

Again the house shook with force. Only this time it felt as if the entire town of Atchison, Kansas was involved. Atchison shook with the energy of a California earthquake. There was a feeling of the mystic in the air.

Holzer noticed that Lt. Wells was rubbing his temples-a headache?

“Ahh!” a muffled voice shouted from the kitchen of the house.

All eyes turned toward the troubled room.

“That came from the kitchen,” Miranda suggested.

Everyone headed around the main staircase and into the living room, passing into and toward the kitchen’s closed door.

Wells, with Holzer and his team not too far behind, opened the kitchen door with a shaky hand “What the hell?” Wells said, his voice both curious and controlled.

The kitchen floor, once the scene of the horrid rat graveyard, was now uprooted and torn asunder. It was as if some powerful force had exploded the floorboards of the room, leaving a gaping hole. Steam was seen rising from the hole and it appeared as if something was moving-getting closer.

Miranda, standing behind Holzer, handed him her last functioning EMF detector. “Professor?” she said.

Holzer took the device, activating it. Pointing the EMF detector towards the new hole in the kitchen, he and Wells were surprised to see the instrument’s needle peak past the highest mark, spark, then die in his hand.

“Well,” Holzer said, not at all surprised. “That’s the end of our equipment.”

A hand rose from the middle of the hole, grabbing hold of the kitchen floor. Soon another hand joined in.

Ingrid Night rose from the pit, seeing three police-issued weapons pointing down at his head. His face was covered in blood and he was bleeding heavily from his chest. The man looked like a living abortion, spewing forth upon the earth.

“Jonathon,” Night weakly asked, not at all fazed by the pointing weapons. “Could you please give me a hand?”

Holzer and his team jumped with joy and Teresa and Miranda hugged each other. Both Sinclair and the professor broke away from the local police, rushing into the mansion’s kitchen to help their friend back to safety.

“Ingrid!” Holzer shouted, surprised. “Christ in Heaven, I thought that we lost you for good.”

“Never believe that Ingrid Night can be taken, Jonathon.” The old man grunted as he was pulled from the pit. Waves of steam came off his body as he stood looking at his team members.

“Who the hell is this then?” Wells asked.

“This, Lt. Wells, is Ingrid Night,” Holzer explained, patting the old man on the shoulder with great pride. “My dear, dear friend. He is the missing man from our team.”

“No,” Night corrected. “There was one more.”

The SOURCE team turned silent, sad, thinking of Lars.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Night suggested.

Without waiting for permission, without wanting to explain a damn thing, Holzer, Night, and their team left Manchester House.

* * *

Outside, with Manchester House behind them, the SOURCE team members waited until almost all the police officers were in their cars ready to leave. The captain, shouting and yelling every step of the way, was the first to go. Wells had been informed that he would soon be put in charge of traffic violations and could expect to stay there for many years-one too damn many Manchester House cases, he surmised.

“Professor,” Wells stated, rubbing his temples, “I am leaving now. Please tell me you will not be staying.”

Holzer looked at Night, who tiredly chuckled.

“No, sir,” Holzer confirmed. “Manchester House is no longer, shall we say, haunted. The house is clear.”

“Amen!” Night barked.

“Then I have all of your addresses and statements,” Wells said. “If I need to contact you, Professor, I’ll call your office.”

Holzer nodded his head, waving the detective off.

The team was now alone.

* * *

Sinclair raised his camera, taking the last picture-it was of Ingrid Night.

Night, blinking his eyes, looked up at the cameraman, fully understanding the honor Sinclair had just paid to him. He knew that there were several fantastic moments Sinclair could have preserved on film, but had chosen him, looking like a drowned puppy, to capture.

“I still do not like you, Mr. Sinclair.” Night meekly laughed. “But I am honored to call you friend.”

Sinclair looked at the old man, hurt. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I want a copy of that picture!” Night demanded, pointing a serious finger at Sinclair.

The team members started to break out in laughter.

“I have a question,” Teresa said.

“Yes?” Night answered.

“How the hell are we going to get back to town?”

Suddenly it hit everyone. They had no car, no food, and no proof of what had happened to them. They were, in essence, marooned all over again.

“Ain’t that a son-of-a-bitch,” Night huffed.

Surprised eyes turned on Night, who rose to his feet, walking away from the mansion toward town.

“Well?” Holzer said, picking up his gear. “Let’s go.”

The SOURCE team, with Night leading the way, walked back to Atchison alone, weak, hungry, and unsung. But then again each member of the team would have preferred it that way.

“Ingrid?” Holzer asked, catching up with his friend and mentor.

“Yes, Jonathon?”

“What of Manchester House?”

“You have enough information to please your students, do you not?”

Holzer huffed. “I have enough to fill at least three books on the subject, but that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?”

“Is the house safe for human habitation again?”

Night stopped walking, slowly looking back at where they had all come from. Holzer thought, if only for a moment, Night’s eyes showed great fear. “If any house is now safe in this tiny hamlet of a town, it is Manchester House. Evil will never again be able to haunt that land.”

“Good,” Holzer stated, smiling.

“However,” Night added, “the rest of Atchison is not so lucky.”

Night started to walk again. Taken by surprise, Holzer and his team had to run to catch up with the tall old man.

“Wait!” Miranda huffed, dragging Sinclair behind her. “What about the rest of Atchison?”

“I had to cleanse Manchester House long enough for my escape,” Night explained. “The evil decided to leave me be. I do not know where it fled.”

“You mean you didn’t kill it?” Holzer shouted.

“Jonathon, you cannot kill a god,” Night explained. “You can only ruin its day.”

The rays of the sun began to peek through the woods surrounding Manchester House and for the first time in decades warmth could be felt. There seemed to be a welcoming feeling toward the whole property, quite unlike the feelings the SOURCE team had experienced upon entering.

“Well,” Holzer said, continuing his walk, “at least we succeeded.”

Night turned, glaring at Holzer through the brim of his hat, looking both worried and quite sinister. “Did we?”

Holzer swallowed hard. For him at least the forces of good had won the day and science stood victorious with new and much-needed knowledge.

It took the team over two hours to head back into Atchison.

“Jonathon?” Night said.

“Yes?”

“Happy Halloween.”

Holzer looked at his watch in surprise. It was now October thirty-first.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

One Year Later&

Albert Wells, formerly of the Atchison Police Department, thought it best to retire shortly after his last encounter with Manchester House. Having been informed by Professor Holzer and his team from the SOURCE Institute that the hauntings of the famous mansion were over, the old derelict became a beacon for the small crime element of the community. Wells was soon transferred from traffic violations back into homicide and, ironically enough, was pulling more body bags out of the goddamn place.

After a particular case where his neighbor’s sixteen-year-old daughter was pulled out of Manchester House’s basement dead from an overdose and evidence of being the victim of a gang-rape, Wells decided to retire his badge, much to the moral chagrin of his captain.

Retirement had been kind to Wells. He visited Holzer once, buying a copy of the professor’s latest book The House that Dripped Evil, and was mildly amused at the fact that Holzer had dedicated the book to him and the people of Atchison. Wells bought a small house, ironically enough quite near the site of Manchester House, and was enjoying the good time of his declining years.

Atchison was no more the worse for wear. Lives went on, dreams were both lost and found, and business went on with its profits and losses. However, one small change had taken place: the Haunted Trolley Ride scheduled every October changed its route to include their newest haunted house-new in the sense that Manchester House was safe enough to have human contact on a regular basis. Safe again if you didn’t count the local crime cartels.

Wells’ day started like any other. He got up at four in the morning-a habit he couldn’t break himself of from decades in the police force-drank his coffee, and read his morning newspaper. Wells’ morning newspaper usually meant the paper he bought the night before before heading off to bed.

Something blazing from the paper’s headline banner caught his eye and made him laugh with both glee and relief-the news made his day-his whole damn life, in fact.

MANCHESTER HOUSE DESTROYED BY FIRE

“Well, I’ll be goddamned!”

There was a movement which Wells caught out of the corner of his eye, but due to the fact that his paper had held such great and positive news he paid it little mind.

Someone knocked at the front door.

Wells rubbed his temples. The headaches were starting to get worse.

Opening the front door, Wells was greeted by a familiar face.

“Lt. Wells?”

“Professor Holzer?” Wells gasped, motioning the man to step inside. “Hey! It’s great to see you.” Wells paused, sad. “It’s no longer lieutenant, Professor.”

“Oh?”

“Retired, you see.”

“Oh.”

There was a serious tone of finality in the college professor’s voice which gave Wells the impression that Holzer believed him to be the victim of politics. Not true. If asked, he would explain that to the man. But only if asked.

“What are you doing in Atchison?” Wells asked, silently inviting Holzer to take a seat in an old recliner.

Holzer held up his copy of the local Atchisonpaper. “Saw this,” he explained.

“Yes.” Wells tiredly laughed. “I was happy to read that one myself.”

Holzer turned worried. “How was it started?”

“Don’t know.” Wells explained, “I no longer have the police department’s ear. They have a new captain now that mine has moved on.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. It seems that my captain was too militant.” Wells huffed ironically. “The City Council offered him his own retirement package.”

“I see.” Holzer turned solemn.

For a moment both men sat looking at the other. Both wanted to talk, to joke, and to rejoice at the fact that Manchester House was no more. No more would the town’s police force have to pull out body bags. No more would parents have to be informed, in the dawn of morning, that their loved ones would not be coming home any more. All these things these two men wanted to say, but neither could find the way, words, or moment to do so.

“Well, I just thought that I would come by and say hello.” Holzer rose to his feet.

Wells darted up as well, always a good host, opening the door.

“Where are you off to now?” Wells asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh&” Holzer beamed, eager to explain. “My team and I are off to Scotland.”

“Scotland?”

“Yes.” Holzer stepped out onto Wells’ tiny porch. The sun started to rise, promising a great Kansas day. “There is a castle there.”

“Well, I should hope!” Wells joked.

Holzer turned serious. “The local population claims certain stories that have caused the SOURCE Institute some concern.”

“Oh?”

“Something about bloodied corpses attacking a nearby town every night and the people of that town have asked for assistance.” Holzer paused. “We are giving it.”

“I wish you great luck,” Wells solemnly stated.

Holzer waved goodbye, and left Wells to explore the mystery of the rest of his life. Wells, closing his door, for a moment wished that he knew of Holzer’s.

:Hello&:

The headaches were getting worse.

Wells thought he heard the sounds of rustling plastic.

Picking up a fresh roll of duct tape, Albert Wells began sealing up the windows, vents, and doors of his house.

THE END

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