Manchester House (24 page)

Night responded with a laugh, controlling his volume. “Things change, Mr. Sinclair. Always remember that. Things change.”

* * *

If the SOURCE team were in the basement, their reactions would have been different. The Shape had been busy conjuring up the most powerful of the spells she had learned in the time that she had died and been buried in the basement of the house, wrapped in a tarp.

The basement had grown in size. Much larger than before, it was preparing for the battle that the tall man in black was discussing upstairs. This would be it. This would be the final showdown.

“Let us go!” a voice called out, pleading to the Shape. Pleading for mercy where there was indeed none to give. She was as much a victim as they were.

Curious, however, she opened one blood-filled eye, looking toward the unfortunate soul who dared to bother her in her work for the Master. The Master, being the house, what mortals had referred to as Manchester House.

“Please!”

The voice was coming from a man in a military uniform—what modern people would call a Union soldier’s uniform. This man was standing in a pool of tar, wrestling with the black ooze as it attacked his heels, keeping him a prisoner where he stood. Maggots swam in what were left of his eyes and, truth be known, even the Shape was repelled by this sight. With each scream of his mouth, the Union soldier’s intestines came out of his body, dripping with bile and filth. Truly he was an appalling phantom.

“You have been here a long time,” the Shape insisted, smiling.

“Yes!” the Soldier pleaded. “Save me!”

The Shape could not but laugh as she saw the man’s stomach vomit out of his mouth, returning inside him as fast as it had appeared. What did this fool think that she could do?

“Very well.” The Shape laughed contemptuously. “I will help.”

The Shape opened both eyes, focusing them on the unfortunate soldier.

“No!” the soldier pleaded.

Before other spirits around the Union soldier could react and before the soldier himself could try to evade the Shape’s stare, four demon-like creatures appeared and severed the spirit’s limbs from his body and proceeded to eat from his torso. What made the scene more horrible than the obvious was the fact that no matter how many pieces the Union soldier was torn into, he would not die. His screams became more horrid - his pleas even more pitiful.

The Shape only smiled, returning to her chanting.

There was a war to consider.

:Do not take hold of my power like that again!:

The Shape started to feel her neck contract. Although a spirit, she, like mortals, needed to breathe. Gasping for air, she noticed that her own neck was becoming smaller and smaller.

“I understand,” the Shape pleaded.

The Master, or Manchester House, allowed her to breathe freely again. The Shape fell to her knees coughing. At her feet was what was left of the Union soldier’s face-half eaten. His one blue eye glared up at her in helplessness. He would have screamed, pleaded, and cried if he had a mouth to do it with. However, he only looked up at her, a rat nibbling on his eyebrow, while color returned to the Shape’s face.

“I will&obey.”

:That is good.:

Manchester House shuddered again with great satisfaction. All was ready.

* * *

Ingrid Night slapped his hands together, rising.

Holzer seemed to know that whatever needed to be said, planned, or anticipated had already passed. It was now time to pray that Night knew what he was about to do.

“Jonathon, prepare your people,” Night ordered.

“What can we do, Ingrid?” Holzer asked, holding out his hands in a confused gesture.

“Well, for one thing, I would hope that you do your job, my friend.”

“My&job?” Holzer’s face had turned tired. This case was having a great effect on his features. He almost looked five years older in Night’s eyes. Holzer could see this as Night turned his gaze toward him, and the surprise in the man’s eyes did not set well with the college professor.

“You have an obligation to SOURCE, Jonathon,” Night insisted, pointing a fatherly finger at him. “Regardless of the fact that our methods are different, you have an obligation. I hope that we can at least understand this phenomena should we survive. That way if faced by another team they would know how to control it. In controlling it, we could learn to understand.”

“You’re right,” Holzer agreed.

“More than right, my friend,” Night joked, although rather dryly. “I intend to, as you Americans say, ‘kick some ass’.”

Holzer laughed. He couldn’t help it. He stared at Night with softness in his eyes which showed more than friendship.

“Thank you, my friend,” Holzer said.

“Thank you, Jonathon.” Night bowed his head.

Both men separated, doing what they could to get ready for the job that was ahead of them. Night, joining Lars by the main staircase, took his weapon from the deaf man, inspecting it. Lars, Holzer noticed, had opened Night’s conjure kit and the old man was taking out several objects and putting them in the many pockets inside his black cloak. Holzer could see that Night was loading up his arsenal, hoping to battle a wolf but prepared if he ran into a grizzly.

Holzer turned to his team, doing all that he could to control his own fears.

“Okay, guys, we have to do this by the numbers.” Holzer found himself pacing and rubbing his hands together. You could take the man away from academia, but you couldn’t take academia away from the man. “What equipment do we have left, and does it work?”

His team members stared at each other blankly. They could not believe what they were hearing.

“Professor,” Miranda stated, tired, “almost all of our equipment is damaged or close to it.”

“Don’t you think that I know that?” Holzer stated, controlling his emotions. At no point did the professor want to show his anger. Once he showed his anger, his fear would not be too far behind. “Focus, people. Focus. What do we have?”

Miranda and Teresa started rummaging through the stack of equipment.

“Thermometer,” Teresa said, holding it up.

“An old EMF reader,” Miranda stated, disappointed. “Both EMR detectors are fried. Guess we will have to use this thing.”

“Better than nothing,” Holzer agreed.

“Compass,” Miranda said, placing the thing around her neck.

Sinclair found an old instamatic camera, holding it up with surprise.

“Hey, Doc, found a camera! I’m back in the game.”

“Great!” Holzer beamed. “Glad to hear it.”

“No monster’s going to keep me from filming this event,” Sinclair stated, reading the back of the camera. His face started to droop in disappointment. “Even if I only have two exposures left.”

In any case, the SOURCE team was up and running in less than two minutes. They all gathered up their gear and joined both Night and Lars by the main staircase. The house was way too dark to just walk through it, and they only had one flashlight left to venture through the dark.

“Jonathon,” Night said.

“Yes?”

“Look on the bright side.”

Holzer waited, saying nothing. His body language, however, told Night to continue with his thought.

“This case is well worth a semester of college studies and should provide your students with something more than the ordinary.”

Holzer gave the opinion some thought and for the first time since he woke up, the professor had something to smile about. “Good point.”

“Of course it is a good point.”

“I could possibly write a paper on this as well.”

“Or a book.”

“Perhaps.”

Night smiled, loading his crossbow with oil. “Perhaps.”

Manchester House seemed to get darker. It was particularly creepy since the lights from the camera and other flashlights were not around on this extraordinary night. Holzer promised himself that he would never allow broken flashlights to get in his way ever again. He cursed himself for not thinking of extra lighting.

“Why is it so dark?” Sinclair asked, his instamatic camera posed in his hand just in case.

“The house is aware of our intentions, Mr. Sinclair,” Night explained. “That is all.”

“Right,” Sinclair responded, his eyes filling with a sarcastic wonderment.

Night studied the cameraman’s reaction and knew that the man was making fun of Night’s morbid warnings about Manchester House. But this didn’t bother Night. He had been faced with many a “modern man” who scoffed at his teachings, warnings, and images of dangers yet to come. That was the way of things.

So as the SOURCE team, Night, and Lars approached the mansion’s basement door, all Ingrid Night could do was match smile with skeptical smile.

“Humor, Mr. Sinclair,” Night said, slowly opening the door to the basement, “is a powerful weapon, sir. One, I have noticed, that you use with superior skill.”

“So?” Sinclair said, placing his camera on his belt.

“You will have need of it this night.”

Both men exchanged a hard and long glance. Out of the corner of Night’s eye, Holzer could be seen watching the two, wondering what had just taken place.

“Jonathon, I would advise you to keep this one for use later in the battle.”

Holzer nodded his head, agreeing.

“Battle?” Sinclair asked, confused. “What battle?”

“The one we are heading into, Mr. Sinclair.”

Night opened the door, offering Sinclair the chance to lead the way.

To everyone’s surprise, Sinclair started toward the door.

Before the cameraman could venture beyond the threshold of the basement door, Lars respectfully placed his hand forward, pushing Sinclair away from the dark opening, stopping him. At first Sinclair was upset, but upon seeing the look on Lars’ face -which held no ill will-the cameraman stepped back instead.

Night laughed.

“Do not feel so bad at this, cameraman,” Night said, patting Sinclair on the shoulder. “Because there is great danger, I will go first. But you can follow me if that is your wish, sir.”

Sinclair turned to look into Holzer’s face.

“What do you say, Doc?”

“Do what is best for the group, Mr. Sinclair,” Holzer said. “But do not stand in the way. We have others who are seeking answers here as well.”

Night raised his hand with a reassuring gesture. “Believe me, Jonathon, you will all see what is going on, but from past evidence of this place I will lead. I do not wish to place any more lives in danger. Agreed?”

All team members nodded their heads in agreement.

The battle was on.

Sinclair stepped forward, readying his camera. He took his place as second in line.

Night, hollowly laughing, agreed.

Lars let the cameraman pass.

* * *

Night stood at the opening of the basement door on the edge of battle and froze. He closed his eyes, using only his hearing. Stretching out his senses, he waited.

“Tell your people what I require, Jonathon,” Night whispered.

Holzer looked up at his friend and realized that Night was praying-preparing for a fight. How many times in his life had he seen this strange and mysterious man do this very thing? There was something noble in the act, and something very frightening. Night had mentioned Sterling Castle earlier in the day and Holzer had been there to see Night’s battle. The whole thing took over a week, and Holzer still winced at the memory of the iron taste of blood in his mouth. The horror of it all!

However, this latest SOURCE team was new to Ingrid Night.

They had the right to be warned.

“People,” Holzer began, clearing his throat. His nervousness was compounded by the fact that Night was chanting in Hebrew in front of him, blessing the area around the basement’s door. “I need you all to listen, and listen carefully.”

All eyes fell on Holzer.

“Our fellow colleague Ingrid Night is currently cleansing himself for the confrontation he feels will be soon to come.”

“Professor?” Miranda asked, her clipped accent brightening up the night air. “What are we venturing into here?”

“War,” was all Holzer could say. “I’m afraid once we enter this door, science as we know it will no longer apply.”

“Doc?” Sinclair asked, his eyes questioning.

“Mr. Night is a soldier of a very old religious order who has used SOURCE to his ends. After all, he is one of the founders, by God!” Holzer paused. “Just be careful, and do not trust what the beast tells you. Stay on the path that Night is opening.”

“In other words, ‘don’t stray onto the moors’,” Sinclair joked, faking a rather bad English accent, which he noticed caused Miranda to give him a discouraging face.

“Mind your ass, that is what I’m saying. This is serious, people. You all entered into the realms of parapsychology to seek answers. Now’s your time to find them.”

“Professor? Can we trust what we are doing here?” Teresa asked.

Holzer looked into the brown eyes of the young psychic and was troubled by her innocence. Would she be able to tackle this adventure?

“No,” the professor finally stated.

“Can we still use our scientific equipment, Professor?” Miranda finally asked.

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Holzer replied, trying to control his pride in Miranda’s zeal. “After all, we are still scientists.”

“After a fashion.” Miranda winked.

“After a fashion,” Holzer agreed.

Holzer turned to face Night. He was third in line, followed by Miranda and Teresa at the end. It was the silent suggestion of Lars that the young psychic be at the rear in case “something” wanted to attack from behind. Using her powers would be a good insurance to seek out any hidden enemies.

“Ingrid, we’re ready.” Holzer’s voice betrayed the fear that was behind his words. His hands were shaking.

* * *

Night stepped onto the basement’s first step.

“I am a servant of God,” he prayed. “Evil will not harm me, for it fears my conviction. The Lord is my guide and he is my shield.”

The house became aware of Night’s presence and knew of his power. Night was sure of this and could feel the air around him become difficult to walk through. As if solid, the air was becoming a force he had to battle.