Manchester House (37 page)

Again Jonathon Holzer squirmed in pain, screaming loudly.

“Jonathon?” Night said, almost crying, swallowing the emotion hard.

Night stood frozen, watching as Holzer’s life force was slowly being sucked out of his body. Holzer started to age rapidly. His hair took on a gray look and his pallor became that of an ancient man. In time, Holzer started to look even older than Ingrid Night, and Night knew that was old.

Angry, Night looked up into the beast’s eyes with a need to seek revenge.

“Hear me, you thing of evil!” Night shouted, waving a warning finger up at the creature. “If you kill this man, I will not leave this realm of existence until I have killed you. There will be no rest for you! No means or spare time to plan the conquering of worlds.” Night started to scream with the passion of a zealot. “I will become your worst goddamned nightmare!”

At first there seemed to be no response from the creature. The monster just continued his attack on Holzer.

“What will become of the professor?” Teresa asked, holding back the tears in her eyes.

Night shook his head. He could not answer the question.

A cold wind blew past Night, tickling his ears.

Someone was standing behind him. It was the Shape.

“You are no champion,” the Shape mockingly laughed. Her voice was no more than a whisper, but Night could hear each word she uttered. “You can’t even save the lives of your friends.”

The girl-like specter started to giggle.

Night closed his eyes and tightened his fists. He understood the agony and torture of this spirit, but enough was enough.

“Teresa,” Night whispered.

“Yes?” The psychic looked up at Night with silent understanding.

“I do what I have to do.” Night paused, looking into the young black woman’s eyes. “Understand?”

Teresa could not speak. Her eyes started to fill with tears. She looked back at the agony Holzer was in, and then at her two friends. Miranda was still trying to comfort Sinclair, who by all appearances still was unconscious. She did not support what Ingrid Night was about to do, but she understood why it had to be done.

“Do it,” Teresa whispered, lowering her head in shame.

Night appreciated and respected the pain he saw flowing easily from the psychic’s face. For a moment, his fatherly instincts wanted to take hold of the young woman and comfort her, but he had friends to save.

He had a spirit to destroy.

“Listen here, little woman,” Night said, directing all his anger at the Shape. “I do think I have had enough of you.”

Not feeling at all threatened by his actions, the Shape continued with her contemptible laughter. Night could barely make out the faint smell of the Shape’s perfume. It was the first time the old man had noticed it. The fragrance seemed innocent enough-vanilla-a popular brand of the century the Shape had come from.

Tightening his grip on his own crossbow weapon, Night soon noticed Holzer’s weapon near his feet. Night cleared his throat, focusing his mind on the task at hand. There was a lot for him to do within the next five minutes, and he needed to focus all his skills on what he needed to accomplish. He was never one for killing for pleasure, even as a boy when forced to forage for food. But this was only the second time in his life that he wished to extinguish an evil that the world could wholly live without.

“Then we begin!” Night huffed, darting toward Holzer’s crossbow.

The Shape stopped her laughing.

Night sprang forward, breaking his circle with Teresa, and rolled on the ground, picking up Holzer’s crossbow weapon with his free and empty hand. Darting back up erect, the old warrior turned to face the Shape with two weapons pointed directly at her.

“You can no longer hurt me,” the Shape warned.

Night laughed. This time his voice was mocking. “Madame, I do not wish to hurt you. I wish to destroy you.”

Both stared at each other. The scene resembled the shoot-out scene of any contemporary American Western. Each participant was waiting for the other to make the first move.

Suddenly there flashed a light from outside the arena created by both Night and the Shape. The distraction was enough to cause the Shape to momentarily lose her concentration, directing her gaze toward the source of the light.

This precious moment was all Night needed to attack.

Aiming, Night pulled both triggers.

The twin streams of blessed oil shot toward the Shape, one entering her mouth, causing the ghost to swallow the substance. Night allowed himself the pleasure of shouting out a triumphant yell, realizing that the woman spirit had just made the greatest mistake a spirit of her level could make. A spirit might survive an outward attack of the oil Night used, but in all his years the old man had never experienced a spirit-even the most powerfully advanced-that could resist an attack where the entity had allowed the oil to enter its vaporous body.

“At last!” Night joyfully proclaimed, allowing himself the moment.

The Shape started to cough up blood, realizing that Night had successfully shot a stream of his oil into her mouth. She seemed to violently shake as if she were having some unknown seizure. The Shape discovered that she no longer had control of her body, and little by little her tiny frame began to disappear.

The creature the SOURCE team had been fighting seemed to realize what Night had done and shrieked out a series of painful roars. It was as if a beloved pet had been taken away from a demanding master, and now that a void of servitude had been created, the value of the pet was appreciated. Night got great pleasure out of the panic that he was starting to hear come from the throat of the monster. Each of its three heads paid close attention toward the Shape and her fate.

Like a candle warming and melting in the heat, the Shape started to lose her bodily cohesion and dripped down into a liquid state. She could not understand what was happening to her, and indeed the destructive act was so quick, she only had time to look up at her Master, hoping against all hope that this bitter experience was nothing more than a sick joke.

In a gurgling puddle of bubbles boiling up from both slime and blood, the Shape’s last scream died away into that of futility. Only the bright and bony crown of her skull seemed to survive, gleaming in the eerie darkness.

“May your soul find peace forevermore,” Night prayed, bowing his head in solemn prayer.

Stepping forward, Night smashed what was left of the Shape’s skull with his right boot, shattering the crown into a dozen pieces.

The Shape would never again dominate at Manchester House.

Night, curious, turned to see where the distracting flash of light had come from, and was surprised to see a weak but totally aware Sinclair holding up his camera. The cameraman had provided Night with the needed alliance to conquer an enemy. Sinclair, on the other hand, blinking his eyes to life, was looking at the precious picture he had just taken.

“I thank you for that, Mr. Sinclair,” Night said, tipping his hat. “Very well done. I am glad you are back with us.”

“Only one more picture left.“Sinclair’s voice was weak, but there was still the sound of sarcastic spirit in him. Something Night was starting to see as not so much a negative thing.

“Aim well, then, sir.”

One last time, Night looked upon the remains of the Shape. In the distance, the old man thought he heard the sounds of the beast crying, but this could only have been Night’s imagination. Still, the Shape had been a kindred spirit. That was why the beast had chosen her as its mouthpiece. Could demons feel remorse for the fall of one of their own? No matter. Night had a job to do.

“Do not trouble yourself so,” Night said, comforting Teresa who was openly crying. “The dear girl’s spirit is now at rest.”

“Damn fine way to accomplish such a thing,” Teresa commented.

“Come.” Night tried to change the subject. “We have others to attend to.”

In exhaustion, the beast started to remain impossibly calm-impossibly still. This action caused Teresa to bring Night’s attention towards that thing.

“What of him?” Teresa asked, pointing up at the beast.

“It is weak,” Night surmised. “The time for final conflict is soon approaching.”

“Will we win?”

Night remained calm but did not answer the question.

Holzer was let go of by the beast and fell to the ground. He was weak, but seemed to appear normal in both health and age.

“Professor?” Miranda was heard saying.

Both Sinclair and Miranda pulled Holzer into the foxhole.

Night reloaded his two crossbow weapons, paying attention to both his concerns for Holzer and the beast, which appeared to be resting. Night wondered why the monster hadn’t finished him and his friends-it certainly had the power to do so. Or perhaps there was something to the place where the beast had made its appearance known. Perhaps Manchester House and its properties had something to do with it.

Reloaded and ready, Ingrid Night walked over toward the foxhole, paying attention to Jonathon Holzer.

Both Teresa and Miranda were doing their best to perform a medical examination of Holzer, patching up the two bleeding wounds left over from the attachment of the beast’s tentacles. Holzer started to moan, slowly opening his eyes.

“Professor?” Teresa meekly asked. “Are you okay?”

Holzer made a face, as if he had a terrible taste in his mouth. “What the hell happened to me?”

Night, moved by the fact that his friend was around and talking, heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching into the foxhole, he placed a hand on Holzer’s shoulder. The action did not go unnoticed by his fellows.

“You had almost, as you Americans like to say, bought the farm, Jonathon.” Night smiled.

“You know me, Ingrid,” Holzer weakly joked. “Hard to get rid of.”

“This is true.”

There was an awkward moment of silence as the stirring of the beast interrupted the calm air. It seemed to be laughing quietly at what was going on literally at the foot of its bulky paws.

Night looked up at the monster with finality in his eyes.

“Jonathon, are you well enough to take action?”

Holzer looked up at his friend, noticing the seriousness in Night’s features. “Are we leaving here soon?”

“Soon,” Night confirmed.

“Then you have figured out the puzzle behind this maze-this spiral?”

“I believe so.” Night paused, reaching into his conjure kit.

All eyes turned to Night’s curious kit, wondering what kind of ancient weapon he would be pulling out next. Most were disappointed.

“What the hell is that?” Sinclair asked, finally finding the strength to stand. His legs were a bit wobbly but he stood nonetheless.

“It is a key, Mr. Sinclair.”

What Ingrid Night removed from his conjure kit, did not appear to be that imposing, nor did it appear to be any kind of a key. In fact, the item was so commonplace anybody could have found it anywhere.

Holding the item up for all to investigate, Night revealed a small polished black stone about the size of a fifty cent piece. No moving parts. No apparent magical spells. Just a small stone. Quite ordinary.

“You mean after all this, the thing that’s going to save our ass looks like a rock I keep at the bottom of my fish tank?” Sinclair barked.

Both women turned to stare at the cameraman.

“You have a fish tank?” Miranda asked, surprised.

“Well, yeah,” Sinclair stated, uneasy. “Doctor says staring at fish calms the nerves.”

Teresa let out a little giggle.

“What?” Sinclair asked, defensive.

“Nothing,” Miranda said, fighting to hold back a smile.

Night broke the comical mood by clearing his throat. “It is the simplicity of this icon, Mr. Sinclair, which has helped me through the decades and will save us all.”

Night handed the polished stone to Holzer, who took it with great surprise.

“What do you want me to do with this, Ingrid?”

“I cannot use the device, Jonathon,” Night tried to explain. “It has to be thrown by a surviving victim of the evil we are facing. That, dear friend, would be you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Are you well enough to keep by my side?” Night asked.

Holzer slowly got to his feet, staring Night directly in the eyes. “Is this well enough for you?”

Night nodded his head in affirmation. He held great pride for Holzer at that particular moment. “Good enough.”

“Again, Ingrid, what do you want me to do?”

“As we get close to the beast&” Night paused, confirming. “And we will have to get dangerously close, my dear friend. I need you to recite the most sacred prayer you can think of at that moment and then proceed to throw that stone into the creature’s mouth.”

“That’s all great and everything,” Sinclair said, “but what are you going to do to allow the professor to do all of this?”

Night closed his eyes. A sudden shiver came over him.

“Mr. Sinclair, I’m going to do the one damn thing this monster believes that I would never logically do.” Night paused. “I’m going to recite the beast’s name.”

Holzer looked up at his friend, horrified. “Ingrid! By God, you can’t do that!”

“Why not?” Miranda asked. Scared, she grabbed Sinclair’s hand, holding tightly onto it.

“It is written,” Night began to say, “that if a mortal man recites the name of the beast he will spend forever battling the thing until one or the other survives.”

“You would be placing yourself into a living hell,” Holzer shouted, his voice pleading for Night to honestly listen to what he was saying. “A hell more horrible than Lars is going through right now.”

At the mention of his fallen comrade’s name, Night gave Holzer a harsh glance. “I will be saving your lives.”

“At too high a price.”

The beast, having been so quiet for such a long time, suddenly came to life once more. All three of his heads came to turn, focusing on the four humans gathering inside the freshly dug foxhole. At one point, the bull-like head noticed Holzer holding a small black stone, recognizing it for the powerful force that it was. In horrifying clarity, the beast seemed aware of what Night was planning.