Manchester House (33 page)

“Professor Holzer?” Wells shouted. He entered the mansion pointing his weapon up and down and then left and right.

Behind Wells, the young police officer followed his superior’s actions. Nothing was left to chance. Wells in fact had been rather impressed with the officer’s actions and made a mental note to place a commendation in the young man’s file after all this was wrapped up.

There was no answer. The house remained calm.

“Looks clear,” Wells insisted, silently ordering his officer to lower his weapon.

“Shall I holster it?” the young man said.

“Are you kidding?” Wells said. “Keep it at your side until we find out what has happened to the professor and his investigation team.” Wells paused. “There are supposed to be at least six people here.”

The young police officer looked around the mansion unimpressed. “Seems quiet to me, sir.”

Wells gave the officer a long glare. “Just start looking.”

The young man seemed to realize that he had angered Wells, and started to do what Wells suggested. Before he could reach the foot of the main staircase, his superior interrupted the young officer.

“Hey!” Wells barked at the cop.

The young man turned, giving Wells a curious stare.

“Keep on your toes,” Wells warned. “This house knows we are here.”

The young officer nodded his head. “I know. I can feel it.”

Wells waved the young man on, hoping that his fears regarding Professor Holzer were just those of a shell-shocked investigator.

The mansion had not changed much from the last time he found it several days ago. It was still dank and wet and appeared to have a constant dripping sound coming from somewhere, but curiously enough no one could ever find the origin of the sound. Still, with all the water damage in the place, there was really no need to do so.

Wells found himself in the main hall heading for the front parlor room near the mansion’s main kitchen. The site had several memories attached to them-all bad. He could still see fresh in his mind the bodies he had to drag out of each room several years before, and was hoping that when he retired to his bed later this night he would not be haunted by the same nightmares he had after each terrible episode.

CLICK!

The metallic sound caught Wells’ attention.

He had stepped on something.

Looking down at his right shoe, the detective slowly removed his foot, revealing a camera-like device. It was tiny enough to be ignored if one did not know what to look for. The camera was about the size of an old-fashioned 110-mm camera.

“What the devil are you?” Wells asked to no one in particular. He bent down, picking up the tiny broken device. “Looks like you have been through hell and back.”

Inspecting the camera, Wells discovered that it was from the college-this was evident due to the fact that the college’s logo and address were blazingly printed on the back of the camera. Holzer had stated that he was installing a webcam, but he never said that it would be such a small thing.

“Lieutenant!”

The sound of the young officer’s voice captured Wells’ attention; however it was the level of horror in the man’s tone which caused Wells to pause. Whatever it was that had caused a trained police officer to project such trauma, the seasoned detective wasn’t sure if he was ready for another series of body bags.

Wells dropped the broken webcam, making a mental note to pick it up later. He was quite sure that he could get it studied by the Kansas City CSI lab later.

Passing through the main hall beyond the staircase Wells met the young officer, who was standing in front of the stairwell leading down to the mansion’s main kitchen. Wells discovered the old feeling of dread coming up in his throat as he saw the expression on the officer’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Wells asked, almost tired.

All the young man could do was mutely point toward the closed kitchen door.

Wells, not really wanting to look, followed the officer’s pointing finger. Glancing at the kitchen door, Wells looked beyond the green mold which seemed to have recently claimed the rich wood and discovered to his horror a fresh pool of thick red blood trickling through the bottom of the door.

“Is that what I thick it is?” the young officer asked.

“Well, son,” Wells stated, taking out an evidence bag, “it sure in hell isn’t ketchup.”

Scooping some of the blood into his evidence bag, Wells could hear the young man gulping down the urge to vomit. He sympathized. However, if the man wanted to remain an Atchison Police Officer, he would have to get used to this-particularly if Manchester House continued to stand.

“What’s that noise?” the young man asked, craning his neck.

Wells froze.

There was a soft scratching sound coming from inside the kitchen.

“I don’t know.” Wells folded up the evidence bag and placed it in his right coat pocket.

The scratching noise seemed to get louder, and every so often both officers thought they could hear a squeaking sound accompanied with the noise.

Against his better judgment, Lt. Wells opened the kitchen door. He tried his best to hide the fact that his hand was shaking.

The kitchen was dark, considering it was the middle of the day. For some unknown reason, the original builder of the house did not wish to have too much light entering the room. This made no sense to anyone who loved to cook, because any chef would tell you that light was more a friend than an enemy to food preparation.

“Oh, shit!” the young officer yelled, pointing his arm toward the kitchen floor. “Would you look at that.”

Wells cast his tired eyes toward the kitchen floor. The very floor on which he had stood several years ago looking into the alien eyes of Gilbert Lex. Haunted by that image for almost a decade, what Wells was witnessing now was more horrifying.

Rats!

Several rats which appeared to be more dead than alive squeaked and moved upon the kitchen floor, yelling for some kind of mercy. Some of the tiny creatures seemed to be molded to the tile on the floor by the very rot of their bodies. What the two police officers were witnessing was beyond science-this was biblical shit. This was the stuff of a horror writer’s nightmares.

“How can most of those things be alive, Lieutenant?”

Wells shook his head, not really knowing how to answer the question.

In any case, both Wells and his sidekick soon discovered where the blood was coming from.

Chewing and feasting in the middle of the kitchen, several new and rather healthy looking rats were devouring a severed arm. It looked to be dressed in an old Union officer’s uniform-Civil War era in appearance.

Having seen his fill, Wells slammed the kitchen door shut.

Both officers vomited.

* * *

A search was completed of the Manchester House about twenty minutes after both officers had gotten sick. There was that awkward silence both men expressed after throwing up all over the main hall’s floor. Embarrassment. Then anger at the fact that both had allowed the circumstances to get the better of them.

“Check the entire house from top to bottom,” Wells ordered.

The young officer, all too eager to get away from the studying eyes of his superior, followed his orders to the letter.

No one was found.

It was as if all six people on the investigation team led by Professor Holzer had disappeared. More victims of the mansion? Wells sincerely hoped not.

Pulling his phone out of his coat pocket, Wells made the familiar Manchester Call to his captain.

“Captain?” Wells stated, the tone of his voice always the same on these calls.

“Ah, shit!” the captain was heard saying. Wells thought he could hear his Captain’s hand hit his desk in frustration. “It’s Manchester House, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many?”

“Sir?”

“Bodies,” the captain explained. “How many bodies this time?”

“None.”

“None?”

There was a long pause. Neither wanted to break the silence.

“Captain?”

“Yeah! I’m here.”

“There are six people missing.”

“Missing?”

Wells turned uneasy. “Captain, I approved a team of paranormal investigators to investigate Manchester House about a week ago.”

“You did what?”

Wells squinted. The level of controlled anger and surprise in his captain’s voice guaranteed him at least to be on duty on all major holidays for the next ten years. The seasoned police officer prepared for the worst.

“I know a college professor, sir, quite capable of handling such things.”

“Well, obviously not Manchester House.”

Long pause.

“Sir, I think we need to send out another investigative team,” Wells suggested. “At least to be sure.”

The captain let out a tired exhale. “Damn. Six people, you say?”

“Yes sir,” Wells confirmed. “That is what the dean of the college said.”

“Christ, they were from the college?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why couldn’t it be a city college and not some damn Ivy League institution?”

“Sir, I will be here with one of my men waiting.”

The captain, it had sounded on the phone, slammed his fist on the desk once more as if preparing himself for another trip to another murder scene he didn’t really want to see.

“I’ll be there is about an hour.”

“I’ll send my man up to guide you through.”

“I know the way, Wells.”

“Yes sir.” Wells tried to explain. “Still, there’s a site of an abandoned car I think you and the CSI guys should see.”

The captain let out a tired grunt and hung up.

Wells remained frozen, listening to the familiar dial tone. Closing his phone, he instructed his man to walk back toward the road to wait for the investigation unit. This investigation, Wells had concluded, would not be a happy one.

“What did you find, Professor?” Wells asked himself, giving the empty halls of Manchester House a curious look. His eyes darted back toward the closed kitchen door. He couldn’t hear anything on the other side.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Wells opened the kitchen door and saw only dead rats in various stages of decay littering the floor. Nothing more.

There was movement out of the corner of his eye.

Wells tried to pay it no mind. Indeed he had seen the same thing every time he arrived at the mansion.

From the corner of his eye, Lt. Wells thought he had seen a teenage girl staring at him. He tried to pay it no mind.

The entire SOURCE team seemed to cower behind the towering figure of Ingrid Night who in his own right was just as terrified and uncertain as those who sought comfort from him.

The thundering sound of the oncoming monster, which all could now see approaching them, peered up and over the earthen mound, looking down into the eyes of the towering old man. Night dared not show any fear-which was what the beast wished to see.

“Ingrid, what the hell’s going on here?” Holzer finally asked, holding on tight to the light device that Miranda had handed him about an hour ago.

Night did not loosen his gaze on the oncoming form massing above them all.

“I had feared that he was here.”

“Who?” Holzer asked.

Night looked at his friend with a level of genuine fear Holzer had rarely seen in his friend’s eyes. “I dare not speak his name.”

Holzer left the moment alone, not wishing to press more information from his friend. He only stood there, watching the looming figure approach.

“Jonathon, we are witnessing a sight not seen since Adam and Eve left paradise.” Night’s face was practically beaming with excitement.

“Okay, someone get off their soap box and let the rest of us know what’s going on here?” Sinclair said, his voice shaking.

“I have chased this thing my whole life,” Night explained. “Always I have been too late. Always he has escaped me.” Night paused, laughing. “No wonder I could not track him down. He has been here all this time.”

“Ingrid,” Holzer asked, irritated, “who?”

Night almost spoke the name of the beast, but stopped just in time. Instead, he motioned Holzer toward him, whispering the monster’s name into his friend’s ear. Upon hearing the name, the college professor’s face turned an ashen white.

“Impossible,” Holzer said, almost in a whisper.

“It is true, my friend,” Night reassured.

“But he was destroyed eons ago,” Holzer challenged. “By the Druids, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Held in place by the dreams, desires, and prayers of a hundred forgotten gods, my friend.” Night opened up his conjure kit. He took out an oblong wooden box about seven inches in length and four inches in depth. “However, we have one thing on our side.”

“And what is that, Mr. Night?” Miranda asked. The British woman was doing her best to hide her terrified expression with a look of business-like fascination.

“Me, Miss Miranda,” Night said with no ego attached. “I know this son-of-a-bitch better than I know my mother. I know what annoys him.”

In her fear, Miranda started to wrap her arms around Sinclair’s waist.

“I would not do that,” Night warned, pointing a stern finger at Miranda. “Not in front of him. Not here.”

“Why not?” Miranda asked, insulted.

“He feeds on lust,” Night explained. “Although the two of you, Miss Miranda and Mr. Sinclair, appear to dislike each other, there is an underlying sexual tension that even I can feel when I am around the two of you.”

“What has that got to do with all of this?” Holzer asked.

“Everything, Jonathon,” said Night. “The beast works through our hidden desires, growing in both strength and evil power. By giving you what you secretly desire, or have felt, he can rise and become more powerful.”

“And that is why the Shape is so powerful?” Teresa added, stepping forward.

Night turned toward the psychic, giving her a look of pride. “Very good!”

Teresa gave Night a look of satisfaction.

“Imagine, if you can, the unwanted lust of a young woman wrongly used.” Night suggested, “What is lust if not another layer of wrath or revenge? These two spirits were made to complement each other. And as I had said, the Shape is the Ankou, or guardian, of this damned place.”