Manchester House (34 page)

“How do we stop him?” Sinclair asked, holding onto Miranda.

There was a long pause.

“I know of ways to repel,” Night explained.

“But how do we stop him?” Holzer asked, determined.

“I do not know, Jonathon,” Night stated, embarrassed. “He is one of the original demons of hell. He was there in Eden with the angels and God. You cannot stop a power such as this so easily.”

“But why Atchison, Kansas?” the college professor asked.

“Perhaps it has something to do with the land’s history.”

“Or the Lancelot-Pool ley lines?”

“Perhaps,” Night accepted, “But we must prepare for battle. He will be here soon.”

All in the group gave Night a crazed look.

“Should we leave?” Holzer asked.

“And go where?” Night shook his head. “We are trapped here in this world until we either overcome this evil or command it to allow us to leave.” Night laughed ironically. “That will take more than asking the fucking thing ‘pretty please’.”

Sinclair tiredly laughed at Night’s dry humor.

The skies above the SOURCE team started to fill with imposing storm clouds. All eyes turned skyward. There was a feeling of being watched and controlled humbling one’s own sense of security. A foul smell permeated the air, giving off an aroma of death and decay.

“The beast comes!” Night warned, his voice filling with fear.

Holzer pointed toward the oblong wooden box Night had taken out of his kit. “Ingrid, what have you got there?”

Night held the box up for all in the group to see. “This is our get out of jail card. When the time comes, it could be our only hope.”

“Will it work?” Miranda asked, her eyes frozen on the impending cloud opening up before them.

Night paused. “I don’t know.”

“What!” the members of the SOURCE team said almost in unison.

Night made a helpless gesture. “I’ve never fought this entity in battle before. I’m going on training alone.”

“Ahh!” Sinclair said in frustration.

The cloud above them started to thin and dissipate. A towering, hairy, inhuman figure started to appear before them.

Holzer turned away from the incredible sight, realizing that they had all momentarily lost sight of the Shape.

“Where’s the girl?” the professor asked.

At their feet was a human-shaped hole in the earth, empty, where once there had been the defeated corpse of the Shape. Now, only well-fed worms and insects looked up at them, resting in the deep hole the Shape had almost been buried in with Night’s prayers and magic.

“She has been saved by the evil forces which control her, Jonathon,” Night decided “Pay her no mind, for she will return. I’m counting on it.”

Holzer noticed a certain turn of Night’s smile which always had seemed to iterate that his mysterious friend had a master plan in store for the unfortunate foe who faced him. Knowing Night the way he did, Holzer relaxed, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.

“Behold!” Night said, pointing a shaking finger toward the powerful influence of Manchester House.

As the massive cloud above them all started to dissipate, Holzer got a chance to see the evil behind the legend of Manchester House. And as Night and he exchanged glances as to what they were witnessing, it was quite obvious to Night that the college professor had no words for what his eyes were showing him.

“Dear God!”

“Precisely, dear friend,” Night said, tipping his hat.

The beast was horrid. If ever there were an earthly word for it, it was horrid.

The smell of death was everywhere. And still there lingered in the air a distinctive after-smell which all knowing adults could relate too. The air smelled of lust. Pure and simple lust. Lust brought on by half-planned sex and unwashed sheets. Death and sex. Both seemed to be the calling card of the demon the team was facing.

The demon in question towered above the SOURCE team, looking more like a bear than a demon. It had three huge heads facing in different directions. One head appeared to be that of a man. The man appeared Neanderthal in nature, but clearly the first head was that of a man. His hungry eyes bugged outward, gazing and coveting all in their sight. His face was hungry and bored, his mouth a filth of sloth and decay.

The next head, the one hanging down to the left, was that of a bull. A prize farmer would have been envious of the head the members of the investigation team were looking at. For it was the most magnificent specimen of bull breeding ever shown upon the earth. Its only drawback: the nose of the bull would not stop dripping. Thick nasal liquid poured out of the head’s openings, giving the proud bull the look of a creature suffering from a sickness.

The last and clearly most horrid head was that of an ogre. Gorging himself with the rotted corpses of the earthen mound at his cock-like feet, his scales, hair, and bat-like wings took up the remainder of the demon’s body. All together, it was about the size of a battle tank.

Clearly it would take more than Ingrid Night to stop him.

“Demon who sits at the left hand of Satan,” Night started to pray.

Someone forgot to tell that little fact to Ingrid Night.

* * *

Holzer, dumbfounded, looked down at the crossbow weapon Night had suddenly thrust into his hands, and for a minute questioned the sanity of his warrior friend.

“Ingrid,” Holzer asked, shifting the crossbow from hand to hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I need your help, Jonathon,” Night explained. “Your&zeal.”

“My zeal?”

“Yes.” Night paused, exhaling deeply. “You are a passionate man, sir. This job requires passion.”

“But I don’t&”

“You will learn!” Night barked.

Holzer absently started to inspect his weapon. Finding the opening where he had seen Night pour his blessed oils in, the professor looked meekly up at his friend, waiting. Night nodded his head with understanding.

Night produced the oblong wooden box he had taken from his kit. Opening it, both men’s senses were suddenly hit by the strong smell of rotting fish.

“What is that stuff, Ingrid?” Holzer asked, waving his hand in the air.

“The only thing recorded in the world of man that can stop this thing, Jonathon,” Night said. He picked up a fragile crystal flask containing a mercury-like substance which did reek of the smell of rotted fish. He poured some of the oil in both crossbows.

“What is it?”

“I do not know,” Night explained.

Holzer returned the comment with a blank stare.

“It is said,” Night tried to explain, keeping a watchful eye on the demon which was calmly staring down at his five visitors, “that the flesh of a fish known only to the angels of heaven can destroy him.”

Miranda, stepping forward from the crowd, said, “May I examine the liquid?”

Night gave the woman a startled look.

“Do you object?” Miranda asked, surprised.

“No,” Night clarified. “I just do not remember reading anywhere of a woman being allowed to touch this substance. I honestly do not know if you can.”

Miranda let out a tired exhale of frustration. She grabbed the container, gently taking it from Night’s hand. The old man cautiously waited for a reaction. When there was none, he relaxed briefly.

“The last thing I need to hear right now are the chauvinist renderings of an antique god,” Miranda huffed. She raised the liquid into what light there was and tried to peer through it. “Appears to be mercury.” She sniffed the air. “Smells like fish. Mercury has no apparent smell, though. May I have a sample for later study?”

“No!” Night huffed.

Miranda gave Night another insulting stare. “Mr. Night, I am a scientist.”

“It is not that, my dear,” Night stated, holding up his hands in gentle surrender. “The flask was given to my order on a sacred trust. By my life, I will not break it.”

Holzer and Miranda exchanged glances. The college professor was trying his best to calm Miranda down. Miranda, however, didn’t really need the coaxing. She seemed to understand, and quietly handed the flask back to its owner.

“I mean no disrespect,” Night said, placing the flask back into its wooden box.

“None taken.”

Miranda returned to Teresa and Sinclair. All three seemed to be readying themselves for the upcoming battle; they had dug a tiny foxhole to hide in.

* * *

Ingrid Night prepared everything, purifying his body with the powers of old prayers. Wrapping his black coat with yet another dark cloak, the tall old man appeared to look like an ancient knight ready for battle. He noticed a look of amusement coming from his dear friend. Holzer soon noticed the ancient Hebrew letters written on the back of the long cloak.

“You are curious about something, old friend?” Night asked, adjusting the cloak’s ties.

“The prayers you have been saying&” Holzer said, his voice trailing off.

“Yes?” Night could hear the fear in Holzer’s voice and paid it close attention.

“You are saying prayers for the dead,” Holzer said. “Are you not?”

Night gave Holzer an impressed look. “Ah! You know your Hebrew. Good!”

“Ingrid,” Holzer said, irritated, “you are saying the prayers of the dead.”

“So?”

“So! We are not dead yet.”

“Not yet, my friend,” Night whispered. “Not yet.”

Holzer looked up nervously at the beast towering over them and soon noticed that one of the heads was studying him. Its eyes were glazing over, trying their best to see past the humanity that was Jonathon Holzer, to see if it could discover the secrets that were Jonathon Holzer. Holzer was certain that the demon was aware of his dreams, his fears, and his secret desires, and the very thought of that terrified him even more. As if on cue, realizing that Holzer was aware of his studying him, the beast started to let out a sick giggle.

“Do not fear it so, Jonathon,” Night pleaded, reaching into his conjure kit.

“It draws me toward it.”

“Of course it does,” Night accepted. “It has been drawing men in since the Garden of Eden.”

“Eden?”

“Yes. It was there.” Night explained. “Who else do you think dared Eve to bite of the forbidden fruit?”

Holzer, both surprised and horrified, pointed a finger up at the beast as if to ask, “Was it this thing here?”

“Yes!” Night said, “See what we face?”

Holzer stared back up at the demon with a greater awe. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed that all three heads were now looking at him and Night. None of the faces of the beast looked friendly.

Night handed Holzer an icon to wear around his neck.

“Put this on.” Night ordered.

“What is it?”

“Something that will keep you alive.”

Holzer did not question. He put the icon on over his neck, allowing the silver medallion to hang just over his heart. On the silver icon, Holzer noticed the Hebrew symbol for life.

The demon started to chant.

* * *

The survival instincts Sinclair had learned while filming in the Iraqi desert and Vietnam and several other cursed places upon the earth started to take over. Upon seeing the horrid monster appear above them, the cameraman started digging a foxhole. Upon seeing how huge this demon was, however, Sinclair knew that to hide in a hole in the ground would be a futile effort at best. Still, he couldn’t stand around and do nothing.

He ordered the two women to help him dig, giving both a sharp flat rock to do it with. Within thirty minutes, all three had dug a hole about six feet deep and five feet in circumference.

“Is this thing going to help us?” Teresa asked, huffing, trying to catch her breath.

Sinclair peeked over the dirt wall, noticing that both Holzer and Night were slowly walking toward the base of the towering beast.

“I hope so, dear,” Sinclair stated. “We will need something soon. The doc and Night appear to be readying their attack.”

Miranda took it hard. She couldn’t seem to bring herself to accept the fact that they were hiding in a hole from a creature best left to fantasy.

“What now?” Teresa asked.

“We wait.”

Teresa started to peek out the top of the foxhole, doing her best to cure the curiosity she was having, but to no avail. There was something pulling at her special awareness. Something ancient, something very powerful.

“I wonder what this thing really wants,” Teresa asked.

“It wants to eat you,” Sinclair said rather sarcastically.

“I think that I can reach it.”

“What?” Miranda and Sinclair blurted out almost in unison.

Teresa rose from the foxhole, raising her arms.

“I’m going to try.”

Both Sinclair and Miranda did their best to pull Teresa back into the foxhole.

* * *

“Get ready to fire, Jonathon,” Night ordered, raising his crossbow to his right eye. The old man took aim and started to hold his breath.

Holzer brought his crossbow up to his face, aiming. By his body actions, Night could see that the college professor was confused.

“Aim for a vital organ,” Night tried to suggest, pulling back on the firing mechanism of his weapon.

“Where is a vital organ?” Holzer asked in controlled panic.

“Guess!” Night shouted.

Both men turned silent, aiming.

The demon started to chant in a language that neither man could bring himself to understand. At first, the chant seemed harmless enough; however, after a few seconds the area around the SOURCE team started to fill with a thick fog. So thick was the fog that it was becoming impossible for Night and Holzer to see where they were aiming.

“It won’t be that simple,” Night shouted up at the demon, almost challenging the monster to continue with its unholy magic.

The demon started to chuckle.

Both Night and Holzer pulled their triggers almost at the same time.

With two loud whips of ignition, both crossbows fired a stream of mercury-like substance toward the giant beast. As soon as the liquid made contact with the demon’s flesh, it cried out in an agonizing pain.

“A hit!” Night shouted, laughing. In his excitement, he rushed over toward Holzer, who could only look up at the screaming monster in awe, and slapped his friend on the back with boyish glee.