Manchester House (35 page)

The monster rolled on its back, trying desperately to rub off the oil that had been splashed upon its back and front rib cage. Two of the three heads made a point to stare down at both Night and Holzer as it continued to roar out in dire pain.

“Take that, you son-of-a-bitch!” Night yelled, waving a defiant fist in the air.

:YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED!:

Both men soon fell silent.

The voice seemed to echo from everywhere, but did not appear to be coming from any mouth belonging to the monster they had been fighting. It was as if an invisible god of some kind had been watching.

“Ingrid, what was that?” Holzer asked, raising his crossbow more for comfort than for defense.

Night tried to shoo the voice away by turning his attention back towards the agony of the monster. “We must attack it again.”

:YOU WILL ALL DIE!:

“Ah, Ingrid&” Holzer pointed up toward the beast, scared.

A small dust cloud started to rise up around the creature both Night and Holzer were battling. This monster whose name was so feared that Night could not utter it. Holzer clearly knew who the demon was, but following the wishes and directions of his seasoned friend, he respected the silence.

The dust cloud was a result of the creature’s movement of its bat-like wings. Leathery and torn full of holes, the wings were as scared as their owner was evil. Several times, the creature flapped them, stretching and showing its prowess.

It was what was below the wings that seemed to catch the fear of Holzer.

“What in the hell are those?” the college professor asked, pointing up toward the monster’s wings.

Under the demon’s wings, both Night and Holzer discovered several hundred tentacle-like appendages that seemed to dart outward and explore the surrounding world on their own. Like the fibers of a spider web, they surveyed their surroundings, aware of every single entity in their path. And like a spider web, very capable of holding onto their prey, doing their master’s will.

In trying to answer Holzer’s question, Night was momentarily taken aback. It was clear to anyone who observed the old man’s face that he was just as startled as anyone on the SOURCE team.

“I think, Jonathon, that is nothing but trouble.”

As if on cue, the demon was aware of Night’s apparent surprise and flung a tentacle at him. The speed of the beast was fantastic.

As the tentacle approached Night, he tried his best to avoid the appendage. However, as the tentacle approached, Night discovered that it was not deployed to attack. It was deployed to shame.

The tentacle knocked Night’s hat off his head.

Anger filled Ingrid Night’s eyes as he, embarrassed, tried to cover up his scarred and bald head. Very touchy was Night about his head. He had confessed to Holzer decades ago about how shamefully he had received the scars he tried to cover with his dark brim hat.

Night, standing still as a statue, glared up at the demon. The only strand of white hair he possessed dangled down into his eyes. Everyone in the group held their breath, not really knowing what would happen next.

“You knocked my hat off,” Night whispered, pointing a warning finger up at the demon.

The demon seemed to look down at Night upon hearing this remark and gave him a curious stare. Almost chuckling, the three heads of the demon talked amongst themselves, realizing that they had struck a personal chord with their attacker.

Night, on the other hand, did not find it amusing.

Closing his eyes, Night started to chant a spell under his breath. The air cooled around him. There was something in the dust under his feet that began to electrify and charge, causing a swirling dust cloud.

Night’s hat, which had only strayed about twelve feet from its owner, began to stir. Wobbling on its brim, the hat suddenly took flight into the air and automatically flew back into Night’s hand. Upon reaching its owner’s hand, the surrounding environment returned to normal-as normal as a parallel world of the undead can be.

Slowly Night placed his hat back upon his head. His eyes never left those of the demon’s.

The demon was heard chuckling.

“You knocked my hat off,” Night repeated. He raised a warning finger. “Now I take that very personally.”

There was a moment when all participants were remarkably calm.

It was the calm before the storm.

A sudden flash of discomfort could be seen on the three faces of the monster. In its pain, all noticed several wounds opening up on its huge body. Blood started to ooze out of the wounds, giving both Night and Holzer the courage to continue their war.

“Quick, Jonathon,” Night ordered, throwing Holzer the crystal vial they had used before. “Reload your weapon. The beast is weakening!”

Both men reloaded and fired their weapons in less than a minute. Night was somewhat amused at the fact that his friend could handle his crossbow so proficiently.

“You have learned well, my friend,” Night was heard saying.

Both men waited for a response from the creature and were not disappointed. As the second wave of the attack hit the creature, the tentacles started to attack both Night and Holzer. Holzer was horrified to discover that the tentacles had a mouth-like opening and razor-sharp teeth inside each of them.

Night warned Holzer, “Do not allow one of those things to attach itself to you, Jonathon!”

“What are they?” Holzer asked, taking out a small pocket knife for protection.

“If they attach, you will become one with the beast.”

Upon hearing that advice, Holzer could feel a tentacle nibbling away at his collar. The thing was trying to do just what Night had warned against. It was trying to attach itself to Holzer’s neck.

In disgust, Holzer took hold of the slimy octopus-like thing and sank his knife’s blade into it.

“Good hit!” Night responded, firing yet another volley at the creature with his crossbow.

The demon was starting to bounce up and down, giving both attackers the idea that they were winning the first round. However, both men and their investigative team soon paused.

The sky started to rip open.

Blood started to fall down upon Night and the SOURCE team as if it were a spring rain.

* * *

“Grab a recorder!” Miranda shouted as she dragged Teresa back down into the foxhole Sinclair had dug for them.

“What?” Sinclair asked, trying to rub the dripping blood off his forearms.

“This is the greatest event in the world of parapsychology,” Miranda shouted, “and I’m not going to miss this opportunity to at least record something.”

Sinclair knew there was no use fighting with his colleague, so he did as he was instructed.

“You all right, Teresa?” Miranda asked.

Teresa was shaking. She had been doing so ever since she had tried to make contact with the demon. There was nothing there for the psychic to contact. No mind as she knew it. No motivation. Nothing. This was a totally new area of the mind. An area that Teresa knew nothing about. And that frightened her.

“Nothing,” Teresa whispered.

“What, dear?” Miranda asked, handing Sinclair an EMF reader she had put together, hoping that the damn thing would work.

“I sense¬hing,” Teresa mumbled. She shook one last time and then passed out.

Sinclair dropped his EMF reader and tried to take Teresa’s pulse. “Oh, Miranda, she’s out cold.”

“Good. Now she can rest.”

Both Miranda and Sinclair prepared to take notes and study the phenomena in front of them.

Neither one saw that they were no longer alone.

High above the foxhole the Shape, now fully restored to her earthly beauty and spiritual evil, glared down at them with a vengeance.

Lt. Wells and his two young officers could hear the wave of police cars approaching the front lot of Manchester House. A “fleet” of police cars, in a small town such as Atchison, numbered about four. If this same event had happened in Topeka or Kansas City, Wells would have at least fifteen cars and thirty officers at his disposal. But this was a small town, and at the moment Wells was investigating a touchy case in a touchy part of town.

“Oh, God,” Wells whispered.

Stepping out of the first squad car to park in front of Manchester House was Wells’ captain.

The man didn’t look at all happy to be pulled away from his family dinner in his Sunday best suit just to hobnob around the town’s haunted house. The captain hated this mansion as much as Wells did. The only difference was that Wells wasn’t trying to retire and become mayor.

“Spread out!” the captain barked, silently pointing around the house. “If we’re here, we might as well do this by the numbers.”

Chewing on a cigar, the captain walked up the steps to the front porch of the mansion, glaring Wells in the eye.

Wells knew that he was in trouble.

“Captain.”

“Wells, I’m getting sick and tired of being called at odd hours by you about this house. How many body bags will it take to shut you up?”

Wells let out a heavy sigh. “Captain, there’s only one way to stop all of this.”

“Fire you?” The captain tiredly chuckled.

“No,” Wells insisted, surrendering. “But I will not stop that action if it is your wish.”

“No.” The captain waved his hands. “I’m just letting off some steam. You’re a good man, Wells. Just a pain in the ass.”

“Yes sir.”

The captain meekly looked inside Manchester House, not really wanting to go inside. “What’s the story this time? Were you able to find the investigation team?”

“No sir.”

There was a certain tone to Wells’ voice which caused his captain to study the man. Chewing on his cigar, switching it from side to side in his mouth, the police officer started to notice the uneasiness in Wells’ features.

“You okay, Wells?”

“Captain, I know the man in charge of this team.” Wells paused. “My daughter was in his class.”

“This time, you mean, it’s personal. Right?”

“Yes,” Wells confirmed.

The captain patted Wells on the shoulder. “Son, if this piece of shit house is in any way responsible, I personally will sign the papers to have it bulldozed to the ground.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that, Captain.”

Finally lighting his cigar, the captain gave Wells a hard and long look. “Why not?” he asked, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke. Absently, he put out the wooden match in his hand, flinging it to the ground. Wells made a mental note as to where the match landed, so that he could warn the surrounding police officers about not picking it up as evidence.

“Let’s go inside then,” the captain stated, preparing himself for yet another unpleasant encounter.

All but two officers went inside the mansion.

* * *

Upon entering Manchester House, one of the younger officers lost his nerve, not to mention his last meal. Grabbing his mouth in surprise, the police officer failed to stop himself in time, allowing a fountain of digesting food and stomach fluid to splash all over his shoes.

The captain and Wells looked away from the painfully embarrassed young man, understanding what he was going through. Many a time, both Wells and the captain had hidden behind a door or two inside this house doing what they could to save face.

“You okay, son?” the captain asked, patting the young officer on the back.

“Sir,” the officer said, wiping his mouth.

The stench coming up from the pool of vomit was starting to get to everyone’s nostrils. Whatever the young officer had eaten hours before was coming back for revenge.

Completely recovered, the young officer grabbed his flashlight and started to investigate the house.

“We got ourselves the future Chief of Police here!” The captain chuckled.

All laughed, including the embarrassed officer.

There was a stirring noise coming from behind the kitchen door.

“What was that?” Wells asked.

Again, a scratching sound brought everyone’s attention towards the closed kitchen door.

A light suddenly clicked on, showing the officers a stream of activity from behind the door.

Wells pulled out his gun.

“I thought you said that the power had been turned off?” the captain asked. He had his pistol aimed and was pulling back on the hammer.

“Been turned off for years, sir.”

The captain motioned towards the door. “Then what’s all this?”

“I don’t know, sir.” The fear in Wells’ voice was obvious.

The captain let out a frustrating moan. “I hate this shit!”

Everyone, with pistols drawn, slowly headed toward the kitchen door.

A shadow trotted across the bottom of the door, casting a reflection on the visible light. Someone, or something, was in the kitchen.

“Professor?” Wells asked slowly.

No response.

The figure behind the door was aware of the police officers addressing it on the other side. This fact was abundantly clear because each time someone moved, coughed, or talked, the shadow reacted and moved accordingly.

Both Wells and his captain looked at each other, hoping that they could guess their next actions by reading the other’s face.

Without warning or further action from the police officers, the kitchen door flung open. The rays of light coming from the kitchen momentarily blinded all.

In the doorway stood the Shape.

Wells blinked, fighting the brightness of the kitchen lights. It still freaked him out to see the lights on. In all his time investigating the murders, he never had the comfort of electric light-he had always been there during the day.

Lowering his hand, adjusting to the light, he saw a little girl looking up at him from the threshold of the kitchen door. For a brief moment, he thought he saw something looming inside the kitchen, standing just behind her. Tentacle-like. Demonic in nature. Then it was gone.

Wells chalked it up to fatigue.

“Are you all right, miss?”

Wells noticed that the officer who asked this strange young girl the question was the unfortunate man who had gotten sick minutes before. The police officer took his flashlight and shined it in the young girl’s eyes.

“Sweet Jesus!” Wells heard his captain yell, clearly frightened.