Manchester House (16 page)

“Thank you&” Holzer tried to say.

“But!” Night barked, interrupting. “You do not think! That has always been your problem. You need to think the way that I do. Evil cannot be explained. It cannot be tamed like a dog in the wild. It only wishes to feed off of you and to destroy who you are. If it does this, it extinguishes a great light of good. That is what this house wants to do. You see that, do you not?”

Holzer went through all the facts he knew about Manchester House. The various killings, disappearances, the several missing children that the area had been plagued with over the decades, the rise in crime in a rather sleepy town, the insanity that came from being lost in the woods. The cases he had studied of the home’s past owners. All these seemed to back up what Night was trying to explain.

“Ingrid,” Holzer stated, looking at his friend hard, “I agree with what you are staying…”

“But?” Night said, smiling.

“But we founded SOURCE because we both knew that good also has many different levels. Many different means of attacking evil and the forces of darkness that plague our society. My approach is no more right or wrong than yours.” Holzer paused, diligent in his thoughts but cautious in his actions. “So please keep your thoughts about my scientific analysis to yourself. We have a damn job to do.”

Night looked into Holzer’s eyes for a long time, never moving and never saying a word. With the same conviction, Holzer stared back.

“You are right, my friend.” Night’s features softened. “I ask for forgiveness. I was trained by a very wise but old-fashioned teacher. We see things differently, but we are the same in our goals. Join me, and together let’s go kick some ass.”

Holzer couldn’t help but let out a tired laugh.

Both men shook hands.

The house turned still.

All eyes darted around, noticing the glow from the tarps diminishing.

“The beast is with us, Jonathon,” Night said, picking up his book, opening it to a marked page. “Join your friends. Stay away from the circle. Mind where you step. These symbols on the floor, I fear, will be needed by all of us tonight.”

The Shape soon appeared.

At the top of the main staircase, looking timid, fragile, and scared, the tiny image of the teen-aged girl glared down at the team through the thick matting of the black hair that hung over her face.

Night looked up at her.

:LEAVE&.HERE&.NOW.:

The threat seemed to come from everywhere. But all who heard it knew that it came from the Shape. Although her lips never moved, it was she who uttered the warning.

“I think not, my friend,” Night stated. “You see, I have traveled far and I take that personally.”

Several of the plastic tarps started to drip with ooze that resembled blood.

“Nice parlor trick,” Night commented, his face turning hard. “But I am serious.”

From the corner of his eye, Night saw Sinclair move forward, peering through the eyepiece of his camera, paying little attention toward anything but what he was filming. Night tiredly huffed out a loud sigh-the cameraman had no idea of the danger he was in.

“Boy, this is so great,” Sinclair stated, focusing the lens on the camera. Most new camera guys always relied on their camera’s computer to auto focus-not him. Auto focus was for wimps. “Jeez, this is good.”

“Mr. Sinclair!” Night yelled, pointing a warning finger at the young cameraman. “Do not go any further. I warn you, boy!”

Sinclair was too involved to listen.

The Shape turned her attentions toward Sinclair and his camera.

Sinclair could see the white, dead eyes of the Shape peer down at him from the top of the main staircase. He wondered why the girl favored the stairs when she made her presence known. The ghost could be seen in the basement, the front yard, and anywhere else one could think of, but when in a state of confrontation, the Shape always seemed to prefer the stairs. Or was it just his imagination? He had a habit of always formulating a plan, action, or idea half-cocked.

In any case, the stare of hatred caused Sinclair to pause.

His right foot had come to rest on the bottom step.

Sinclair had crossed the line of no return.

The Shape started to moan. Moving from side to side. Chanting.

“Holy Father!” Night said, flipping through his leather-bound book.

“What?” Sinclair asked, turning his camera from Night to the Shape repeatedly. “What did I do?”

“Get the hell away from the stairs!” Miranda yelled, terror clearly on her face.

The house turned deathly still.

Only the sounds of the Shape chanting softly and the rustling of plastic could be heard.

Also the responsive chants by Night.

“Sinclair,” Holzer whispered, “please, while you can, stop filming and back away from the stairs.”

Sinclair mockingly laughed. He turned his camera toward the Shape. “Not to worry, Doc. I’ve been through worse.”

The Shape’s eyes turned hard. Looking away from her chanting, she momentarily stopped her swaying, pointing a bony finger down at Sinclair and his camera.

:Die!:

Sinclair stopped. Frozen.

“Sinclair?” Miranda asked, her voice trembling.

Night momentarily looked up from his chanting, flipping a page of his book. He looked at Holzer, shaking his head. This was going to be a tough one.

“Doc, I can’t move,” Sinclair finally said. His voice was shaking.

Every muscle in Sinclair’s body seemed to be controlled by another force other than his brain. Try as he might, the cameraman couldn’t move. And once he discovered that he couldn’t move, he started to freak out. Without wishing to, he stopped filming, turned off his camera, and tossed it across the room.

The camera smashed into thousands of pieces.

There would be no more filming.

The Shape continued her chanting. She started to slightly move her finger, causing the house to grumble with power.

Sinclair’s eyes began to water. His head started to throb with pain. Blood dripped from his nose. The last thing Sinclair heard before his passed out was Miranda screaming.

“Stop!” Night yelled. He crouched down into his blessed circle, clearing his throat. “It’s impolite to avoid your attacker.”

The Shape turned toward Night, dropping Sinclair like a puppet.

“Get him!” Holzer ordered.

Night noticed Holzer rush toward Sinclair as he and the two women dragged the cameraman to safety. Sinclair was knocked out, but even from the distance he was away from the fool, Night could see that the man was still alive.

“We have business, you and I,” Night said.

The Shape stepped forward, chanting louder.

Night tried to hear what the evil was saying but could not make out the words. “The hand of the prophet stands strong, knowing that the light of good is behind its actions. Be gone! Unclean ghost of sorrow. Be gone! Specter of pain. I stand here, a soldier of the eternal, drawing a line in the sand. A line that you shall never pass.”

wNight, his eyes turning hard, closed his book with a loud thud.

“Lars!” he shouted.

Lars, approaching his master, brought him the remaining flask of oil. Taking it, thanking his friend silently, Night started splashing the blessed liquid at the Shape.

:Nooooooooo!: The Shape started to cry.

Night rose to his feet, meekly putting out his right hand. He stood there waiting. Like a combat soldier, Lars reached into Night’s conjure kit, handing his master a tiny device. Clicking it open, inspecting it, Night appeared to be holding a weapon which looked to be part shotgun and part crossbow. Made of iron, silver, and oak, it looked more from the seventeenth century than the current one. Ancient writings seemed to be carved all over the wood, matching the writing and symbols Holzer and Night had discovered from before.

Round One was over.

It was now time to get down to serious business.

Holzer looked on with an almost jealous admiration. Ingrid Night seemed unaffected by the serious events and phenomena that he was facing. There was nothing in Night’s world but the successful goal of completion. Holzer honestly knew that if faced with similar circumstances on his own, his doubts would have destroyed him. So it was that the college professor stood looking at Night, gawking like an ignorant street urchin, not knowing what to expect next.

There was a deep friendship between both Holzer and Night which was stronger than brotherhood. There was also a dark secret and an unknown hurt that kept them from fully embracing total fellowship. Night hated evil and fought it toe to toe whenever possible. But Holzer knew that there was something that Night hated worse than the evil he tried to destroy-himself.

Night was born from evil, and that was why he fought it so seriously.

Night’s parents were from Germany, but his mother was Jewish. And being Jewish in Adolf Hitler’s Germany was not an ideal situation. His mother had been sent to a concentration camp-Holzer could never get Night to tell him which one. All he could ever get Night to say was that his mother was cursed with great beauty. A beauty that caught the eye of the camp’s commanding officer.

So in order to keep herself from the ovens, his mother had to give up her body. The camp’s commanding officer took his time raping Night’s mother, enjoying every inch of her body-taking what he could take and, by Nazi edict, forcing the rest.

Two months after D-Day, Night’s mother learned that she was pregnant-with him. After his birth, his mother was sent to the ovens anyway. How he survived even Night could not say. All Night would say was that years after the war, he hunted his Nazi father down and killed the bastard with his own hands. Holzer, when visiting Night’s home in the Himalayas, would always look up on his friend’s mantle-Night kept his father’s testicles preserved in a jar.

Hatred. That is what motivated Ingrid Night. Not bravery. Not God. Only hatred.

“Oh, my head.”

Holzer turned from his friend and noticed that Sinclair was awake, rubbing his head. The two women were pampering the cameraman, making him look at them with an honest wave of confusion.

“Are you all right?” Holzer finally asked, kneeling down to look into Sinclair’s eyes. “I was worried about you out there.”

Sinclair laughed dryly. “Don’t worry about me, Doc. I’m the Energizer Bunny. I keep going and going.”

Miranda took a wet cloth and applied it to Sinclair’s head. Holzer was surprised to see that the woman was crying.

“You stupid twit,” Miranda said. “Look where you are stepping next time.”

Sinclair, serious, took hold of Miranda’s chin gently and raised her face to meet his. He was startled by her pure emotions and did not know what to say. Miranda, realizing that her feelings for the cameraman had come to the surface, fumbled her hands around, doing her best not to make eye contact with Sinclair.

“What about that, Doc?” Sinclair asked, motioning toward Miranda. Holzer was amused by his look of bewilderment.

“I’d say that you are a very lucky man,” Holzer said, getting back up on his feet. “And a fool if you do not follow through.”

“Huh?”

Sinclair sat on a dirty patch of rotted carpet, blankly looking up at Miranda, who handed him the cloth she had been using to wipe off his forehead and two aspirins. The cameraman was too speechless to respond. He had to blink his eyes in astonishment-Miranda was looking at him lovingly trying her best not to.

Holzer smiled, knowing all along that sooner or later this would have to happen on his team. And like a worrying father he both approved and wished that it had never happened. Life was indeed funny in an ironic way-we usually got what we tried to avoid.

“Jonathon,” Night said, finally breaking out of his own chanting.

“Yes?”

Night pointed up at the head of the main stairs.

Holzer followed his friend’s lead, noticing the stairs.

The Shape was gone.

“Have you won, then?” Holzer asked.

Night turned, looking over his left shoulder into Holzer’s eyes. The level of disgust in them, was enough to inform Holzer that he had asked the wrong question.

“Certainly not!” Night rumbled. “This is just the end of the first volley.”

“What now?”

Night smiled. “We wait.” He paused, looking at Holzer’s team. “If you wish, this would be the opportune time to start setting up your scientific equipment. This battle would indeed be an important log for the SOURCE Organization, would it not?”

Holzer silently agreed.

Night nodded with fatherly approval.

“Right, team,” Holzer said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get set up.”

“What?” Miranda asked, her mouth dropping open. “Are you mad?”

“We are here for a reason, people,” Holzer barked. “Let’s do what we are trained to do. Like Mr. Night here, we have a job. It’s time we joined him and started doing it.”

Meekly, all agreed. In unity, however, most wanted to go home.

“Let’s not give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing what we look like while running away,” Holzer softly said, understanding their hesitation.

One by one, the team gathered up their equipment and went straight to work.

Holzer was pleased to hear that Sinclair was okay. Even more pleased to hear that the memory chip from the camera was salvageable-they still had their footage.

* * *

Six hours passed without incident.

Then, by various degrees, the instruments set up by Holzer and his team began to click to life. Darting from their sleep, for all were exhausted, the SOURCE team went to work.

“What have we got here, people?” Holzer asked, reaching for his micro-recorder.

“Ozone level has doubled, Professor,” Teresa said, reading the instruments in front of her.

“Ionic residue is also in the air,” Miranda added.

“Ah, Professor,” Sinclair said, pointing toward the EMR detector. “This here thingy’s blinking very rapidly. Could mean something.”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair,” Holzer said, nodding his head in agreement. “It means something.”

Night had not moved from his circle. He just stood there, looking out into the mansion’s darkness, peering, as if waiting for something to spring out at him. Was he right? Was Night waiting for something to attack?