The captain rushed down the stairs and headed for the front doors. He never looked Wells in the eye. Wells was doing all that he could to keep the look of astonishment off his face. The captain had always been a man of great integrity. Never was he known for faking a report. Still, here at the scene of a murder, the captain was telling Wells to lie on the cause of death just to ease the caseload.
As quick as he could, the captain left. Wells was alone.
"What the hell was that all about?" he finally asked himself.
Wells continued his trek through the house, venturing toward the basement door. He'd dragged several bodies out of this house from the basement. Shaking off a cold shiver, he started to twist the doorknob.
The knob would not budge. The door was locked.
"Anyone check the basement?" Wells shouted.
"Locked," someone answered.
"Hmm..."
He pulled hard at the door, hoping that it would open with brute strength. Nothing happened. The door was soundly locked.
The sound of rustling plastic could be heard on the other side of the basement door. Someone, by the sound of it, was moving around down in the basement. Or that was what Wells thought he heard.
Wells placed his ear to the door, concentrating.
The detective could hear a faint scratching sound as if someone, although very weak, was scratching the other side of the door. Of this Wells was certain. He remembered one case-the victim fell down the steps, breaking both legs. Alone, the victim had climbed up the staircase and had started scratching away at the door, and had done so until he died. When discovered, Wells found fingernails embedded on the other side of the door. And dear God! The smell of rot. The man was horrid-looking.
Placing his hand to his mouth, the detective moved away from the door.
* * *
Back in his office, with only a few other police officers straggling behind him, Wells started to work on his case file. It was hard for him to follow his captain's orders, but what was he to do? He was too damn old to look for another job and too set in his ways to start kissing ass if he did. The only alternative was to use an outsider.
Wells picked up his phone, dialing a phone number given to him by his daughter. He remembered what she had told him. "Dad, if ever you come across anything abnormal, or anything that needs explaining outside of normal science, give this man a call."
Wells studied the business card his daughter had given to him. He'd had it for five years, thinking that he would never have to use it. Now, he was in a position where he had to, for Mallia's sake.
Professor Jonathon L. Holzer, Ph.D.
Department of Parapsychology
The S.O.U.R.C.E. Institute, Ltd.
1-888-4-SOURCE
Wells dialed the number.
The phone rang at least twelve times before someone picked it up on the other end.
"Hello?" a tired voice answered.
"Professor Holzer?" Wells waited, momentarily allowing the silence to ring out. It was always an awkward instance, when a stranger awoke another in the middle of the night. "You probably do not remember me. My name's Albert Wells. My daughter took a class of yours&"
Suddenly there was a great presence of excited energy on the other end of the phone. "Yes, of course!" Holzer exclaimed, fully awake now. "What can I do for you? If memory serves; you are a police detective&correct?"
Wells had to smile with admiration. His daughter was right. Holzer was a walking steel trap-he never forgot a name.
"That's correct, Professor." Wells said, "To make a long story short, sir, I am offering you a chance to investigate Manchester House. Here, in the city of Atchison. Are you interested?"
There was a long, if not cautious, pause on the phone. However, Wells was as great a reader of human emotions and actions as Holzer was a sponge of knowledge. The Atchison detective could sense that the professor was holding his cards close to his vest, hoping not to tip his excitement too much.
"I'll assemble a small team and be there ASAP, detective," Holzer finally allowed himself to state. "Expect me after a few days."
Now came the gauntlet.
"Professor," Wells stated, tightly grabbing onto the telephone's receiver. "I warn you that no one on the Town Council or Police Department will be able to offer any help. In fact, they have no idea that I'm doing this, sir. You will, by all accounts, be on your own."
"I understand, Mr. Wells," Holzer confirmed. "I understand."
The two men continued their talking. Holzer was cordial and proud of the fact that Wells' daughter was now attending George Washington University, obtaining a degree in the biological sciences. This, Wells stated, was due in no small part to Holzer's influence. After an hour, both men said their good-byes and hung up. Holzer was to investigate the opportunity of a lifetime; Wells to help solve an unlovable caseload.
Alone, fighting the silence of his office, Wells turned his attentions toward Mallia's journal.
The soiled book was nothing to look at. The kind of artificially bound, leather-looking scrapbook one would find at any ordinary bookstore. The pages appeared to have been well read, and had been wet at one time or another. This was obvious by the uneven way the pages had set in the boundaries of the book itself. Upon opening the journal, Wells' senses were bombarded by the aroma of mildew.
Mallia was a prolific writer, talking in a wide range of subjects. Mostly he centered on Manchester House.
Wells started to take it all in, reading.
Saturday, October 15&.
I have finally confronted a form in the house. SHE is here. In my research, I have come across a very interesting fact: William Manchester, the famous railroad tycoon of the late nineteenth century, once asked a young girl to travel from Boston to be his wife. It was a common practice of the day. At the National Archives in Washington DC, I was able to obtain a "Wife Contract" that was drawn up between Mr. Manchester and this woman-her name was lost on the paper, and to history. There is some loose proof that she arrived in Atchison to take her place at Mr. Manchester's side, but little else. Years later, when asked, William Manchester knew nothing of the matter-to him it never happened. Was this figure, this specter, Manchester House's lost bride? She seems to be at the focus of the images I have already encountered and fought in my time as owner of this great house.
Since my birth, I have always had the power of foresight. My grandmother used to say that I was a "Ghost Seer." An earthbound soul who had the power to grant lost souls rest. I will try to break through, using what abilities I have, to help put her to rest.
The Wedding Bells are ringing for the house's "lost bride" and I will help bring her home&.
Tuesday, October 18&
Bad business here. I am starting to see demons coming from the walls. I fear that my ignorant intrusion into all this activity has angered an evil power filled with a need to inflict its revenge upon the world of man. I will have to stop her.
I hear her coming up the stairs. The stairs are her domain. Do not go in the basement. Must stay up in the light. I have placed the signs on the floor. I will&..
With that, the journal stopped in mid-sentence.
Wells closed the book.
The detective lit up a cigarette.
"Lt. Wells, we're closing up now."
Wells looked up, catching a glimpse of the same patrolman he had talked with at Manchester House. The detective was surprised to know that another police officer had remained behind at the station, putting his notes in order, before heading off for home. It did his heart good to realize that he was not the only person upset with the bizarre facts encountered during his last visit to Manchester House.
"What is it about this job that keeps good men like us away from our loved ones?" Wells asked the young man.
"My wife asks the same question, sir." The young man smiled, waving his hand, leaving.
Wells turned off the light to his office.
It was time to go home.
* * *
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If someone were still standing in the main hall of Manchester House, they would have stated that the surroundings were just too cold for an October night-even in the Midwest. Ice was starting to form on the molded walls, causing the hanging plastic sheets to shatter like glass.
If one were inside the mansion, they would have thought that they could hear the faint sounds of a young girl crying. Of people shouting out rages, injustices, or trapped animals wanting to frantically break lose-of anger wanting to so desperately attack something.
There was movement at the base of the basement door.
There was intelligence there.
There was&something.
CHAPTER THREE
Holzer had always hated car trips, but this was such short notice that there was really no other way to go. Manchester House and the study of the evil housed there was too good a deal to pass up, even if it involved getting a little carsick. Since he was a child, Holzer had always suffered from motion sickness.
"Ohh," Holzer moaned, holding a shaky hand up to his mouth.
The passing scenery was placid enough, but Holzer could not seem to bring himself to enjoy the country view. Atchison, at best, was surrounded by the most beautiful farmland the Midwest was able to produce. Almost every mile of the journey contained cows, wheat and soybean fields, rustic farmhouses, and old forgotten barns. The country roads were of the kind that if not watched or paid close attention toward could change within a turn of a car's wheel into the wrong street leading to the wrong town. In fact, Holzer and his team got lost twice. Stopping in a small town which seemed to consist of a main street, junkyard, and a sheriff's station, Holzer was directed back onto the correct road by three questionable characters who were fixing a broken down truck-they appeared to be the only ones in the small town. In any case, Atchison, Kansas was no more than thirty miles away and Holzer was thankful. He had puked three times and was sure that he had no more hard matter left in his system for a fourth attack.
Everyone else in the car, although they sympathized with Holzer, knew that this would happen and could only ride it through.
"It's your own damn fault," someone had said. "We could have booked a private flight out there and you'd be in top form upon arrival."
"Oh, shut up," Holzer tiredly barked, puking once more into a paper bag, tossing it out the passenger window.
Holzer tried to distract his motion sickness by reading a copy of the S.O.U.R.C.E. Newsletter. SOURCE was the institution that Holzer and his team worked for. This organization was an international federation of scientists, psychics, and craftsmen, dedicated to the explanation of the unexplainable. All made themselves available when the opportunity arose for each to concentrate their talents on the study of the paranormal. Holzer was one of the original founders.
Three other comrades were able to break away from their duties to help Holzer with Manchester House, although none seemed to know of the importance of the event. All Holzer was able to tell them was that he had a fantastic opportunity for the group and, if they could, please meet him at the college for an investigation trip. All, without question, agreed. Another would also be joining them, but was flying in from outside the country and would arrive later.
"You know, Professor, I'd be happy if you'd at least tell me where we're going."
Holzer looked up from his newsletter and looked at his driver.
James Sinclair was thirty-seven years of age, blond hair, blue-eyed, and slightly overweight. The man was incredibly clumsy around women; in fact Holzer had never known the man to have a serious relationship in the entire time that he had known him. However, Sinclair was one of the best cameramen in the business. He had worked for CNN and ABC, and had filmed a great deal of the events that had been covered in the news in the last twenty years, including both Gulf Wars. Sinclair gave the impression of being a silly fool of a man, but Holzer knew him-he was smarter than he appeared. If he weren't, Sinclair would not be a SOURCE member.
"Just keep driving," Holzer ordered, taking his glasses off, rubbing them. "Can't miss it. Evil house dripping with blood."
"Ha! Ha!" Sinclair said sarcastically. The man was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and baseball cap, giving him a Jimmy Olsen look. "Really, I'm lost once we get past Kansas City. Where are we?"
"Just follow the map. Atchison is not that far."
Every so often, Sinclair would steal a peek at the two female team members in the back seat. Sinclair was quite possibly the most love-starved man on the face of the planet. Although quite advanced in years himself, Holzer could understand Sinclair's curiosity-the women were indeed beautiful.
"Professor," said one of the women in a clipped British accent, "you were so fast to call upon us that you failed to inform us as to what we would soon be investigating."
Holzer looked back into the green eyes of Miranda Wingate, archeologist and investigator of ancient death rituals. The woman was not that much older than Sinclair-around thirty-but Holzer wasn't certain. She was the walking talking version of every young man's fantasy about the sexy British teacher. She had a bad habit of dressing that way too, as her very short skirt and tight sweater would testify. Even Holzer found her "spicy", to say the least. Still, he knew of her work in Mexico on an Aztec city recently discovered, and knew her to be a serious scientist. Her SOURCE talent was her curiosity on how ancient people saw and celebrated death. As a hobby, Miranda loved haunted houses and had asked Holzer to call upon her if the opportunity to study one arrived.
"Yeah, that's very unlike you," the other woman blurted out. Teresa Gonzalez looked the part of the pretty schoolgirl every red-blooded American boy wished to have by his side, but there was a lot more to this rather attractive African-American woman than met the eye. First of all, Teresa was one of the best psychics Holzer had ever met. At twenty-three, Teresa was already famous in her own right, having solved numerous cases for both the FBI and state police throughout the country. She had even helped the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in the rescue of a government official's child. Holzer had always suspected that the only reason Teresa even joined SOURCE was so that she could use her gifts in the name of science and to get away from the talk show hype she had been made to endure most of her life. Although serious about her gifts, her parents had used her for monetary gain during her younger years. Several books and pre-paid programs had been done, making her parents millionaires many times over. After reaching legal age, she cut them off, so to say, and as far as Holzer was aware Teresa hadn't communicated with them since. Sad. Such a gifted psychic needed a family to fall back on. All Teresa had was Holzer.
Looking into the eager faces of his team, Holzer was rather satisfied that they were all curious. "Okay," he finally confessed, putting his glasses back on, "I was going to surprise you." He paused, hoping to tease. "But if you would have attended my classes as I asked, you would have known."
"Okay, Doc," Sinclair blurted out. "Sorry."
The tension in the car mounted. Holzer could barely contain himself. He noticed that the sun was setting and that it was getting dark. Very appropriate.
"We're investigating&Manchester House."
Everyone in the car, with the exception of Sinclair, exploded with excitement.
"I cannot believe our luck," Miranda said. "Manchester House! Professor, how did you manage it?"
Holzer silently waved his hand in the air, basking in the glow of the moment.
"I've been trying to get permission to do readings there since I left my parents," Teresa stated, clapping her hands in childish glee. Holzer often noticed that Teresa's lost innocence came out of her when she was excited. The professor often felt sorry for Teresa; she had never been allowed to be a little girl, due to both talent and the greed of her parents. So, when given the chance, Holzer allowed Teresa to explore the young child within.
"Now you will get your chance," Holzer proudly stated to Teresa, grabbing her hands, sharing in the excitement. "To answer your question, Miranda, the detective in charg
e of the latest episode had a daughter under my tutelage. He was grateful."
"I should say so!" Miranda said. "What an opportunity."
During the entire conversation, Holzer had noticed out of the corner of his eye a rather confused Sinclair looking on, driving. Obviously, he had never heard of the house they were going to. This oblivion about Sinclair was what made him a valuable member of Holzer's team. Sinclair was the skeptic; he was the only one who did not believe. SOURCE employed him for his skills and as an independent source of information.
Holzer could sense that Sinclair's curiosity, however, was starting to get the better of him. "What's this Manchester House, anyway?" Sinclair finally asked.
Everyone froze, not being able to believe what Sinclair had asked. Holzer did his best to hide the grin that had formed on his face, reacting towards the looks of astonishment both Miranda and Teresa were directing towards him. Sinclair, ignorant to the importance of his question, just kept driving the car towards Atchison.
Miranda, as always, was the first to attack. "What is Manchester House?" she repeated sarcastically. "Were you born under a rock or something?"
Sinclair's face started to flash a look of embarrassment. It was obvious to Holzer that the cameraman's ignorance on this subject had set in, causing Sinclair to feel slighted. "Hey, I'm sorry! The way you guys are talking, you'd think Elvis lived there or something."
Holzer gave all in the car a stern look, holding back his urge to laugh at what Sinclair had just said. "Kids! Play nice."
A small giggle escaped from Teresa's mouth. She enjoyed the fights Miranda and Sinclair got into. It was theorized, between the SOURCE peers, that these two members secretly liked each other. After all, there was a fine line between love and hate.
Holzer turned his attention back toward the advancing road and was pleasantly surprised to see the official welcoming sign of Atchison, Kansas. The car couldn't hold the energy back anymore. Everyone except Sinclair broke out in laughter.
"Fine," Sinclair said. "Big laugh."
MANCHESTER HOUSE Page 3
