MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  :Do not test me, child! You have been warned.:

  Teresa shook her head violently.

  "That's not it, Professor," Teresa blurted out, surprising everyone around her. The tone in her voice dripped with so many traumas and panic, it was unlike her to sound that way. "The plastic-the duct tape-wasn't placed here for home improvement&"

  Teresa removed her hands from the walls, trying to shut her psychic powers down. It was becoming too much for her to take in all at once.

  "No," she continued, shaking violently. "It was ordered here by something. Something more sinister-more self-absorbed. I'm sorry; I can't explain why I feel this way."

  The team stopped, paying close attention to Teresa, who was clearly starting to show a great level of fear-almost traumatic in its own right.

  "Teresa, are you all right?" Miranda asked, lovingly hugging the scared young woman. "Do you need a drink or something, love?"

  Teresa shook her head.

  "The kitchen's this way, people," Holzer ordered, looking over his shoulder, hoping that all with Teresa was okay. "Follow me."

  Teresa started putting her gloves back on hurriedly-in a panic-as if she did not wish to know anything more about what was happening in the main hall.

  Manchester House's kitchen awaited.

  * * *

  Holzer led everyone to the dark interior of the mansion's kitchen. Although small, the room was surprisingly equipped with the best cooking utensils of their time. This was an above average kitchen, and strangely so.

  "This is nice, Doc," Sinclair stated, looking around with his camera.

  "The only room to be successfully remodeled by the previous owners," Holzer explained. "And, as I was informed by my police friend, the driest."

  Everyone let out an ironic laugh.

  As they all entered the room, they started to hear a crunching sound at their feet. All were deeply impressed with the condition of the room. It was almost as if the room did not fit, or belong, with the wet rot that was going on outside. Sinclair taped everything with his camera, and the others were doing their best to track everything from their respective sciences.

  Holzer set his equipment down, opening up his waterproof bag.

  "Miranda, could you start by taking a few E.M.R. readings, please?"

  "Right," Miranda responded, reaching into her side bag which she had carried separately from the rest Sinclair had provided.

  Miranda pulled out her E.M.R. reader. Calmly, she started to wave it across the room, its tiny beeping sound echoing throughout.

  E.M.R. stood for Electro-Magnetic Radiation. This device tracked and detected untapped energy, believed by most parapsychologists to be the essence of ghosts. The display on the tiny black box was like that of any electronic detection devices. The display started to spike, causing the device to peak out.

  "Dear God!" Miranda exclaimed in a gasp of surprise.

  Then just as fast as the readings had started the display on the tiny device petered out-nothing.

  Miranda's face showed all that she was surprised at what her equipment had just done. As she moved, her friends could make out the previous crunching noises that they had heard before. This sound soon captured her own curiosity, and hearing that the sound was coming from her shoes, she took out a little flashlight to see what was on the floor making this noise.

  "Okay, what the hell's going on here?" Miranda asked, looking down at her feet. In her hand, she was still holding onto the EMR device. Again, the device started to click to life. "Oh my!" Miranda said, gasping with disgust.

  On the kitchen floor, everyone could see a flood of dead rats-about thirty or more in all. The tiny bodies ran from freshly killed to long dead and molded to the floor. Sinclair, quite comically, gasped out in disgust-everyone that knew him knew that he hated rats.

  "Holy hell!" Miranda blurted out, almost vomiting. "That's rather disgusting."

  The entire group started to watch where they were stepping.

  Holzer took out his own EMR reader in great anticipation and started to wave it around the room. All heard the familiar high-pitched whine coming from the hand-held machine. He, like Miranda, was surprised at what he was seeing on the machine's indicator.

  "There is evidence that the kitchen, for some reason, is a focal point in the home," Holzer exclaimed, amused at his own findings. "Perhaps that is why the rats have chosen this place to die."

  Sinclair's hands started to shake as he continued his filming. "I don't know, Doc. Rats are really tough little guys. Takes more than a focal point to kill them."

  Holzer nodded his head in agreement. He noticed that Miranda was looking at Sinclair, who was too busy filming to see that she was staring at him intently. Her stare was not the stare of anger but secret admiration. Holzer had always suspected that something silent existed between Miranda and Sinclair; however, the latter had no idea of this fact. Noticing Holzer studying her, Miranda rather clumsily returned to her duties.

  "Teresa," Holzer said, placing his EMR detector into his back pocket. "Could you please do a reading of the kitchen to see what its importance is to this house?"

  "Professor, I&" Teresa tried to explain, not really wanting to explore any further, at least not until she had a chance to recover from her first encounter.

  "I know that you are tired, my dear," Holzer accepted, placing a cautious hand in the air. "But could you please try?"

  How could she refuse such an honest request? In moments such as this, when he really wanted to know the whole truth, Holzer reminded Teresa of a child wanting to know if the man at the foot of his Christmas tree was indeed Santa or his father.

  "I'll do my best, sir," was all she could say.

  "Good show!"

  Teresa again took off her gloves.

  * * *

  All the eyes of the team stayed on Teresa as she once again spread her awareness into the very core of Manchester House. What would the house say about its kitchen? She was both curious and cautious.

  Teresa found herself walking out of the kitchen for some unknown reason. She started to observe the room around her, totally allowing herself to get into the scenes evolving in her mind's eye. At first, the woman was afraid-uneasiness crossed her face. Soon, however, she placed her hands against the outside of the swinging kitchen door.

  "Easy now," Miranda whispered.

  The warning did not go unheard. Teresa was just too far into her trance to acknowledge it.

  "She going to be okay, Doc?" Sinclair was heard saying.

  "Just capital, Mr. Sinclair."

  Teresa continued.

  :You do not want to know this, child. Do not go any further!:

  Teresa's eyes were forcing themselves shut, although she wanted to open them desperately. She was starting to read the room. A flash of discomfort hit her face and suddenly, as if being made aware of a terrible secret, blinked her eyes open, looking straight at Holzer. On her face was sheer terror.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Teresa's mind seemed to travel back into the past, allowing her to see Manchester House as it used to be.

  :Do not bother with these things! Get out while you can, child&:

  * * *

  Summer, 1982

  Teresa could see the kitchen of Manchester House. It was bright and appeared to be cleaned up. Music was playing in the background, which could be used to date the time she was reading. She could hear two people laughing. Two people not of her own group. Two people from the mansion's past.

  Kyle and Cindy Peters.

  Manchester House was supposed to be their perfect little wedding nest. The home was cheap, it was a great "fixer-upper", and it was away from people. That was what they both wanted. When Kyle and Cindy Peters had decided to buy the house, they were stunned to see the Atchison City Council get involved. Hell! Their real estate agent was on the council.

  "What do you plan to do with the house?"

  "Are you sure you want to buy this one?"

  "Why?"


  "Why?"

  "Why?"

  All the questions started out as too much.

  Then with buying the mansion and forking over so much money just to add electric, water, and gas, Kyle at least could understand the caution, if not the curiosity. The project at hand was enough to overwhelm him, but his new bride loved the place. She saw potential in the mansion's rotted walls. This was where she envisioned her children growing up. Her destiny. His legacy.

  "I've always heard about this place, Kyle," Cindy had said, trotting around in the main hall as the real estate agent called his main office on his cell phone. "It's a magical place. Do you know there are people who fear this house? That's ridiculous."

  "Whatever you want, baby."

  The house cleared that day. No red tape. It was the fastest deal Kyle had ever made. And being a stockbroker he knew.

  They moved in, made love, and prepared to build their life together.

  Cindy had trouble sleeping.

  * * *

  Both Kyle and Cindy entered the kitchen. They were laughing and locked in a loving embrace. Both were exploring and kissing. Giggling, they both fell to the floor. On top of her husband, Cindy kissed him, feeling his arousal toward her actions. Both, for the moment, were completely content.

  "Hey, we should eat something," Kyle murmured, kissing his wife, gently nibbling her bottom lip. "It's going to be a long day."

  Cindy was tired and only wanted to kiss. "Why don't you cook breakfast today?"

  Kyle started to explore his wife's breasts. "Sure, why not."

  This last action caused Cindy to break out in an innocent wave of laughter. Both kissed for a long and loving time, and then Cindy got up, exiting the kitchen. As she did, she gave her husband a devilishly evil grin.

  "Perhaps after breakfast we can go back to bed?" she teased.

  "Don't hear me arguing."

  Kyle knew what was going on here. Cindy was never really a good cook. She blamed her lack of this skill on her mother, who had become an avid "modern woman" during the seventies. Too involved in protesting to teach her young daughter how to cook. If it wasn't a TV dinner, Cindy couldn't cook it. When she asked her mother to teach her, her mother refused, claiming she was "freeing her from womanly bondage."

  Cindy had only one thing going for her, and that was Kyle.

  Kyle, on the other hand, could care less if the woman of his dreams could cook. Being from a large family and having to fend for himself most of the time, he loved to cook. In fact, he was so damn good at the craft he almost became a chef. It was his cooking, Kyle often said, that won his woman's heart.

  Chivalry aside, at the moment all Kyle wanted was a good omelet-and sex.

  "Don't hear me arguing," Kyle repeated, smiling.

  Kyle got out a skillet, opened the refrigerator, pulled out both the bacon and the eggs, and started to cook a small breakfast.

  * * *

  While Kyle was preparing his breakfast, he was not aware of certain actions taking place at the mansion's door leading to the basement. Kyle could not see the doorknob slowly turn, stop, and the door pop open by itself.

  Clicking away at the stove, Kyle could not hear the subtle sound of escaping air coming from the basement-almost like the sound of a vacuum seal being broken.

  Kyle was never aware of the fact that the house had become aware.

  Kyle only found out when it became much too late.

  * * *

  Kyle was focused on making his breakfast and the love of his wife and all the promise of happiness both had to offer. He kept his eyes on the two eggs that he dropped into an ordinary skillet and watched them as they slowly started to cook. The sounds of their crackling, popping, and cooking seemed to magnify with the sounds of the house around him.

  For a brief moment, Kyle had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. That he was no longer alone.

  As Kyle continued cooking his eggs, from the corner of his eye he saw a Shape quickly dart from one side of the kitchen door to the other.

  "Cindy?" Kyle asked, somewhat alarmed. "Is that you?"

  No answer.

  Kyle paused. He started to shake off an uneasy feeling. What was it that he had seen? He thought that it was his wife. The Shape certainly looked like that of a woman's. Was it Cindy? No. It appeared to be that of a little girl. Younger. Smaller. Still, there was anger about the actions of this wraith that Kyle could not seem to understand.

  Was it all in his head?

  Was he just hungry and horny?

  "Kyle, stop thinking so much and just cook," was all that he could bring himself to say, focusing on his task.

  Kyle soon noticed that there was something wrong with one of the eggs he was cooking.

  Inside one of the eggs, brought out so by the rising heat in the skillet, was an underdeveloped chicken embryo. He had purchased these particular eggs from a farmer's market in town and knew that there was a chance of this happening. Growing up on a farm himself, he knew of this and was thankful that it was he who encountered the embryo and not his wife. Being from the city, it would have driven her to sickness staring at the sight. Swirling around in the cooking oil and the rest of the popping meal, Kyle saw blood leaving the center of the yolk.

  "Gross."

  It was the last independent thought he would ever have.

  Startled and disgusted, all Kyle could do was look at the abomination frying in his skillet. He started to step away from the stove.

  :She's cheating on you. All she ever loved you for was your money, and the money that your parents will leave you when they are dead and rotting in the ground. When you're not home, she has extra dick and uses it for her enjoyment. You are nothing to her, you poor sick bastard.:

  The kitchen lights blinked on, startling Kyle.

  :She does not love you.:

  The lights started to flicker.

  * * *

  Cindy, feeling the need for her husband and remembering his excitement minutes before, wanted to amplify the joy by trying on some new nightclothes they bought together days before. Dressed in an attractive nightgown and stockings, she trotted down the staircase, into the main hall, heading toward the kitchen. She started to shiver-the house had become rather cold.

  The smell of rot was still in the air, but she knew that would soon be a thing of the past. Kyle was good with his hands. She smiled. Very good.

  "Honey," Cindy mused, gently rubbing her hands over her breasts, noticing that her nipples were starting to peak. "I think that you should consider taping up the house for winter. You know these old houses. Heating bills will soon make us wish that we were dead."

  The kitchen was silent.

  All Cindy heard was the crackling of the cooking eggs.

  "What's going on here?" she mused, smelling smoke. "Kyle, are you burning the eggs?"

  Something caught Cindy's attention.

  As Cindy walked toward the kitchen, she saw a Shape peeking out at her from behind the shadows of the staircase. Quick and scary, The Shape disappeared just as fast. Was it a young girl? How did she get in the house? Then, nothing.

  Cindy rubbed her eyes. Looking back at the staircase, she saw only wood and shadows.

  The feeling for lovemaking was gone.

  :He is not worth the time. He sees you only as a good fuck. Do you not know that?:

  * * *

  Standing over the stove, Kyle appeared to be frozen, looking down at his eggs as they cooked. As much as he wanted to move or look away, he couldn't.

  "Kyle, is something wrong?" he heard Cindy say out in the hall. He couldn't respond.

  Kyle tried to reply, opening his mouth, but was cut off before a sound could come out. Kyle continued to stare at his eggs.

  The kitchen was slowly filling up with smoke.

  :Look at me!:

  Kyle's muscles started to tighten as he tried to break away from whatever unknown force was controlling him, but he was just too weak. He started to realize that there was a hidden evil here, ma
king him watch the frying embryo in the skillet. An evil that could not be controlled, but rather was controlling the moment.

  Kyle started to fear the worst.

  Suddenly, to Kyle's horror, the chicken embryo's eyes opened. It stared up at him, squirming in its bubbling bath of cooking oil. These were not the dead eyes of a half-cooked under-developed creature. These were the eyes of intelligent evil. They were quite aware of Kyle. And they were certainly aware of the fact that Kyle, a recently retired stockbroker from Boston, was scared to death of it.

  The chicken embryo screamed in agony as it moved in the skillet, fighting its way out of the surrounding reddish yellow yolk, and flopping out into the bubbling cooking oil. Flapping its bald wings, it tried to fly away from its crackling hell.

  :LOOK AT ME!:

  An uncontrolled anger Kyle could not understand started to grow inside of him. A rage more powerful than he had ever known. He grabbed a butcher knife.

  The kitchen light exploded, causing the bulb to burst apart into a million pieces.

  The room started to fill with a thick black smoke.

  "Kyle? What's going on here?" Cindy said, entering the kitchen. Breathing in the thick smoke, the young woman began to both gag and cough. Innocently she waved a hand in front of her face, trying to push away the smoke, never realizing that it would be the last thing she would ever do.

  :Take her!:

  Cindy was suddenly enveloped in the blackness of the smoke.

  The kitchen became the sounds of a body hitting the floor, crackling burning eggs, and the sounds of rustling plastic.

  :Turn off the stove. Good job.:

  * * *

  One week later&

  Kyle left the kitchen in the best mood and state of mind he had ever been in for ages. God! He felt so alive. The unusual incident in the kitchen had seemed to pass without notice-just something to talk about later.

  There was a change in the house, however.

  Kyle trotted down the main hall humming a childhood song.

  A few plastic tarps were seen hanging from the walls helter-skelter, with no pattern or logic to them whatsoever. The entire house's furniture had been placed in a pile in the middle of the room.