* * *
Approaching the front door to Manchester House, Leslie Dean knocked on the door. Her heart was pounding. She knew that she was taking a risk coming out to the town's infamous haunted house, but she had seen the man who lived here a thousand times on TV. He always looked so happy-so nice. All her friends warned her not to venture out toward the house, but she knew that if she was a little enterprising in her pitch, she could sell a lot of candy bars to the man. He was fat. He was lonely. And fat and lonely people always bought a lot of junk food.
She adjusted her bra strap, pushing up her boobs. A little T & A never failed.
Suddenly she heard a barking dog. All seemed normal until the dog let out a terrible cry in agony, then stopped. Quiet.
Again Leslie knocked on the door. She nervously gulped.
There was movement on the other side of the door.
Leslie thought she heard the tiny voice of another girl. A young girl, like herself.
There was a feeling of being watched.
Answering the knock, Gilbert Lex pretended that the visit had caught him by surprise. Licking a blood-like batter off his fingers, he glanced at Leslie, continuing his licking. There was something about the man that just didn't settle right with her, and it made Leslie uncomfortable.
Lex glanced at her while he licked off the batter dripping from his fingers. Was it batter? Leslie wondered. Lex appeared quite annoyed at the intrusion, but was intrigued by what he saw-Leslie noticed that the dirty old man was staring right at her breasts.
"Yes?" Lex stated, licking his fingers clean. The man never took his eyes off of Leslie's body. "I'm a very busy man, young lady, please be quick about it."
Leslie opened up her cardboard box, causing Lex to focus on the candy bars deep inside it. She relaxed.
"Atchison High needs a new school bus," Leslie said, her voice shaking. "We're asking the kind citizens of this area to purchase some candy bars to help us raise the funds." She paused, smiling, nervous. "Would you be interested, sir?"
Lex stepped forward, causing Leslie to stand on the porch with great discomfort. She almost regretted the fact that she was wearing her sexiest sweater and jeans. The man stopped licking his fingers and now wiped off the remains of the batter with a dishtowel he kept in his back pocket. Lex was clearly leering at the young woman, and Leslie got the impression that she was in dire trouble.
All she could think about was leaving.
"How much is your&candy?" Lex asked, using his most charming smile. The smile he used on TV, which had made him famous, loved, and trusted by millions of people.
It seemed to work. Leslie started to relax.
:Good! Good! She trusts you now.:
Leslie held up the best candy bar she could find. "One dollar apiece, sir."
"A dollar?" Lex's heart was racing. He could see that the cold was starting to work its evil wonders on the girl. He could just make out the subtle twin points of her young nipples. God! It was hard to control himself.
"It's really a great deal," Leslie went on. Her mind was turning towards the challenge of the sale. "They're nice candy bars."
Lex was amused, letting out a comical laugh. Evil, almost.
"Girl, do you know who I am?"
Leslie turned uncertain. Was she losing the sale? "Come to think of it, you do look familiar."
"I'm Gilbert Lex. I should know good food when I taste it. You've probably seen my show on TV."
Leslie tried to control her awareness. "My mother watches your show. She tried a recipe of yours." She made a distasteful face. "Didn't like it that much, myself."
At Leslie's last comment, Lex started to get angry, but carefully held back his emotions. Looking around, he noticed that no one knew that the girl was there. He gave the girl an evil smile, licking his lips-wondering what color panties she was wearing.
:Take her! Take her now!:
"Tell you what," Lex said. "You come in and try this cake that I'm working on and I'll buy your entire lot."
For Leslie, the clouds started to lift. "Really?"
Lex winked at her. "Guaranteed sale."
Wanting to raise the money for her school, Leslie agreed, entering the house. Lex closed the door behind her, once again checking the outside for curious, watching eyes.
There were none.
* * *
In the house, the first thing that Leslie noticed was the stale wet smell. She could hear the sound of dripping water but could not see it anywhere in the house. Her curiosity was starting to get the better of her-she wanted to ask about the water, but was soon hit upon the head with a blunt object.
Leslie's world turned into a haze of images.
"Little girl!" Lex laughed, almost sounding like a yelp. "Little, little girl."
Leslie could barely sense what was happening to her. All she could see was the oak wood floor paneling. She could barely feel the strong male hands pulling off her jeans and ripping her panties off. She could barely feel the invasion.
She caught an image out of the corner of her eye.
An image at the top of the main staircase.
A girl. Looking down at her.
So much hate.
The eyes!
"Please help me," Leslie tried to say.
Two hands clasped around her neck, choking as Lex continued his little game. He had his fun, laughing as he delved deeper and deeper into his prey.
Leslie's world became a dark void.
Then¬hing.
* * *
Outside Manchester House, the wind seemed to howl, covering up the agony and screaming that was going on inside. Movement could have been seen at the basement window-the only window-if someone had been venturing by. One could have seen the shape of a young woman look out the window, leering, wanting, and needing to know. She was blankly staring out and was fully aware of what was going on in the house.
The Shape did nothing.
It only stared. Not caring.
At the foot of the basement window, just below where one would have seen the Shape, was a freshly killed dog. By the look of the poor creature, one would have gotten the impression that it had been terrified to death-blood was trickling from its open mouth.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Four days later&
Leslie Dean's body was found in the middle of a hot afternoon day, lying on the ground in a puddle of mud far from Manchester House. She had been assaulted and was half-naked. She was dead. As dead as a severely choked, raped, and assaulted Christian soul could be. The police team working nearby couldn't help but notice the look on the victim's face. Leslie's face was a frozen look mixed with both surprise and utter horror.
After not having shown up in over a day, it was Leslie's parents who went venturing for her, inquiring of several students on her respected charity drive, hoping that at least one knew where she had gone. There was no sign. There was no clue. That was, until someone had mentioned seeing her venture up toward the woods-toward Manchester House. Fearing for their daughter, the Deans' worst nightmare sadly became a reality.
The flashing red and blue lights of the surrounding Atchison Police cars drew people's attention for miles. The police had to challenge themselves to work-after all, this was the first child murder in decades. There were at least twenty police officers on the scene, all disgusted with the discovery.
Picking up a soiled piece of Leslie's clothing-a bra-Lt. Albert Wells did all that he could to keep his stomach from heaving. Dear God! He knew this child. His nephew attended her school and was in the same math class as she.
No more.
Lt. Wells, in his grief, lit up a cigarette. A young police officer approached Wells gingerly.
"Did we manage to verify her identification?" Wells asked, hoping against all odds that even he had been wrong about the victim's ID.
The young police officer-Wells couldn't remember his name-started reading his information from a sheet of paper in his hand.
"It is Leslie Dean," the office
r stated. "Her parents stated that she was out selling candies for a local school charity. She had just finished calling her parents when she told them that she would soon be coming home&after&" the officer trailed off, uneasy. From the corner of his eye, Wells caught the young man looking down at the corpse in front of them. Wondering.
"After what?" Wells asked, almost knowing where the conversation was heading.
"Sir, she was last known going to Manchester House."
Hearing this last information, Wells put out his cigarette and tiredly headed toward his car. The young police officer followed.
"Sir? Shouldn't you stay until the Police Chief arrives?" the young officer asked, pointing back toward the crime scene. "I hear that he is very upset about all of this."
Wells let out a sarcastic laugh. "I would be too, considering it's an election year." Wells jumped into his car, closing the door. "No, son, I'm going to where results are waiting for me."
"Manchester House?" the office stated. Uneasy. Knowing.
"Bingo."
Wells started his patrol car and drove off. In his rearview mirror, Wells noticed the young police officer he had left behind. The officer was returning to the tragic scene of the crime. Young Leslie Dean's body was a pale beacon of death, glaring at him with an uneasy color. The young officer's body shook. He started to cry.
Wells could sympathize.
Manchester House was less than twenty minutes away.
Wells had hoped that he would never again have to venture out toward the cursed house. After all, it had been almost seven years since the last horrible "accident" which had caused him to take body bags out of the house. Things were looking up for the old place. It was almost as good as new. The city was once again starting to become proud of the site. Until now&
When Wells parked his patrol car outside Manchester House, he knew that he was being watched.
A curtain moved.
Eyes were peering out at him.
Wells prepared for battle.
* * *
It did not take long for the game to begin.
Wells considered the task of getting his killer a game. A game of wits that seemed to taunt the criminal's animal rage against his civilized virtue of law and order. It was not always an effortless fight but, all in all, Wells was pleased with his arrest record. One thing was for certain: rich or no, he was going to get Manchester House's arrogant pie-baking son-of-a-bitch. And he was going to see him on Kansas' death row if it cost him his soul.
Wells slowly started to pace in the mansion's main hall while Gilbert Lex sat nervously in a chair, looking up at the detective.
:He knows nothing. Just deal with him as you would trash. Ignore it!:
"Would you like a cool drink, detective?" Lex asked, nervous.
Wells paused, noticing several cookbooks on a nearby end table. Picking up a few of these books, the detective noticed Lex's picture on all the covers. He was playing with the arrogant cook and allowing his building nervousness to work against him. Wells opened one of the cookbooks and started reading.
"No, thank you," Wells stated, appearing interested in his reading. "I had a Coke before I got here. You really this good of a cook, sir?"
Lex started to get jittery. It was as if the questions the detective had been asking had affected Lex's ego. The chef almost appeared insulted, in particular to Wells' last question. Wells continued his silent staring, pacing occasionally.
"Detective," Lex stated, controlling the volume of his voice. "Have you had a chance to watch my cooking show? It's all the rage on TV."
Wells lit a cigarette, not all that impressed. "I don't own a TV. Too much crap on the air."
Silence. There was the slight sound of rustling plastic.
"That's too bad." Lex huffed, fidgeting with his fingers, which he kept together upon his lap.
:He knows nothing! I will protect you. You who have done so much for me!:
Lex started to smile. Basking in self-accomplishment.
While Lex was fidgeting in his chair, Wells studied him. The chef seemed to be in his own little world. Lex seemed to be arching his head in a way in which he and only he was hearing a secret whispered into his ear. The fat cook appeared to be giggling up at Wells as if he had heard something "forbidden" about the police detective and had not the time nor mental ability to keep from laughing in front of him. Wells could tell that there was something going on here he didn't quite understand, but went along with it anyway.
He too had a plan.
Wells reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a black and white photo of Leslie Dean. The detective flashed the picture in front of Lex's face, causing the celebrity cook to freeze in his actions.
"Seen this girl?" Wells asked.
Lex took the picture. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Tried to hide the trembling but couldn't.
"No, I don't think so, sir," Lex mumbled. "No. Who is she? If I may ask, that is."
"You may." Wells exhaled a long stream of smoke, peering down at the chef.
Several silent seconds passed by. Neither talked. Wells continued to stare at Lex, puffing on his cigarette. The chef started to grow annoyed.
"Well, who is she then?"
Wells took another drag off his cigarette. "Local girl. Name's being withheld until next of kin are notified. But as far as we can see she was in the neighborhood raising money by selling candy bars."
"Oh?"
"You know, buy the thing for a dollar kind of thing." Wells put the small photo back into his coat pocket. He leaned forward just enough to place his face uneasily close to Lex's. "The candies are rather good, you see. In any case, her body was found not far from here. Apparently she was raped before she was killed. You haven't seen her? Didn't have anyone knock on your door fitting her looks?"
"May I see the picture again, detective?" Lex asked, trying his best to sound concerned.
Wells obliged.
Lex stared at the picture again, doing his best to look careworn. Wells could see through Lex's body language that he was annoyed and bored. Lex cared nothing for the girl and appeared to be quite irritated by Wells who was still studying him, watching his every move. Still, the cook did not wish to upset the police officer, so he played the concerned citizen game with him-albeit badly. Wells saw through the whole damn thing.
In the background, a telephone started to ring.
Hearing his phone ringing, Lex started to give Wells an anxious look. He fidgeted in his chair, catching the policeman's attention.
"My phone's ringing," Lex said, rude, controlled. "May I answer it?"
"I'm not stopping you."
Lex got up, giving the police officer a dirty if not angry look. He answered his phone in the kitchen.
"Hello?" Lex said, his body halfway out of the kitchen, halfway in. "Leo! Hey, baby, how's things in Hollywood?" Lex peeked back out at Wells, motioning toward his phone, explaining. "My agent. Have to take this. Be a few&"
Before Wells could either respond or order, the chef closed the kitchen door, taking his call. Wells, alone, puffing away on his cigarette, reacted with a surprised silent laugh.
"Well, now," Wells stated, smoking away on his cigarette. "Doesn't appear too concerned, does he?"
Wells started to walk around the room, looking at several other books, magazines, and recipe boxes that had Gilbert Lex's picture on them. He shook his head with disgust.
"The words you're looking for, Detective Wells, are 'does not give a fuck'," Wells said, patiently waiting.
Wells heard a strange noise down the hall from where he was standing. The sounds of tiny feet trotting across the wooden floorboards. Girl steps. The detective went off to investigate. In the kitchen, behind his door, Wells could hear Lex laughing and continuing his conversation with his agent.
"What the hell's going on here in this house?" Wells asked, feeling uneasy about what he thought he had heard.
The sound of footsteps got louder.
The sounds were c
oming from the basement.
Wells wished that he had brought his gun.
* * *
The basement door was ajar.
As Wells started to walk through the home, looking around he noticed the slightly open door and started to walk toward it. Behind him, and not seen by him, the silent specter of the Shape waited, glaring down at him from the hallway.
:You are in my world now! Be extra careful where you step.:
As Wells got closer to the door, he noticed that an uneasy feeling was coming over him. A feeling of being watched. Like a suspected felon being observed through a two-way mirror. Wells could feel the eyes on him. Wells did not like it at all.
Unknown to Wells, the Shape was following him. Her angry white eyes glared at the police officer, almost burning a hole in the back of his head, with a degree of emotion that was silently bombarded in his general direction.
Wells touched the doorknob of the basement door.
A cool wind attacked the detective from behind.
The Shape disappeared.
* * *
There was a force about the house which was aware of the danger it was in by being discovered by an unwanted visitor. The house did not like intruders and was not prepared in its present state to ward the detective off. Lex had provided the mansion with a much-needed portal to achieve its goals and this vital asset could not be wasted. Not just yet.
So intelligence far too old or powerful to be ignored took hold and started to take on a life of its own.
Had Wells known&had he seen&he would not have been able to understand.
Wells would have only gone mad in the attempt.
So it was best that the detective did not know that he had come so close to dying in the house that day.
So close.
* * *
A bloodied hand reached up out of the basement's darkness, foul and dripping with the scent of the dead, and grabbed the door's doorknob. With a hard pull, the bloody hand slammed the door shut. There was the rumbling sound of people talking in the basement. Hundreds of voices. All terribly sad. All wanting to escape. None could. None knew how.
There were the thunderous sounds of torturous creatures screaming in the darkness, covered by the subtle sounds of rustling plastic. Somehow, an evil force was moving the detective along, making him go where it wished for him to go and no farther.
MANCHESTER HOUSE Page 8
