MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  All was well.

  "Are we out of it, Ingrid?"

  Night looked down at Holzer. "For now."

  Miranda had had enough. Thundering toward Night, her features seemed to explode with rage. "I demand to know what's going on here, sir?"

  "Who are you?" Night asked calmly.

  "Doctor Miranda Wingate."

  "Your purpose?"

  "I'm a pathologist and archeologist," Miranda explained.

  "Well, until I find a mummy who has been killed with a shotgun, please leave me alone."

  Night walked away from the woman, ignoring the look of dismay he had placed on her face. He seemed not to care.

  "Holy shit!" Sinclair said, darting back to life, shaking the layers of mud off his face.

  Night, who had just sat down by the team member's scientific equipment, looked up from his cloak, grinning ear to ear. He had warned the cameraman of what would happen. "You are not far from the truth, Mr. Sinclair."

  Sinclair looked up at Night, exhausted.

  "All evil is something once holy that has fallen into shit."

  "Ingrid," Holzer tiredly challenged.

  Lars broke the scene by providing Night with a tiny china cup filled with hot tea. Taking the beverage, Night silently thanked his friend, sipping the beverage with the greatest of joy.

  "That is what we are facing here, Jonathon," Night said, sipping his tea. He burned his tongue, giving the cup a hard glance. "This shit, however, remembers the joys of being holy. That's what gives it a bad attitude."

  "In what way, Ingrid?" Holzer soon joined his friend and once more Lars provided yet another cup of hot tea from thin air. The professor accepted the tea.

  Both sat sipping silently. Outside, it began to rain yet again.

  "The spirit in question, Jonathon, this little girl shape is angry at the world. Not only is she angry at the fact that she is dead. This, understandably, would ruin anyone's plans. She is angry because she cannot grow any older."

  "But," Holzer began, holding back the urge to laugh, "she's dead. She's not going to get any older. That's the nature of the beast, Ingrid. Once you're gone, you're gone."

  "True." Night finished his tea. "However, you are wrong. The spirit can grow old, if given the chance."

  "All right, I'll accept that for now," Holzer said. "But what's the spirit's motivation? What's causing the anger?"

  "Puberty."

  Holzer blinked his eyes dryly. "Excuse me?"

  "She cannot reach puberty."

  "Ah," Holzer said, motioning Lars to refill his cup. "Ingrid, she's dead."

  "And her ghost cannot reach womanhood. This is what she wants more than eternity itself. She cannot reach that goal. She blames this house. She blames this town. She blames us."

  "Us?"

  "We are here, are we not?"

  "I get that," Holzer said, his voice turning irritated. "I'm still having trouble with this puberty thing. I've studied hundreds of ghosts, but never one that was pissed because it couldn't get its groove on."

  Night, surprised, could only laugh at what he was hearing.

  Holzer stared back at his friend with eyes rapidly blinking.

  "Do not hate yourself so, Jonathon," Night said, leaning forward. "The spirit world is open to many beliefs. I have only given you mine. But I tell you now, this little girl is a dangerous bitch. Watch her!" Night paused, taking yet another cup of tea from Lars.

  Holzer looked at Lars. "Where does he come up with half this stuff, Ingrid?"

  "I don't know," Night said, sipping his tea.

  Holzer looked on, watching his friend sip at his tea, thinking. Thinking about the possibility of a spirit aging on its own. This was an aspect of the afterlife that he never considered. Were not most superstitions about the other world generally the same? Was it not the center of belief that what one could not achieve in this life would be promised to them in the other? What would a little girl want? She'd want to grow up and be a woman. She'd want to know love. She'd want a man. She'd want children of her own one day.

  Perhaps Night was right on this one.

  While Holzer was giving it all serious consideration, Lars produced yet another cup of tea for him to sip. So, sitting alone on old orange crates, Night and Holzer considered the very nature of death.

  The others&they were lucky enough to keep their wits about them.

  * * *

  Miranda patted down Sinclair's forehead with a wet paper towel while he rested his eyes. The man had literally been through hell and back. She had so many questions for him, but knew that it would do no good. Sinclair, although an upbeat guy, took himself way too seriously. His ego would sooner or later get in the way of any scientific information or facts. Still, she smiled, noticing that the cameraman was in R.E.M. sleep-what was he dreaming? She had to wonder.

  "You," Night said.

  Miranda looked up, surprised at the harsh voice directed at her. "Yes?"

  "You had stated that you were involved with law enforcement?"

  "Pardon?"

  "I get a cop vibe from you, madam," Night said, surveying her up and down. "Are you a cop?"

  "I was. Now I'm a member of SOURCE. On the side, however, I am also an archeologist."

  "But not a cop?"

  "I worked as a pathologist&once."

  Both Holzer and Miranda made brief eye contact. Night noticed this. There was a secret there, but one Night knew would be beyond him at the moment. He curbed his curiosity.

  "Not Scotland Yard?"

  "No," Miranda stated, stopping her administering to Sinclair's forehead. "With the RCMP, Homicide Division, Edmonton, Alberta."

  "Canada!" Night huffed. "I have worked there, you know."

  "Yes?"

  "Clean," Night said. "Very clean."

  Lars stood outside the little circle of people gathered around the lantern that was lit, doing his best not to participate. Night noticed the uneasy look of concern Miranda was giving the man.

  "You care for his comfort, do you not?" Night said, motioning toward Lars.

  "I do not understand why he distances himself from everyone," Miranda explained uneasy. "We are all equals here. That's all I meant."

  Night shook his head solemnly. "And you do not like the servant-master relationship you are seeing then?"

  "No, sir," Miranda stated, her eyes filling with fire, "I do not."

  Night laughed, handing an empty teacup back to Lars, who was there instantly to remove the dish. Miranda noticed a kind glance from Lars, who seemed to be interested in what she was saying.

  "Do not worry yourself so, young lady. Although your sense of camaraderie is quite admirable, Lars&well, he's a bit of a loner. Like me, young lady, he is only here to fight evil."

  "Evil can be many things, Mr. Night," Miranda stated, an eyebrow arched. "Not just the Devil. Evil can be going forward half-cocked, destroying without understanding one's actions."

  Night stared at the young woman hard. "You are right."

  "Will Sinclair be okay?" Teresa asked, sipping on her cup of tea.

  "You are the child with the inner eye, are you not?" Night pondered. He studied Teresa as a scientist would a bug under a microscope. "You do not look old enough to tie your shoes."

  "Teresa is one of the most powerful psychics I have ever encountered," Holzer added.

  Night looked at his friend with amazement. "I will take your word for it, Jonathon."

  "Mr. Night?" Teresa asked.

  "Yes, my dear?"

  "What is wrong with this house?"

  Night gave the question some thought. "Well, where to begin?"

  "The beginning," Holzer said.

  "Thank you, Jonathon." Night paused, looking at Teresa and Miranda with great kindness. "This house has the unfortunate happenstance of standing between four huge ley lines which are connected with the Lancelot-Pool Line."

  "The what?" Teresa asked.

  "The Lancelot-Pool Line. This line was discovered in the late eighteen-ni
neties. The whole world seems to be connected through it. It is a line of incredible power. Tribes all over the world worship it in one way or another."

  "Ridiculous,[" Miranda huffed.

  "Not so ridiculous, Miss Wingate," Night challenged. "Ever hear of Moses parting the Red Sea?"

  "Yes."

  "The Lancelot-Pool Line passes right through that part of the world. Quite near the site where most biblical scholars say the incident took place. Area 51, that great UFO mecca in the American West, lies right on top of it." Night paused. "The line ends here in Atchison, Kansas."

  "Where does it begin?"

  Both Holzer and Night looked at each other. Their eyes explained the finality of Night's answer. "No one knows where the line begins. It is just too saturated across the globe, following no apparent pattern."

  "It has been known to change with the ages," Holzer concluded.

  "Exactly, my old friend." Night huffed, admiring Holzer's intelligence.

  There was a long moment of pause.

  Holzer broke the silence.

  "Ingrid."

  "Hmm?"

  "Thank you for coming."

  "Would I not do otherwise, friend?" Night looked up at Holzer with a fatherly pride, almost teary-eyed. "In any case, Jonathon, you were correct. There is paranormal activity here within these tortured walls. Not unlike a case I had back during the Korean War. That one was a pain! Whoa!"

  Sinclair opened his eyes, waking up.

  "Ah!" Night chuckled. "Foolish young man, listen to me next time. If it were not for Lars here, you would be waltzing around for all eternity with the other lost souls claimed by this house."

  "What can I say," Sinclair said, rubbing the base of his neck. He paused only long enough to take a cup of tea from Lars. "I was wrong."

  "Then you are not such a fool after all." Night laughed. "It is a brave man who can admit such a thing in front of his closest friends."

  Sinclair wanted to say something, but much to his credit he did not. Instead, he just rubbed his head and accepted another cup of hot tea from Lars, who was more than happy to oblige.

  "You should consider yourself a lucky man anyway, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Why, may I ask?"

  Night pointed toward his silent servant with great excitement. "Lars likes you! That does not come easy for him."

  Lars, emotionless, started rummaging through Night's personal objects. He glanced up at Sinclair, seeming to sense that the cameraman was looking at him. Lars paused long enough to return a respectful nod in Sinclair's general direction.

  Sinclair, having nothing better to do, returned the gesture with a wave of his hand.

  While this was happening, Teresa was going over her own performance during all of this, and was not pleased at the way she had been handling herself. She wasn't up to par, and that irritated her. It was time that she earned her keep and pulled her own weight on the team.

  "Mr. Night?" Teresa asked, standing up. She moved toward him, making the old man look up at her. She admired his eyes, and could have sworn that she saw them turn at least six different colors before they finally relaxed on her with a cool grey.

  "Yes, my dear?"

  "Is it now possible for me to use my sight?"

  Night gave the question some thought, pulling out an old pocket watch, winding it. Teresa almost gasped in surprise, noticing an old Nazi Eagle across the front cover of the tiny golden object.

  "Do you like my watch, little girl?"

  "Oh!" Teresa looked away in honest embarrassment. "I do apologize for staring. I just noticed&"

  Night sharply closed the pocket watch's cover, cutting off the psychic's words. He gave the young black woman a sharp but heavily controlled look of anger. Somewhere in that anger, however, was a huge level of personal disgust fighting to float to the top.

  "The watch was my father's." Night paused, longing to change the subject. "I see no reason why you should not be allowed to use your inner eye. The evil is quite busy trying to break the spells I have laid, and we have the time."

  "How long?"

  "Believe me, you will know when we have run out of time." Night moved closer to the light of the lantern. "In any case, what is your plan?"

  "I wish to hold a séance."

  "A séance?" Night's brows darted up with surprise. "Why?"

  "I am a medium as well." Teresa tried to explain. "With the help of my blessed crystals--I call them Apache Tears--and a Ouija board, perhaps we can contact this angry child. I'm still under the belief that we can help her. I would like to have the chance."

  Teresa's honest attempt to help and her need to redeem herself in her comrades' eyes moved Night. The old man found Holzer looking at him, studying his reactions. Night shifted in his chair. He did not like his student formulating theories on the master. Holzer noticed Night's uneasiness and smiled.

  "You pick good students, Jonathon."

  "I learned from the best, sir."

  Night comically winked at Holzer. "Of course you did."

  "Then it's settled," Teresa said, grabbing her personal bag.

  Opening up her own equipment, Teresa noticed that she was getting a lot of curious stares from Miranda, Sinclair, and, ironically enough, Night. Holzer was busy setting up his equipment, hoping to gain some knowledge, facts, and other data of a paranormal nature for further study once they left this cursed place.

  Pulling out a small bag of crystals and a Ouija board, she was ready to get down to her "craft."

  "Want to help me, Mr. Night?" Teresa asked.

  Night put his hands up in a negating gesture.

  "No disrespect intended, young lady, but no, I do not want to help."

  "Why not?"

  "I take what you do seriously, that is all." Night paused, uneasy. "I do not care much for Ouija boards."

  "There is nothing to be afraid of, you know."

  "There are things I know to be afraid of, miss."

  Night's hard stare caused a shiver of coldness to flutter through Teresa, and she tried her best to avoid eye contact with the old man for almost five minutes. He continued his stare until he realized he was getting a return stare from Miranda.

  "You can help me, Miranda," Teresa said, handing the Ouija board to the British woman.

  "Certainly," Miranda said, following Teresa's lead. "This should prove to be quite fascinating. At any rate, I could write up an interesting paper for the SOURCE newsletter."

  "Good!" Teresa huffed. "'Bout time that rag got some meat in it."

  "Hey!" Holzer said, his voice dripping with protest.

  Both women started giggling.

  It took about an hour for everything to be set up.

  * * *

  "My friend, we have to talk."

  Holzer looked up from his instruments and saw that Ingrid Night had a rather disturbing look on his face, which always had caused Holzer to pause whenever he saw it. From experience, Holtzer knew that troubled waters lay ahead.

  "Can it wait?" Holzer asked, motioning to Night that he was rather involved in the study of Teresa's upcoming séance.

  "I'm afraid not, Jonathon." Night cleared his throat, whispering in Holzer's ear. "This is serious."

  Dropping his equipment on a nearby table that was rotted, blackened from fire, and just as dirty as the rest of the house, Holzer and Night entered another room. Private.

  Lars blocked the door for absolute security.

  "Ingrid, what's with the cloak-and-dagger routine?"

  "Remember the Huntington case we were on a few years ago?" Night blurted out.

  Holzer gave the question some thought.

  "The case we both failed at," Night reminded.

  "Yes."

  "This is worse."

  Holzer couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was the great slayer of evil calling it quits? Had the avenger of good finally met his match?

  "You don't think that we can solve this one, do you?" Holzer asked.

  "There are some things, my friend,
that are best left as mysteries." Night paused. "Still, I fear for you and your young friends."

  "Are you leaving?"

  Night remained quiet for more time than Holzer had thought possible. The pause caused the professor to move away from Night in shock.

  "I&can't," Night finally responded.

  Holzer started to relax. "Now that's the Ingrid Night I have come to admire."

  "This case may bring about a death or two," Night finally warned. "I did not wish to face this fact, Jonathon, but I just cannot stand by and see you dead. You would not have the good sense to stay that way, my friend. And I would not desire to meet you on the field of battle as an enemy."

  Holzer laughed. "Ingrid, if I were to return as a ghost, believe me, I would run away from you."

  "Then we are in this to the end, I fear?"

  "To the end."

  Night patted Holzer on the shoulder. There was a level of pride in the old man's eyes, which almost made Holzer uneasy. "Let's do this then."

  "Ingrid?" Holzer asked. The professor's eyes were filled with worry.

  "Yes?"

  "These people with me are very important to me."

  Night seemed to sense what his friend was getting to. He held up a strong hand of reassurance. "I will protect them as if they were my own. Have no fear."

  "Let's hope it doesn't come down to that."

  "Agreed."

  "Why didn't I stay a psychologist?" Holzer nervously laughed. "I could be in Beverly Hills, making millions right now. No! I wanted to be a parapsychologist. Learn the unknown. Stupid!"

  "You would have died long before you would have been buried, dear boy," Night stated. "Listening to the spoiled drivel of fat rich kids, under-sexed and over-paid wives, and why they want to have sex with their mothers! Bah! Zombies, all of them."

  "Still, they pay with cash."

  Night could not argue with that, and gave Holzer an ironic laugh.

  Both men left the room, walking back to join Teresa, who was busy setting up her séance.

  Neither seemed to notice the subtle sounds of rustling plastic, a wind starting to pick up, or the returning sound of dripping water.

  Manchester House had once more become aware.

  * * *

  The lantern was lowered to a dim flame, causing the main hall of the mansion to take on the look of a macabre shadow play. Everyone in the group, with the exception of Night and Lars who only looked on, sat around Teresa's tiny Ouija board-which was handmade, blessed, and charged with the cosmic energy of Teresa's birth date. Birthdates and their energy were thought to be very important to the owner of a Ouija board-it helped with the connection to the spirit world. Holzer was rather impressed with the board's planchette. It was made out of a charged crystal and had a sharp silver point--a beautiful piece of artwork.