Holzer stepped forward, almost frantic. "Ingrid! No one said anything about a creature. What are we talking about here?"
"The energy of Manchester House has gathered so much power that it is taking on consciousness itself. It wants to become."
"And that is the thing that wants to enter our world?"
"Precisely."
"Okay," Holzer said, "let's kill it."
The SOURCE team looked at Holzer as if he were crazy. It had always been Holzer's point to explore, study, and create. Never once had anyone ever heard the wise professor say destroy.
"Jonathon, we have enough data so far to keep us occupied for a lifetime," Miranda softly protested. "We cannot turn our backs on what we're afraid of. Can we?"
"Miranda, do you want this thing free in our world?" Holzer asked, his hands motioning toward the horror around them.
Miranda couldn't speak. She only shook her head. Returning to her work, gathering up all the information that she could, she avoided eye contact with Holzer. She was angry and the college professor knew it. It would take time for her anger to subside, but in the end Holzer knew that she would forgive him.
Holzer turned to Night, who was staring at him, studying.
"Something to say?" Holzer barked almost rudely.
"No," Night replied softly. Taking in a deep breath and filling his face with conviction, Night turned his attention toward Lars. "Lars!"
The deaf man turned to face his master.
Using his hands, motioning them in the air, Night prepared his friend and manservant for battle. Reading Night's hand gestures, Lars was all attention. Finally Night resumed his position and Lars meekly followed.
Both aimed their crossbows up at different points in space.
Both fired.
The two streams of blessed oil shot out of their weapons and traveled about half a block before landing, hitting, and causing the area in which they landed to bubble and steam with great violence. A tremble could be felt in the ground beneath the SOURCE team members' feet as the oil sank into the ground. Color seemed to leave the area in which the oil had been placed, and more than a few spirits seemed to freeze like statues.
"What's going on there?" Holzer had been hiding behind a wall of monitors Miranda had managed to set up, bringing them down with her in the basement before all went strange. Holzer had to thank her later for her ingenuity.
Night looked up from his left shoulder over at the three frozen spirits that had reacted so violently towards Lars' attack. "It is their salvation, Jonathon. That is all."
The three spirits were all men ranging from thirteen to their late sixties. One was dressed in a World War II uniform and appeared to have been one of those unfortunate hitchhikers who had taken the wrong road, winding up at Manchester House. Night had a weakness for WWII GIs-after all, they saved him from the grips of hell. Night closed his eyes, holding back tears, waiting for the final effect of the oil to take hold.
The spirits began to quake, yelling at the top of their spiritual voices. Their skin started to crack and turn to dust. In the blink of an eye, all the frozen forms had crumbled down to three piles of white dust. A wind blew by, scattering them all into the abyss. Free forevermore.
"Are they dead?" Teresa asked.
"No," Night assured. "They have found what they were looking for."
"Which is?" Miranda inquired.
Night could hear the woman working on a notebook computer, adding facts to the observations she had just seen. He turned, wondering how the woman had managed to bring down so much equipment in such a short time and surmised that half of it had to have been down in the basement in the first place.
"Rest, Mrs. Wingate," Night said. "They have now the time to rest."
"You destroyed their souls," Teresa barked angrily.
Night's eyes turned sad. He shook his head with regret. "It was the only way."
Holzer walked over to Teresa, who seemed to have felt the agony Night's attack had caused the three unfortunate spirits. The professor took the crying woman in his arms, giving Night an understanding glance. Night in turn avoided the scene by returning to his work.
"Mr. Sinclair," Night barked.
The cameraman had been cleaning the lens on his camera, doing his best to focus his mind at the job he was on. Being back in the dimensional void was not a curiosity to him-he was reminded of his first encounter. Perhaps that was why he was more cautious than terrified.
"Yes sir," Sinclair said, springing to Night's side.
"How many pictures do you have left?"
"Two."
Night looked down at the tiny camera, inspecting it. "Does that include a flash?"
"Ever know a professional cameraman not to have one?" Sinclair returned Night's question with a question. "In any case, even though I hate these little disposable cameras, I never buy one without a flash."
Night shook his head with understanding. "As you have noticed, we are in the void into which you first ventured the other day. It is very dark in here. No light." Night paused, studying Sinclair's reactions. "Do you see where I'm going with this, Mr. Sinclair?"
Sinclair at first was busy putting his camera back on his belt, hanging from a piece of string. Then the cameraman's eyes widened with understanding. "The flash!"
"Exactly." Night chuckled. "You are not that dumb after all."
"Thank you, sir."
"I still do not like you," Night reminded the cameraman. He slowly walked away, leaving Sinclair alone with his thoughts.
"Guy talks like my editor," Sinclair protested, returning to his friends.
Night pulled down his goggles, readjusting them, studying the plastic maze that lay out in front of him and his friends. The attack he and Lars had just accomplished seemed to get rid of most of the spirits guarding the entrance to the maze, but other than that very little damage was done-besides the return of the basement's rafters to the purplish sky.
"Hmm," Night said, adjusting the focus closer toward the maze.
It appeared that Night's attempt to stop the creature had caused it in turn to only grow stronger. Whatever was at the heart of the giant maze, it was a great power. Night only hoped that it was a demon. Demons he could kill.
The invisible tentacles from before were in greater numbers at the entrance of the maze. In fact, Night could see new and thicker tentacles being born and ripping at the plastic.
"Jonathon!" Night huffed, waving a frantic hand for his friend to join him.
Holzer walked over, wiping his glasses off. Some of the dust from the three unfortunate spirits had landed on his glasses. "What is it?"
Night took off his goggles, handing them to Holzer. "Look!" he ordered.
Holzer placed the goggles on and saw the growing tentacles.
"What am I seeing?" the professor asked.
"The tentacles are playing with the plastic tarps," Night explained.
"So?"
"That is how we are constantly hearing the sounds of rustling plastic in a room that has no wind. It is not the wind that is causing the movement. It is the beast!" Night's eyes started to light up with understanding. He almost looked childlike in his reactions.
As if asked to respond on cue, the basement world they were all trapped in started to fill with the sound of rustling plastic.
Holzer turned his attention toward the plastic walls of the maze.
"Incredible," the college professor whispered, moving forward, adjusting Night's goggles.
What Holzer saw was beyond science. New life forms started to scrape at the hanging plastic as if trying to break through. However thin the plastic appeared to those on the SOURCE team, it had to be more powerful than first thought. In any case, the many tentacles, spirits, and hands that were pressing up against the hanging plastic were, by Night's discovery, trying in groaning agony to break through into the world of man. As if "something" was pushing them to do so.
"Why can't they get through the plastic?" Night wondered.
&nb
sp; "Perhaps it is a barrier of some kind?" Holzer surmised. He took off Night's goggles, handing them back to his friend.
Night accepted the goggles.
Both men started to think the same answer.
"A dimensional barrier!" both men said in unison.
"But why plastic?" Holzer asked.
"Perhaps it is something more," Night said, pulling at his bottom lip in deep thought. "Perhaps in our minds we see the walls as simple plastic tarps. Perhaps that is the only form the dimensional barriers can take in our world. Or a participating member of our world gives them this form. You had stated on more than one occasion that the residents of Manchester House were painting, remodeling. Perhaps all these people influenced the simple manifestations of the barriers in this form?"
Holzer gave the theory some thought. He found it sound.
"This is definitely one for the books, old friend," Holzer mused.
Night chuckled dryly. "Book? Jonathon, this place and all the wonders we are seeing with each passing minute would fill a fucking library. We are at the threshold of a legend. Whatever happens from this moment on is beyond your training or mine."
Thunder filled the room and it started to rain.
"What?" Miranda was heard saying, looking up at the falling water with surprise. "Is there a leak in the floorboards?"
The rain fell stronger.
All Miranda's equipment shorted out.
"No!" she pleaded, playing with the keyboard of her computer.
"Will you lose any of the data?" Holzer asked.
"No. I saved it all on disk, thank God."
A heavy sigh lifted from the group.
"Jonathon," Night whispered. "We have to enter the maze."
Holzer gave his friend a surprised look. Nervously he pointed toward the plastic opening, remembering the many invisible tentacles, creatures, and spirits that roamed just inside the doorway.
"In there?" Holzer asked.
Night nodded his head.
"Is it safe?"
Night shrugged his shoulders. "Beats me."
Holzer moaned, rubbing his temples.
After about five minutes of preparations, the entire team stepped away from the concrete steps, which had been the bottom of the mansion's original basement steps, heading toward the entrance to the plastic maze. As soon as they had ventured off the concrete steps, they sank into a bubbling tar pit, which took the place of the staircase's foundation.
Whatever happened now, they had no choice but to go forward.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lt. Wells looked up from the paperwork he had been doing for the past five hours, regretting the fact that he hadn't called in. He came in early to work, having to deal with two teenage boys who had thought it fun to vandalize the train museum just off Main Street near the department of tourism and the famous Atchison Trolley Ride. Wells was never one to keep kids from having a good time, especially on a weekend night, but to deface the town's means of making a living? Not on his watch.
"Wells," a voice yelled out at him.
"Yeah?"
"Call on line four."
Wells thanked God for the break. He threw his pencil down, answering the phone.
"Wells."
"Ah, this is Dean Eager from the college," the voice on the other end of the phone said. Wells could clearly hear that the woman on the other end of the line was worried.
"How can I help you, Dean Eager?"
The college was a high-powered university, way out of the league of most universities and colleges in and around Atchison. Wells was curious as to why they would call him.
"I'm calling to file a missing person report, if I'm able to do that over the phone that is."
Wells' curiosity peaked. He was about to bite into a doughnut, but suddenly faced with something that would require thought, the detective decided to pass on his sugar rush.
"You can, Dean Eager," Wells explained, his voice turning sad. "I hope that this isn't a student who has passed through our small town."
"I hope not," Dean Eager agreed. "It's not a student, but an investigative team that left here over a week ago. We have heard nothing of them, and the webcam link that we had established has been broken since their first days of investigation."
"Investigation?" Wells asked, taking notes. "What sort of investigation?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Fingers hitting a desk nervously.
"Paranormal investigation, sir," Dean Eager stated. "The team we sent up there wanted to investigate&"
"Manchester House?" Wells asked, interrupting.
"Yes," the dean said, excitement in her voice.
"Jesus Christ, Professor Holzer! I almost forgot about him!" The detective slammed the phone down, looking for a few available uniforms.
Wells got up from his desk, pointing his fingers at two officers who had gathered by the box of doughnuts.
"You two," Wells shouted, "come with me."
"Where we going, sir?"
"Hopefully to stop a blood bath."
"Where?"
The other uniformed police officer, having been around Lt. Wells for a number of years, seemed to know.
"Manchester House," the older police officer said to the younger.
"Oh no."
Wells and his officers headed toward the exit. A car was assigned and back up was called.
On the other end of the phone, wondering what she had done to cause Wells to hang up, Dean Eager went over the semester curriculum, hoping that she wouldn't have to replace Jonathon Holzer's classes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Leading the way, Ingrid Night aimed his crossbow ahead of him, expecting trouble. Lars was not too far behind, pointing his weapon in the rear, over the SOURCE team members' heads. Spirits were dishonest. That was the first rule of the haunt. Spirits were angry at the living; that was the second rule. The third and most important rule was: Spirits would, if given the chance, trade places with the living. That is what Night expected, and that is what he and Lars prepared for.
The plastic maze lay before them. Before they all could enter the maze, however, Night insisted that each member of the team be blessed, purified, and bathed with a sulfur-based liquid he had obtained near the ancient site of Megiddo in North Palestine. Megiddo was a powerful site in the Cabbalistic faith, oddly enough for the Christians as well. Night knew that in the Christian faith, Megiddo was the town in which occurred the New Testament mention of the end of the world-Armageddon.
"We need to leave our doubts and sins behind," Night told each member of the team. "Since I am not a priest, and I know that Lars is not either, we will have need of the sulfur water from the holy site of Megiddo."
"Is it harmful, Doc?" Sinclair asked, a little uneasy.
Night paused, studying Sinclair's genuine fear. "Why so upset, Mr. Sinclair?"
"I don't like medicines," the cameraman explained. "They frighten me."
"So they do." Night sympathized, shaking his head with understanding. "I will be especially kind to you. Fear need not be in your mind. Have courage, my friend."
The blessings went well-even with Sinclair.
The maze appeared to look like hanging plastic held in place by duct tape, spiraling around beyond the reach of the human eye to follow, and into infinity. A bright light could be seen shining from the middle of the maze-or at least what appeared to be the middle. At this point in the game, it was hard for Night and the SOURCE team members to believe in what they were seeing.
The entrance appeared quiet.
No spirits were there to fight with them.
"Ingrid, a thought has just occurred to me," Holzer said. The professor put his hand on Night's shoulder, wishing to grab the man's attention.
Night dared not move his gaze from what was in front of him. "And what is that, Jonathon?"
"If the plastic tarps represent the barriers between our world and that of the spirits wishing to invade it, what does the endless stream of duct tape stand
for?"
The question intrigued Night. He stopped walking.
"Perhaps the logic of the universe, which seems to hold everything in check," Night mused. "This could be the hidden power we take for granted every day."
"Such as?"
"The sun rising each morning. That black holes do not devour the entire universe," Night explained, becoming greatly animated at his theory. "That when an egg is thrown into the air, we can relax with the certainty that it will tumble back down to earth. Perhaps the duct tape is a symbol of God's handiwork which helps keep the universe from blowing up."
Holzer let out an unimpressed grunt.
"You asked," Night reiterated.
Miranda cleared her throat. "Mr. Night?"
"Yes?"
"If we enter this maze and are ambushed, we will have nowhere to retreat."
Night gave the observation some thought. He shook his head in disagreement. "You are wrong. We do have somewhere to go."
"Where?" the pathologist asked.
"Why, Mrs. Wingate, we go&forward."
Miranda huffed, trying to hide the fear growing inside of her. Night understood. In fact he was greatly impressed by the bravery and fortitude of Holzer's followers. He hoped, should they survive, that he be given the honor to work again with each and every one of them-even Sinclair.
* * *
Teresa and Miranda tried to pass the time and control their growing fears by concentrating on the EMF reader in Miranda's hands. Focusing their attention on the rising meter was more comforting to the two women than seeing the rotted, bloodied, and panicky corpses clawing at the maze's endless plastic walls.
There had been spirits and specters along the sides of the maze to attack the fantasies and horrors of any taste.
Seeing living people walking toward the center of the focal point of this haunting had been too much for some of the spirits trapped in this fantastic void. Several rushed toward the plastic walls, giving the team members the general fear that they would all easily break through the walls, attacking them. But this was not and could not be. There was "something", some magical force that kept the thin plastic barrier intact. The agony of the tortured was beyond bizarre; they would claw away at the sheets of plastic, being pulled back by some unforeseen force which kept them clearly at bay.
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