MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  At this last comment, Teresa let out a surprised laugh.

  Night's eyes turned serious. "Can I count on you then?"

  Teresa nodded her head in agreement.

  Night took Teresa's hand in his and silently guided her ahead of her fellow teammates, and suggested that she follow Night into the void, leading the way.

  "A warning," Night insisted, bringing a stern finger up to Teresa's face. "In the void, I am quite sure that your powers will magnify. Be careful not to allow them to totally consume you."

  "Sir?" Teresa asked, confused.

  "Just listen to the words of an old man," Night insisted. "If using your powers, keep in mind the motivations of good. Do not allow hate and negative feelings to dictate your motivations. If you do, your powers will destroy us all. Understand?"

  Teresa did not. Night was plainly aware of this fact, but could see that the psychic was properly warned and was starting to build mental barriers, should they be needed to help save her own sanity.

  Teresa was ready.

  "Good." Night took Teresa's hand. "Shall we go?"

  Behind him, Night heard Holzer pulling back on the spring-loader of his crossbow. The college professor looked terribly worried. Holzer started to fidget.

  "You know," Teresa said, whispering so that only Night could hear her, "he really idolizes you."

  "And I him, dear," Night stated, proud. "And I him."

  Holzer poured some more oil into his crossbow.

  "Jonathon?" Night asked.

  Holzer became alert. "Yes!"

  Night meekly handed Holzer Lars' old glasses. The college professor took them with a great reverence.

  "Why?"

  "For luck, my dear friend."

  Teresa took Night by the hand, allowing the old man to trail behind her.

  All headed into the void.

  * * *

  Holzer, his heart racing, was surprised to discover that once they all walked through the dark void, they only moved down about a six-inch hop. They all landed on very soft soil-very rich soil. The kind of soil Holzer's grandfather had tried to cultivate for years on the family farm. There was a sun, of sorts, which shone over the horizon that seemed miles away. All would have looked normal if it had not been for the row upon row of gravestones.

  The gravestones were many, and made Normandy and Gettysburg look tame by comparison. Thousands upon thousands of calling cards marking a dead life and little more. No names. No dates. No nothing.

  Bleak.

  "Well, this is charming," Miranda tried to joke. Her voice quivered, defeating the motivation of her attempt. "Where are we?"

  "I think we are on a neutral plane," Sinclair stated. "One where we and this evil force can combat each other without ruining the other's natural world."

  Night turned, giving Sinclair a surprised if not astonished look.

  "Be careful, Mr. Sinclair," Night warned.

  "Be careful of what?" the cameraman asked.

  "Keep talking that way and people are going to start to believe that you have intelligence."

  Sinclair picked up his camera, focusing it. A flash went off as he took a picture of the graveyard. Within seconds, an instant picture spat out of the front of the camera. Sinclair took it, waving it in the air.

  "Too bad," Sinclair winked.

  "One more picture only," Night warned.

  "I know," Sinclair confirmed. "And that's my money shot!"

  Holzer waved his crossbow around, not wanting to be caught off guard like Lars had been. The thought of Lars spending eternity fighting with those poor souls who wished only to devour him was not a pretty one, but well worth the motivation to remember.

  In fact, all in the group looked nervous.

  All except Miranda.

  "Pardon me for making such an observation, dear," Night stated, looking down at Miranda. "Why are you so damn calm?"

  "Calm?" Miranda repeated, her eyes as innocent as a doe's.

  "Yes," Night insisted. "You have been pissing your pants ever since we arrived. You do not give me the impression of a warrior." Night's eyes narrowed, looking sinister. "Why are you so calm?"

  Miranda gave Night a sly smile. "Do you not see?"

  "No," Night insisted. His hands tightened around his conjure kit.

  Miranda pointed toward all the gravestones.

  "Manchester House has shown itself naked to us."

  Night and Holzer exchanged curious stares.

  "These graves," Miranda explained, irritated that no one else saw the pure ideology of the whole affair. "All these graves are the victims of the house and the land, in most cases."

  "Dear God!" Teresa stated, looking at all the gravestones.

  "This can only mean one thing&" Night coached Teresa to continue.

  "That the beast is waiting for us&" Teresa shivered. "And he is near."

  "What the beast fails to realize, young lady," Night challenged, "is&so am I."

  As if on cue, the group suddenly heard the roar of an enormous beast. Sounding a lot like a lion and more like an enraged bear, the fury behind the sound was hard to match. So much power was behind the roar that Holzer made a silent gesture to Night that he could feel the power of the roar vibrate from the ground into his shoes.

  A storm of some kind came across the calm of the vast graveyard, violently attacking the SOURCE team.

  Grabbing his coat and holding it closed with one hand, Holzer looked up at Night. "What the hell is this?"

  "That is the breath of evil, Jonathon."

  The team started to lose their footing as the strength of the wind picked up. Several of the tombstones rocked and tumbled over. Trees that seemed to be growing nearby started to uproot, crashing down to the ground, hungry for a body to fall upon. Several members of the SOURCE team had to dash away from falling trees, tombstones, and each other.

  It was not a pretty sight.

  "Stop!" Night yelled, holding up one of his many candles. The tiny light from the small white ordinary looking candle seemed to have the power needed to magnify the owner's will.

  The wind stopped blowing.

  The trees stopped falling.

  The graveyard appeared whole once more.

  Beyond the team, Night noticed a huge mound of dirt which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, towering over the rest of them. Consisting of rock, dirt, and coffins, the mound of dirt also appeared to have several of the plastic walls from the Manchester maze circling around it. If Night, Holzer, and his team were going to get anywhere toward the center of the mound, they would have to appeal to the power behind the whole affair, humoring it once again.

  Appearing above the mound, grinning, was the Shape.

  A soft wind seemed to tease at her dark auburn hair, covering once more the deathlike features which made up most of her persona. She was dressed in different clothing, however. Her appearance seemed more civilized.

  "Notice the clothing, Jonathon?" Night said, helping his friend to his feet.

  Holzer adjusted his glasses, accepting Night's help. "Yes. Quite different. More becoming."

  "Dressed in her, as you Americans say, Sunday best," Night stated. "Would you not think so?"

  Holzer nodded his head.

  "What is behind all of this, I wonder?"

  The Shape from time to time showed her earthly age by looking up toward some invisible figure as if listening to a dirty secret. Like a child being told something devilish by an older adult, the Shape giggled from time to time, stopping only long enough to glare back down at the SOURCE team. Her focus appeared to be centered on Jonathon Holzer.

  "What's she doing?" Holzer asked.

  "You do not ask the right question, Jonathon," Night said, aiming his crossbow up at the Shape, waiting.

  "What's the question, then?"

  "Who is she talking to?" Night's eyes locked with the college professor.

  Holzer seemed to realize what Night was worried about. The Shape's body language did suggest another guiding her, s
peaking through her, and using her to do its unearthly bidding.

  Holzer stepped forward.

  His foot landed on a twig, breaking it.

  Snap!

  The Shape glared down at Holzer.

  "Oh shit," Holzer said under his breath, scared. The college professor tried his best to ease himself back into the comforting zone of his friends.

  * * *

  The Shape had been listening to the Master, doing her best to maintain an air of calm-listening to all the evil things that had been planned. All the delicious hurtful things that these humans would be put through.

  The Shape heard the twig snap, and she glared down at the man who considered himself an educated man-the leader of the group. Not the tall dark man-the man with power.

  :Kill him! Kill Him now!:

  The Shape's eyes started to glow an unholy red.

  She was quite aware of the fear growing in the eyes of the educated one, but her Master had made a plea. She was only to obey.

  The Shape pointed one lone finger down at Holzer.

  * * *

  Ingrid Night knew that something was terribly wrong and that Holzer was in dire danger. There was something about his friend which did not set well with the Shape and the powers behind her. Night was not fully aware of the facts, events, or causes that sorely concerned the Shape regarding Holzer, but he was not blind-he had eyes! He knew that Holzer was being perceived as a threat.

  "Jonathon, hear me&" Night tried to warn. "As quick as you can, stand behind me."

  "What?" Holzer fumbled around, noticing the Shape glaring down at him. It was only after the professor saw her pointing a telltale finger down at him that he started to heed what Night was trying to say. "Ingrid, I don't understand. Why me?"

  "Why you, indeed." Night nervously smiled back. The tall man pointed his own warning finger back up toward the Shape. His crossbow was ready. "Do not harm this man! I warn you."

  The Shape only laughed.

  Her eyes beamed red.

  A subtle wind began to rise.

  * * *

  :You are not worthy of these petty creatures.:

  Teresa fought back the thought. Her eyes started to lose their focus. She became aware of the fact that something was trying to contact her. Something not of the earth.

  Teresa began to faint.

  "Hey there!" Sinclair said, almost dropping his camera, catching Teresa. "You okay?"

  Teresa started to rub at her temples. In her mind, she was feeling a great deal of pain. Perhaps her powers were starting to magnify in the ways that Night tried to warn her about? She wasn't certain about this, but in the same respect she hated the prospect behind the whole affair.

  "Just a little dizzy, I think," Teresa reassured him.

  There was movement in the corner of her eye. Something studying them all. Something learning their weaknesses.

  "We are not alone here," Teresa stated, shaking with fear.

  "Tell me something I don't know, love," Miranda nervously agreed, biting her bottom lip.

  All were soon directed to concentrate on Holzer.

  It looked like the man was having trouble breathing. Frantically, Holzer was clawing away at his shirt collar. The professor's face was starting to turn a pale blue and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  * * *

  Trying to do what Night had instructed him to do, Jonathon Holzer soon discovered that he could not control the voluntary movements of his own body. Like a puppet on a string, he was at the mercy of some unknown force. This terrified him greatly.

  Opening his mouth, Holzer wanted to inform Night about his situation, but he could not. His panic was calmed, however, when he did notice that Night was aware of his danger and was trying to do something about it. Night warned the Shape not to proceed with her attack.

  The Shape, however, wasn't listening.

  Holzer saw Night step forward, raise his crossbow carefully, close one eye, and slowly squeeze the trigger.

  The shot of oil from Night's crossbow soared high in the air and hit the Shape on her wrists. As if tied together, the little girl's hands seemed bound.

  "A hit!" Night proclaimed. He started to pull back on the firing cord of his weapon, wishing to reload.

  The Shape could not move her hands apart. She struggled and screamed to no avail. This last seemed to affect the environment around the SOURCE team as attacking winds stirred once more.

  "Should we not run for cover, Mr. Night?" Sinclair asked.

  "Where?" Night responded.

  Realizing that there was no retreat, Sinclair darted forward only long enough to grab Holzer, dragging him behind Night.

  "How is he?" Night asked, his eyes never leaving the Shape. He uncorked a vial of oil, pouring more into his weapon. He aimed. Waiting.

  "He seems okay," Sinclair said. Motioning Teresa over to take a look at the professor, the cameraman joined Night. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Stay out of my way," Night pleaded, quite rudely. His attention was on the Shape. He aimed his crossbow carefully.

  "Is this going to work?" Sinclair asked.

  Night glared at Sinclair. "Probably not."

  The Shape broke free from the bracelet created by Night's blessed oil and started to throw huge fireball-like weapons down onto the human invaders. As each fireball struck ground, it exploded with the magnitude of a grenade.

  Everyone ran for cover.

  Everyone except Night.

  Closing one eye, aiming, he fired his weapon.

  This time the oil hit the Shape squarely in the face.

  "Hey!" Night cried, jumping. He was pleased with where the oil had made its mark.

  "Take that, you bitch!" Sinclair said, patting Night on the shoulder.

  Reacting to Sinclair's praise, Night said, "I appreciate the praise, Sinclair, but we are not victorious yet."

  "No?"

  "Not yet."

  * * *

  The Shape's world became dark. Whatever the tall man was doing, it was beginning to work. She was losing her power. Her hold on reality.

  :Do not fail me!:

  The Shape could feel the thick clawed hands of the Master on her shoulders. They had only touched her once before, and that was a feeling she had never wished to encounter again. The Master only touched her when he was sure that she was about to fail. And if she failed she would not be allowed to enter the world of man when her Master became victorious.

  "Master! Help me!" the Shape pleaded, clawing at the thick oil matted on her face, fighting for some kind of opening in the weapon so that she could once more see. Once more so that she could control.

  :It does not have to be this way!:

  :Who dares speak to one of mine?:

  The Shape started to quiver with fear. There was "another" in the arena, challenging the powers of the Master.

  As the Shape started to regain her sight, she noticed the timid-looking black woman stepping forward from the group of humans below. The dead little girl seemed to feel the human woman's mind enter into hers.

  "Get away from me!" the Shape cried. Screaming and in pain, she grabbed at the sides of her head, trying to fight the psychic feelers that were ruthlessly invading her spirit.

  The Master would not help.

  The Shape was on her own.

  * * *

  Ingrid Night was too busy reloading his crossbow for the third time to notice the quagmire The Shape was into. Aiming his weapon at her and closing his left eye to aim, he quite suddenly opened it just as fast, totally amazed at what he was seeing.

  The Shape had always appeared to be in total control of the surroundings. Although slowed down by Night and the rest of the SOURCE team, she never really gave him the impression of being afraid of them. However, that was what Night was seeing in the Shape's features-fear.

  "GET AWAY!" the Shape screamed.

  Something from behind Night was frightening the specter to a great unease.

  Night dropped his
crossbow, looking behind.

  "Good God!"

  Night saw Teresa walking forward. Her eyes seemed to be glowing with a bluish light, challenging the power which seemed to be flowing from the Shape's eyes. Night had surmised that this would happen to the psychic, but not to this degree.

  "Teresa?" Miranda said, wanting to stop Teresa from moving any closer toward the huge mound of dirt on which the Shape had taken control.

  Miranda was stopped by Night.

  "Do not!" Night said.

  "Why not?"

  "You could kill her."

  Miranda gave her friend a concerned look. "Is she all right, Mr. Night?"

  Night studied the situation. "She is closer now to the truth behind this Shape than anyone could be." He paused. "Teresa! Try to discover who she was when she was once human and alive."

  Teresa, barely hearing what Night had asked her to do, nodded her head in agreement. Stretching out her hands and using all of her will, Teresa attacked the Shape's thoughts with a power that she was sure she had never had before.

  What she found frightened her.

  * * *

  Teresa's mind's eye pictured a pretty young girl riding west on a stagecoach, mainly because the new railroad system had not as of yet been successfully installed as far as Atchison, Kansas. Teresa sensed that the girl was going to Atchison to marry a wealthy railroad man. A man whose letters had touched her heart like no other man's had.

  There was promise of leaving a life of poverty behind.

  There were lots of promises.

  :LEAVE ME ALONE!:

  :We come in peace. Why do you attack us? We are your friends.:

  Teresa tried her best to relax the Shape. No! Not the Shape&

  Sallie! Her name was once Sallie Cummings from Boston. Of Irish stock. Her hair was as fair and as lovely as the Dublin morning-that was what her mother always used to say to her.

  :DO NOT DO THIS TO ME!:

  Teresa's world was suddenly attacked. The images began to fade. Waves of pain began to take over. Still, through both discipline and practice, Teresa had been down this road of resistance before. If the truth would help them get home, this was the only way to do it.

  Teresa forged ahead, increasing her invasion of the Shape's consciousness.

  :STOP! IT HURTS! MASTER! PLEASE&HELP&: