MANCHESTER HOUSE

by Donald Allen Kirch

  "Not just yet, Mr. Sinclair!" Night huffed, turning sadly.

  Both Night and Holzer stared at each other. The tentacle holding onto Holzer's thigh broke free, withering into a harmless pile of ash. The college professor was once more the master of his own fate.

  "You called me&son." Holzer's eyes opened wide. His face looked as wondrous as a small child's might upon discovering Santa Claus at the foot of his Christmas Tree.

  "I have always loved you, Jonathon." Night placed his hand upon the college professor's shoulder. His eyes started to dart around the surroundings as if expecting something. "Always remember that."

  A thunderous echo filled the dark.

  As if ripped open, a bright and gaping hole appeared no more than six feet away from Sinclair, Teresa, and Miranda. Through the hole all, including Holzer, could see the inside closet belonging to Manchester House.

  It was a way home!

  "Let's go," Holzer suggested to Night.

  Night remained where he stood. In fact, the graveyard dirt around his feet grabbed hold of him with earthly hands, not letting him go. "Alas, Jonathon, I told you that there was a price for your safe return." The old man paused, holding back the urge to cry. "I cannot go."

  "You cannot stay," Holzer suggested, his voice dripping with hope.

  "I will fight," Night toughly asserted. "I will find a way."

  "Professor?" Miranda was heard yelling up at Holzer.

  "Ingrid says that we now have a way home," Holzer said, pointing at the rift. "I suggest you jump through it quickly."

  Without hesitation, all three jumped through the rift.

  Safe.

  Home.

  "Go, Jonathon," Night weakly ordered.

  The college professor nodded his head in agreement. Silently he hugged his dear friend, his eyes filling with tears of respect. In turn Night returned the hug with a passion Holzer had always felt the old man incapable of. It was indeed the most heartbreaking moment of Jonathon Holzer's life.

  "I will be seeing you!" Night triumphantly yelled. The old man pointed to the rift, silently ordering Holzer to walk through it.

  Holzer turned, walking toward the rift.

  Ingrid Night was now completely alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  While investigating the main hallway of Manchester House, Lt. Wells thought he heard the sound of a rather heavy thud. The disturbance reminded him of a moving trunk being suddenly dropped because it was just too heavy. In his hearing of the sound, Wells discovered that he wasn't alone.

  "Wells!" the captain yelled, entering the hall. A rather curious look was on his face. "Did you hear that?"

  Wells nodded his head in confirmation.

  The scuffling seemed to be coming from the closet under the staircase. Were those muffled voices Wells was hearing?

  Wells silently pointed toward the closet's door as if to inform his captain that they were not alone. There was someone in the closet.

  The captain motioned several police officers to enter the hallway. Most had their guns aimed at the closed door.

  "I'm too old for this shit," Wells said as he slowly approached the closed door.

  The police detective held his breath, placing his hand on the closet's doorknob. Inside the tiny room, Wells thought he heard the sound of several people bickering. It was indeed a strange, if not amusing, sensation.

  The door suddenly burst open, knocking Wells to the ground. A horribly foul wind swept through the mansion's main hallway, causing a few younger officers to become just as sick as their fellow missing man from hours before.

  Exploding from the confines of the closet, Wells saw four people come falling out of a room. It was the missing investigation team they had been looking for. Wells clearly saw Professor Jonathon Holzer at the bottom of the pile of people, who all looked as if they hadn't eaten a good meal in days. Weak, dirty, and bleeding badly, Holzer looked around him and smiled, laughing joyfully.

  "We're back!" Holzer said, rubbing what appeared to be mud off his forehead.

  Two women who were a part of the team silently asked Wells to help them get Holzer to his feet. Holzer did not look good. In fact, his face was rather pale.

  "Who says that there never is a cop around when you need one?" the youngest of the men said. Later, Wells would learn that this man was the team's cameraman.

  With a grunt of pain, Holzer made it to his feet.

  "Professor Holzer?" Wells said, holding back his relief. "Where have you been?"

  "That's a question, sir, which will quite possibly take the rest of my life to find an answer to." Holzer looked at Wells, blinking his eyes tightly. "Are you by chance Lt. Albert Wells?"

  Wells nodded his head in confirmation.

  "Thank you for not giving up on us."

  The captain stepped forward, lighting another cigar. "Wells! What the hell is all of this? What's with the tea party?"

  Wells cleared his throat.

  Holzer shut up.

  Both realized that authority had just entered the picture.

  "Captain, this is Professor Holzer and his crew." Wells paused. "These were the team members I informed you about. However&" Wells paused, giving Holzer a curious look. "I count four. I thought you said&"

  "Two did not make it back," Holzer explained.

  There was an awkward silence in the hallway for a moment.

  * * *

  Ingrid Night looked up at Asmodeus through the brim of his hat. He couldn't explain it, but he found himself smiling. He was happy. Alone in a dimensional shift facing a hellish demon with little or no hope of ever smelling the fresh air of earth again, and he was happy. Night always found great amusement in Holzer's assumption that he was insane, but this time the old man seemed to be agreeing with his dear friend.

  The beast roared to life, moving forward, dwarfing Night as he stood looking up at him with triumph.

  Chanting a spell he had learned from a voodoo priest in Haiti, Night surrounded himself with a glowing symbol of protection. He reached into his conjure kit, pulling out a red polished rock quite similar to the one he had Holzer use-it was his one and only gamble.

  "Death is but a memory," Night started to chant. "Life is but a lie, in the middle we have the moment, that is where you will find&I."

  Upon hearing Night's words, the two remaining heads of the creature lowered and glared into the old man's eyes. The dead bull-like head appeared to be rotting on its stump, already bloating with flies and maggots. The stench was hellish, and Night was doing all that he could not to show the monster that its sickly-sweet smell was roiling his stomach to no end.

  "Get down with it, motherfucker!" Night yelled. He took out his crossbows, throwing one to the ground, maintaining the other in his left hand. In his right hand, he held the blessed red stone. He would only need a moment. One precious instant of weakness from the beast.

  Night's foot kicked something. Something metallic.

  Looking down, Night spotted the flashlight device Miranda had created earlier and realized that he had another weapon he could use. Never taking his eyes off the two heads, Night reached down, picking the device up.

  The beast attacked, knocking Night to the ground with one of its cock-like paws. One of its three claws tore at the skin of his chest, opening a great wound. Blood poured out. Ingrid Night screamed.

  Night leaped at the creature. Asmodeus screamed in terror.

  The old man had the moment he had been praying for. He knew that he was going to win the day.

  * * *

  "Captain, the ambulance is on its way," a young police officer stated, sticking his head into the main hallway of Manchester House.

  "Good." The captain ordered, "Go out on the main road and direct the thing in. These people need to see a doctor."

  Before anyone else could move or react, a terrible explosion hit Manchester House, rocking its entire foundation. This was not the kind of explosion associated with demolition, but a sonic radiance of expanded energ
y.

  "Jesus! What the hell was that?" Sinclair asked, holding Miranda's hand tightly. Since coming back though the rift, both he and Miranda were becoming inseparable.

  Holzer opened his eyes, smiling. "That, Mr. Sinclair, was Ingrid Night."

  The entire SOURCE team were finding themselves smiling and cheering silently.

  "Greatest man I have ever known," Teresa found herself saying, wiping tears out of her eyes.

  Again the house shook with force. Only this time it felt as if the entire town of Atchison, Kansas was involved. Atchison shook with the energy of a California earthquake. There was a feeling of the mystic in the air.

  Holzer noticed that Lt. Wells was rubbing his temples-a headache?

  "Ahh!" a muffled voice shouted from the kitchen of the house.

  All eyes turned toward the troubled room.

  "That came from the kitchen," Miranda suggested.

  Everyone headed around the main staircase and into the living room, passing into and toward the kitchen's closed door.

  Wells, with Holzer and his team not too far behind, opened the kitchen door with a shaky hand "What the hell?" Wells said, his voice both curious and controlled.

  The kitchen floor, once the scene of the horrid rat graveyard, was now uprooted and torn asunder. It was as if some powerful force had exploded the floorboards of the room, leaving a gaping hole. Steam was seen rising from the hole and it appeared as if something was moving-getting closer.

  Miranda, standing behind Holzer, handed him her last functioning EMF detector. "Professor?" she said.

  Holzer took the device, activating it. Pointing the EMF detector towards the new hole in the kitchen, he and Wells were surprised to see the instrument's needle peak past the highest mark, spark, then die in his hand.

  "Well," Holzer said, not at all surprised. "That's the end of our equipment."

  A hand rose from the middle of the hole, grabbing hold of the kitchen floor. Soon another hand joined in.

  Ingrid Night rose from the pit, seeing three police-issued weapons pointing down at his head. His face was covered in blood and he was bleeding heavily from his chest. The man looked like a living abortion, spewing forth upon the earth.

  "Jonathon," Night weakly asked, not at all fazed by the pointing weapons. "Could you please give me a hand?"

  Holzer and his team jumped with joy and Teresa and Miranda hugged each other. Both Sinclair and the professor broke away from the local police, rushing into the mansion's kitchen to help their friend back to safety.

  "Ingrid!" Holzer shouted, surprised. "Christ in Heaven, I thought that we lost you for good."

  "Never believe that Ingrid Night can be taken, Jonathon." The old man grunted as he was pulled from the pit. Waves of steam came off his body as he stood looking at his team members.

  "Who the hell is this then?" Wells asked.

  "This, Lt. Wells, is Ingrid Night," Holzer explained, patting the old man on the shoulder with great pride. "My dear, dear friend. He is the missing man from our team."

  "No," Night corrected. "There was one more."

  The SOURCE team turned silent, sad, thinking of Lars.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," Night suggested.

  Without waiting for permission, without wanting to explain a damn thing, Holzer, Night, and their team left Manchester House.

  * * *

  Outside, with Manchester House behind them, the SOURCE team members waited until almost all the police officers were in their cars ready to leave. The captain, shouting and yelling every step of the way, was the first to go. Wells had been informed that he would soon be put in charge of traffic violations and could expect to stay there for many years-one too damn many Manchester House cases, he surmised.

  "Professor," Wells stated, rubbing his temples, "I am leaving now. Please tell me you will not be staying."

  Holzer looked at Night, who tiredly chuckled.

  "No, sir," Holzer confirmed. "Manchester House is no longer, shall we say, haunted. The house is clear."

  "Amen!" Night barked.

  "Then I have all of your addresses and statements," Wells said. "If I need to contact you, Professor, I'll call your office."

  Holzer nodded his head, waving the detective off.

  The team was now alone.

  * * *

  Sinclair raised his camera, taking the last picture-it was of Ingrid Night.

  Night, blinking his eyes, looked up at the cameraman, fully understanding the honor Sinclair had just paid to him. He knew that there were several fantastic moments Sinclair could have preserved on film, but had chosen him, looking like a drowned puppy, to capture.

  "I still do not like you, Mr. Sinclair." Night meekly laughed. "But I am honored to call you friend."

  Sinclair looked at the old man, hurt. "Thanks, I guess."

  "I want a copy of that picture!" Night demanded, pointing a serious finger at Sinclair.

  The team members started to break out in laughter.

  "I have a question," Teresa said.

  "Yes?" Night answered.

  "How the hell are we going to get back to town?"

  Suddenly it hit everyone. They had no car, no food, and no proof of what had happened to them. They were, in essence, marooned all over again.

  "Ain't that a son-of-a-bitch," Night huffed.

  Surprised eyes turned on Night, who rose to his feet, walking away from the mansion toward town.

  "Well?" Holzer said, picking up his gear. "Let's go."

  The SOURCE team, with Night leading the way, walked back to Atchison alone, weak, hungry, and unsung. But then again each member of the team would have preferred it that way.

  "Ingrid?" Holzer asked, catching up with his friend and mentor.

  "Yes, Jonathon?"

  "What of Manchester House?"

  "You have enough information to please your students, do you not?"

  Holzer huffed. "I have enough to fill at least three books on the subject, but that's not my point."

  "Then what is?"

  "Is the house safe for human habitation again?"

  Night stopped walking, slowly looking back at where they had all come from. Holzer thought, if only for a moment, Night's eyes showed great fear. "If any house is now safe in this tiny hamlet of a town, it is Manchester House. Evil will never again be able to haunt that land."

  "Good," Holzer stated, smiling.

  "However," Night added, "the rest of Atchison is not so lucky."

  Night started to walk again. Taken by surprise, Holzer and his team had to run to catch up with the tall old man.

  "Wait!" Miranda huffed, dragging Sinclair behind her. "What about the rest of Atchison?"

  "I had to cleanse Manchester House long enough for my escape," Night explained. "The evil decided to leave me be. I do not know where it fled."

  "You mean you didn't kill it?" Holzer shouted.

  "Jonathon, you cannot kill a god," Night explained. "You can only ruin its day."

  The rays of the sun began to peek through the woods surrounding Manchester House and for the first time in decades warmth could be felt. There seemed to be a welcoming feeling toward the whole property, quite unlike the feelings the SOURCE team had experienced upon entering.

  "Well," Holzer said, continuing his walk, "at least we succeeded."

  Night turned, glaring at Holzer through the brim of his hat, looking both worried and quite sinister. "Did we?"

  Holzer swallowed hard. For him at least the forces of good had won the day and science stood victorious with new and much-needed knowledge.

  It took the team over two hours to head back into Atchison.

  "Jonathon?" Night said.

  "Yes?"

  "Happy Halloween."

  Holzer looked at his watch in surprise. It was now October thirty-first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  One Year Later&

  Albert Wells, formerly of the Atchison Police Department, thought it best to retire shortly after his l
ast encounter with Manchester House. Having been informed by Professor Holzer and his team from the SOURCE Institute that the hauntings of the famous mansion were over, the old derelict became a beacon for the small crime element of the community. Wells was soon transferred from traffic violations back into homicide and, ironically enough, was pulling more body bags out of the goddamn place.

  After a particular case where his neighbor's sixteen-year-old daughter was pulled out of Manchester House's basement dead from an overdose and evidence of being the victim of a gang-rape, Wells decided to retire his badge, much to the moral chagrin of his captain.

  Retirement had been kind to Wells. He visited Holzer once, buying a copy of the professor's latest book The House that Dripped Evil, and was mildly amused at the fact that Holzer had dedicated the book to him and the people of Atchison. Wells bought a small house, ironically enough quite near the site of Manchester House, and was enjoying the good time of his declining years.

  Atchison was no more the worse for wear. Lives went on, dreams were both lost and found, and business went on with its profits and losses. However, one small change had taken place: the Haunted Trolley Ride scheduled every October changed its route to include their newest haunted house-new in the sense that Manchester House was safe enough to have human contact on a regular basis. Safe again if you didn't count the local crime cartels.

  Wells' day started like any other. He got up at four in the morning-a habit he couldn't break himself of from decades in the police force-drank his coffee, and read his morning newspaper. Wells' morning newspaper usually meant the paper he bought the night before before heading off to bed.

  Something blazing from the paper's headline banner caught his eye and made him laugh with both glee and relief-the news made his day-his whole damn life, in fact.

  MANCHESTER HOUSE DESTROYED BY FIRE

  "Well, I'll be goddamned!"

  There was a movement which Wells caught out of the corner of his eye, but due to the fact that his paper had held such great and positive news he paid it little mind.

  Someone knocked at the front door.

  Wells rubbed his temples. The headaches were starting to get worse.