Manchester House (15 page)

Holzer was embarrassed as well as enraged.

“What about your class, Doc?” Sinclair asked, his eyes sad. “Won’t they object?”

Holzer gave the question some thought. He looked back into the darkness of the house with a great deal of respect-more than he’d had upon first entering.

“Perhaps, Mr. Sinclair, there are some questions which are best left&” He paused, regret clearly visible on his face. “Unanswered.”

All turned to leave. Holzer, however, soon got the impression that they were not alone. That someone else had been listening to what they had been saying.

Stepping forward from the darkness, Holzer was delighted to see his old friend and fellow SOURCE founder, Ingrid Night. Night was a towering figure of a man, dressed like the “Quaker Oats Man from Hell” as Holzer used to call him. This figure was wearing a huge brimmed hat, dripping with both mud and rain, curiously enough. Night appeared to have been involved in some kind of mishap that Holzer, at the time, could not understand. His face was speckled with thick dirt and leaves. His face was weather-worn and had seen better days. Holzer could see that Night had led a seriously rough number of years since he had last seen him. Night, very straightforward, looked down at the horrified group, smiling wryly.

“Looks like I got here just in time, Jonathon,” Night said, his voice dripping with a deep Belgian accent.

Night, responding to all the horrified looks he was getting and remembering the hell he went through to get to them, started to laugh, holding back a well-established cough. Although he looked old, Holzer could see that he carried himself like a man half his age. As quick as the cough hit him, he shook it off.

“Damn Kansas weather,” Night huffed, sniffling. “Who needs it?”

“Ingrid, thank God you are here,” Holzer said, taking out a handkerchief, wiping his forehead.

“Yes.” Night tightly nodded his head in agreement. “Do thank God, my friend. Because if I were not his servant, you and your friends would be his latest tenants.” Night timidly placed his hand on Holzer’s shoulder. His eyes shone with a fatherly wisdom. “Jonathon, when will you ever learn?”

“Huh?”

“Evil cares not for the degrees that you hold. It cares not that you are curious.” Night paused, tired. “It only cares to destroy.”

Holzer’s face turned cold. He had heard these words before on other cases and was quite sick to keep on hearing them.

“Nice to see you again, Ingrid.” There was a long pause, which made Holzer slightly smile. “We could use your help, you know.”

Night started to giggle. “Tell me, Jonathon, the car that you arrived in&”

“Yes?”

“Was it a rental?”

Holzer gave the question some serious thought. “No. It belongs to the science department at the college.” Holzer’s brow turned worried. “Why?”

“Consider it a loss, then.” Night smiled.

Holzer let out a tired moan, not really interested in hearing any more.

“Yes. I thought you’d like that news,” Night said, laughing. “Tough being involved in the economics of life, isn’t it?”

Holzer said nothing. He was deep in thought.

Night left his dear friend alone with his thoughts.

Night paid particular attention to Holzer. The man was well aware of the controlled anger in Holzer’s voice. He lightly smiled when he noticed it. Night’s face, scarred and tattered, showed that he was a veteran of many hard battles. Still, there was enough charity in his features to show Holzer that he cared.

“Lars!” Night yelled, almost scaring everyone within shouting distance. “Get in here. I haven’t all night, you know.” Night turned to Holzer, explaining. “Good help is hard to come by. I apologize.”

Night took off his hat, shaking the rain off of it. Placing it back on his head, he was sure that enough of the accumulated water was gone. He adjusted his brim.

A stumbling sound was heard as Lars entered the house.

Lars, a rather spidery looking little man, wore impossibly thick glasses and gave Holzer the impression that without them, he would be as blind as the proverbial bat. Lars was dressed in something of an Amish fashion and had long blond hair. Still, there was something different about the man that Holzer did notice: his forehead was cut and bleeding.

Night shook his head at Lars, silently judging the servant’s slow movements. He laughed dryly. “Lars, I know you are slow. Death is quicker than you are, you bastard. Heh!”

From Lars, there was no response. He remained silent. Doing his duty.

Lars handed Night an impossibly large carrying case in which Night placed his small medical bag from before. This case was as much a part of Night as a rifle was to a soldier. It was his conjure kit. His Swiss Army knife for all occasions.

It was then that Holzer noticed Lars’ injuries.

“What happened to Lars?”

“Huh?” Night asked, trying his best to look surprised.

Holzer pointed to Lars’ bleeding forehead. “What happened?”

Night gazed at his servant blankly. “Must have tripped coming to this cursed place. The man’s a damn fool, I think. But I keep him because he’s a good friend and can bake one hell of a cherry pie when forced to.”

Both Holzer and Night stared at each other silently for a long time. Holzer knew that he was being fed bullshit. Still, the matter was soon dropped.

“Again, Ingrid, I thank you for coming,” Holzer said, slightly ashamed. “We had all but given up our investigation.”

Night, momentarily, was concerning himself with the preparation of his conjure kit. He gave his friend an understanding glance.

“Think nothing of it,” Night reassured him. “I have been where you are now, my friend. And you will conquer, for I am here to help you.”

Holzer couldn’t help it. He started to smile.

“I have work to start, my friend,” Night said, turning serious.

Night looked inside his conjure kit. His hands explored several curious objects, from ancient Native American charms to stakes needed to kill a vampire—all methods known to assault evil. Night focused his attention on a long black cloak and a huge leather book. He brought these out of the case. The room became lit with a series of flashes and thunderous lightning coming from the storm. Or was it the storm?

Night placed the black cloak over his long trench coat. This seemed to enhance his seriousness-almost making him look like a nightmare created by Tim Burton. Taking his leather book, he broke this image by kissing the book lovingly, with a sacred feeling. He turned his attention toward the mansion’s basement door.

“Take care,” Night whispered to the house, challenging it. “Here I come.”

Night ventured further into the house, heading toward the basement door via the main hall. Trotting along faithfully behind, Holzer could see Lars carrying Night’s conjure kit if needed.

Entering the main hall, Holzer saw Night open his book and kneel in the middle of the room. Behind him, Lars removed a small bottle of oil, sprinkling it in a circle around Night. After doing this, Lars silently stood by his master. Night started to pray.

Holzer turned his attention toward Sinclair and was both surprised and proud that the cameraman was filming everything. In the time it took Night to set himself up and visit with Holzer, Sinclair had fixed the device. Holzer couldn’t be more proud of the man.

Sinclair, noticing Holzer’s surprise, gave the college professor a festive thumbs up display.

Holzer returned to studying Night’s plan of attack. If anything else were to come from this night, it would be that what happened next would not be boring.

Night started to raise his voice. His prayers took on a life of their own. Powerful. Dignified. Not to be taken lightly.

“My superior nature worketh through thee&” Night said, challenging the house. “Happy art thou if thou canst grasp this truth. For by understanding that not thy weak self but my all-knowing mind looketh out upon the world through thine eyes, shalt thou have faith to let me see! Then shalt thou overcome the evil of thy senses by devoting them wholly to my use.”

The house stood incredibly still.

Night paused, listening.

Lars stood vigilant. Sinclair continued filming. Holzer held his breath.

The flask of blessed oil Night was holding was an artifact that he had been carrying with him for years. It was said that this oil had been used by Noah to light the lamps of the Ark during his long voyage to the mountains of Ararat. Or that is what the monks at Mt. Ararat told Night when they gave the substance to him in honor of who he was and what he represented.

Chanting ancient prayers forgotten by most men of this world, Night sprinkled the oil on the floor toward the basement door. Whatever influence the evil of this mansion had, it seemed to be coming from that door. This was not just a job to Night. This was not old hat. This was life and death. He was both a professional and aware of what he was doing-what nature of beast he was facing. Just like any working soul in the world, this was his job and he took it seriously. He had to. If he didn’t, people would die.

A rumbling roar could be heard coming from the basement. Night and Lars looked at each other.

“The beast has made itself known,” Night proclaimed. “Let us prepare to test it then, shall we, Lars?”

Lars stood ready.

If not a witness to all of this, the team members and Holzer would have laughed at the pure melodrama that they were hearing. The only thing that kept any one of them from rolling their eyes, laughing, or just leaving the room was the fact that Ingrid Night was deadly serious about the whole affair. Night found value in what he was doing and that was enough for him.

So even though Night looked tired and in his own pool of pain, he was aware of his surroundings. He was also aware of Holzer’s skepticism.

“Be careful what you think, Jonathon,” Night warned. “The beast is aware of you.”

Holzer didn’t know what to say. In fact, during times like this, when watching Night at his work, the scared little child who only wished to stare in amazement always seemed to come to the surface. Although a scientist and dedicated to logic, Night always managed to scare the hell out of Holzer. And Holzer hated it.

Hearing the warning, though, Holzer took it seriously.

Teresa broke away from the group and ventured out toward Night. Lars, noticing the girl, only looked on.

“What is it?” Night asked, irritated.

“Mr. Night,” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Look at the tarps.”

“Tarps?”

“They’re glowing.” Teresa put a surprised hand up to her face, astonished.

Night turned from his book, studying the young girl by his side. She was brave, he gave her that. She also seemed to have a great power. A power that, if disciplined, could be used to combat evil and that he respected. Closing his book and lightly placing it down by his feet, he made sure that it was still within the blessed circle. “Hmm.”

Throughout the mansion, wherever there was a hanging plastic tarp, and there were many, they all started to glow with a bright green tint. The house had so much illumination in it, it almost appeared as if all the lights were on.

“Sinclair,” Holzer ordered. The professor motioned with his hands as if to alert the cameraman to what he was already seeing.

“No need to ask, Doc,” Sinclair said, filming. “I got it.”

Night started to see a writing of some sort appearing all over the house. Cryptic writing. Arabic. Russian. German. Some Latin. But, more important, he noticed Hebrew. Ancient. Cabbalistic.

“Wait a minute!” Night blurted out. He held up a shaky hand. “Nobody move!”

All in the group paused. The level of conviction in Night’s voice was enough to cause Teresa to break herself out of whatever trance she was in; realizing that she had ventured toward Ingrid Night, she sought the safety and familiarity of her friend’s company. Night noticed Teresa being comforted by the taller woman and admired the friendship.

“What is it, Ingrid?” Holzer asked.

Night slowly moved his hands, showing Holzer the symbols that had been painted, drawn, or magically placed all over the house. Holzer, noticing the things that Night had been privy to, smiled, his excitement growing.

Holzer took out his EMR detector.

Night made a face. “Why do you need that thing, heh?”

“It gets me through the night.”

“Try faith, my friend,” Night grumbled. “Anyway, I preferred the old EMF devices you used to carry. They were less noisy than these new inventions of yours.”

Holzer waved the device in the air, taking note at what he was seeing from his side of the investigation. “Faith, like life, has many different levels of support.”

“True.”

“What have we got here?”

Night rubbed his chin-he needed a shave. “Someone has been here before. Many times. Trying to investigate what we have come here to seek. Recently, perhaps only just a few years ago, some of these spells were cast.”

“Appears that none were successful,” Holzer said, turning off his EMR device and placing it back in his jacket pocket.

“Jonathon,” Night said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “if it were not for some of these symbols, charms, and spells, I fear that you would have been dead long before Lars and I arrived. A very skilled Cabbalist placed those symbols on the walls there. I fear, however, that the man placed them there at the cost of his life.”

A creak went through the main hall, causing both men to dart their eyes up, looking to see if they were alone. Several of the hanging plastic tarps moved, as if some unseen thing had brushed them, passing by. There was no one there. There was only the wind.

“We have walked into something more powerful than either one of us had thought, my friend,” Night stated. “Great danger waits.”

“Why don’t we just leave and come back with greater numbers?”

Night turned to his friend, giving Holzer a hard look. “We could bring the United States Marines and it would do us no good. The beast here is aware of who we are and can destroy us accordingly.”

“Impossible.”

Night put his hand on Holzer’s shoulder. “Jonathon, I love you like a son. You are a great soldier on the side of good. A man I would like on my side in any battle.”