Manchester House (21 page)

“OUT!” she cried. “ALL OF YOU!”

Holzer stepped forward, placing his hands up in a gesture of peace. “We mean you no harm.”

“I WILL HARM!” the Shape warned.

The house started to fill with the smell of electrical static. Sparks of energy could be both seen and felt, developing from all around. It was as if the Shape was trying to gather up all the residual energy soaked up since the first encounter with Holzer and his team, wanting to turn it against them.

“This could be bad,” Night stated, putting out his hand. “Lars!”

Without thought, Lars reached into Night’s conjure kit, pulling out another vial of blessed oil so that the old man could pour it into his crossbow.

Holzer still remained the focus of the Shape’s surprise and anger. She looked around the room, trying to find a means to his end. There was nothing lethal she could use. Nothing with any kind of force.

Until she spotted the Ouija board.

The tiny crystal planchette on the Ouija board started to shudder and move on its own. Some members of the séance started to move their hands away from the board in violent response to what the crystal device was doing.

“What’s going on here?” Miranda asked, looking to Teresa for an answer.

Teresa, not knowing how to explain what they were all seeing, just looked at her friend, shaking her head, lost.

The planchette started to float in the air, twirling like a top.

It suddenly stopped. Its silver tip aimed and pointed at Holzer.

“Jonathon! Watch yourself,” Night warned, aiming his crossbow at the floating object. Under his breath, he again started to chant the prayers and charms he had used earlier in the night. The planchette darted through the air, like an arrow trying to land on its mark. Its mark was Holzer.

Night aimed, held his breath, and pulled the trigger, sending out a stream of blessed oil from his ancient weapon.

The planchette was heading toward Holzer’s heart and surely would have reached its mark if it had not been for Night’s marksmanship. Instead, the holy stream of oil he projected from his weapon caused the silver-tipped planchette to change its course, hitting the professor in the left shoulder, burying deep within his flesh.

Holzer, screaming in pain, fell backward. Instinctually, he grabbed at his shoulder; learning that the planchette was halfway buried into his flesh. Blood shot out in flows. Within seconds, the left side of his jacket was covered with blood.

In a final scream and a gust of wind, the Shape disappeared.

Night’s eyes opened, realizing that although he had saved his friend’s life he had failed. “Damn,” he mumbled, dropping the crossbow. The old man ran to Holzer’s aid.

Lars caught the weapon before it hit the ground.

“Professor Holzer!” Miranda shouted, beating Night to his side. With great speed, she tore through his jacket and his shirt, inspecting the wound. The look on the pathologist’s face was not an encouraging one.

“Mr. Night, please, take hold of the professor’s shoulders,” Miranda ordered, reaching for her small medical bag. Although she was a pathologist, general medicine was no stranger to her.

Night awkwardly settled down by Holzer’s head, nestling it on his lap.

“That’s it, hold him up, please.” Miranda reached for a syringe and needle, filling it with an antibiotic. “I’m going to give him something for the infection that will come from this environment.”

“What about the bleeding?” Night asked, panic in his voice.

“The planchette is keeping that under control.”

“What?”

“If we remove it now, he will bleed to death and cause more harm to his system than what he is presently going through.” Miranda injected Holzer, then took out a small emergency surgical kit. “Now, slowly and by the numbers, we have to remove the planchette.”

Night studied Miranda’s hands. They were shaking and almost a pale white.

“You love this man, do you not?” Night asked.

“As a father, yes.”

Both made eye contact. An understanding was formed.

“Let’s do this then,” Night said with a respectful bow toward Miranda.

Miranda wrapped her hands softly around the planchette sticking out of Holzer’s shoulder. Touching the crystal game piece, she made the professor wince in pain. Holzer’s face was dripping with blood and sweat. He was already starting to show signs of a high fever. Whatever the infection was, it was working fast upon him.

Miranda took a deep breath. She closed her eyes.

“Dear God, don’t let me fuck up.”

“Amen,” Night responded.

Miranda pulled the planchette out of Holzer’s shoulder.

Blood sprayed everywhere.

Had the planchette hit an artery?

Working with lightning speed, Miranda grabbed a few clamps and started to stop the bleeding vein by tiny vein.

“How bad is he?” Sinclair butted in.

“Shut up!” Miranda barked. “I haven’t the time for you just now, thank you.”

Sinclair retreated, insulted.

Miranda returned to her work. She would apologize later.

“The damage is really not that bad,” Miranda said, directing her gaze toward Night. “We just have to stop the bleeding.”

“You cannot?” Night asked, his voice a whisper.

“Not here,” Miranda said, her voice near panic. “This man needs to be taken to a hospital.”

“Or?”

“He will die from a massive loss of blood.”

Night leaned away from Holzer’s face, studying the frantic look on Miranda’s. She was doing her best to stop the main line of blood loss by clamping off the cut veins and the one major artery that seemed to have been damaged in the encounter. The second line of bleeding, from the flesh and abrasion itself, was proving to be more of a challenge. Especially since Miranda’s surgical kit was missing a vital piece-stitches and needle.

“Lars!” Night yelled, holding out his hand.

Lars leaped into action. He reached into Night’s conjure kit and pulled out a leather bag which sounded as if it were filled with water or a liquid of some kind. The deaf man blew some of the dust off the leather bag which resembled a wine sack from ages past, coughed, and handed it to his master.

“Do you ever wonder how a deaf man can hear you call out his name?” Miranda asked, doing her best to control her curiosity and desperation, staring at Night’s latest product from his kit.

“No,” Night flatly said. “I only know that he knows. And for me that is enough.” Night paused only long enough to pull out the ancient cork of the leather bag. “In any case, this should help.”

Miranda took the bag, smelling the open top. She pulled away from the container, giving Night a repulsive reaction. The bag smelled like it was filled with the essence of rotten eggs.

“Dear God! What is this crap?”

“Pour it on the wound, please,” Night instructed.

“Not until you tell me what it is,” Miranda insisted. “Is it sanitary?”

“More so than you,” Night said, his eyes alive with conviction. “It is his only hope of a stable recovery. Now, pour it on the wound, please.”

Miranda, quite a champion of modern medicine, hated the idea of helping Holzer with a substance she really knew nothing about. What if it was dangerous? Would Holzer have an allergic reaction? Would it, in turn, cause his death? She couldn’t live with that. Still, there was a look in Ingrid Night’s eyes showing the pathologist his level of concern, love, and friendship which seemed to alleviate all those fears.

Her hands shaking, she turned the leather bag downward, waiting for the thick substance inside to pour out upon Holzer’s wound.

Night started to pray. Silently.

“I hope this works,” Miranda sarcastically said, shaking her head with doubt.

The substance in the leather bag was dark black, thick as molasses, and smelled of death. Dripping on the damage caused by the crystal planchette, the thick ooze covered Holzer’s wound like tar. Holzer only winced once, as the substance first touched his skin. Then, seconds later, the substance started to harden like a bandage, covering the wound but, more important, stopping the blood.

“What?” Miranda said, looking up at Night, and at the leather bag in amazement. “Mr. Night, what is this stuff?”

“Something very&ancient.” Night lovingly smiled. He could read the need to know the secret behind the substance in Miranda’s eyes.

“What are its properties?” Miranda asked, excited. “As a medical professional, I know that this stuff’s as good as gold. What is it?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“The substance was given to me under an oath of trust. If I tell you its secrets, the spell used to make it work will cease.” Night paused. “I am sorry.”

Regretfully, Miranda handed the leather bag to Night who, upon receiving it, placed the cork back onto its resting place and handed the bag to Lars, who quickly placed it into Night’s kit, buried again.

Subtle rays of a rising sun started to prick through the mansion’s windows. The passing of time had continued, and before the investigative team inside the mansion knew it another night had passed, inviting the possibilities of a new day.

Sinclair turned off all the flashlights and lanterns, relaxing.

Manchester House filled with the comforting rays of the morning sun.

Holzer slept.

Everyone took turns at watching both Holzer and Sinclair, the latter finally falling asleep out of complete exhaustion. Miranda realized that she had been so worried about Holzer’s health and well-being that the hell Sinclair must have gone through just to get back into the house was a triumph of its own. Night tried to console her, as much as a man like Night could, but she just couldn’t forgive herself. She took the first watch and wiped the sweat off both men’s brows.

“This man Sinclair, I do not like him,” Night mentioned, eating an egg Lars had provided him with. “I admire his eye. Able to seek out the fascinating in such a dull saccharine world, but I do not like him.”

Miranda gave Night a harsh look.

“Do not think badly of me, Miss Wingate. I am his friend. I would protect him with my life, if need be. But,” Night paused, thinking, “I do not like him.”

“You are a very strange man, Mr. Night.” Miranda placed the wet rag she had been using back in a small bowl she had found in the kitchen and sat beside Night. Before she could do or say anything, Lars, silently walked beside her, giving her an egg. She looked up at Lars with fascination.

“How&” she started to say, and then decided not to pursue her question.

Miranda just ate her breakfast in silence.

“You are not the only people who have stories about this place, you know.”

“True,” Miranda stated. “Our SOURCE teams have several tomes of information on this house alone. I even survived a rather horrifying night at the Sallie House.”

“The Sallie House?”

Miranda gave Night a look of shock. “You have never heard of the Sallie House? You?”

Night brought up his hands in a defensive mode. “I don’t get out much.”

“Well, let me tell you, it was one of the first investigative cases that involved both myself and the professor.”

“Why don’t you call him Jonathon?” Night asked, studying Miranda closely.

Miranda, as if being asked to stop breathing, gave Night a startled look. “Oh, I could never do that.”

“Respect?”

“Respect,” Miranda confirmed. With a rather worried look on her face, she glanced over her shoulder, giving Holzer a careworn stare. “He is rather important to me. And not as a lover, as others might surmise. He is my&.”

“Teacher?” Night finished.

Miranda smiled. “Exactly.”

Both remained quiet, listening to Lars rummage around in Night’s conjure kit looking for something.

“You said you knew some stories about those who once lived here?” Miranda asked, curious.

“A few stories,” Night stated, nodding his head in agreement.

Miranda moved forward, rubbing her hands with anticipation. “Care to share one?”

Night looked over Miranda’s shoulder at Teresa sleeping in the corner. Alone with Miranda, the old man leaned forward as if wishing to share a dirty secret with her. Both prepared themselves for the telling of the tale&

* * *

Winter 1979

Atchison, Kansas was in an uproar-someone was moving into Manchester House! And more important than that, it was someone who had bought the miserable place. For decades the city had tried to ignore the fact that the house even existed. After the series of murders that had taken place back in 1967 near the house-almost in its shadow-the city council tried their best to tear the place to the ground. One thing stood in their way, however, and that was the Manchester family.

The last of the Manchesters, Winnie Manchester, aged ninety-three and a great grand niece of William Manchester the original owner, owned the land and had donated it to the Atchison Historical Society after her death in 1963. So in essence Manchester House was listed as a historical site. This was where one of the largest railroad companies came from. This was where Grant had stayed one night while traveling through to his famous victory in Vicksburg-and that was before the mansion was even built. History, in some rare instances, was more powerful than politics.

So it was deemed by the entire city to forget that Manchester House even existed—hoping, for the most part, that it would rot itself away from mere neglect.

That was until it was purchased and remodeled.

People were actually moving into the house.

Everyone in the small Kansas town thought that they were either crazy or stupid.

* * *

Burt Helms stood meekly by his wife as she ordered him about, making sure that the move into their new home was a perfect one. Helms was a timid man, an accountant who worked with numbers, made a great deal of money, and then handed it over to his dominating wife Sharon who knew how to spend it. Burt Helms was so timid, in fact, that when he and Sharon were in a room together, especially with guests in attendance, Helms was never remembered, never talked to, and, indeed, forgotten on the spot. When Sharontalked, he would only smile, eyes glazed, nodding his head.