Manchester House (27 page)

From behind, in the purplish darkness, the two women could hear a rhythmic, heavy, and heaving breathing. The kind of breathing filled with a sexual hunger and perversion-the kind a woman prays that she never hears coming from the darkness of her bedroom closet.

Miranda swallowed hard.

“What&what is that?”

“I don’t know.”

Both women looked ahead of them, seeing nothing more than winding plastic walls spiraling off into the distance. There was no help. There was no Ingrid Night or Jonathon Holzer to protect them. It was quiet and dark.

Both women were absolutely alone.

The breathing got heavier and closer.

So close Miranda thought she could feel a beastly nose barely touching the lobe of her right ear. A wetness of exhaust bombarded her ear as the breathing sound got louder.

“Teresa,” Miranda said flatly. The woman was doing all that she could to keep her cool. “Can you see anything behind me right now?”

Teresa could see that her friend was terrified. One needn’t be a psychic to see that. Miranda’s face had turned a chalky white and she was trembling as if she had just touched something dead.

Slowly Teresa looked over her shoulder.

Nothing.

Empty plastic walls.

No more.

“Nothing’s there.” Teresa nervously smiled.

Miranda’s features began to relax and she exhaled a tremendous relief. “Thank God, I thought&”

The breathing became louder. More thunderous.

“GO AWAY&.GO&AWAY&”

The familiar female voice growled at the two women, causing both to grab onto the other out of fear and comfort.

Miranda looked over her shoulder, spotting the rotting image of the Shape seeping up from a pool of blood or tar in the middle of the plastic floor.

The floor of the maze was a plastic sheet as well. But unlike the walls or the ceiling, the floor was a single sheet of plastic, crossing all dimensions. The walls and ceiling appeared to be broken up in pieces, taped together by countless strips of duct tape. On the floor, in the alley, and part of the maze Miranda and Teresa were standing in, both women saw a puddle of blood or tar ooze up from out of nowhere. Seeping and seeping into a throbbing circle of liquid matter which seemed to give the impression that it was controlled by an outside intelligence. It was aware of their presence and moved, adjusting and growing accordingly.

Then slowly, inch by bloody inch, a human form rose from the puddle, becoming the dead white-faced figure of the Shape. The same specter which had haunted and tormented the SOURCE team at Manchester House appeared before them.

“What is it about this one particular spirit?” Miranda asked, frustrated more than scared.

“Perhaps it was the life that was robbed from her, in the lie presented to her to come to this house,” Teresa proposed.

Miranda was becoming angry and her anger was allowing her fear to evaporate away. “Or she could just be a bitch.”

The Shape opened her eyes, glaring at Miranda.

Both women soon discovered that it was impossible for either of them to move.

* * *

Ingrid Night was so involved in what he was seeing that he failed to realize that he was missing two people. Turning around to see how the others were doing, the tall old man was petrified to notice that neither Teresa nor Miranda was with them.

“Jonathon?” Night asked. “Where are the women?”

Holzer and Sinclair both turned, noticing that the women were missing.

“Miranda!” Sinclair yelled and started breaking away from the other two men, probing around the empty alley behind them.

Nothing.

“Ingrid?” Holzer asked, his voice dripping with panic.

Night raised a reassuring hand, patting it on Holzer’s shoulder. Like a father doing his best to negate his son’s fears that there were no monsters under the bed, the old man ventured back toward where they had last seen the women.

The sound of rustling plastic returned.

Only this time it was accompanied by a deep, devilishly clever laugh.

“Lars!” Night yelled.

The small manservant rushed toward his master, holding out Night’s conjure kit. Opening another compartment of the box, it folded out into three shelves.

“We are in the middle of an ambush, Jonathon,” Night warned, his eyes locked on the college professor with great conviction.

“Do what you have to do to save my kids,” Holzer said softly with deep emotion.

“Done.” Night huffed, tipping his hat with determination.

Night reached into his kit, pulling out a weapon that looked like a slingshot but was held in Night’s hands like a shotgun. It was indeed unlike anything Holzer had ever seen before. It was iron, wood, and ivory, consisting of several moving parts, some of which seemed to defy the rules of a weapon.

“This is a weapon of my own design, Jonathon,” Night said, patting the strange device with great pride.

“What does it do?” Sinclair asked, looking at the thing with great puzzlement. “It looks like a plunger that’s just had a baby.”

“This plunger, Mr. Sinclair, is a very dangerous bitch,” Night barked.

Night walked up toward the cameraman, cocking back the trigger of the weapon. The tall man stared down at Sinclair, almost begging him to challenge the validity of the weapon again. Sinclair, to his credit, said nothing. Night, realizing that he had made his point, backed off.

“Let’s go find the ladies, gentlemen,” Night said, leading the way.

Both Holzer and Sinclair followed close behind Lars, who was shadowing Night every step of the way.

A torrid wind started to blow through the maze, again filling the room with the sound of rustling plastic. In the distance, the cries of screaming people and monsters best left in the closet could be heard coming closer towards them.

“Doc,” Sinclair said, tapping Holzer on the shoulder.

Holzer looked over his shoulder at the cameraman, saying nothing.

“This shit is starting to get too weird for me.”

Holzer nodded his head in agreement. “Just keep focused and take the picture.”

“Roger that, Doc.” Sinclair gave Holzer a “thumbs up” gesture.

All ventured further down the maze, wondering what was keeping the girls.

* * *

Teresa thought it time to break contact with the Shape and turned away from the corpse’s dead eyes, noticing that Miranda was passed out. What had happened to her? Teresa did not know. She only knew that if she were to survive this terrible encounter, she would need Miranda-after all, Miranda was the stronger of the two.

“Miranda!” Teresa screamed, bending down to shake the woman awake.

After several attempts, Miranda’s eyes started to move, blink, and open wide.

“What?” was all Miranda could bring herself to say.

“You okay?” Teresa asked, wiping Miranda’s hair out of her face.

Feeling groggy, Miranda said, “Must have been too much for me. Passed out.”

“No,” Teresa stated, seeming to know what was going on here. “You were separated from me. Divide and conquer. That’s what’s going on here.”

“Right,” Miranda confirmed. “Let’s start back up the maze. We should be together as a group.”

Both women started to venture up the maze heading to where they theorized the men must have gone. However, before they could get more than five feet away from the Shape, who was doing her best to keep from laughing, the two women ran into an invisible barrier that held them both in check. Like a brick wall, the force kept the two women from venturing any farther into the cryptic maze.

“What’s all this?” Miranda asked, her hands hitting flat against an unknown and unseen force.

“It’s real, whatever it is,” Teresa stated, holding up a bloodied hand that she had received in her attempt to break through the barrier.

“You go nowhere&”

Angry and tired, Miranda turned to face the Shape. Her eyes no longer held any fear but only rage: controlled, but there nonetheless.

“I’m getting tired of your sick threats!” Miranda yelled. “We came here in peace, you little shit. We came to simply understand.”

Teresa tried to hold Miranda back, but to no avail. The pathologist lurched forward, wanting to pounce on top of the image of the dead little girl.

Miranda ran plunging into another invisible wall. Her forehead started to bleed.

“We’re trapped!” Teresa shouted, running to Miranda’s aid.

“What’s she going to do with us?” Miranda asked, wiping blood away from her eyes.

Both women started to take in their surroundings, becoming terrified at the situation.

“Jonathon,” Miranda whispered, almost praying. “Where are you?”

* * *

Night had placed his goggles back on, sneaking down the plastic maze with great caution. Lars did his best to follow and trace the footsteps of his master, wanting only to be within a hand’s length should Night require something. Moving as one, they tried to anticipate the other’s actions.

“Fascinating!” Night huffed, trying his best to hold back a smile. “This maze is a wondrous thing, Jonathon.”

Through his goggles, Night could see that with each step he and the SOURCE team were taking, the invisible tentacles were growing. Stretching from one side of the maze to the other, these arms, belonging to God-knew-what, were sensing and anticipating each person’s movements. Night was very curious to discover the force or intelligence behind all of this-perhaps resting at the center of the maze?

“Ingrid,” Holzer stated, “the instruments we have are becoming useless.”

“No doubt, my friend.”

Holzer’s voice was turning uneasy. “What I’m trying to say is that we are now under your guidance.” There was a long pause. “I really do not know what to do now.”

Night stopped walking. Raising his goggles, he turned to look at his young friend. In Night’s eyes was the flicker of surprise.

“You cannot be serious, Jonathon.”

Holzer shook his head.

“Do not talk so.”

“What else is there?”

Night mockingly pointed up to his head. “Use your mind, sir! That is what it is there for. As the book says: ‘I gave you a brain burning’! Use it! THINK!” Night paused, his eyes softening. “I have faith in your abilities to recall, and will back up whatever you decide to record later.”

Hearing these words from Night, Holzer perked up. Like a cub newspaper reporter, the college professor took out a small notebook and pencil, writing down all thoughts and observations that were pertinent to the situation.

“Keep going,” Holzer insisted.

“Good man!” Night encouraged. “We are all victims of our fright and uncertainties. What separates king from pauper is the ability to go forward even in the face of failure.”

“Failure?” Sinclair asked.

“Just a word, Mr. Sinclair,” Night comforted. “Just a word.”

The group of men rounded the last corner, coming face to face with the situation the women of their group had been fighting against.

All the men froze.

Eyes widened.

The two women appeared to be held within a plastic cubicle and were not moving. They did not appear dead, for upon closer investigation Holzer and Night could see Miranda’s and Teresa’s eyes moving-following them-but other than that, there was no movement.

“Are they dead?” Sinclair asked, walking to stand in front of Miranda. His face clearly showed the level of concern he held for her.

Night, focusing his goggles on the area inside the plastic cubicle, said, “No, Mr. Sinclair. They are just being held.”

“Held?” both Holzer and Sinclair blurted out in unison.

Night took off his goggles, handing them to Holzer. “Here. Look!”

Holzer placed the goggles on, adjusting the straps.

“Holy&!” Holzer found himself blurting out.

What the college professor was seeing was what Night already knew. The tentacles inside the plastic cube containing the two women of the group were so thick and so pronounced that both the women appeared to be suspended in reddish ooze of some kind. They, of course, could not see it, but both women were aware that something was holding them in place-like insects suspended in amber.

“Lars!” Night yelled.

The deaf man did not have to react. He was already standing behind his master.

Night purposely faced the deaf man so that Lars could easily read his lips. Although Night was quite sure that Lars could clearly anticipate his needs, he wanted to be damn sure.

“The candle, please,” Night asked.

Lars nodded his head with confirmation and quickly reached into Night’s conjure kit. Within seconds, the deaf man pulled out an ordinary looking candle. Although thicker than the one Night had used to find his way toward Manchester House, it was of the same look and simplicity. However, both men seemed to treat it, touch it, and respect it in a way that demanded extraordinary attention.

“What is that?” Holzer asked.

“The Light of God,” Night explained. “As I have said, Jonathon, I belong to a rather old order. We keep many things at our disposal. This candle was created from some very special blessings known only to me and one other.”

“And who might that be?” Sinclair asked.

Night’s thoughts seemed to drift away from him at the moment he was forced to think of this other extraordinary person. Someone deep from his past. A fellow fighter of evil.

“A very special woman,” Night responded, pain in his voice.

“And she is?” Sinclair continued.

Night’s features filled with great pain. “She is no longer talking to me, Mr. Sinclair. And I would give anything to hear her voice once more before I die.”

The cameraman’s smile slowly started to erode off of his face. He could read and understand the look of pain-simple hurt-radiating from Night’s eyes and thought it best to leave the tall man alone in that pain. Night could see this action clearly and respected Sinclair’s tact.

“One day if you are lucky, Mr. Sinclair, I shall tell you the story.”

“Look forward to it,” the cameraman said meekly.

Night took the candle from Lars and placed it in the middle of his new rifle-like weapon he had been holding. Lars handed Night a set of matches, lighting one and cupping a shaking hand over the flame. The candle was lit, and Night turned three mirrors in on the flame, making sure that the front of the rifle weapon beamed the candle like a flashlight’s function.