Manchester House (30 page)

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&:

Teresa saw William Manchester, the master of Manchester House. The man to whom Sallie Cummings would become a wife. Teresa did not like what she saw.

He had cold dark eyes. That was the first thing Teresa noticed about him. His face dripped with arrogance. Not at first, though. At first, William Manchester tried diplomacy and kindness to get what he wanted from his new bride-to-be. That is what Sallie was to become - his new bride.

At least, that was the agreement.

A letter had been sent to her parents arranging a meeting. Then a wedding was planned. Coming from Ireland, a nation where arranged marriages were common, Sallie did not give the deal a second thought. She was only told that the arrangement was a good one, that her new husband was a wealthy man, and that she would not know hunger for the rest of her days. What more could a poor woman from Ireland want in such a new and vast land such as America?

That was the original deal.

William Manchester had other ideas.

Teresa’s mind’s eye showed her many pictures and images she could not clearly make out. Great emotions flooded her brain. Sights and scenes she could not understand as a twenty-first century woman. Images of a young woman being forced onto a man’s bed, raped, and left helpless. Of kindness nowhere to be seen and a silent town turning away from the obvious-bought out by greed and ambition. Abortions, blood lettings, and murder most foul. Slaves being hanged for sport. Sallie’s back clotted with blood from being beaten, because Manchester himself loved the idea of pain. All these things Teresa was able to pick up from the Shape. The poor molded spirit that, when alive, was Sallie Cummings.

“So much pain,” Teresa cried. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Tears that wouldn’t stop.

A cold harsh wind began to blow through the ghostly cemetery, but Teresa would not open her eyes to see what was going on around her. This information was crucial to why they were fighting this entity and why she would not trust them. Although the Shape seemed hostile, Teresa could sense that Sallie wanted to help, but through some dark arrangement, could not. If Teresa could discover what that arrangement was, there could exist a small hope that the Shape would lay down her guard and allow Teresa to help her seek the peace of the other side. Perhaps Sallie could find the light and go through the tunnel and then to everlasting life.

:I WILL NO LONGER PUT MY TRUST IN ANYONE! NEVER AGAIN!:

:I have no reason to lie to you. I do not profit from your suffering. Nor do I gain any grace by saving you. I am here as a child of peace.:

In her mind’s eye, Teresa saw the battered, bloodied, and bound body of Sallie Cummings falling down the long staircase of the basement, deep inside the bowels of Manchester House. Sallie’s body hit the floor of the basement with a loud and bloody thud.

“She was still alive when it happened!” Teresa screamed. She could feel several hands, presumably her friends, comforting her, rubbing her shoulders and letting her know that they were there for her. She wished to tell them that she was okay but could not afford to lose her contact with the Shape.

She continued&

:DO NOT MAKE ME&REMEMBER&please&:

In heart pounding awareness, Teresa’s mind’s eye combined with the darkness of the Shape’s, allowing the timid psychic to see the spirit’s last human moments upon the earth. Her last bloody seconds as Sallie Cummings.

Her last moments as the first victim of Manchester House.

Looking through the mortal eyes of the Shape, Teresa could see that the spirit had been thrown down the wooden stairs of the mansion and bound with horse rope so that she couldn’t resist the fall. Sallie’s eyes were matted shut by dried blood, but the girl could still see William Manchester looking down at her crumpled body, smoking a cigar, enjoying his work with evil relish.

There was a time, before death, when the Shape had thought she heard her husband laugh. He laughed at her! She, no more than fourteen years of age, bleeding in the basement of her home, close to death by his hand, and William Manchester was laughing.

“You will serve him well, lass,” the male voice said, thundering with an evil that caused Teresa to gasp in horror. “Yes. You will do.”

Upon hearing those words, several images flashed through Teresa’s mind’s eye. Of William Manchester saying Latin phrases over Sallie’s trembling body, of a freshly dug grave, of heavy tarps being wrapped around her, and of the cold grip of the grave engulfing Sallie Cummings-the dark earth taking away her womanly dreams and desires forever.