Manchester House (31 page)

Then¬hing.

In her exhaustion, Teresa passed out.

* * *

“An Ankou!” Ingrid Night had stated, handing Teresa a small glass of water.

“A what?” Sinclair asked.

The SOURCE team had been blessed with a pause in the attack.

Several seconds after Teresa had collapsed, a terrible cry came from both the Shape and the controlling force-the beast-like roar in the distance. As quickly as she had appeared before them, the Shape was gone. Only a deep, lonely wind seemed to be where once there had been great power and evil.

The graveyard was as lonely as a graveyard could ever be.

“A Celtic tradition, Mr. Sinclair,” Night explained. His face turned serious with a look of utter disgust. “A terrible tradition. A tradition that could only have come from a dirty, perverted mind.”

“William Manchester’s mind,” Teresa added.

“Damn him to hell,” Night concluded.

Holzer was going over his notes, studying some of the claims Teresa had made during her trance, doing her best to contact the Shape. “You said her name was Sallie Cummings when she was alive, and that she resided in Boston. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that this has anything to do with the phenomena in Atchison of haunted houses that have ghosts by the name of Sallie?”

Miranda came to life, realizing the importance of the question. “The Sallie House?”

“Bingo!” Holzer added, “We’re no more than five miles from that house.”

“You think that bound to this house the Shape is allowing her human self to project its woes through another haunt?” Miranda asked, slightly excited at the prospect.

“Just like the case at the Alamo,” Holzer agreed, writing in his notebook.

“The Alamo?” both Night and Sinclair seemed to ask the question in unison.

“There are cases of spirits, clearly those killed at the famous battle of the Alamo, who have lost their spiritual surroundings through destruction of the original buildings or whatever, who have taken upon themselves to move their haunts into modern buildings, thereby contacting us via a new personality.”

“The Alamo Dome!” Miranda exclaimed.

“The Alamo Dome,” Holzer repeated, nodding his head in agreement.

“Bullshit,” Night concluded.

“I have documents, sir, which could prove you wrong,” Holzer challenged. “You yourself have always told me that spirits are more resourceful than we give them credit. I feel that this Sallie has used her human persona to escape this mansion and the power within, trying her best to plead for help.” Holzer paused. “I have been to the Sallie House. This theory is not beyond possibility.”

“I need a drink,” Night said, rubbing his temples. “Sometimes, Jonathon, I think that you do as well.”

There was a long pause. Only the crackling of a fire, started by Night, seemed to be making any kind of noise.

“Again,” Sinclair asked, “what is an Ankou?”

Both Night’s and Holzer’s eyes were seen making contact. Both seemed to know what an Ankou was. Both seemed to realize the power behind the question.

“An Ankou, Mr. Sinclair,” Night explained, “was an orthodox tradition practiced in ancient England and in some cases eighteenth and nineteenth century New England states. And when I mean orthodox, Mr. Sinclair, I’m talking strict religious people who made even the Puritans look evil by comparison.”

“What did this Ankou person do?” Miranda added, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“The Ankou was usually a traveler, just arrived in a new village. This stranger was usually invited into the village right at the time the local authority was about to dedicate the opening of a new cemetery. The traveler was promised riches and happiness by the town locals and was later tricked, buried alive, and was forced to become the guardian spirit of the graves that would soon occupy the new cemetery.”

“Whoa!” Miranda said, raising her hand in disgust. “Are you saying&”

“I’m saying, Miss Wingate, that this Shape creature was lured from her home in Boston, lied to, and later used as a means of commissioning some unknown plan on the grounds of this mansion.” Night paused. “To what end, I could only hazard a guess.”

“What does this Ankou go about doing once it has been buried alive?” Teresa asked, sipping the last of her water, handing the empty cup back to Night.

“It is the Ankou’s job to ward off those who would do harm to the property they have been bound to protect.”

“Poor creature,” Teresa said, holding back the urge to cry. “How do we help her rest?”

Night’s features turned dark. “This is why the act of an Ankou is so dreadful, Miss Gonzalez. The Ankou never is allowed to rest in peace. There is no peace.”

For a moment, all in the group were too surprised to say anything. Each seemed to deal with the bitter facts. As if each were wondering what it would be like to spend eternity, through no desire of your own, bound to serve a plot of land that wasn’t even yours. Hell would have been a better destiny.

“There is no way to help this poor child, Mr. Night?” Teresa asked.

Night shook his head, searching the back of his mind. “There is a case, I remember, of a couple in Ohio who tricked an Ankou into thinking that they were its friend and that they were there to serve the land it had been protecting. But there was nothing about their success.”

“I don’t think we are going to be able to trick this girl, guys,” Sinclair added. “She has been lied to so strongly just to make her this mansion’s servant-protector or whatever she is that she has just surrendered and will do whatever the house wants her to do.”

Night nodded his head in agreement. “That is why no other priest, shaman, or man of magic has ever succeeded here. Miracles and magic begin and end with one important factor - belief. If there is no belief-if there is no faith-there are no results. One might as well be praying to a toilet.”

“How do we get the savage to believe, Ingrid?” Holzer asked.

Night’s brow darted upward. His face started to light up with understanding. “You make the savage believe, Jonathon. That is how the Christian priests spread their word. That is how the Romans controlled. And that is what allowed Masada to stand. You make the savage believe.”

Night reached for his conjure kit.

“Mr. Night?” Teresa asked. “We will not destroy her, will we?”

“I will try not to, my dear.” Night’s features softened and he patted Teresa’s face with care. “Heaven knows if any soul deserves to lie at rest, it is she.”

The psychic relaxed, accepting Night’s sincerity as genuine.

Holzer, however, gave his friend a skeptical glance. A glance that did not escape Night’s awareness.

“I know what you are thinking, Jonathon,” Night stated, pointing a knowing finger at Holzer. “Do not think that your skeptical glance has not gone without notice.”

Holzer folded up his notebook. “Night, I personally do not see how you can accomplish this case unless you destroy this girl’s spirit.”

Night let out a deep breath. “I will try, Jonathon. Think about what this poor woman’s soul has gone through in the centuries that have passed since her mortal death. How would you feel? You’d be pretty pissed off, would you not?”

Holzer nodded his head in agreement.

“Then at first, to appease the psychic, I will try to help.”

Holzer looked long and hard into Night’s eyes. “I sincerely hope that you are right, Ingrid.”

“So do I.”

Night turned again to his conjure kit. He started to pull out an ancient flask, almost Roman in appearance. Grabbing his crossbow, he opened the flask, pouring the liquid into the weapon’s firing device.

Everyone but Night grabbed his or her nose in disgust.

The thick black substance Night was pouring into the crossbow filled the air with the smell of death. As the liquid sank into the crossbow, disappearing into the weapon, the smell got worse.

“What the hell is that stuff?” Sinclair asked, coughing and gagging.

Night humbled himself, talking softly. “Do not judge this holy blood so, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Blood?”

Night looked up into the cameraman’s surprised eyes. The rest of the SOURCE team showed the same level of amazement.

“Very old blood, sir,” Night verified.

“How old, Ingrid?” Holzer asked.

There was a long pause. “Very.”

“Had the owner of the blood been&crucified?” Teresa asked, not really understanding why.

Night never replied to the question, but his silence spoke volumes. Instead of answering the question put to him by Teresa and the rest of the team, Ingrid Night simply closed his kit, clamped his crossbow into its firing position, and got up to survey the surrounding land. He was going over his plan of attack, avoiding all that were looking at him.

“It couldn’t be,” Miranda finally said, biting her bottom lip.

“Couldn’t be?” Sinclair asked.

“You know,” Teresa added, “the blood of&Christ.”

* * *

A low rumble started to echo throughout the cemetery as Night approached the foot of the mountain of dirt, coffins, and bones which had only risen hours before, holding a great mystery of both terror and power. His eyes seemed to be drinking in every nuance and subject. Like a combat soldier sent ahead of his squad, he was doing everything within his power to study and find a weakness, and there seemed to be a hidden intelligence aware of this fact.

“Jonathon, hear what I have to say to you right now,” Night whispered through the corner of his mouth.

“Yes?”

The force and feeling of the growing rumbling was starting to affect the college professor’s hearing. Looking at Holzer, Night got the impression that the man was terrified, although controlled.

“Do not stop what I am about to do,” Night warned. “You will not like this side of my plan, sir.”

“I&don’t&” Holzer started to say, then stopped.

“Just do not stop what needs to be done,” Night repeated. “Please.”

Night turned his gaze to the rest of the SOURCE team members. “You are all good people, and I am honored to be here, at this hour, with each and every one of you. But you are all grounded to what you do by laws and beliefs that do not belong in this world. I am able to function here. Today you will see my work. Please allow me the duty to do it.”

As if on cue, the Shape slowly made her appearance once again at the top of the earthen mound. This time, however, her appearance seemed changed. She seemed to be ready for Ingrid Night and his bag of tricks. In any case, all in the team seemed to realize that the stakes in this encounter had gone up a higher notch.

“Keep your nose clean,” Sinclair said, trying to lighten the mood.

Night gave the cameraman a surprised look. He didn’t know how to respond.

“Good luck, Ingrid,” Holzer coached. “That is what we are trying to say.”

Night acknowledged the sentiment.

“Ah!” Night said, shaking his head, understanding. “I will have need of it, I fear.”

The SOURCE team meekly watched as Night trailed alone up the maze of fallen coffins and skeletal remains which seemed to make up a lonesome trail leading toward the top of the hill. With his crossbow waving and alert in front of him, the tall old man was expecting everything and leaving nothing to chance.

“Jonathon,” Night barked, “you all will follow now.”

With that, Night heard Holzer give his orders. They were all to follow behind, staying at least ten feet away from him. If something horrible were to happen to Night, ten feet, it was agreed, was a somewhat safe distance away-it was hoped that if Night were killed, Holzer would have the presence of mind to lead his team back to the normal world.

“Professor,” Miranda said, handing Holzer a flashlight-like device.

“What is this?” Holzer asked, giving the instrument a challenging glance.

“Made it while you were sleeping,” Miranda explained. “Could be a good surprise tactic.”

Holzer did not know how to respond. His mind was on Night and the trouble that lay ahead.

“Just turn it on when I tell you to,” Miranda finally suggested harshly.

Holzer shrugged his shoulders, agreeing.

The SOURCE team started to follow Night up the last of the plastic maze toward whatever “thing” awaited them at the spiral’s center.

* * *

Holding his breath and closing his eyes, Night kept a ready finger on the triggering device of his crossbow. The holy blood which he had added to his arsenal could only be used once against any evil he faced-that is what the monk had told him when handed the ancient vial back in 1953. The old man could feel his feet passing a small mound of human skulls; who they had belonged to once was anyone’s guess. Night only hoped that once he had completed his task they, along with the evil forces he would soon be facing, would be able to finally rest in peace forevermore.

There was movement ahead of him.

The tiny footfalls of a small child’s feet.

From behind, Night could barely make out the chattering chaos that was his friends and colleagues. They were following orders for once, and he smiled at Holzer’s powers of leadership.

:STOP! GO NO FARTHER!:

The force of the thought hit Night, echoing in his head with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. In fact, Night found himself wincing just a little from the pain.

He opened his eyes.

In front of Night, standing only five feet away from him, was the Shape.

“So you are the girl?” Night mused, nodding his head with a sense of finality. “At last we meet.”

The Shape looked up at Night as a child would, seeming to be amused at his great height. She had soft features. Lovely lines. At one time, Night marveled, the Shape must have been a striking child with the great promise of becoming a lovely lady. A lady any man would have been honored to know.

The Shape stepped forward. Her face flashed a terrible sense of panic.

“DO NOT GO ANY FARTHER, SIR,” the Shape warned. She seemed to be cautiously looking about, as if expecting eavesdropping or trouble. “I CAN DO NO FUTHER SERVICE. I WISH YOU TO LEAVE NOW.”

Night was genuinely touched. He lowered his weapon.

“I mean you no harm,” Night stated, holding up a peaceful hand. “I only wish to know you more.”