Manchester House (36 page)

At first Wells couldn’t understand the rather honest sounds of horror coming from his captain’s voice. That was until he saw what the captain and the other men were looking at.

The Shape’s face was fully illuminated by the young police officer’s flashlight, and it was indeed a vision of hell itself.

White and chalky in appearance, the Shape’s tissue-thin skin gave off an undead bluish pallor. Thin veins could be seen poking through the young woman’s skin, giving her face a corpselike appearance. What was more horrifying than that was the fact that the Shape had no eyes. Deep black sockets glared out at the police, with only the knowledge that there had once rested in each hole a human eye capable of seeing them.

The Shape, although quite blind, was aware of the effect her horrid appearance was having on those around her. And knowing this, she could only smile. Even her smile caused a gasp or two.

Thick fangs dripped with yellow-tinged saliva, falling onto the Shape’s rotted dress. Her blood-matted hair started to fly into the air as a wind from unknown origin bedeviled her.

The Shape began to laugh.

All the men grabbed their noses. The stench rising up from the Shape’s breath was enough to cause the strongest of stomachs to lose it.

The young police officer who had lost his nerve from before stepped forward. He was trying his best to show his peers that the lost meal from earlier was just an unfortunate circumstance. In any case, the action did not lose Wells’ attention or that of the Shape.

For a second, all stood frozen.

The Shape, letting out what could only be called a roar, glared at the unfortunate police officer and lunged forward, leaving the confines of the mansion’s kitchen. Behind her, Wells, the captain, and his men could make out hundreds if not thousands of tentacle-like appendages springing forth from the Shape’s back, pushing, feeling, and thrusting her forward. Her aim appeared to be the young police officer in question.

“Watch yourself, man!” the captain shouted, realizing that the officer was in danger, if not an obvious target.

The young officer froze in his tracks, staring at the advancing wraith. Wells compared the fear in his eyes with that of the proverbial dumbfounded deer who encounters an advancing truck invading into his personal world bringing nothing but pain and blood.

The officer started to wave the Shape away, hoping above hope that the girl would pay attention to his action.

“Get away!” the young officer shouted.

The Shape only laughed, running faster toward him.

Wells soon noticed the many tentacles swerving and taking care to surround the young man, encasing him.

The young man, in fear, grabbed his gun, pulling it from his regulation holster.

Three shots were heard.

“Lieutenant Wells!” the young officer pleaded.

Wells, not really giving his actions any thought, lunged forward, stopped only by the commanding arm of his captain.

“Stay where you are, son,” the captain ordered, sensing the futility in the act.

Behind the officer and directly within the path of the advancing ghost, there stood yet another ominous door locked and shut. Wells couldn’t remember if he had ever ventured through the damn thing.

The closed door behind the officer clicked open.

One could see only blackness-an abyss.

The Shape grabbed hold of the officer, wrapping him tight within her tentacles like a mummy. At first he struggled, but to no avail. In sheer exhaustion, Wells saw the officer give up, lying in deep shock. A laugh came from the girl as she picked the officer up, throwing him over her tiny shoulders, advancing toward the now open door directly within her path.

Wells pulled back on the hammer of his gun, aiming.

All Wells could see were the young officer’s eyes, which seemed to glare right back at him, pleading silently for him to end this nightmare.

Wells pulled the trigger of his weapon, and nothing happened. The bullets were useless.

Seeming to sense this, the Shape looked back at Wells, laughing even louder.

All stood silent as the Shape and their fellow comrade disappeared into the dark room. The young officer’s screams for help echoed hollowly as the door slammed shut behind them. Lost.

Wells could not guess how long it actually took for someone to break the silence or move out of the shock that they were all obviously in.

Finally rushing toward the door in which his officer had vanished, the captain frantically opened it, seeing nothing but a small broom closet. No ghostly wraith. No terrified police officer. Only a two by four foot room. Not even big enough to swing a cat in.

“What?” the captain gawked. Wells was somewhat amused, seeing his captain timidly knock on the broom closet’s walls, hoping to find a secret compartment. There wasn’t one.

Wells put his gun back into his holster.

“Wells?” the captain said, closing the broom closet’s door. “What just happened here?”

As much as Wells wanted to provide his captain with an answer, he couldn’t give one.

“Ingrid!”

With lightning reflexes, Ingrid Night turned to glare into the eyes of his friend and fellow scholar, Jonathon Holzer. The old man had little time to react as the college professor threw to him an ancient silver cross which Holzer produced from Night’s conjure kit.

The beast started to attack without warning after the two fired special oil at the creature causing it great pain. Night had informed the entire SOURCE team that the oil was made from a special fish known only to him, the monks who had prepared it, and the angels of Heaven. In any case, war had been declared between this demon and the SOURCE members.

“Thank you, Jonathon!” Night shouted, reaching out to grab the cross.

The old man had only used the cross once before. It was an icon from the third Crusades, used by the last of the Templar Knights to help ward off a wraith which had tempted others to cause the fall of Jerusalem. Night had used this same weapon to ward off a blood-drinker he had encountered in Canada several decades back. The weapon had a great history of never failing those of good heart who used it.

The beast attacked fast and without warning. It was as if the damn thing were aware of something beyond that of the SOURCE team members. It appeared to be so calm and unconcerned at first, upon their appearance into its world, that both Night and Holzer were taken somewhat by surprise. Still, when the thing attacked, it attacked with great force and will.

An ill wind hot and smelling of rot blew down upon the SOURCE team, causing both women to get terribly sick. Teresa had tried to make contact with the beast and if it had not been for her uneasy warning, shouted out only seconds before the first volley in the battle, Night would have possibly lost his life, if not his head.

Thousands of tentacles came flying out of the beast’s leathery wings, striking the ground where the SOURCE team had been planning their assault, with the explosive power of grenades. Upon contact with the ground, the tentacles pulled back up, taking huge mounds of dirt with them. The entire landscape around Night, Holzer, and their team resembled the bombed marshlands of France after the allied liberation of D-Day.

The three huge heads of the beast were just as violent. Sinclair had to risk both life and sanity reaching up to save Teresa as the bull-like head attempted to impale the psychic. Saving Teresa, however, Sinclair failed to look out for himself. The cameraman found himself engulfed in a slimy dark world of rot and teeth. The creature had swallowed Sinclair.

Quick thinking was what saved him.

Taking out a cigarette lighter, Sinclair burned the creature’s tongue, causing the bull-like head to vomit him out upon the dirt. Sinclair now lay in a coma-like stare.

Both Night and Holzer used this moment when the creature had been paying more attention towards Sinclair and the pain he had caused to escape the bull’s head to attack.

Night took the ancient cross he had in his hand, flipped it upside down, and triggered a rusted device at the icon’s base. Upon doing this, a long and rather sharp knife shot out from the base, transforming the work of holy art into a deadly weapon. Such devices and hidden means of protection were quite common in ancient icons. Priests sometimes did not know what dangers they would be facing while on their travels.

The beast coughed, trying its best to maintain a sense of control. Its other two heads were paying close attention to the body of Sinclair, who still appeared to be unconscious.

“Jonathon!” Night shouted, waving a hand in the air. “We attack!”

Holzer, noticing that the cross he had thrown to his friend had now been transformed into a rather impressive weapon, could only look on in a controlled horror. Night seemed amused at his amazement. Both men knew that once this action was taken, there would be no turning back.

War was about to fully and honestly begin.

Night ran up the huge hill which maintained the bulk of the beast and fast approached the ogre-looking head. Its mouth was opening and closing so lazily that Night was confident that both he and Holzer had caught the monster unawares.

Night took the cross and turned the dagger toward the beast.

“By the light of God, I stab at thee!” Night screamed, closing his eyes, praying.

There rose from the beast an agony of pain and anger which mortal man was unable to describe. Holzer grabbed his ears, noticing that they were starting to bleed from the sheer energy of the agony and roars.

Night had stabbed the thing through its tongue, leaving the cross inside the beast’s mouth to do its holy work. It hurt this man to allow such an important and beloved icon to be forever lost in the dank and horrid insides of this creature, but he also knew that it was his only hope at any kind of a victory.

After reaching its mark, Night let go of the cross and violently darted away from the beast, doing his best to avoid the wave of energy he knew would immediately erupt from the thing.

“Hit the dirt, Jonathon!” Night yelled, hurtling and folding himself into a ball. The tall old man was remarkably spry for his age. Holzer was greatly awed by the man’s almost combative actions.

Holzer tripped, hitting the ground with almost the same speed as Night.

“Ingrid! Are you all right?”

“Just so! Dear friend, just so.” Night coughed dust out of his mouth, rubbing his eyes clean of both blood and grime.

The beast opened its wings and allowed an army of deadly tentacles to come forth.

“Ingrid?” Holzer whispered, pointing up toward the creature.

Night rolled over, looking up at the beast on his exhausted and aching back. “Dear God!”

Like the biblical account of Jesus encountering the demon, who proclaimed himself under the name of “Legion”, the tentacles were numerous, and started swaying back and forth in the air, heading toward the SOURCE members. One tentacle that Night was not aware of was heading right toward his neck. A hungry mouth full of teeth and the ability to attach itself onto its victim was thirsty for blood.

Jonathon Holzer saw this and took quick action.

Reaching for his crossbow, Holzer poured oil into its triggering device, pulling back on the weapon’s firing pin, and took aim.

“Ingrid!” Holzer yelled, aiming at the approaching tentacle. “Watch where you’re standing.”

Before Night could respond, he felt the whoosh of the oil hitting the tentacle, which was only a mere five feet from reaching its mark, and saw the vile appendage splatter into a spray of dark blood, exploding as the blessed oil made contact.

In shock mixed with gratitude, Night turned to his friend. “I thank you for that, Jonathon.” Night wiped the thick blood and skin which had sprayed on his face with one shaky hand.

Night’s eyes turned hard.

Holzer was now the target of the beast’s revenge.

“Jonathon!” Night pointed, wanting Holzer to notice what was behind him.

The beast let out another roar of pain. Only this time the creature was starting to move out of his resting-place, wanting to battle his invaders as a mobile force. It was starting to become more violent than before, realizing that perhaps both Holzer and Night’s knowledge combined had what it took to defeat him. If it could not have Ingrid Night, the beast would settle for Jonathon Holzer.

Two tentacles headed Holzer’s way.

Before the college professor knew what was happening, and before he could turn to pay more vivid attention toward the warnings his friend was giving to him, the tentacles attacked, lodging themselves into his back. A crunching sound could be heard by all as teeth bit into skin. Blood started to spray from Holzer’s back. The tentacles found a home, imbedding themselves into the professor’s body: one in his ribcage, the other in his lower back.

“Professor!” Teresa screamed. Terrified, the young psychic joined Night.

Night, trying his damnedest to remain calm, slowly walked toward the creature, allowing it to take full notice of him. One by one, the demon’s three heads turned from Holzer, focusing in on him. A foul smell filled the air. If Night had to put the smell to any kind of an earthly design, Night would have had to guess that the creature had just moved its bowels.

“So this is all you can muster, you bastard!” Night mocked, waving his hands into the air. The old man huffed out a dry laugh. “A little wind and rain and all you can do is shit? You are nothing! You have not won a damn thing!”

Hearing this from Night, the beast paused. The three huge heads began to talk amongst themselves. One of the three, the bull, found Night’s shouting to be humorous-it must have been the one responsible for the bowel movement.

Holzer began to quiver in agony.

“Ingrid&” Holzer whispered, beckoning for his friend to approach him.

Night tried his best to control his emotions-this was not the time to panic. Holzer was like a son to Night, and Night knew that he had to do his best not to allow those emotions which were fighting hard to come to the surface to win the day. If Night panicked, if he got angry, he would be doing more harm to his friend than good.