MANCHESTER HOUSE

Donald Allen Kirch

MANCHESTER HOUSE
Copyright © 2009 Donald Allen Kirch
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art by Deron Douglas
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ISBN-10: 1-55404-044-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-044-5
First Edition November 24, 2009

Also Available as a Large Type Paperback

For Patrick McGoohan

Who made me fear scarecrows

CHAPTER ONE

Professor Jonathon Holzer held up the rusted knife for all to see. There wasn't anything special about it from its appearance. The only clue that the antique had any kind of significance was in the fact that there were two armed security guards in the room, watching Holzer like a hawk. He was allowed to use the knife in his presentation, but for insurance purposes the guards had to stay.

"According to the theory of psychometry, objects absorb the emotions of their owners and those around them and remain a repository of those emotions indefinitely." Holzer paused. "For example, this knife here. A historical icon, if you like."

All eyes focused on the knife.

The knife was surgical in nature-a nineteenth-century post-mortem knife: long-bladed, slim, with a sleek wooden handle meant to be used lightly in the palm of the hand. Located at the base of the blade near the handle, was a thumb rest for sudden upward cuts. This feature alone made the medical instrument ideal for cutting open bodies.

"If we are to take the definition of psychometry at its word, this little fellow that I'm holding should tell us quite a story. You see, I'm holding in my hands the knife reported to have been used by none other than Jack the Ripper himself."

A hush filled the room.

Jonathon Holzer planned his college courses with the same level of preparedness which a general would use in detailing his soldiers for battle. Indeed, he looked at what he did as a kind of war-the most important kind. Holzer taught the science of parapsychology, and to make one believe in the unexplainable in these cynical times was a battle all its own. Passion was at the heart of everything Holzer presented to his "kids", as he liked to call them. Nothing was more rewarding than to make a logical mind stop and consider the possibility that two plus two could, if given the right circumstances, equate to three. The possibility of the absurd-the means and willingness to accept that there was more to this world than science had to provide, the opening up of one's mind; that was more important than anything Holzer could think of. That was why he became a teacher.

"I have brought to this class a psychic who will help us test this theory. His subject will be this knife." Holzer held back a smile. "So, class, are we ready to see if Jack the Ripper has a name?"

The college amphitheater filled with a controlled hum. Students from almost every tax bracket, age, and intelligence level filled the seats. Most professors would never be given the permission to stage such a class, but Holzer kept the seats in his classes filled. People would sign up years in advance to take his courses. Most paid full price in advance in order to guarantee them a seat.

In truth, the psychic was just there to get their attention. And, as far as Holzer was concerned, so was the knife.

"I would like you all to put your hands together and help me welcome Hans Peters to our class."

Applause filled the room.

Hans Peters entered. He was an ineffective little man. Quite ordinary. Holzer had come across this individual while on vacation in Germany. The psychic had the ability to zone in on answers that would cause an FBI agent to gloat with jealousy.

"Mr. Peters," Holzer said, motioning the man to take his seat. A simple stage had been set up in advance, consisting of a chair, table, and one lone glass of water in case it was needed. "Please, take your seat. Explain to my students if you will that you have no idea of what I'm trying to accomplish here today. And, most important, that you are not being paid for this action, sir."

At the last, Hans Peters gave Holzer a stern look. "Sir! I would never use my powers for the gaining of money. I am a servant of God." The psychic's face exploded in a spastic look of utter disgust at the idea of being such a mercenary. "If you wish to know your fortune, I can recommend a phone psychic."

Holzer held up a hand with the greatest academic respect. "Sir, I do not mean to judge," Holzer finally stated, again offering the psychic a seat.

"I hope so, sir," Peters said. "My powers are a manifestation of God in man. I'm here to show that to you all."

"And we are here to witness." Holzer reached for the knife, showing it to Peters. "Now, if you please."

The amphitheater fell silent. All eyes became fixed on Holzer, the psychic, and the knife.

Peters took three huge breaths, challenging his body to exhale more than the ordinary man. In trying to accomplish this exercise, Peters seemed to be pushing his body into a trance. Convulsively, he reached out for the knife. His eyes rolling, he started to force up words.

"I am ready," he stated.

Awkwardly, Holzer placed the valuable knife into Peters' hands. The college professor was mildly amused when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the security guards move forward, as if to size up the change in situation. Do not fear, man. If that knife gets damaged, my reputation goes with it. I wouldn't even be able to check out a library book after such an event.

"I sense hate," Peters barked, his eyes rolling white. His hands explored the knife. "A hatred of women. Of being forced to love an older woman. Of motherly love gone terribly bad. I see&"

Peters froze. His pallor took on that of a corpse. All color left his face and it seemed as if he couldn't wake himself up. He shook, appearing to be in some unknown danger.

"Mr. Peters?" Holzer inquired.

There was no response.

"Mr. Peters?" Holzer repeated. "Are you well?"

The psychic forced himself out of trance, blinking his eyes open. On his face was the look of terror which Holzer had only seen once before in his life: veterans from the Vietnam War who had volunteered to be subjects in a dream test he had conducted over twenty years ago. The horror in their eyes when they awoke, the terrifying results of that case still gave him the shivers. Peters' eyes matched the rage, surprise, disgust, and utter fear of those poor subjects. For one second of doubt, Holzer believed he had gone too far to prove a point.

"No!" Peters shouted, casting the knife aside.

The long knife bounced to the floor, making a hollow metallic sound. All eyes stayed glued to the weapon. No one said a word. It was as if time had stopped, respecting the importance of the knife.

"I will read no more, Professor," Peters cried, obviously shaken. The psychic wiped a layer of sweat off his forehead. "I am sorry, but I must leave now. I thank you all." With that, Peters left.

Holzer cleared his throat, picking up the knife. He noticed the concerned looks he was getting from his students and thought it time to explain. After all, this was the effect he had wanted. This was the state of mind he wished to place his students in.

"Mr. Peters will not be back, ladies and gentlemen." Holzer reached for a remote control, turning on a large projection screen behind him and in full view of all of his students. "Still, what he provided will be reviewed by us all at a later date. Thanks should be given to him and Scotland Yard for the prologue leading up to our current lessons."

Holzer started a slide show, which seemed to flash calculated pictures of an old Victorian house of some kind. The projection screen showed all the students several quick and beautiful pictures of the house-a mansion. The students could see that it was an old house, quite distinguished, having within it a certain negative feeling which the shots of the house seemed to magnify. This was not a house to be taken lightly.

"Fear," Holzer said, "is the most valuable motivation that mankind has at its disposal. It is the most primal force at an instinctive level. Man can move mountains with fear."

Holzer paused for effect.

"Things that go bump in the night," he stated, holding back a smile, noticing the hard looks he was getting from the security guards, packing up the knife. "A cold chill that catches your attention at three in the morning. The feeling of being watched. Or the need to leave a room for reasons you cannot explain, with the feeling of supreme terror. These are the things that make up a haunting."

The students' voices started to rise amongst themselves. Professor Holzer was going to talk about hauntings! A subject that he had been forbidden to discuss ever since the Sallie Hauntings, which cost him the souls of half his team five years before. Holzer himself was amazed that the Dean allowed such a venture. In truth, enrollment was low and the campus was in need of funds.

Those, Holzer could raise.

"Let us take as a prime example the knife we have just examined," Holzer continued. "Totally against science but always beckoning for us to prove them wrong, ghosts, demons, and inanimate objects have defied us from time immemorial. That is why you are here, and that is why I teach."

Holzer studied the faces of his students. He saw that they ranged in ages from teenaged to elderly. All were listening to him with bated breath. Some, as with all classes, were writing notes, and others were simply lost in thought. Holzer did, however, get the impression that most were delighted to be there with him and not at all wasting their time. That was good. That was what mattered.

"Haunted houses&" Holzer allowed the words to echo throughout the room and rattle in the mind of each student. "Those two words have held the human imagination captive since mankind started to think. Leap Castle in Ireland. The Tower of London. Even the White House has had its episodes of the unknown."

Holzer noticed a young girl, no older than twenty, glancing up at him with a curiosity best aimed at a twenty-year-old boy. Dear God! There was one in every class.

Holzer was in his late forties, intelligent but not cocky. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses which gave him a fatherly image of a man who seemed to know all about the subjects he taught. Not fat but a bit on the heavy side, he walked with a rhythm that allowed him to associate with the young. He was a man who never really lost his youth.

He continued, trying his best not to notice the female student's lovely legs.

"Leap Castle is particularly impressive. In her walls is said to reside the elemental spirit referred to as 'It'. 'It' is said to appear in the form of a half-man, half-lamb entity, always accompanied by a god-forsaken stench and an overwhelming feeling of deep terror."

The female student raised her hand.

"Yes, young lady. A question?"

"Ah, Leslie Guthrie, Professor," The student volunteered. "Has anyone ever taken a picture of this thing? I mean, is this more than folklore&a tourist trap?"

Holzer beamed. The sheer skepticism made him proud.

Several students started to react towards Leslie's question with sarcastic laughs. Holzer soon waved the laughs away, welcoming the questions from his student. Again he smiled, noticing her. Holzer walked behind his podium and started to tap his finger on the wooden platform.

"Miss Guthrie is not amused," he joked. "What to do. What to do&"

"I'm sorry if my question has offended you, Professor," Leslie said, her eyes giving Holzer a longing look.

"No, no," Holzer insisted, "an open mind is what we want in this class. The young lady has a right to be curious." Holzer paused, thinking. He knew he had to be on his toes with this one. "To answer your question, Miss Guthrie& No. Why? Because it is said that looking at the spirit known as 'It' will cause the victim to go insane. So, my dear, avoid an elemental at all costs. Understand?"

Professor Holzer paused for a long moment, wishing to gain all of Leslie Guthrie's attention. And, frankly, he liked keeping his students on the edge of their seats. After all, half the art of telling a story was drama. Holzer started clicking new slides on the projection screen, continuing.

"So you see haunted houses have left their mark. Take for example&Manchester House."

"Manchester House!" someone blurted out.

A hush filled the room. An excited hush.

Seeing that Holzer's discussion had mentioned Manchester House, all the students opened their notebooks and started taking information down like hungry men at a buffet. Holzer took off his glasses. His face turned very serious. He was reading from several sheets of yellow business papers. One could get the impression that he had just written up the papers at the last minute. In any case, Holzer was an expert on the subject of this particular "haunted house."

"Located in the town of Atchison, Kansas, this rather quaint home appears to be the ideal habitat to fall in love, raise a family, and in time retire to one's quiet reward. However, looks, as Edgar Allan Poe once observed, can be quite deceiving."

Holzer drew all their attention toward the slide show which, for most of the talk, had only been used for background. Now came the meat of the matter.

As the students paid close attention to the images on the projection screen, they saw that they were looking at pictures from the Civil War era. The black and white images of ages past seemed to tantalize the words Holzer was saying with a firm seriousness that would have been lost if the pictorial material had never been implemented.

"Built just after the Civil War, the house started out as having a bad history. Local Indians for centuries avoided the land that the house now resides on. Chiefs and Medicine Men alike warned Whites that the land was full of sorrow. It was the Indians' belief that a bird would die if it flew across this place." Holzer paused, clicking another slide. "The Pawnee tribe, upon their forced trek to Oklahoma, left one legacy in particular. They raided a settlement of natives, located almost on top of where the current house now sits, killed the women of the tribe while the men were out hunting, and decapitated all the women, placing their heads in the camp's cooking pot."

Several of the women students gasped in disgust.

"History has no record of the tribesmen's response," Holzer concluded. "Still, the land was considered&bad."

"No shit," one of the female students asserted under her breath.

A small grumble was heard going through the audience. Each was left to form conclusions on their own.

"Questions?"

No one spoke up. All eyes remained focused on the presentation.

"Let us continue, then."

As the pictures flipped by on the projection screen, the students saw several Civil War pictures involving Union soldiers: one in particular centered on General Grant, who was leaning against a door post showing a very melancholy stare.

"During the Civil War, a regiment of soldiers complete with a Gatling gun, six wagons, and a medical doctor vanished without a trace."

With a push of a button, Holzer activated the zoom feature on the projection machine, closing in on the figure of General Grant. As the projector closed in on the picture, all the students could clearly make out the famous Civil War general's worried features. All got the impression that this story, and the disappearance of his men, forever changed this future president.

"No military inquest or historical reason was ever obtained. Upon further research, I discovered that Grant had been stationed in Atchison, perhaps had even camped near the future Manchester House site.

"I discovered that an order came from General Grant about his missing men. Grant's personal words on the subject: 'Leave this one alone. Bad business.' This was all the future president would say."

Holzer stopped the projector on a close-up of General Grant's eyes. There was a hidden pain in them. Holzer wanted to give all his students the impression that once, and only once, something had scared the hell out of the Union general.

The students waited-watching.

"Some state that these things just happen," Holzer said. "Some would go a step further and try to explain that you cannot have the good without the bad.

"Evil, for lack of a better word, can be studied. I believe that there is a way to explain its origins. And I will soon do that from Manchester House. I have already assembled a team, and from the data we collect you and I will explore this phenomenon together."

The students started to talk amongst themselves. Holzer put his glasses back on, looking over them at his students. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"So&class&I ask you the question set by Edgar Allan Poe: Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?"

"This is so cool!" a student cried out.

"I can't wait to tell my friends."

"I have a sweet tooth for this shit."

Holzer was getting the overall effect that he had anticipated.

"Are there any questions before we start this project?" Holzer asked, closing up his notebook papers. From the corner of his eye, he could spot Leslie Guthrie looking at him with curious, if not hungry, eyes. She raised her legs, as if hoping that he would be bold enough to look her way. Holzer was an old war-horse at these student-teacher games: he did not look.

A student raised his hand. He was a young man in his thirties and was wearing a business suit; he did not appear the "type" to take this kind of a class.

"How have you made all this possible? I mean, it sounds as if you will have to spend a lot of time at the mansion."

Holzer jumped at the question, almost welcoming it.

"Not really, my young lad." Holzer walked from behind his podium, explaining. "By a connection with the local authorities of the area, I have obtained the right to visit Manchester House, and also&" The professor directed everyone's attention toward the projection screen. "Something new for this kind of study. In keeping with the times, we have installed a webcam."

Holzer took the remote control and pointed it toward the huge screen. He pressed a few buttons and the screen clicked over to a video feed from inside the Manchester House mansion.

"I'll be damned," Holzer heard the student say as he sat back down.

The projection screen clicked to life, showing static at first, but slowly, all started to see inside Manchester House. Nothing fancy could be seen at first: Just an empty room, old sofa, and an innocent-looking sheet of hanging plastic. It appeared as if the room had once been prepared for a paint job. However, time and neglect had taken their toll. A small trickle of water could be seen dripping into the picture frame, indicating that there was a leak in the mansion's roof. As the webcam started to focus in on the invading trickle of water, everyone noticed rot and mildew on the nearby walls. It had been some time since the mansion had been prepared for an honest paint job. The video feed caused a rise in excitement throughout the class.

"Ladies and gentlemen&Manchester House."

In the room, as projected on the huge screen, a wind started to pick up the sheet of hanging plastic. A heavy sound was heard, as if someone were breathing too hard into a microphone. The picture rippled, turning to static. Holzer, surprised at such a quick loss of picture, tried his best to retrieve it. Embarrassed, he could not.

"Well, we will try to perfect that."

A laugh was heard through the classroom.

"I would like to thank you all for coming, and look forward to your future attendance," Holzer stated. "Class dismissed."

All the students left. Holzer walked to his podium, picked up his papers, and started to exit. Before he could do so, however, he ran face to face into the hungry eyes of Leslie Guthrie.

"Oh, Miss Guthrie. You gave me quite a start." Holzer started to fidget. "What can I do for you?"

"I thought your class rather interesting."

"Well, I thank you. That's what I try for. I like a student who is entertained as well as enlightened."

Leslie moved closer to Holzer, her breasts clearly visible for the old man to see. It was obvious that the young lady wished to make a move, hoping that Holzer would invite advancement. Holzer did not see life in that way. To him, his passions were found in a book. He was a man, and as a man he felt the need for companionship, but dear God! Not with a child.

"Miss Guthrie," Holzer said, his voice filled with a soft finality, "no."

"No?" Leslie repeated, with false doe-eyed surprise.

"No." Holzer stated, "I do not involve myself with my students. You will have to seek&enlightenment elsewhere in those matters. However, if it be your own mind you wish to focus on in the future, dear child, I would welcome you. You show promise in your disbelief. That is all that I ask: a way of challenging you to question your perceptions."

Leslie Guthrie's frame sank with disappointment. She started to tread back to her seat, putting her books away. "I will stay in your class, Professor. I had hoped, however&" She looked back, questioning.

"Hope can move mountains, Miss Guthrie, but will not move me in the matters on which you need to be moved. I would suggest an object for your attentions a little&younger, and perhaps a little more hungry for the feast." On the last comment, Holzer had to laugh.

"Thank you, Professor."

"No, my child," Holzer said. There was no malice in his voice. "Thank you for giving me the chance to know that I can still turn a head or two. I do not have the chance to do such things, and fear that my days in that activity are behind me. Thank you for allowing me to feel young once more. I look forward to seeing you in my class, child. Take care."

Holzer waved a confident hand in the air and left Leslie to her humility and embarrassment.

The girl was alone in the room. "Well, that went great," Leslie huffed, putting her books into her bag.

She was going to fail if she didn't get above an A in this class, and now she knew that she had to do it the hard way. Her parents would stop sending money if she didn't start to produce and she knew it. "I'm not going to be forty-two years old and the manager of a hamburger joint. I'm going to make something out of my life, God damn it!"

The room echoed with the sound of rustling plastic. There was the faint sound of heavy breathing. The effect confused and frightened Leslie.

"What the hell was that?"

Leslie picked up her bags and started to head toward the door. The lights of the room went dark, clicked off by a timer. The effect caused the young student to drop her bag.

"Oh, crap." The bag opened upon hitting the ground, allowing her books to fall out, scattering on the floor.

As Leslie bent down to fumble and find her books, placing them back into her bag, she saw the large projection screen click on, showing the interior of Manchester House.

"The professor would be glad to know that his camera is working again."

Shallow breathing echoed through the empty classroom.

Leslie got the uneasy feeling that she was no longer alone. For reasons she could not explain, she stopped picking up her books and focused all her attention onto the projection screen. The young woman started to shake with fear.

She saw the same dirty room, couch, and hanging piece of plastic. She heard the same dripping sound caused by the leaking roof and could just make out the rot forming on the background walls. It was a house of neglect, just like the slums she had been forced to live in as a child. How many nights had she promised herself that she would do anything not to end up in one of those nightmares ever again. Even sleep with her teacher if she had to.

Something moved in the picture. All looked as it did when the class had first gazed upon the interior of the house, however this time the projection slightly changed.

"What the hell?" Leslie said, rubbing her eyes. Was she seeing things? Was the guilt of trying to use a good man such as Professor Holzer finally getting to her, or was she just going mad?

A black shape started to move into the picture frame. It started to take on form. Substance. Identity. It started to look like a young girl no older than twelve.

The Shape weaved closer to the camera. Her image started to dominate the entire projection screen. The heavy breathing sound began to intensify and the beating of a human heart could be heard. In horror, Leslie muffled her ears.

"Stop it!" she cried, tripping, hitting the floor. She had tripped over one of her schoolbooks.

The Shape on the screen moved closer, its face or head starting to dominate the screen, turning the whole picture black. It was as if the Shape had moved only inches away from the camera lens located inside Manchester House. What was going on here? Professor Holzer had said nothing about any of this!

"Go away!" Leslie cried, throwing a book at the screen in desperation.

The Shape opened its eyes, glaring down at her. The eyes were filled with a hatred and level of disgust that tore at the heart of Leslie's being. The eyes moved as she moved, and were aware of her actions.

The breathing intensified.

Leslie grabbed all her books and fled the room.

CHAPTER TWO

"What's her problem?" a student blurted out, catching Holzer by surprise.

Holzer was absently walking down one of the passageways of the college, not paying attention to where he was going. He had been putting his papers in order. Behind him, he saw a flock of students. All were in a rush, hoping to borrow a moment of his time.

Reacting towards the student's statement, Holzer looked up in curiosity.

Holzer saw Leslie Guthrie darting across the campus parking lot, heading for what he presumed was her car. Holzer could see that the poor woman was obviously disturbed about something. He just couldn't bring himself to believe that her dire condition was about him.

"Miss Guthrie has details in her study practices which require her to behave in rather unorthodox ways," Holzer finally brought himself to say, just below a whisper. "Well, I'm off to Manchester House."

"Professor, may I ask a question?"

"Yes, of course." Holzer noticed a young African-American woman looking up at him from rimmed glasses. They made her look older than her years. The woman was uneasy, but curious.

"It's great that we are studying this case with you, sir, but&"

"But what?"

"How did you obtain such a fantastic coup?"

The most important question. One that Holzer would bring himself to ask over and over again months, indeed years, later.

In Holzer's eyes, there was a great uneasiness.

* * *

Two weeks earlier&

Manchester House had claimed another life.

Atchison, Kansas was a quiet small town filled with the conservative values of Middle America. The kind of town, people, and way of life depicted by Norman Rockwell on Saturday Evening Post magazine covers. At one time, this town had been the seat of western commerce, the home of a famous aviator, and the birthplace of an American industry business power. Now the town was ideal for living one's life in and escaping the terrors of the big cities. Crime was an event that happened but sparingly, and always to someone you did not know.

That was until Manchester House decided to take matters into its own accursed hands-metaphorically.

Lt. Albert Wells entered the rotted out house for what had to be the ninth time. And each time he entered, he knew it was to pick up another body. Having served the city of Atchison for over thirty years, he'd only had to look at eleven bodies-and nine were from this damned mansion. Settling in, he could hear the commotion of people moving about and noticed that everyone was working in the middle of a crime scene. Wells took notice of a body bag lying on the floor of the mansion's main hall.

"Why did I have to eat a big breakfast this morning?" Wells grumbled, trying his best to control his urge to throw up.

Wells knelt down toward the body bag, silently asking to see the remains of Manchester House's latest victim. The remains of Jean Mallia flashed quickly into the Atchison detective's eyes. He couldn't help it. Wells puked out his breakfast.

"You okay, Lieutenant?" a patrolman asked, handing Wells a handkerchief.

"Got a breath mint, son?" was all Wells could bring himself to say as he wiped his mouth.

Jean Mallia was the town crazy. Always a pain in the ass, and always up in your face. But, all in all, Wells like him. Nervous breakdowns and drug addiction aside, the detective thought Mallia a likable man.

Mallia was a skeleton of a man and appeared to have been dead for months. The stench alone, rising from the thick black plastic bag, was enough to let Wells know this. The corpse appeared to Wells to be that of a dried-out victim, weighing no more than seventy pounds. It was as if all life had been slowly removed from this man, making him look the part of a World War II concentration camp survivor-only this man did not survive.

"What happened to this man?" Wells asked, his voice dripping with fearful curiosity.

Flashbulbs clicked and popped wildly away as several police photographers took pictures of Mallia's remains. Wells, from the corner of his eye, only saw flashes of the corpse, wanting not to tempt fate with a second round of heaving.

Lt. Wells stood over the body bag, finally bringing himself to look down at the body.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?" a patrolman asked.

"I knew this man," Wells said to finally break the silence. "I saw him just two days ago."

There was an awkward pause. The patrolman started to nervously tap his pencil on his notebook pad. "Then you must have known how sick he was."

"Sick?" Wells barked. "Hell, no, he wasn't sick. The man was as healthy as you or I. He was a veteran, for Christ's sake! I arrested him more times than my fair share. He was a hulk of a man. He enjoyed life."

The patrolman looked down at the body and took in its present state of decay. He started to take notes, not wanting Wells to see the deep look of disbelief that clearly had flashed upon his face.

"Don't get me wrong here, son," Wells tried to explain. "I knew him from my Army days. He's a veteran of the First Gulf War, for Christ's sake! That's what turned him into a nut." Wells looked down at Mallia's body, pondering. "Someone who could clearly take care of himself."

The patrolman stopped writing. "Then how did he&"

"I don't know," Wells interrupted, angry. "But I will find out."

Both men moved to the main hall of the mansion. Like most mansions built in the late nineteenth century, a main hall connected all major rooms of activity. The entire main hall ran the length of the house and was, in its tired dilapidated state, nothing more than a tunnel of plaster and rot. Wells could just make out the original red velvet wallpaper underneath the mold. The air was filled with the stench of decay; several bodies of dead rats littered the floor. What Mallia saw in this house simply was beyond the policeman's logic.

Wells and the patrolman noticed the hanging plastic tarps.

There were at least half a dozen, and they were starting to run the entire length of the hall. Wells surmised that Mallia had plastered the tarps on the walls using common duct tape. He shook his head, laughing silently. Sloppy.

"Looks like he was getting ready to paint or something."

Wells took a cigarette from his coat jacket and lit it, walking through the tunnel of plastic. He turned away from Mallia as the body bag was zipped back up and the body was removed from the home.

"Something," Wells absently repeated, looking up at the hanging sheets of plastic. He shook his head with great wonderment. "Did you know that this place used to be the grandest house in all of Atchison?"

"You don't say."

"Terrible how things go to waste."

As Wells and the patrolman started to walk away from the crime scene, Wells noticed a fellow detective approaching. Anderson was his name. Nice guy. Single. Had a problem getting a lady because of perpetual bad breath. A good and honest man who did his job well. He noticed that the advancing detective was holding a book of some kind.

"Anderson?" Wells inquired, squinting his eyes, adjusting them to the darkness ahead of him. The mansion had terrible lighting, even in the daytime. "What have you got there?"

Anderson stepped out of the dark and into the faint light the sun was giving off from a nearby skylight. "Found a book in the victim's belongings. Looks like a diary or some such thing."

"Journal," Wells corrected.

"Huh?"

"Only virgin prom queens looking to get laid by Prince Charming write in diaries, Anderson." Wells had to control his facial features. Anderson was standing about seven feet from him, but he could already smell the stench coming from the young man's green teeth. It was amazing what a calcium deficiency could do to one's teeth. "Let me see that thing."

"Just have it back on my desk by morning." Anderson turned up his collar and made a body motion that he was ready to leave. "I gotta go."

"See you, then."

Wells started to fumble through the journal. It appeared that Mallia was also a writer of sorts. His subject: ManchesterHouse.

"Looks like our victim had a hobby."

"What?" the patrolman asked.

"This house." Wells motioned around the hall. "It appears that Mallia was trying to figure out a mystery."

"Mystery?"

"That's what it says here." Wells closed the book. "I'll let you know."

The patrolman continued with his notes as Wells walked away from him, wanting to explore the house.

"Wells!" someone shouted.

The detective turned to see his captain glaring down at him from the stairs above. It was obvious that his superior had been standing there for some time and had observed Anderson handing him the victim's journal. The only thing that Wells couldn't understand was why his captain was even there. Sure, murders were rare in Atchison, but not when it came to Manchester House. Hell, this was old hat! Every rookie was warned from day one about this damn place. Why would the captain even waste his time?

"Wells, what have you got there?"

"The victim's journal, sir." Wells held it up for the captain to see.

Something was wrong. Did Wells see fear in the captain's eyes?

"Something bothering you, Wells?" the captain finally asked.

"Captain, I can't seem to bring all the pieces together on this case." Wells tried to explain. He placed the journal under his right arm. "Things just do not add up."

"What? This case? Manchester House?" The captain gave the house a look of disgust and challenge. It was obvious that in his time he'd had to pick up his share of bodies from inside these walls. Wells could see that the old man was tired of the paperwork. Police budget was tight as it was. "Cripes! We can't afford all of this. We are behind enough on our caseload as it is. Just close it up. Suicide or some such thing. I'll back you up on it."

Wells let out a surprised laugh, controlling it just in time. Instead he exhaled, coughing. The subtle action caught his captain's attention.

"Something bothering you, Wells?"

The detective squirmed, awkward.

"Wells?" the captain repeated, demanding an answer.

"Close it up?" Wells said, "Captain, I&"

"Manchester House has just claimed another," the captain blurted out. He gave the house a hard look of disdain. "I don't know why they just do not tear this damn place down."

The captain rushed down the stairs and headed for the front doors. He never looked Wells in the eye. Wells was doing all that he could to keep the look of astonishment off his face. The captain had always been a man of great integrity. Never was he known for faking a report. Still, here at the scene of a murder, the captain was telling Wells to lie on the cause of death just to ease the caseload.

As quick as he could, the captain left. Wells was alone.

"What the hell was that all about?" he finally asked himself.

Wells continued his trek through the house, venturing toward the basement door. He'd dragged several bodies out of this house from the basement. Shaking off a cold shiver, he started to twist the doorknob.

The knob would not budge. The door was locked.

"Anyone check the basement?" Wells shouted.

"Locked," someone answered.

"Hmm..."

He pulled hard at the door, hoping that it would open with brute strength. Nothing happened. The door was soundly locked.

The sound of rustling plastic could be heard on the other side of the basement door. Someone, by the sound of it, was moving around down in the basement. Or that was what Wells thought he heard.

Wells placed his ear to the door, concentrating.

The detective could hear a faint scratching sound as if someone, although very weak, was scratching the other side of the door. Of this Wells was certain. He remembered one case-the victim fell down the steps, breaking both legs. Alone, the victim had climbed up the staircase and had started scratching away at the door, and had done so until he died. When discovered, Wells found fingernails embedded on the other side of the door. And dear God! The smell of rot. The man was horrid-looking.

Placing his hand to his mouth, the detective moved away from the door.

* * *

Back in his office, with only a few other police officers straggling behind him, Wells started to work on his case file. It was hard for him to follow his captain's orders, but what was he to do? He was too damn old to look for another job and too set in his ways to start kissing ass if he did. The only alternative was to use an outsider.

Wells picked up his phone, dialing a phone number given to him by his daughter. He remembered what she had told him. "Dad, if ever you come across anything abnormal, or anything that needs explaining outside of normal science, give this man a call."

Wells studied the business card his daughter had given to him. He'd had it for five years, thinking that he would never have to use it. Now, he was in a position where he had to, for Mallia's sake.

Professor Jonathon L. Holzer, Ph.D.

Department of Parapsychology

The S.O.U.R.C.E. Institute, Ltd.

1-888-4-SOURCE

Wells dialed the number.

The phone rang at least twelve times before someone picked it up on the other end.

"Hello?" a tired voice answered.

"Professor Holzer?" Wells waited, momentarily allowing the silence to ring out. It was always an awkward instance, when a stranger awoke another in the middle of the night. "You probably do not remember me. My name's Albert Wells. My daughter took a class of yours&"

Suddenly there was a great presence of excited energy on the other end of the phone. "Yes, of course!" Holzer exclaimed, fully awake now. "What can I do for you? If memory serves; you are a police detective&correct?"

Wells had to smile with admiration. His daughter was right. Holzer was a walking steel trap-he never forgot a name.

"That's correct, Professor." Wells said, "To make a long story short, sir, I am offering you a chance to investigate Manchester House. Here, in the city of Atchison. Are you interested?"

There was a long, if not cautious, pause on the phone. However, Wells was as great a reader of human emotions and actions as Holzer was a sponge of knowledge. The Atchison detective could sense that the professor was holding his cards close to his vest, hoping not to tip his excitement too much.

"I'll assemble a small team and be there ASAP, detective," Holzer finally allowed himself to state. "Expect me after a few days."

Now came the gauntlet.

"Professor," Wells stated, tightly grabbing onto the telephone's receiver. "I warn you that no one on the Town Council or Police Department will be able to offer any help. In fact, they have no idea that I'm doing this, sir. You will, by all accounts, be on your own."

"I understand, Mr. Wells," Holzer confirmed. "I understand."

The two men continued their talking. Holzer was cordial and proud of the fact that Wells' daughter was now attending George Washington University, obtaining a degree in the biological sciences. This, Wells stated, was due in no small part to Holzer's influence. After an hour, both men said their good-byes and hung up. Holzer was to investigate the opportunity of a lifetime; Wells to help solve an unlovable caseload.

Alone, fighting the silence of his office, Wells turned his attentions toward Mallia's journal.

The soiled book was nothing to look at. The kind of artificially bound, leather-looking scrapbook one would find at any ordinary bookstore. The pages appeared to have been well read, and had been wet at one time or another. This was obvious by the uneven way the pages had set in the boundaries of the book itself. Upon opening the journal, Wells' senses were bombarded by the aroma of mildew.

Mallia was a prolific writer, talking in a wide range of subjects. Mostly he centered on Manchester House.

Wells started to take it all in, reading.

Saturday, October 15&.

I have finally confronted a form in the house. SHE is here. In my research, I have come across a very interesting fact: William Manchester, the famous railroad tycoon of the late nineteenth century, once asked a young girl to travel from Boston to be his wife. It was a common practice of the day. At the National Archives in Washington DC, I was able to obtain a "Wife Contract" that was drawn up between Mr. Manchester and this woman-her name was lost on the paper, and to history. There is some loose proof that she arrived in Atchison to take her place at Mr. Manchester's side, but little else. Years later, when asked, William Manchester knew nothing of the matter-to him it never happened. Was this figure, this specter, Manchester House's lost bride? She seems to be at the focus of the images I have already encountered and fought in my time as owner of this great house.

Since my birth, I have always had the power of foresight. My grandmother used to say that I was a "Ghost Seer." An earthbound soul who had the power to grant lost souls rest. I will try to break through, using what abilities I have, to help put her to rest.

The Wedding Bells are ringing for the house's "lost bride" and I will help bring her home&.

Tuesday, October 18&

Bad business here. I am starting to see demons coming from the walls. I fear that my ignorant intrusion into all this activity has angered an evil power filled with a need to inflict its revenge upon the world of man. I will have to stop her.

I hear her coming up the stairs. The stairs are her domain. Do not go in the basement. Must stay up in the light. I have placed the signs on the floor. I will&..

With that, the journal stopped in mid-sentence.

Wells closed the book.

The detective lit up a cigarette.

"Lt. Wells, we're closing up now."

Wells looked up, catching a glimpse of the same patrolman he had talked with at Manchester House. The detective was surprised to know that another police officer had remained behind at the station, putting his notes in order, before heading off for home. It did his heart good to realize that he was not the only person upset with the bizarre facts encountered during his last visit to Manchester House.

"What is it about this job that keeps good men like us away from our loved ones?" Wells asked the young man.

"My wife asks the same question, sir." The young man smiled, waving his hand, leaving.

Wells turned off the light to his office.

It was time to go home.

* * *

If someone were still standing in the main hall of Manchester House, they would have stated that the surroundings were just too cold for an October night-even in the Midwest. Ice was starting to form on the molded walls, causing the hanging plastic sheets to shatter like glass.

If one were inside the mansion, they would have thought that they could hear the faint sounds of a young girl crying. Of people shouting out rages, injustices, or trapped animals wanting to frantically break lose-of anger wanting to so desperately attack something.

There was movement at the base of the basement door.

There was intelligence there.

There was&something.

CHAPTER THREE

Holzer had always hated car trips, but this was such short notice that there was really no other way to go. Manchester House and the study of the evil housed there was too good a deal to pass up, even if it involved getting a little carsick. Since he was a child, Holzer had always suffered from motion sickness.

"Ohh," Holzer moaned, holding a shaky hand up to his mouth.

The passing scenery was placid enough, but Holzer could not seem to bring himself to enjoy the country view. Atchison, at best, was surrounded by the most beautiful farmland the Midwest was able to produce. Almost every mile of the journey contained cows, wheat and soybean fields, rustic farmhouses, and old forgotten barns. The country roads were of the kind that if not watched or paid close attention toward could change within a turn of a car's wheel into the wrong street leading to the wrong town. In fact, Holzer and his team got lost twice. Stopping in a small town which seemed to consist of a main street, junkyard, and a sheriff's station, Holzer was directed back onto the correct road by three questionable characters who were fixing a broken down truck-they appeared to be the only ones in the small town. In any case, Atchison, Kansas was no more than thirty miles away and Holzer was thankful. He had puked three times and was sure that he had no more hard matter left in his system for a fourth attack.

Everyone else in the car, although they sympathized with Holzer, knew that this would happen and could only ride it through.

"It's your own damn fault," someone had said. "We could have booked a private flight out there and you'd be in top form upon arrival."

"Oh, shut up," Holzer tiredly barked, puking once more into a paper bag, tossing it out the passenger window.

Holzer tried to distract his motion sickness by reading a copy of the S.O.U.R.C.E. Newsletter. SOURCE was the institution that Holzer and his team worked for. This organization was an international federation of scientists, psychics, and craftsmen, dedicated to the explanation of the unexplainable. All made themselves available when the opportunity arose for each to concentrate their talents on the study of the paranormal. Holzer was one of the original founders.

Three other comrades were able to break away from their duties to help Holzer with Manchester House, although none seemed to know of the importance of the event. All Holzer was able to tell them was that he had a fantastic opportunity for the group and, if they could, please meet him at the college for an investigation trip. All, without question, agreed. Another would also be joining them, but was flying in from outside the country and would arrive later.

"You know, Professor, I'd be happy if you'd at least tell me where we're going."

Holzer looked up from his newsletter and looked at his driver.

James Sinclair was thirty-seven years of age, blond hair, blue-eyed, and slightly overweight. The man was incredibly clumsy around women; in fact Holzer had never known the man to have a serious relationship in the entire time that he had known him. However, Sinclair was one of the best cameramen in the business. He had worked for CNN and ABC, and had filmed a great deal of the events that had been covered in the news in the last twenty years, including both Gulf Wars. Sinclair gave the impression of being a silly fool of a man, but Holzer knew him-he was smarter than he appeared. If he weren't, Sinclair would not be a SOURCE member.

"Just keep driving," Holzer ordered, taking his glasses off, rubbing them. "Can't miss it. Evil house dripping with blood."

"Ha! Ha!" Sinclair said sarcastically. The man was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and baseball cap, giving him a Jimmy Olsen look. "Really, I'm lost once we get past Kansas City. Where are we?"

"Just follow the map. Atchison is not that far."

Every so often, Sinclair would steal a peek at the two female team members in the back seat. Sinclair was quite possibly the most love-starved man on the face of the planet. Although quite advanced in years himself, Holzer could understand Sinclair's curiosity-the women were indeed beautiful.

"Professor," said one of the women in a clipped British accent, "you were so fast to call upon us that you failed to inform us as to what we would soon be investigating."

Holzer looked back into the green eyes of Miranda Wingate, archeologist and investigator of ancient death rituals. The woman was not that much older than Sinclair-around thirty-but Holzer wasn't certain. She was the walking talking version of every young man's fantasy about the sexy British teacher. She had a bad habit of dressing that way too, as her very short skirt and tight sweater would testify. Even Holzer found her "spicy", to say the least. Still, he knew of her work in Mexico on an Aztec city recently discovered, and knew her to be a serious scientist. Her SOURCE talent was her curiosity on how ancient people saw and celebrated death. As a hobby, Miranda loved haunted houses and had asked Holzer to call upon her if the opportunity to study one arrived.

"Yeah, that's very unlike you," the other woman blurted out. Teresa Gonzalez looked the part of the pretty schoolgirl every red-blooded American boy wished to have by his side, but there was a lot more to this rather attractive African-American woman than met the eye. First of all, Teresa was one of the best psychics Holzer had ever met. At twenty-three, Teresa was already famous in her own right, having solved numerous cases for both the FBI and state police throughout the country. She had even helped the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in the rescue of a government official's child. Holzer had always suspected that the only reason Teresa even joined SOURCE was so that she could use her gifts in the name of science and to get away from the talk show hype she had been made to endure most of her life. Although serious about her gifts, her parents had used her for monetary gain during her younger years. Several books and pre-paid programs had been done, making her parents millionaires many times over. After reaching legal age, she cut them off, so to say, and as far as Holzer was aware Teresa hadn't communicated with them since. Sad. Such a gifted psychic needed a family to fall back on. All Teresa had was Holzer.

Looking into the eager faces of his team, Holzer was rather satisfied that they were all curious. "Okay," he finally confessed, putting his glasses back on, "I was going to surprise you." He paused, hoping to tease. "But if you would have attended my classes as I asked, you would have known."

"Okay, Doc," Sinclair blurted out. "Sorry."

The tension in the car mounted. Holzer could barely contain himself. He noticed that the sun was setting and that it was getting dark. Very appropriate.

"We're investigating&Manchester House."

Everyone in the car, with the exception of Sinclair, exploded with excitement.

"I cannot believe our luck," Miranda said. "Manchester House! Professor, how did you manage it?"

Holzer silently waved his hand in the air, basking in the glow of the moment.

"I've been trying to get permission to do readings there since I left my parents," Teresa stated, clapping her hands in childish glee. Holzer often noticed that Teresa's lost innocence came out of her when she was excited. The professor often felt sorry for Teresa; she had never been allowed to be a little girl, due to both talent and the greed of her parents. So, when given the chance, Holzer allowed Teresa to explore the young child within.

"Now you will get your chance," Holzer proudly stated to Teresa, grabbing her hands, sharing in the excitement. "To answer your question, Miranda, the detective in charge of the latest episode had a daughter under my tutelage. He was grateful."

"I should say so!" Miranda said. "What an opportunity."

During the entire conversation, Holzer had noticed out of the corner of his eye a rather confused Sinclair looking on, driving. Obviously, he had never heard of the house they were going to. This oblivion about Sinclair was what made him a valuable member of Holzer's team. Sinclair was the skeptic; he was the only one who did not believe. SOURCE employed him for his skills and as an independent source of information.

Holzer could sense that Sinclair's curiosity, however, was starting to get the better of him. "What's this Manchester House, anyway?" Sinclair finally asked.

Everyone froze, not being able to believe what Sinclair had asked. Holzer did his best to hide the grin that had formed on his face, reacting towards the looks of astonishment both Miranda and Teresa were directing towards him. Sinclair, ignorant to the importance of his question, just kept driving the car towards Atchison.

Miranda, as always, was the first to attack. "What is Manchester House?" she repeated sarcastically. "Were you born under a rock or something?"

Sinclair's face started to flash a look of embarrassment. It was obvious to Holzer that the cameraman's ignorance on this subject had set in, causing Sinclair to feel slighted. "Hey, I'm sorry! The way you guys are talking, you'd think Elvis lived there or something."

Holzer gave all in the car a stern look, holding back his urge to laugh at what Sinclair had just said. "Kids! Play nice."

A small giggle escaped from Teresa's mouth. She enjoyed the fights Miranda and Sinclair got into. It was theorized, between the SOURCE peers, that these two members secretly liked each other. After all, there was a fine line between love and hate.

Holzer turned his attention back toward the advancing road and was pleasantly surprised to see the official welcoming sign of Atchison, Kansas. The car couldn't hold the energy back anymore. Everyone except Sinclair broke out in laughter.

"Fine," Sinclair said. "Big laugh."

CHAPTER FOUR

Approaching a road which appeared more out-of-the-way than normal, Holzer knew that his team was close. Instructing Sinclair to turn the car off the state highway, they all found themselves on a muddy dirt path which did not appear to be the kind of pathway friendly toward automobiles.

"Doc, I think we're running out of places to drive here," Sinclair nervously suggested.

Holzer peered out the front windshield and noticed that the car was surrounded by thick forest. There was no way that they could back up or turn off the road. Their only direction was forward.

It started to rain.

"Well, this is the road to the mansion," Holzer stated, looking at his notes. "There is no other road."

"You sure do know how to pick them, Doc."

The car continued forward. Upon certain turns down the winding pathway, Holzer had to put his fears in check, as the car dodged sharp turns, slopes, and rocky hills. It was obvious that Manchester House was not easy to get to. And once someone had made the fatal choice to venture toward it, there was no turning back until one reached his or her destination. Or that is what Holzer assumed. One would hope that if there was a way to the mansion that there was a way out.

Sinclair suddenly stopped the car.

The rain started to fall heavily.

"What's wrong?" Miranda asked, leaning forward. "Why have you stopped?"

"Look," Sinclair explained, motioning all to peer at what he was seeing. "I'll turn on the brights." With a flip of his wrist, Sinclair turned on the car's bright headlights.

"Oh dear," Holzer found himself saying.

In front of the car blocking the way to the mansion was a fallen tree. The tree was huge enough to stop a Sherman Tank, let alone the car they were in. The tree was old and the damaged trunk appeared to have just fallen.

"What do we do now?" Teresa asked, concerned.

"Looks like we're walking," Sinclair grunted, doing his best to hold back both his disappointment and his anger.

"But it's raining," Miranda protested.

All eyes fell to Holzer who, in his own way, did not want to leave the dry car and venture into the woods, over a dead tree, and walk God knew how far until they reached an ancient mansion which wasn't known for its warm welcomes.

"How far away is Manchester House from where we now are, Professor?"

Holzer studied his map. "Not even a half mile, I believe."

"We'll all be soaked to the bone by the time we arrive," Miranda stated. "Perhaps we should wait until the rain clears?"

"We can't," Holzer explained. "I only have so much time until the City Council becomes aware of our presence. Once they find out, we will have to leave."

Everyone let out a tired sigh.

"How will our equipment handle all of this?" Holzer asked Sinclair.

"Give me a minute and I will pack all that we need in a few waterproof bags I happen to carry with me and we can all hike to the mansion with a portion of all of these on our backs," Sinclair said, thinking about his possible future actions. "I got all our bases covered, Doc. Nothing I haven't done before. The question is can all of you handle the weight?" The cameraman looked around, silently studying his group's faces, looking for the answer to his question.

"I should have no problem," Holzer said, directing his attentions towards the women. "Ladies? Is there a problem?"

Miranda held back a dry laugh. "I'm an archaeologist. I live in a backpack."

For what seemed like a few minutes, each member remained quiet, listening to the rain. Holzer knew what each of them was doing. Each of them was debating if this trip was worth walking in the rain for.

"Investigations like these do not grow on trees, people," Holzer stated.

Miranda was the first to respond. "Oh, hell, let's get on with it." With that, Miranda kicked open the car door and trotted off into the pouring rain.

"Gutsy woman," Sinclair said, giving Holzer a comical wink. "I like that."

Turning off the engine and getting out of the car, Sinclair headed for the trunk. Obviously he wanted to divvy up the equipment for all the team. Reluctantly, both Holzer and Teresa followed. Within seconds they were all as wet as ducks.

Sinclair gave each member a bag, covered with a waterproof slip. All were impressed with the fact that he had anticipated this and had just the right amount of items needed to accomplish a safe trip up to the mansion. Holzer was right about one thing: Sinclair would not be a SOURCE member if he weren't the best in his field.

"Let's go," Holzer finally said.

The car was left behind. Just in case, Holzer left a note inside, informing anyone who found the car that, should they not return at a respectable time, who and where they were. Not wanting the worst to happen, the professor was prepared for it.

* * *

As Holzer and his team ventured past the fallen tree, it was obvious that there would have been no way that they could have pushed the thing off the road with their car. The thick tree was too old and too huge to move. It would have been like an ant trying to push a house out of his way.

The team soon approached another road in a sea of trees leading up to Manchester House. It was even more isolated than the trail their car had been left on, and Holzer even heard some concern from the two women of the group, stating that this was "getting worse by the hour."

Then, as the trees parted, all beheld the sinister shape of Manchester House.

"Dear God," Teresa said shifting the equipment she was holding from her left hand to her right.

The mansion seemed to represent no particular style in building. It was Victorian in stance, Gothic in style, and somewhat contemporary in approach. Constructed of brick, wood, stone, and iron, it was almost impossible to characterize. Three stories tall, and containing at least two towers, a steeple, and broken-out stained glass windows. Manchester House did show off some of her former glory. After all, a railroad tycoon designed the building.

No matter what her former glory was, Manchester House affected all who saw her. She was just&bad. Not one member of Holzer's team seemed to be ignoring that fact. It took a while for each to start moving forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sinclair noticed several burnt-out and worn-down houses surrounding the mansion, hidden in the thick woods.

"What are those houses, Doc?"

Holzer craned his neck to where Sinclair was pointing. "Those were the houses of Mr. Manchester's workforce. They all worked for the Atchison-Manchester Railroad Empire."

"But why are they all here?"

"Manchester believed in having his employees close at hand," Holzer explained. "He was a man of his times. Cruel and demanding. He controlled all his employees like they were subjects of his own little kingdom. And without labor laws or unions, they pretty much were. Several died here of exhaustion and lack of food while he lived, in their presence, in the lap of luxury."

"What a bastard," Teresa said, her voice dripping with disgust.

"Yes," Holzer confirmed.

Sinclair, however, spotted something about the workers' village that all the others didn't, or failed, to notice. In his travels all over the world, he knew of such practices that were still going on, even in the twenty-first century.

"Doc," Sinclair pointed out, "notice the windows of the houses facing Manchester House."

Holzer paused, looking back. His eyes filled with curiosity. "Interesting," was all that he could say.

Many of the houses near Manchester House seemed to have their facing windows shuttered and nailed shut. Although most were rather decorative and made to flatter the small shanty houses, it was as if the dwellers of these homes didn't want to see the mansion at all. Were they afraid of Manchester House as well? Was this why William Manchester had to force his main workforce to live near his influence?

"I sense a great deal of pain in these woods, Professor," Teresa finally managed to say. She was shivering. Was it only from the rain? "Abortions, murder, and capital gain through vice."

"Do you feel that you are in contact with something, Teresa?" Miranda asked, placing a caring hand on the psychic's shoulder.

"No. Just a feeling."

Holzer had enough of looking at this mini ghost town. His focus was on the mansion that loomed above them. As if on a hill, the house viscerally called out to them, like a false prophet to its latest victim. This last feeling did not escape the professor.

"Let's go," Holzer finally brought himself to say.

Manchester House appeared to have been poorly maintained and there had been little or no human influence on the place in years. Holzer had been made aware of several individuals who had tried to fix up the house over the last fifty years, but to no avail. The house harbored great disaster to those who tried.

"I'm under the understanding that a man will be out in the morning to bring us oil lamps and heaters," Holzer said. "We'll have to rough it for now."

Sinclair let out a tired huff. "Nice house, Doc. Can Boris Karloff come out and play?"

Everyone let out a moan, letting Sinclair know that his joke was not appreciated.

"I'll get out my camera," Sinclair said, stopping just long enough to open up his bags, grab the camera that he needed, and turn it on.

The entire team started heading toward the house.

* * *

Sinclair tried his best to blink the dripping rainwater out of his eyes as he focused his night-vision lens on his fellow team members. He silently laughed, filming a minor portion of Miranda Wingate's ass as she walked in front of him. Damn! She was a nice-looking woman, but way out of his league. Sinclair wasn't exactly a ladies' man.

In any case he started to film, seriously concentrating on his job.

Sinclair focused on Holzer as the professor started to take a set of keys out of his vest pocket. They were old keys, rusty, reminding Sinclair of the skeleton keys he'd played with at his grandmother's house while living in Boston.

"Neat keys, Doc," Sinclair found himself saying.

Holzer nodded his head in acknowledgment. It wasn't long before they were all standing at the mansion's front doors. A sign of relief was heard from all for finally being out of the rain. The whole trip from car to mansion only took forty minutes.

Holzer turned to look into the lens of Sinclair's camera.

"Now it will be the job of both Teresa and Miranda to probe the house, hopefully bringing light on why so many families have lost their lives here." Holzer pointed at Sinclair, causing the cameraman to force a clear focus on his subject. "Mr. Sinclair, you will be our eyes. I want you to record everything. Understood?"

Sinclair moved his camera up and down, mocking a positive agreement to Holzer's demands.

"You should all know that another will be joining us soon. He will arrive in his own good time." Holzer let out a dry laugh. "He always does."

"Who is it, Doc?" Sinclair asked, curious.

Holzer wanted to blurt out the answer. Although not a fan of the paranormal, Sinclair would have known the missing team member's name. He was, in fact, a legend in the SOURCE member ranks. The missing team member was also one of the original founders like Holzer. All the man had to do was enter a room and it was his to control-he had that kind of a persona.

"I'll keep that a secret for now," Holzer finally said. "In any case, he is well-versed in cases such as this."

This was the moment of truth. There was nothing more to do than enter the house. Holzer placed the key into the front door's keyhole, turning it. The ancient device clicked a few times and sprang to life loudly. He turned the doorknob, opening the door with a rusty squeak.

Sinclair leaned forward, making sure to get the moment recorded on digital tape.

"Shall we go in?" Holzer invited, motioning the others to venture into the mansion. In the distance, all the team members could hear rolling thunder. An ominous omen, perhaps?

* * *

Sinclair taped everything.

As Holzer opened the front door to the mansion, Sinclair focused on all the team's faces through his electric eye of the camera. The entire picture was in black and white and very grainy. As everyone started into the house, something caught Sinclair's attention. Was it a shape? Was there another person in the house? Did Holzer forget to inform him that the other person joining the team had just shown up? In any case, something did catch Sinclair's eye-and that of his camera.

Sinclair, out of an instinct grown from many years as a wartime cameraman, turned his attention toward the shape that had caught his eye and focused his camera on the house's main staircase. There was a Shape at the top of the stairs. It was crouched over, like a crab or spider, and suddenly stood upright. A fiery aura showing itself as a bright white outline surrounded the whole figure. Sinclair's eyes tightened on the surprising figure. Was it a young woman? A girl? Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him.

"What the hell!" Sinclair said, taking the camera away from his face, blinking his eyes. He moved the camera in front of him, as if trying to inspect it.

Checking his camera, Sinclair was visibly shaken. The skeptical cameraman was seen blinking his eyes, wiping away nervous sweat, as Holzer and the other team members joined him. It was not like him to blurt out in panic like that, and the others knew that when Sinclair said something while seriously filming, one would have been a fool not to pay attention.

"What's wrong?" Holzer asked, panic-stricken, looking all around the mansion, as if trying to desperately see what Sinclair had seen.

Sinclair, fighting the nervous vomit growing in his throat, looked up at the main staircase with his own eyes and without the aid of his camera.

There was nothing there.

* * *

Holzer slowly approached Sinclair, paying close attention towards the man's emotional state. Something had shaken him up. Holzer cautiously looked up at the main staircase, seeing nothing of importance. At least nothing that would cause such a seasoned news reporter as Sinclair to sweat and fidget so.

Sinclair shook his head rather absently and gave his camera a disturbed look. "It was just a trick of the light, Doc." He smiled up at Holzer. "Happens all the time, believe me."

But by the look on the cameraman's face, Holzer knew it to be something more. As much as Holzer wished to push the matter, he had the good taste not to.

"Nothing wrong here, Doc," Sinclair stated, returning to his filming, placing the camera to his right eye. "Just a bit of the jitters. I'd kill for a cup of joe right now."

"I have a thermos filled with some." Holzer smiled with pride, realizing that he too would need some coffee before the night was out. "Perhaps later?"

Sinclair was trying to lose himself in the glory of the job, filming all that he could see. "Yeah, Doc. Whatever you say."

As Sinclair panned the staircase, Holzer noticed him momentarily stop his filming, giving the top of the stairs a worried look. Holzer, following his cameraman's example, paused, looking up at the stairs.

They were ordinary stairs. Nothing to brag about. It was quite obvious to Holzer that at one time these wooden stairs had been highly polished, finely crafted, and indeed prideful additions to a wonderful house. Now, however, they were as molded, forgotten, and water-damaged as the rest of the old dwelling. Still, there had been something. Something in the air. Something that seemed to grab at the most primal emotions deep within Holzer's soul. Then, finally, there was another feeling. A feeling of having been watched. A feeling of not being alone.

Holzer filed the emotions away as the jitters of investigating an anticipated case.

The professor, realizing that he was alone, rushed into the mansion's main hall, joining the others on his team.

Entering the main hall of the house, Holzer almost tripped over a mound of rotting newspapers as he noticed his team staring at something out of his line of sight. What he finally saw amazed him. Hanging from almost everywhere, huge plastic tarps held in place by wide lines of duct tape lined the entire molded and waterlogged surfaces of the home. A calm wind carried itself through the rooms, causing some of the plastic tarps to sway, giving Holzer and all an ethereal feeling.

"Whoa!" Sinclair started to joke. "Looks like Martha Stewart puked in here or something."

There was a moment of pause.

"My police friend stated that the last owner was preparing to restore the place," Holzer tried to explain.

"Went a little crazy with the plastic though, didn't he, Doc?"

The team continued through the plastic tarps. In the air, Holzer and his team could just make out a thin layer of dust floating in front of them, almost playing with their senses, and looking like a veil of smoke. The whole sight gave the interior of the mansion an eerie feeling.

"What's this stuff in the air, Doc?" Sinclair finally asked, placing his camera back to his eye, filming.

"Could be minute traces of ectoplasm," Holzer stated. "You are filming all of this, are you not, Mr. Sinclair?"

"Is the Pope Catholic, Doc?"

Holzer started to grumble under his breath.

* * *

As Sinclair and Holzer continued to talk, Teresa Gonzalez started to use her mind to probe Manchester House. It took some time for her to clearly open up. Taking in a house was nothing like looking into the soul of a person. No, this was a subtle thing which even her parents could never understand. A house was a layered vortex, filled with the emotions and demons of her past owners. Like a vessel filled with an unknown liquid, not really poison or drinkable; one had to be very cautious if they chose to venture into its depths.

:What are you doing, little girl?:

She took off her gloves and started to place her hands against the walls, exploring her environment. A look of uneasiness came across her face. She started to shiver.

:Little whore! Stop and I might allow you to live. I am not one to be trifled with. I run this house now!:

Teresa had barely heard what both Sinclair and Holzer had been debating. She could sense that the house was aware. It knew of their presence inside her bowels and clearly did not want them there. Still, there was "another" there, never far from them, watching, waiting, and willing to do anything, even kill.

:Do not test me, child! You have been warned.:

Teresa shook her head violently.

"That's not it, Professor," Teresa blurted out, surprising everyone around her. The tone in her voice dripped with so many traumas and panic, it was unlike her to sound that way. "The plastic-the duct tape-wasn't placed here for home improvement&"

Teresa removed her hands from the walls, trying to shut her psychic powers down. It was becoming too much for her to take in all at once.

"No," she continued, shaking violently. "It was ordered here by something. Something more sinister-more self-absorbed. I'm sorry; I can't explain why I feel this way."

The team stopped, paying close attention to Teresa, who was clearly starting to show a great level of fear-almost traumatic in its own right.

"Teresa, are you all right?" Miranda asked, lovingly hugging the scared young woman. "Do you need a drink or something, love?"

Teresa shook her head.

"The kitchen's this way, people," Holzer ordered, looking over his shoulder, hoping that all with Teresa was okay. "Follow me."

Teresa started putting her gloves back on hurriedly-in a panic-as if she did not wish to know anything more about what was happening in the main hall.

Manchester House's kitchen awaited.

* * *

Holzer led everyone to the dark interior of the mansion's kitchen. Although small, the room was surprisingly equipped with the best cooking utensils of their time. This was an above average kitchen, and strangely so.

"This is nice, Doc," Sinclair stated, looking around with his camera.

"The only room to be successfully remodeled by the previous owners," Holzer explained. "And, as I was informed by my police friend, the driest."

Everyone let out an ironic laugh.

As they all entered the room, they started to hear a crunching sound at their feet. All were deeply impressed with the condition of the room. It was almost as if the room did not fit, or belong, with the wet rot that was going on outside. Sinclair taped everything with his camera, and the others were doing their best to track everything from their respective sciences.

Holzer set his equipment down, opening up his waterproof bag.

"Miranda, could you start by taking a few E.M.R. readings, please?"

"Right," Miranda responded, reaching into her side bag which she had carried separately from the rest Sinclair had provided.

Miranda pulled out her E.M.R. reader. Calmly, she started to wave it across the room, its tiny beeping sound echoing throughout.

E.M.R. stood for Electro-Magnetic Radiation. This device tracked and detected untapped energy, believed by most parapsychologists to be the essence of ghosts. The display on the tiny black box was like that of any electronic detection devices. The display started to spike, causing the device to peak out.

"Dear God!" Miranda exclaimed in a gasp of surprise.

Then just as fast as the readings had started the display on the tiny device petered out-nothing.

Miranda's face showed all that she was surprised at what her equipment had just done. As she moved, her friends could make out the previous crunching noises that they had heard before. This sound soon captured her own curiosity, and hearing that the sound was coming from her shoes, she took out a little flashlight to see what was on the floor making this noise.

"Okay, what the hell's going on here?" Miranda asked, looking down at her feet. In her hand, she was still holding onto the EMR device. Again, the device started to click to life. "Oh my!" Miranda said, gasping with disgust.

On the kitchen floor, everyone could see a flood of dead rats-about thirty or more in all. The tiny bodies ran from freshly killed to long dead and molded to the floor. Sinclair, quite comically, gasped out in disgust-everyone that knew him knew that he hated rats.

"Holy hell!" Miranda blurted out, almost vomiting. "That's rather disgusting."

The entire group started to watch where they were stepping.

Holzer took out his own EMR reader in great anticipation and started to wave it around the room. All heard the familiar high-pitched whine coming from the hand-held machine. He, like Miranda, was surprised at what he was seeing on the machine's indicator.

"There is evidence that the kitchen, for some reason, is a focal point in the home," Holzer exclaimed, amused at his own findings. "Perhaps that is why the rats have chosen this place to die."

Sinclair's hands started to shake as he continued his filming. "I don't know, Doc. Rats are really tough little guys. Takes more than a focal point to kill them."

Holzer nodded his head in agreement. He noticed that Miranda was looking at Sinclair, who was too busy filming to see that she was staring at him intently. Her stare was not the stare of anger but secret admiration. Holzer had always suspected that something silent existed between Miranda and Sinclair; however, the latter had no idea of this fact. Noticing Holzer studying her, Miranda rather clumsily returned to her duties.

"Teresa," Holzer said, placing his EMR detector into his back pocket. "Could you please do a reading of the kitchen to see what its importance is to this house?"

"Professor, I&" Teresa tried to explain, not really wanting to explore any further, at least not until she had a chance to recover from her first encounter.

"I know that you are tired, my dear," Holzer accepted, placing a cautious hand in the air. "But could you please try?"

How could she refuse such an honest request? In moments such as this, when he really wanted to know the whole truth, Holzer reminded Teresa of a child wanting to know if the man at the foot of his Christmas tree was indeed Santa or his father.

"I'll do my best, sir," was all she could say.

"Good show!"

Teresa again took off her gloves.

* * *

All the eyes of the team stayed on Teresa as she once again spread her awareness into the very core of Manchester House. What would the house say about its kitchen? She was both curious and cautious.

Teresa found herself walking out of the kitchen for some unknown reason. She started to observe the room around her, totally allowing herself to get into the scenes evolving in her mind's eye. At first, the woman was afraid-uneasiness crossed her face. Soon, however, she placed her hands against the outside of the swinging kitchen door.

"Easy now," Miranda whispered.

The warning did not go unheard. Teresa was just too far into her trance to acknowledge it.

"She going to be okay, Doc?" Sinclair was heard saying.

"Just capital, Mr. Sinclair."

Teresa continued.

:You do not want to know this, child. Do not go any further!:

Teresa's eyes were forcing themselves shut, although she wanted to open them desperately. She was starting to read the room. A flash of discomfort hit her face and suddenly, as if being made aware of a terrible secret, blinked her eyes open, looking straight at Holzer. On her face was sheer terror.

CHAPTER FIVE

Teresa's mind seemed to travel back into the past, allowing her to see Manchester House as it used to be.

:Do not bother with these things! Get out while you can, child&:

* * *

Summer, 1982

Teresa could see the kitchen of Manchester House. It was bright and appeared to be cleaned up. Music was playing in the background, which could be used to date the time she was reading. She could hear two people laughing. Two people not of her own group. Two people from the mansion's past.

Kyle and Cindy Peters.

Manchester House was supposed to be their perfect little wedding nest. The home was cheap, it was a great "fixer-upper", and it was away from people. That was what they both wanted. When Kyle and Cindy Peters had decided to buy the house, they were stunned to see the Atchison City Council get involved. Hell! Their real estate agent was on the council.

"What do you plan to do with the house?"

"Are you sure you want to buy this one?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

All the questions started out as too much.

Then with buying the mansion and forking over so much money just to add electric, water, and gas, Kyle at least could understand the caution, if not the curiosity. The project at hand was enough to overwhelm him, but his new bride loved the place. She saw potential in the mansion's rotted walls. This was where she envisioned her children growing up. Her destiny. His legacy.

"I've always heard about this place, Kyle," Cindy had said, trotting around in the main hall as the real estate agent called his main office on his cell phone. "It's a magical place. Do you know there are people who fear this house? That's ridiculous."

"Whatever you want, baby."

The house cleared that day. No red tape. It was the fastest deal Kyle had ever made. And being a stockbroker he knew.

They moved in, made love, and prepared to build their life together.

Cindy had trouble sleeping.

* * *

Both Kyle and Cindy entered the kitchen. They were laughing and locked in a loving embrace. Both were exploring and kissing. Giggling, they both fell to the floor. On top of her husband, Cindy kissed him, feeling his arousal toward her actions. Both, for the moment, were completely content.

"Hey, we should eat something," Kyle murmured, kissing his wife, gently nibbling her bottom lip. "It's going to be a long day."

Cindy was tired and only wanted to kiss. "Why don't you cook breakfast today?"

Kyle started to explore his wife's breasts. "Sure, why not."

This last action caused Cindy to break out in an innocent wave of laughter. Both kissed for a long and loving time, and then Cindy got up, exiting the kitchen. As she did, she gave her husband a devilishly evil grin.

"Perhaps after breakfast we can go back to bed?" she teased.

"Don't hear me arguing."

Kyle knew what was going on here. Cindy was never really a good cook. She blamed her lack of this skill on her mother, who had become an avid "modern woman" during the seventies. Too involved in protesting to teach her young daughter how to cook. If it wasn't a TV dinner, Cindy couldn't cook it. When she asked her mother to teach her, her mother refused, claiming she was "freeing her from womanly bondage."

Cindy had only one thing going for her, and that was Kyle.

Kyle, on the other hand, could care less if the woman of his dreams could cook. Being from a large family and having to fend for himself most of the time, he loved to cook. In fact, he was so damn good at the craft he almost became a chef. It was his cooking, Kyle often said, that won his woman's heart.

Chivalry aside, at the moment all Kyle wanted was a good omelet-and sex.

"Don't hear me arguing," Kyle repeated, smiling.

Kyle got out a skillet, opened the refrigerator, pulled out both the bacon and the eggs, and started to cook a small breakfast.

* * *

While Kyle was preparing his breakfast, he was not aware of certain actions taking place at the mansion's door leading to the basement. Kyle could not see the doorknob slowly turn, stop, and the door pop open by itself.

Clicking away at the stove, Kyle could not hear the subtle sound of escaping air coming from the basement-almost like the sound of a vacuum seal being broken.

Kyle was never aware of the fact that the house had become aware.

Kyle only found out when it became much too late.

* * *

Kyle was focused on making his breakfast and the love of his wife and all the promise of happiness both had to offer. He kept his eyes on the two eggs that he dropped into an ordinary skillet and watched them as they slowly started to cook. The sounds of their crackling, popping, and cooking seemed to magnify with the sounds of the house around him.

For a brief moment, Kyle had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. That he was no longer alone.

As Kyle continued cooking his eggs, from the corner of his eye he saw a Shape quickly dart from one side of the kitchen door to the other.

"Cindy?" Kyle asked, somewhat alarmed. "Is that you?"

No answer.

Kyle paused. He started to shake off an uneasy feeling. What was it that he had seen? He thought that it was his wife. The Shape certainly looked like that of a woman's. Was it Cindy? No. It appeared to be that of a little girl. Younger. Smaller. Still, there was anger about the actions of this wraith that Kyle could not seem to understand.

Was it all in his head?

Was he just hungry and horny?

"Kyle, stop thinking so much and just cook," was all that he could bring himself to say, focusing on his task.

Kyle soon noticed that there was something wrong with one of the eggs he was cooking.

Inside one of the eggs, brought out so by the rising heat in the skillet, was an underdeveloped chicken embryo. He had purchased these particular eggs from a farmer's market in town and knew that there was a chance of this happening. Growing up on a farm himself, he knew of this and was thankful that it was he who encountered the embryo and not his wife. Being from the city, it would have driven her to sickness staring at the sight. Swirling around in the cooking oil and the rest of the popping meal, Kyle saw blood leaving the center of the yolk.

"Gross."

It was the last independent thought he would ever have.

Startled and disgusted, all Kyle could do was look at the abomination frying in his skillet. He started to step away from the stove.

:She's cheating on you. All she ever loved you for was your money, and the money that your parents will leave you when they are dead and rotting in the ground. When you're not home, she has extra dick and uses it for her enjoyment. You are nothing to her, you poor sick bastard.:

The kitchen lights blinked on, startling Kyle.

:She does not love you.:

The lights started to flicker.

* * *

Cindy, feeling the need for her husband and remembering his excitement minutes before, wanted to amplify the joy by trying on some new nightclothes they bought together days before. Dressed in an attractive nightgown and stockings, she trotted down the staircase, into the main hall, heading toward the kitchen. She started to shiver-the house had become rather cold.

The smell of rot was still in the air, but she knew that would soon be a thing of the past. Kyle was good with his hands. She smiled. Very good.

"Honey," Cindy mused, gently rubbing her hands over her breasts, noticing that her nipples were starting to peak. "I think that you should consider taping up the house for winter. You know these old houses. Heating bills will soon make us wish that we were dead."

The kitchen was silent.

All Cindy heard was the crackling of the cooking eggs.

"What's going on here?" she mused, smelling smoke. "Kyle, are you burning the eggs?"

Something caught Cindy's attention.

As Cindy walked toward the kitchen, she saw a Shape peeking out at her from behind the shadows of the staircase. Quick and scary, The Shape disappeared just as fast. Was it a young girl? How did she get in the house? Then, nothing.

Cindy rubbed her eyes. Looking back at the staircase, she saw only wood and shadows.

The feeling for lovemaking was gone.

:He is not worth the time. He sees you only as a good fuck. Do you not know that?:

* * *

Standing over the stove, Kyle appeared to be frozen, looking down at his eggs as they cooked. As much as he wanted to move or look away, he couldn't.

"Kyle, is something wrong?" he heard Cindy say out in the hall. He couldn't respond.

Kyle tried to reply, opening his mouth, but was cut off before a sound could come out. Kyle continued to stare at his eggs.

The kitchen was slowly filling up with smoke.

:Look at me!:

Kyle's muscles started to tighten as he tried to break away from whatever unknown force was controlling him, but he was just too weak. He started to realize that there was a hidden evil here, making him watch the frying embryo in the skillet. An evil that could not be controlled, but rather was controlling the moment.

Kyle started to fear the worst.

Suddenly, to Kyle's horror, the chicken embryo's eyes opened. It stared up at him, squirming in its bubbling bath of cooking oil. These were not the dead eyes of a half-cooked under-developed creature. These were the eyes of intelligent evil. They were quite aware of Kyle. And they were certainly aware of the fact that Kyle, a recently retired stockbroker from Boston, was scared to death of it.

The chicken embryo screamed in agony as it moved in the skillet, fighting its way out of the surrounding reddish yellow yolk, and flopping out into the bubbling cooking oil. Flapping its bald wings, it tried to fly away from its crackling hell.

:LOOK AT ME!:

An uncontrolled anger Kyle could not understand started to grow inside of him. A rage more powerful than he had ever known. He grabbed a butcher knife.

The kitchen light exploded, causing the bulb to burst apart into a million pieces.

The room started to fill with a thick black smoke.

"Kyle? What's going on here?" Cindy said, entering the kitchen. Breathing in the thick smoke, the young woman began to both gag and cough. Innocently she waved a hand in front of her face, trying to push away the smoke, never realizing that it would be the last thing she would ever do.

:Take her!:

Cindy was suddenly enveloped in the blackness of the smoke.

The kitchen became the sounds of a body hitting the floor, crackling burning eggs, and the sounds of rustling plastic.

:Turn off the stove. Good job.:

* * *

One week later&

Kyle left the kitchen in the best mood and state of mind he had ever been in for ages. God! He felt so alive. The unusual incident in the kitchen had seemed to pass without notice-just something to talk about later.

There was a change in the house, however.

Kyle trotted down the main hall humming a childhood song.

A few plastic tarps were seen hanging from the walls helter-skelter, with no pattern or logic to them whatsoever. The entire house's furniture had been placed in a pile in the middle of the room.

Kyle started pulling off long pieces of duct tape, whistling a nervous little song. He was almost frantic in his happiness, which appeared to be forced upon him. He started talking. He seemed to be addressing Cindy but, strangely, she was nowhere to be seen. Nowhere at all.

"Honey," Kyle said, biting off a piece of duct tape. "You really are going to love what I have to do to the place. There is so much to do&so much to do."

Kyle continued to "plastic up" the house. He started to question his sanity as he took a plastic sheet and started to cover up the pile of furniture in the middle of the room. What the hell was he doing? If he wasn't insane, this was something that if he was just remodeling or painting he shouldn't have to touch or tape down.

Still, realizing this, he continued working and talking to himself-to Cindy-in an almost controlled way.

"So much to do, dear," Kyle repeated, inspecting his work.

Kyle approached a corner of the hallway leading to the basement door and started taping away on a plastic column which appeared to have just been placed there. Kyle mumbled to himself, wondering where the damn thing came from. It was hollow and appeared to have something inside it. Kyle couldn't bring himself to look at the object lying within.

No. He couldn't do that.

"I know&I know!" Kyle said to no one. "But you said that&you said&" Kyle started to cry, realizing, screaming-a mad man. "Of course I am. I'm a happy man."

Kyle was forced to look into the hollow column.

His eyes filled with awareness and tears.

He strained to keep the smile on his face.

Inside the thing, Kyle saw the remains of his wife Cindy. Her hands seemed to be frozen, clawing away at the plastic tomb she was encased in, giving him the impression that she had been buried alive. Her fingers, bloody stubs of insane panic, stuck helplessly to the plastic. Kyle gasped, noticing that she had been violently stabbed, her throat was cut, and her eyes had been removed.

"So that was what I put in the kitchen skillet," Kyle remarked, referring to Cindy's missing eyes.

Kyle couldn't control himself any longer. He started to laugh uncontrollably.

He was mad.

"Everything's all right now," Kyle stated, tapping on the plastic, playing with Cindy's dead body. "Remember, honey? Remember what they said?" He paused, staring off into space as if witness to a movement or shadow no one else was privy to. "I'm a very happy man!"

Overcome with an urge to keep moving, Kyle started to hang up another row of plastic tarps.

He reached for a new roll of duct tape.

* * *

One month later&

Several weeks had passed and no one had seen Kyle or Cindy and people were starting to get worried. They were both warned about purchasing Manchester House, but to no avail. They were not native to the town and the townies hadn't taken to either of them rather well.

It was only after Kyle's friends had demanded that Lt. Wells take some people out to the house to see if all was okay that anyone discovered what had happened.

"Going to scrape up another poor bastard at the mansion, Al?" someone had joked as he went to his patrol car.

Lt. Wells said nothing. He was only thankful for the fact that, at least this time, the call to go to the mansion had come before he had a chance to eat dinner.

"They should tear that damn place down to the ground, then burn the ground," was all Wells could bring himself to say.

Approaching the mansion, all looked normal. It always did.

Wells entered the mansion with the set of keys the Atchison Police had always kept on hand. Both Kyle and Cindy had been informed that the City Council would not sell the property to them unless this last was agreed to. He and his accompanying detective inspected several rooms of Manchester House. The entire house was covered with plastic. Empty rolls of duct tape could be seen littering the floor as the detective and his man passed everything.

There was no sign of life.

"Mr. Peters?" Wells said, almost in a whisper. The quiet of the place had caused his voice to magnify and carry. "AtchisonPolice. Some of your friends had been concerned&" He trailed off, never expecting an answer.

Wells spotted his patrolman looking toward the mansion's staircase. The young man's hand went toward his gun's handle. Something was terrifying the man.

"What's the matter, son?" Wells swallowed hard and joined his fellow law officer.

Both Wells and his partner finally found Kyle Peters. He was a living skeleton.

"Sweet Jesus on a twisted crutch," the young patrolman stated as he made the sign of the cross.

Kyle Peters was lying on the floor near the bottom of the staircase in a pile of his own excrement. Bloated flies buzzed about the pale man, feasting off both him and his remains. Kyle was looking up at the ceiling, fighting for each breath he was taking. A hollow gurgling sound was heard rising in his mouth, letting both Wells and his partner know of the agony he was in.

"He's still alive," the patrolman said, amazed.

"Barely."

Wells bent down to inspect the horrid sight of Manchester House's latest victim, hoping to whatever tired god who cared, that this man was the last body he would have to carry out of this cursed place. Wells prayed, but he knew that it would do no good. There would be more bodies, of that he was sure.

"He won't be alive for long," Wells stated, fighting back the horrid smell rising up from Kyle Peters' body.

"Shouldn't we do something for him, Lieutenant?"

Wells paused, looking at the horrible victim. "Pray for him."

In one hand, Kyle Peters was carrying the same butcher knife he had used to kill his wife-this would later be proven by the County Coroner when compared with the wounds on Cindy's body. Both officers were scared half to death as they heard the telephone ring. The sound of buzzing flies was almost deafening.

"What happened here?" Wells asked.

The patrolman walked away from Kyle, inspecting the rest of the house. "My mother says that this house sits on the Gates of Hell. That the original owner went mad after making a deal with the devil."

"Superstition, son." It was hard to make the argument over a living corpse.

"I&am&a&happy&man&" Kyle Peters whispered.

With a painful spasm, Kyle breathed his last breath, moving his head only far enough to open his eyes, looking at Wells. Up till now, the unfortunate man's eyes had remained closed.

Wells panicked, jolting back in surprise at what he saw.

Kyle Peters' eyes were completely red, and Wells soon noticed his pupils were no longer circular, they seemed to have a spiral in them, making them look alien. Kyle's body quivered one last time. His battle was over. He was dead.

Wells, however, would never forget the eyes.

It would not be the last time that eyes such as these would look up at him, wondering, questioning, and never blinking.

* * *

Teresa's hands froze on the walls of the mansion, trying their best to pick up all the information she had been reading about both Kyle and Cindy. There was nothing more for the house to offer. The only other thing she could sense was that the young patrolman quit the force shortly after his encounter with the house. He killed himself two months later. Lt. Wells had attended his funeral.

:No one leaves my sphere of influence, child. I am all&here!:

Holzer moved forward from the corner of the staircase, noticing a small smear on the floorboards at the base of the stairs. He was studying Teresa's face, still locked in a trance; Holzer saw her eyes flash open and heard her gasping with great concern.

Pulling her hands away from the banisters of the staircase, Teresa was surprised to notice that she was no longer near the kitchen. Her exploring into the home's past had caused her to walk in her visions, and the rest of her team had decided to follow. All were transfixed on her every move.

Teresa was rather shaken up. The rest of the team came rushing to her aide, all except Sinclair, who was too fascinated in what was going on to leave his camera. He had documented everything.

"Teresa?" Miranda shouted, taking hold of her friend. "Are you all right? Teresa?"

Teresa, as if fighting her way back to our world and our consciousness, let out a loud scream as she blinked back to life. On her face was both confusion as well as genuine terror.

"Professor Holzer&" Teresa finally managed to say. "Professor!"

Holzer touched the frightened psychic on the shoulder gently. "Right here, Teresa. What is it?"

"The evil in this house knows we are here," Teresa cried. Her eyes seemed to show the professor knowledge he couldn't seem to understand at the moment. "It's watching us. Curious at why we are here."

Holzer, upon hearing this, picked up his EMR device and started waving it around the room. He silently motioned Sinclair to follow him.

"Smelling something, Doc?"

"Start filming," Holzer ordered, paying close attention to his readings. "Teresa may be right. And if she is, I want it on film. Got that?"

Sinclair paid close attention toward his camera, making sure that he was doing what Holzer desired. Miranda started to closely comfort Teresa, who still appeared to Holzer to be shaken up a bit.

This did not escape Sinclair's attention either. He started to fumble his equipment and was not really able to stand still in one place. At each sound, his camera darted to that location.

"This place gives me the creeps," Sinclair finally brought himself to say, controlling the level of his voice.

Miranda looked up at him, slightly amused at the fact that the cameraman was doing his best to remain calm, to give the appearance of being brave. Holzer, taking a negative ion detector out of his bag, noticed this look and smiled. He theorized that, if given the chance, Sinclair could easily win Miranda's heart if he wanted it. The tragic fact was Sinclair did-he just thought himself out of Miranda's league.

The tragedy of young love.

Miranda held Teresa, doing her best to avoid eye contact with Sinclair, but couldn't help but glance a longing stare up at him. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said since I've known you."

Sinclair never left his camera.

"You should hear me when I really try," he joked, adjusting the lens.

The cameraman continued to film, following Holzer. Teresa regained her composure and approached the professor.

"Professor Holzer, please!" Teresa said, almost a scream.

Teresa fought, pulling herself away from Miranda, who was surprised at her friend's sudden burst of panic. It was not like Teresa to fall on her face so hard. She was not one to panic at the first sign of trouble. Not after exploring the minds and hearts of so many of society's monsters, killers, and child predators. Whatever was bothering the young psychic was enough to strongly consider it as a formidable force. Teresa had managed to get Holzer's attention. Sinclair turned toward them, filming.

The mansion turned quiet.

For a few minutes, there was nothing more than the grainy black and white viewfinder of Sinclair's camera.

"What's the matter, Teresa?" Holzer asked, stopping only long enough to place a careworn hand on the young psychic's shoulder. "Why, child, you're trembling."

Teresa was somewhat embarrassed about the old man's last comment, but continued with her warnings. This was something that the entire team needed to know. This was something that the house was telling her. Something that every fiber of her being needed to say.

"Professor, we have to leave this place," Teresa cried, almost on the verge of tears. "It is not for us to be here. Not anymore."

All the team members turned curious.

"What are you trying to say, Teresa?" Holzer said, looking down at his instruments. "I don't understand."

Teresa was uneasy. "It&knows that we are here."

"It?" Holzer repeated. "You mean the house? Is that the evil force you mentioned? The house?"

Teresa started to shake uncontrollably. There was something she seemed to sense that the rest of the team could not.

"I do not know, Professor. I only know that if we do not leave, now, we may never get the chance to. I feel a force that is both frightened and hungry for the company of others. It will not let those that it is holding go. There is no rest. No loving white light. It cannot go to the light, so in its anger it will not allow other souls to venture beyond. That is where we are standing. In the middle of all of this." Teresa paused, crossing herself. "That is why the house is so angry."

Sinclair stopped filming. "Ahh, Doc, I don't know about you, but she's starting to scare the hell out of me."

Holzer gave Sinclair a hard glance. He clearly did not appreciate what he was hearing from Sinclair. "Just keep filming."

Holzer knew that he was starting to lose command of his team. If he were to succeed in this investigation, he had to gain it back just as quickly. He turned his attention back toward Teresa, deeply sympathizing with the fears she was being bombarded with. Still, she was a professional. She knew the risks.

"We will find the solution, Teresa," Holzer comforted. "And with that answer, we will clear this house."

Holzer started to really study Teresa's features. She was indeed a pretty young woman, almost too pretty. Holzer had to wonder if anyone other than her parents had ever used her because of her angelic features. There was a motivation for profit coming from this girl, even he was aware of that.

Teresa gave him a controlled terrified look. He admired the way she genuinely tried to calm herself. Holzer had never seen her so aeffected or so scared by what her inner eye had seen. He made a mental note: Take an EKG reading of her mind once they returned to the college.

"We are here to help this place, not harm," Holzer proclaimed, patting the young woman on the shoulder.

"I do not think so," Teresa said. "The house doesn't want our help."

Each member of the team gave the other a worried glance. Uneasiness filled the air surrounding them. In the far distance, they all heard the sound of rustling plastic coming from one of the tarps being subtly attacked by the cold October wind.

"Let's head back towards the kitchen," Holzer suggested. "That does seem to be the focal point and the eye of the storm, so to speak. It should be the calmest there. Yes?"

Meekly, Teresa agreed.

They all headed back toward the kitchen.

* * *

After such a drama, the kitchen of Manchester House wasn't so inviting toward the members of the team. Sinclair's camera was lit up, and this time the room was somewhat under the influence of lights. Holzer had to direct Teresa back into the room. Clearly, the young psychic did not want to enter.

"There, you see," Holzer stated, "the same as when we left it. Really, Teresa, this is a fantastic opportunity for you. This house is one of the greatest mysteries of our respected fields. Believe me when I say we will all benefit from this investigation."

"All right, Professor." Teresa smiled, surrendering to his eagerness.

The sounds of rustling plastic suddenly stopped.

The house turned as silent as a tombstone.

"Ahh, Doc?" was all Sinclair could bring himself to say.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Everyone was alert.

A series of noises were heard growing in the darkness of the kitchen, causing all in the group to become curious. So curious that even Sinclair momentarily stopped his filming. This last had caused Holzer some concern.

Sinclair hated surprises. He was nothing like his comrades. Things that went bump in the night did not concern him so. He was only interested in the things in the night that he could put a label on-things that he could immediately identify.

These noises were of the kind that Sinclair could not identify. That concerned him more than the harsh looks Holzer was glaring at him.

"Don't stop filming," Holzer barked.

"Hold your wad, Doc," Sinclair nervously challenged.

With his hand shaking just a little, Sinclair took out a cigarette lighter, lit it, and proceeded to discover where the sounds were coming from and what the cause had been.

"Whatever that is, guys, it's coming from in here," Sinclair said. Everyone seemed to notice the tone of controlled fear in the cameraman's voice. His hand, holding the cigarette lighter, shook slightly.

Sinclair and the rest of the team started to turn their attentions toward the kitchen floor.

Everyone gasped in surprise.

Rats!

To the team's horror, they all discovered that the bodies of the rats on the floor were moving-no longer dead. Alive! Rats from varying shapes and sizes started to rush the team, causing them to leave the kitchen in terror. Upon exiting, Holzer noticed that several of the rats were still in their respected forms of decay. This was quite impossible, but it was happening.

CHAPTER SIX

Holzer did all that he could to hold back the level of disgust and fear growing up inside of him. As a child, he had always had an instinctive fear for rats. He was not surprised to see that his fellow members shared that same terror.

The house does not want our help.

Holzer allowed that phrase to rattle around in his head as he and Sinclair fought to reach the kitchen's exit. The women of the group had managed to leave both men far behind, heading toward the main staircase. After such panic ran out, the women soon left the staircase, embarrassed and trying their best to save face in front of the men.

The team members reassembled in the main hall.

They all were suddenly attacked by a well of silence. No more squeaking rats. All that was heard were their heavy breathing and the rustling of hanging plastic.

Gathering his thoughts and trying to control his own surprise and disbelief, Holzer motioned toward Sinclair. The cameraman was checking his equipment, doing his part to make sure that nothing had been broken during the panic.

"Tell me that you got that all on tape." Holzer's voice was almost a pleading prayer. Quite often in the world of parapsychology, the fantastic occult side of the business was never properly recorded for the later scientific scrutiny that would surely follow.

This time, all went well.

"Sure in hell did, Doc," Sinclair stated, excited. He clapped his hands together with the excitement of a small child who had suddenly been allowed to tell a great secret. "Man, that was whack! Hey, Doc, what's with this place? I mean, where I come from, a dead rat stays&you know&dead."

How could Holzer answer? He had seen the rats after first entering the mansion's kitchen. Only a few looked freshly dead-the majority appeared long dead, almost mummified. There was no way, according to the laws of science-or God, for that matter-that he could even come close to a sensible explanation.

Teresa and Miranda soon joined in. Holzer could see that both women, especially Teresa, had once more regained their composure. Whatever had scared the young psychic was now buried and in the past.

Holzer couldn't have been prouder.

Sinclair broke the mood by laughing out loud, changing the tape in his digital camera. "Shit! I almost need a new pair of pants here, Doc."

Miranda, hearing the rustling of the hanging plastic, started to get a little nervous. She and Teresa started to head back toward the main staircase.

"I hate to break up this rather fascinating talk the two of you are having," Miranda said, motioning up the stairs. "Perhaps we should explore the rest of the house, since we are not leaving."

All silently agreed.

Holzer, irritated, started to look at his watch. His mind was turning toward thoughts of his missing team member. What was keeping him? He wasn't all that far away from Atchison the time Holzer had contacted him. Why wasn't he there yet? Had he run into some unforeseen danger? Was the path to the mansion too much for him?

At the last thought, Holzer chuckled.

"Too much for him?" he said out loud, not really caring if anyone heard or understood his outburst. "Nothing is too much for him."

Teresa soon noticed Holzer's worried look at his watch, and drew everyone's attention toward the professor.

No one had heard what he was saying.

"Is something wrong, Professor?" the psychic meekly inquired.

Holding back a laugh, Holzer suddenly became quite embarrassed. "You mean except for being attacked by undead rats?"

Sinclair laughed. "You think the doc can explain all this away?" He held up his camera. "Hell no! I got it all on tape. Stan Winston would shit twice and die if he saw this stuff. This is Oscar-winning material here, kiddies."

Miranda gave Sinclair a hard glance. Holzer once more noticed that silent tension between the two.

"Would you please go crawl inside a hole and have the good sense to die," Miranda said, controlling her rising anger. Her British accent seemed to magnify both the dangerous levels of her emotions and her desire to insult the man.

Sinclair, however, only became aroused.

"Well, I'm free Saturday night," the cameraman stated, looking the young woman over. "Know of a hole that I can&crawl into?"

Holzer closed his eyes, waiting for the fight to begin. Then something unexpected happened: Miranda walked away from Sinclair in a huff of frustration. She did absolutely nothing. It was quite a miracle.

Again, Holzer allowed his mind to wonder. Where was his missing team member?

"Jonathon?" Miranda inquired, touching his hand. "What's the matter?"

"Our last member is running a little late," Holzer explained. "This is rather disappointing, considering he would find all these incidents to his liking."

"To his liking?"

Holzer soon started to notice the confusion he was getting from the team and laughed dryly. If they only knew what he knew about their missing man.

"He is trained for such things."

Holzer and his team walked deeper into the mansion.

No one seemed to really be paying attention towards the innocent-looking sheets of plastic hanging from the walls.

They were moving without the aid of wind.

Conscious.

Aware.

* * *

The cobwebs of the dusty interior of Manchester House's attic proved more inviting than the rest of the forgotten home. Ironically, the attic seemed to be the only place in which there was no water damage or hanging sheets of plastic. Why this was proved itself to be an intriguing mystery to Holzer. Since there was water dripping almost everywhere in the mansion, it would be assumed that the roof would be a disastrous shambles-it was not. And almost every room in the house seemed to have at least one hanging sheet of plastic. The only exceptions were the kitchen and now the attic. Why these two rooms? That was something Holzer would have to discover on his own. Mysteries inside of mysteries.

Holzer, upon entering the attic, got the impression that no one had been up in the room for a great many years. Even though occupied several times in the last half-century, and failing miserably to keep its guests, the attic still appeared to be the less-visited room in the house. In part, this could explain why the room was not all that damaged.

The dripping water.

Was it really water?

As Holzer scanned the room with both his EMR and negative ion detector, he saw many items littering the floor. Among these items, he saw several upscale cooking utensils. Again, something to do with cooking. What was the importance? Mysteries!

"Good heavens, Professor," Miranda said, coughing away the dust. "This is worse than some of the digs I have been on."

"Yes. I was told that the attic was bad."

Teresa brushed a few cobwebs out of her hair, not at all thrilled about doing so. In this room, she appeared calmer.

"Bad isn't the word for it," the psychic said.

Holzer's negative ion detector started to blink. Unlike the EMR device, which was accompanied by a high-pitched beeping noise, the negative ion detector only blinked. Quiet.

Holzer kept his eyes on Teresa.

As the team continued their investigation, Holzer noticed the impressed look coming from the psychic. She was rather moved by the variety of cooking utensils scattered throughout the attic.

"Professor, was this house owned by a cook of some kind?"

"What would make you say that?" Holzer smiled, feeling it best not to inform the others about his detector's response.

Teresa started to tiptoe around the many cardboard boxes. Her hands seemed to be swimming in the air around her, picking up all kinds of strange vibrations and insights. She was working the room.

"Well," Teresa started to say, taking off her gloves, "all these cooking supplies. My father owns a restaurant. These machines do not come cheap."

Holzer had noticed the bitter flash of emotions that had crossed Teresa's face upon mentioning her father. He long theorized that her pain and betrayal from her parents was at the root of her abilities. Who better to seek out the emotions of others than an individual used and betrayed? Pain finds pain. Simple as that.

"As a matter of fact, several years ago this very home was the headquarters of a famous TV chef," Holzer said. "He used to live here. Hence the impressive find. I believe that is also why the kitchen is so well designed."

"Someone needed to tell him about the rats." Sinclair laughed, turning his camera back on.

Holzer paused, giving Sinclair a hard look. The cameraman, seeing this stare, turned his attention towards his camera and its maintenance.

"Do you always have to be so ironically blunt, Mr. Sinclair?"

The cameraman shrugged his shoulders nervously. Sinclair knew that he had crossed the line of good taste and tried to save face by remaining calm and quiet.

Holzer took off his glasses, wiping the dirt off his lenses. Everyone was listening to what he had to say.

"Funny thing about the chef that lived here." Holzer returned to the subject at hand, glancing away from Sinclair.

"Oh?" Miranda asked, investigating the many cardboard boxes. "And what was that, Professor?"

Holzer placed his glasses back on, adjusting his eyes to the sudden change in focus. "The chef was the mansion's longest living resident. He lived here almost five years before&" He paused, holding back a controlled look of disgust. "Well, let's just say he ended badly."

"What happened to him, Professor?"

"Poetic justice, from what I can tell."

Holzer tried to escape certain questions about this last victim of the mansion by continuing his investigation of the attic. In truth, what he wanted was to leave Teresa alone with the objects on the floor, hoping that she could absorb the vibrations from them, answering questions long sought by both him and the entertainment world. What had really happened to the famous Manchester House Chef? Everyone knew the gruesome end. Everyone knew how he died. No one knew the why. No one except the Atchison Police Department-and they were not talking.

As Holzer had hoped, alone, Teresa started to focus her attention on a small box filled with kitchen cookware.

* * *

:Stop! Stop it! You are not supposed to be here.:

Teresa closed in on a yellow electric mixer-the kind seen in a restaurant's kitchen. She noticed that the device was as dirty and covered with cobwebs as the room it sat in.

"What's this little treasure?" Teresa gasped, talking to herself.

She bent down to pick it up.

:That is mine! Leave it alone!:

Terrible images flashed through Teresa's mind. At first she couldn't control them. Haunting. Powerful. Perverse in nature. But, like most psychics, she had the ability to block the thoughts. Like the flooding gates of a dam, she closed herself to all impulses until she was ready. For now, however, she just enjoyed the moment of her fantastic find.

Looking at the electric mixer in her hands, Teresa gave it a loving smile, as if she knew the model quite well.

"I can't believe it!" she shouted, showing the device off to her fellow team members, explaining. "This is a Lex 5000! My mother owned one of these when we lived in New York. Made the greatest cakes." She laughed. "A great many memories I had with one of these things. The only happy moments of my life, in fact."

All in the group started to give Teresa a curious glance. Embarrassed, she placed the mixer back into its box. She was allowing too much of her real personality to be seen by those she cared about.

It was time to get serious.

"Just haven't seen one in a long time," Teresa explained.

Placing her hands on several other boxes, Teresa started to breathe deeply. She let herself go, slowly. The floodgates of her mind were now being allowed to explore.

Her eyes closed, Teresa could sense that the rest of the team had formed a curious circle around her. Sinclair no doubt was filming everything.

Teresa Gonzalez's mind's eye descended into hell.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Teresa's mind flashed several images from the distant past. Of yelling business meetings that went far into the night. Of beautifully cooked meals with no passion or feeling behind them. Of ego clashing with decency. And of children losing their innocence. Of youth wasted. Of ungodly things best left for godly people to explain.

Teresa could see the electric mixer, new, bright, and in use. Concentrating her mind's eye she pulled away from the mixer, allowing her to once more notice the mansion's kitchen. The decorations were different, depicting a different era.

:I will not have you robbing me of my treasures, little child. Stop!:

Teresa shook the feelings away, continuing. The house was strong.

Teresa found the image of Gilbert Lex, a once famous television chef. Her muscles tensed. Her heart started to beat terribly fast.

She became aware.

* * *

Fall, 1985&

Gilbert Lex was a vain man, overweight, selfish, hateful of others, and seemed to know that he was becoming a man of power and this did not improve his negative impulses of which he had many. If anything, his fame and fortune had made him more negative-perverted.

He watched the mixer on the kitchen counter whirl into a cake-making frenzy.

Lex hated cake.

Lex was making the cake as a means of keeping up his image. Having just returned from a buying trip in Europe, the TV cook was having some movers deliver several pieces of furniture that he had acquired while on his travels.

Manchester House had almost been restored to her full glory. After living at the place for over four long years, going now on his fifth, the Atchison City Council had started to relax, the police were easy, and Lex couldn't care less-he never understood why there had been such a fuss to purchase the cursed place.

The house suited him well.

Two movers were trying to take a huge dresser up the main staircase. The piece was a lovely French design that had once been owned by Benjamin Franklin. In a huff of exhaustion, one of the movers lost his footing.

"Watch out!" one of the movers yelled, wiping sweat off his brow.

The dresser started to tumble down the stairs. Not damaged but a little worse for the wear, the ancient piece of furniture landed on its side near the kitchen door. Both movers darted down the stairs, doing their best to gather up the damage.

Frustrated and completely oblivious to the personal exhaustion of the hired movers, Lex thundered out of the kitchen, angry. He cared not for the people of Atchison. Only that they were cheap and mentally useable toward his purpose. Money talked, and he had a lot of it.

"What's going on here?" Lex yelled, noticing the damaged dresser for the first time. An annoyed ache appeared on his face, remembering the small fortune he had paid for it. "I hired you men to move my furniture. Now move it!" He paused, looking at his watch. Time was money. "Don't think that I'm going to pay you double after five, either."

With a huff he re-entered the kitchen.

:They are laughing at you. Can't you see that? Foolish man.:

Entering the kitchen, Lex didn't notice that he was being watched. An evil Shape looking like the timid frame of an innocent farm girl stood glaring at him with angry eyes. Staring at him from the staircase, looking down into the kitchen. Eyes forever piercing down at him. Through a veil of rotted, matted hair. Dead hair. A corpse's hair.

The movers did not see the Shape.

Lex, wiping a layer of sweat off his forehead, tried to pretend that he didn't.

:Pick up a knife. Show them that you are a man! Blood. Give me blood.:

"Come on, guys," one of the movers said. An older gentleman, obviously the one in charge. "We have a job to do."

Lex fought to look back, doing his best to remain calm.

The Shape was nowhere to be seen. Gone.

"My imagination," Lex tried to say, comforting himself into a delusion of safety.

The kitchen started to turn cold. Lex started to react to the draft, shivering. He absently started to run his hands together. "This house is going to send me to an early grave. Cold as a tombstone in here."

Lex absently looked around, noticing a stack of plastic tarps and duct tape. Grabbing a roll of tape and a tarp, the cook proceeded to tape up one of the windows. Suddenly something started to attack the plastic. Something unseen. Something invisible to the eye.

Something.

The plastic started to rattle and bulge. A phantom hand of some kind started beating away at the plastic, wanting to pull away from the window. It was as if some force was aware or became aware of the sudden application of the tarp to the window and ended up trapped between the open air and the tarp. Like a fly stuck between window and curtain, the force waged its battle, wanting to be free.

"Get away from me!" Lex shouted, dropping the roll of duct tape.

The kitchen turned still.

The rattling stopped.

Lex found himself looking into the confused and terrified eyes of the two movers who, upon hearing the panic in his voice, had stopped their work, fearing the worst. Both movers soon left, thinking Lex insane.

Both refused payment.

Lex did not eat that night. Nor did he bother to fix anything to eat for two days. His phone continued to ring. He refused to answer it.

The house wouldn't let him.

:I will take care of you. I will see to your needs. Your sick, delicious needs.:

Lex started to cry.

He completely forgot about the cake.

* * *

One week later&

The young girl couldn't have been more than sixteen years old. Lex could see that as she bravely approached the mansion. The chef was impressed. Most children had the good sense to stay away. Or at least had a stern parent that would whip them if they even tried to venture toward his home.

"What is this tasty morsel?" Lex found himself saying, looking out a peephole toward the girl. He had to stop himself from leering.

The girl was a local child, of that Lex was quite certain. He had noticed her before as he watched her walk down the aisles of the Atchison country store. She was very delightful to look at. Very skinny. The way he liked them.

:If you want her, I will make her yours.:

Lex started to flush, his male excitement clearly visible.

The girl, as Lex had observed, was indeed a local child who was canvassing door-to-door, hoping to sell candy for a local school fund. Lex noticed that she was holding a small cardboard box in her hand which contained candy bars. A dog could be heard barking somewhere in the distance as the girl approached the house.

:She is a sweet morsel, isn't she?:

"Oh, yes, she is!" Lex huffed, licking his lips. The chef's face pressed hard against the front door's peephole. His hands started to sweat.

The Candy Girl was in her teens, quite attractive for her age, and clearly scared. Lex got the impression that although young, she was aware of the reputation of the house she was approaching. Still, she seemed to believe in her cause and continued onward despite her fears. Admirable.

All this escaped Lex at the moment. He was too busy thinking about her young pink body. Of bare breasts glistening in the sun. Of peachy parts of the forbidden areas of the body, giving up the fruits of all they possessed. Of young flesh being touched. Of innocence becoming his again. Oh! The sweet ecstasy!

:If you listen to me, I will make her yours. Listen&to&me!:

Lex blinked.

His will was no longer his own.

It took the Candy Girl ten minutes to gain enough courage to ring the doorbell.

* * *

Approaching the front door to Manchester House, Leslie Dean knocked on the door. Her heart was pounding. She knew that she was taking a risk coming out to the town's infamous haunted house, but she had seen the man who lived here a thousand times on TV. He always looked so happy-so nice. All her friends warned her not to venture out toward the house, but she knew that if she was a little enterprising in her pitch, she could sell a lot of candy bars to the man. He was fat. He was lonely. And fat and lonely people always bought a lot of junk food.

She adjusted her bra strap, pushing up her boobs. A little T & A never failed.

Suddenly she heard a barking dog. All seemed normal until the dog let out a terrible cry in agony, then stopped. Quiet.

Again Leslie knocked on the door. She nervously gulped.

There was movement on the other side of the door.

Leslie thought she heard the tiny voice of another girl. A young girl, like herself.

There was a feeling of being watched.

Answering the knock, Gilbert Lex pretended that the visit had caught him by surprise. Licking a blood-like batter off his fingers, he glanced at Leslie, continuing his licking. There was something about the man that just didn't settle right with her, and it made Leslie uncomfortable.

Lex glanced at her while he licked off the batter dripping from his fingers. Was it batter? Leslie wondered. Lex appeared quite annoyed at the intrusion, but was intrigued by what he saw-Leslie noticed that the dirty old man was staring right at her breasts.

"Yes?" Lex stated, licking his fingers clean. The man never took his eyes off of Leslie's body. "I'm a very busy man, young lady, please be quick about it."

Leslie opened up her cardboard box, causing Lex to focus on the candy bars deep inside it. She relaxed.

"Atchison High needs a new school bus," Leslie said, her voice shaking. "We're asking the kind citizens of this area to purchase some candy bars to help us raise the funds." She paused, smiling, nervous. "Would you be interested, sir?"

Lex stepped forward, causing Leslie to stand on the porch with great discomfort. She almost regretted the fact that she was wearing her sexiest sweater and jeans. The man stopped licking his fingers and now wiped off the remains of the batter with a dishtowel he kept in his back pocket. Lex was clearly leering at the young woman, and Leslie got the impression that she was in dire trouble.

All she could think about was leaving.

"How much is your&candy?" Lex asked, using his most charming smile. The smile he used on TV, which had made him famous, loved, and trusted by millions of people.

It seemed to work. Leslie started to relax.

:Good! Good! She trusts you now.:

Leslie held up the best candy bar she could find. "One dollar apiece, sir."

"A dollar?" Lex's heart was racing. He could see that the cold was starting to work its evil wonders on the girl. He could just make out the subtle twin points of her young nipples. God! It was hard to control himself.

"It's really a great deal," Leslie went on. Her mind was turning towards the challenge of the sale. "They're nice candy bars."

Lex was amused, letting out a comical laugh. Evil, almost.

"Girl, do you know who I am?"

Leslie turned uncertain. Was she losing the sale? "Come to think of it, you do look familiar."

"I'm Gilbert Lex. I should know good food when I taste it. You've probably seen my show on TV."

Leslie tried to control her awareness. "My mother watches your show. She tried a recipe of yours." She made a distasteful face. "Didn't like it that much, myself."

At Leslie's last comment, Lex started to get angry, but carefully held back his emotions. Looking around, he noticed that no one knew that the girl was there. He gave the girl an evil smile, licking his lips-wondering what color panties she was wearing.

:Take her! Take her now!:

"Tell you what," Lex said. "You come in and try this cake that I'm working on and I'll buy your entire lot."

For Leslie, the clouds started to lift. "Really?"

Lex winked at her. "Guaranteed sale."

Wanting to raise the money for her school, Leslie agreed, entering the house. Lex closed the door behind her, once again checking the outside for curious, watching eyes.

There were none.

* * *

In the house, the first thing that Leslie noticed was the stale wet smell. She could hear the sound of dripping water but could not see it anywhere in the house. Her curiosity was starting to get the better of her-she wanted to ask about the water, but was soon hit upon the head with a blunt object.

Leslie's world turned into a haze of images.

"Little girl!" Lex laughed, almost sounding like a yelp. "Little, little girl."

Leslie could barely sense what was happening to her. All she could see was the oak wood floor paneling. She could barely feel the strong male hands pulling off her jeans and ripping her panties off. She could barely feel the invasion.

She caught an image out of the corner of her eye.

An image at the top of the main staircase.

A girl. Looking down at her.

So much hate.

The eyes!

"Please help me," Leslie tried to say.

Two hands clasped around her neck, choking as Lex continued his little game. He had his fun, laughing as he delved deeper and deeper into his prey.

Leslie's world became a dark void.

Then¬hing.

* * *

Outside Manchester House, the wind seemed to howl, covering up the agony and screaming that was going on inside. Movement could have been seen at the basement window-the only window-if someone had been venturing by. One could have seen the shape of a young woman look out the window, leering, wanting, and needing to know. She was blankly staring out and was fully aware of what was going on in the house.

The Shape did nothing.

It only stared. Not caring.

At the foot of the basement window, just below where one would have seen the Shape, was a freshly killed dog. By the look of the poor creature, one would have gotten the impression that it had been terrified to death-blood was trickling from its open mouth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Four days later&

Leslie Dean's body was found in the middle of a hot afternoon day, lying on the ground in a puddle of mud far from Manchester House. She had been assaulted and was half-naked. She was dead. As dead as a severely choked, raped, and assaulted Christian soul could be. The police team working nearby couldn't help but notice the look on the victim's face. Leslie's face was a frozen look mixed with both surprise and utter horror.

After not having shown up in over a day, it was Leslie's parents who went venturing for her, inquiring of several students on her respected charity drive, hoping that at least one knew where she had gone. There was no sign. There was no clue. That was, until someone had mentioned seeing her venture up toward the woods-toward Manchester House. Fearing for their daughter, the Deans' worst nightmare sadly became a reality.

The flashing red and blue lights of the surrounding Atchison Police cars drew people's attention for miles. The police had to challenge themselves to work-after all, this was the first child murder in decades. There were at least twenty police officers on the scene, all disgusted with the discovery.

Picking up a soiled piece of Leslie's clothing-a bra-Lt. Albert Wells did all that he could to keep his stomach from heaving. Dear God! He knew this child. His nephew attended her school and was in the same math class as she.

No more.

Lt. Wells, in his grief, lit up a cigarette. A young police officer approached Wells gingerly.

"Did we manage to verify her identification?" Wells asked, hoping against all odds that even he had been wrong about the victim's ID.

The young police officer-Wells couldn't remember his name-started reading his information from a sheet of paper in his hand.

"It is Leslie Dean," the officer stated. "Her parents stated that she was out selling candies for a local school charity. She had just finished calling her parents when she told them that she would soon be coming home&after&" the officer trailed off, uneasy. From the corner of his eye, Wells caught the young man looking down at the corpse in front of them. Wondering.

"After what?" Wells asked, almost knowing where the conversation was heading.

"Sir, she was last known going to Manchester House."

Hearing this last information, Wells put out his cigarette and tiredly headed toward his car. The young police officer followed.

"Sir? Shouldn't you stay until the Police Chief arrives?" the young officer asked, pointing back toward the crime scene. "I hear that he is very upset about all of this."

Wells let out a sarcastic laugh. "I would be too, considering it's an election year." Wells jumped into his car, closing the door. "No, son, I'm going to where results are waiting for me."

"Manchester House?" the office stated. Uneasy. Knowing.

"Bingo."

Wells started his patrol car and drove off. In his rearview mirror, Wells noticed the young police officer he had left behind. The officer was returning to the tragic scene of the crime. Young Leslie Dean's body was a pale beacon of death, glaring at him with an uneasy color. The young officer's body shook. He started to cry.

Wells could sympathize.

Manchester House was less than twenty minutes away.

Wells had hoped that he would never again have to venture out toward the cursed house. After all, it had been almost seven years since the last horrible "accident" which had caused him to take body bags out of the house. Things were looking up for the old place. It was almost as good as new. The city was once again starting to become proud of the site. Until now&

When Wells parked his patrol car outside Manchester House, he knew that he was being watched.

A curtain moved.

Eyes were peering out at him.

Wells prepared for battle.

* * *

It did not take long for the game to begin.

Wells considered the task of getting his killer a game. A game of wits that seemed to taunt the criminal's animal rage against his civilized virtue of law and order. It was not always an effortless fight but, all in all, Wells was pleased with his arrest record. One thing was for certain: rich or no, he was going to get Manchester House's arrogant pie-baking son-of-a-bitch. And he was going to see him on Kansas' death row if it cost him his soul.

Wells slowly started to pace in the mansion's main hall while Gilbert Lex sat nervously in a chair, looking up at the detective.

:He knows nothing. Just deal with him as you would trash. Ignore it!:

"Would you like a cool drink, detective?" Lex asked, nervous.

Wells paused, noticing several cookbooks on a nearby end table. Picking up a few of these books, the detective noticed Lex's picture on all the covers. He was playing with the arrogant cook and allowing his building nervousness to work against him. Wells opened one of the cookbooks and started reading.

"No, thank you," Wells stated, appearing interested in his reading. "I had a Coke before I got here. You really this good of a cook, sir?"

Lex started to get jittery. It was as if the questions the detective had been asking had affected Lex's ego. The chef almost appeared insulted, in particular to Wells' last question. Wells continued his silent staring, pacing occasionally.

"Detective," Lex stated, controlling the volume of his voice. "Have you had a chance to watch my cooking show? It's all the rage on TV."

Wells lit a cigarette, not all that impressed. "I don't own a TV. Too much crap on the air."

Silence. There was the slight sound of rustling plastic.

"That's too bad." Lex huffed, fidgeting with his fingers, which he kept together upon his lap.

:He knows nothing! I will protect you. You who have done so much for me!:

Lex started to smile. Basking in self-accomplishment.

While Lex was fidgeting in his chair, Wells studied him. The chef seemed to be in his own little world. Lex seemed to be arching his head in a way in which he and only he was hearing a secret whispered into his ear. The fat cook appeared to be giggling up at Wells as if he had heard something "forbidden" about the police detective and had not the time nor mental ability to keep from laughing in front of him. Wells could tell that there was something going on here he didn't quite understand, but went along with it anyway.

He too had a plan.

Wells reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a black and white photo of Leslie Dean. The detective flashed the picture in front of Lex's face, causing the celebrity cook to freeze in his actions.

"Seen this girl?" Wells asked.

Lex took the picture. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Tried to hide the trembling but couldn't.

"No, I don't think so, sir," Lex mumbled. "No. Who is she? If I may ask, that is."

"You may." Wells exhaled a long stream of smoke, peering down at the chef.

Several silent seconds passed by. Neither talked. Wells continued to stare at Lex, puffing on his cigarette. The chef started to grow annoyed.

"Well, who is she then?"

Wells took another drag off his cigarette. "Local girl. Name's being withheld until next of kin are notified. But as far as we can see she was in the neighborhood raising money by selling candy bars."

"Oh?"

"You know, buy the thing for a dollar kind of thing." Wells put the small photo back into his coat pocket. He leaned forward just enough to place his face uneasily close to Lex's. "The candies are rather good, you see. In any case, her body was found not far from here. Apparently she was raped before she was killed. You haven't seen her? Didn't have anyone knock on your door fitting her looks?"

"May I see the picture again, detective?" Lex asked, trying his best to sound concerned.

Wells obliged.

Lex stared at the picture again, doing his best to look careworn. Wells could see through Lex's body language that he was annoyed and bored. Lex cared nothing for the girl and appeared to be quite irritated by Wells who was still studying him, watching his every move. Still, the cook did not wish to upset the police officer, so he played the concerned citizen game with him-albeit badly. Wells saw through the whole damn thing.

In the background, a telephone started to ring.

Hearing his phone ringing, Lex started to give Wells an anxious look. He fidgeted in his chair, catching the policeman's attention.

"My phone's ringing," Lex said, rude, controlled. "May I answer it?"

"I'm not stopping you."

Lex got up, giving the police officer a dirty if not angry look. He answered his phone in the kitchen.

"Hello?" Lex said, his body halfway out of the kitchen, halfway in. "Leo! Hey, baby, how's things in Hollywood?" Lex peeked back out at Wells, motioning toward his phone, explaining. "My agent. Have to take this. Be a few&"

Before Wells could either respond or order, the chef closed the kitchen door, taking his call. Wells, alone, puffing away on his cigarette, reacted with a surprised silent laugh.

"Well, now," Wells stated, smoking away on his cigarette. "Doesn't appear too concerned, does he?"

Wells started to walk around the room, looking at several other books, magazines, and recipe boxes that had Gilbert Lex's picture on them. He shook his head with disgust.

"The words you're looking for, Detective Wells, are 'does not give a fuck'," Wells said, patiently waiting.

Wells heard a strange noise down the hall from where he was standing. The sounds of tiny feet trotting across the wooden floorboards. Girl steps. The detective went off to investigate. In the kitchen, behind his door, Wells could hear Lex laughing and continuing his conversation with his agent.

"What the hell's going on here in this house?" Wells asked, feeling uneasy about what he thought he had heard.

The sound of footsteps got louder.

The sounds were coming from the basement.

Wells wished that he had brought his gun.

* * *

The basement door was ajar.

As Wells started to walk through the home, looking around he noticed the slightly open door and started to walk toward it. Behind him, and not seen by him, the silent specter of the Shape waited, glaring down at him from the hallway.

:You are in my world now! Be extra careful where you step.:

As Wells got closer to the door, he noticed that an uneasy feeling was coming over him. A feeling of being watched. Like a suspected felon being observed through a two-way mirror. Wells could feel the eyes on him. Wells did not like it at all.

Unknown to Wells, the Shape was following him. Her angry white eyes glared at the police officer, almost burning a hole in the back of his head, with a degree of emotion that was silently bombarded in his general direction.

Wells touched the doorknob of the basement door.

A cool wind attacked the detective from behind.

The Shape disappeared.

* * *

There was a force about the house which was aware of the danger it was in by being discovered by an unwanted visitor. The house did not like intruders and was not prepared in its present state to ward the detective off. Lex had provided the mansion with a much-needed portal to achieve its goals and this vital asset could not be wasted. Not just yet.

So intelligence far too old or powerful to be ignored took hold and started to take on a life of its own.

Had Wells known&had he seen&he would not have been able to understand.

Wells would have only gone mad in the attempt.

So it was best that the detective did not know that he had come so close to dying in the house that day.

So close.

* * *

A bloodied hand reached up out of the basement's darkness, foul and dripping with the scent of the dead, and grabbed the door's doorknob. With a hard pull, the bloody hand slammed the door shut. There was the rumbling sound of people talking in the basement. Hundreds of voices. All terribly sad. All wanting to escape. None could. None knew how.

There were the thunderous sounds of torturous creatures screaming in the darkness, covered by the subtle sounds of rustling plastic. Somehow, an evil force was moving the detective along, making him go where it wished for him to go and no farther.

The Bloody Hand, knowing of the approaching detective, slowly dropped back into the deadly abyss from which it had arisen, letting go of the doorknob.

* * *

The detective approached the door, noticing that it did indeed shut before he could reach it. He stared at it, knowing that he did not have a search warrant to investigate-something in him wanted to grab the doorknob, but all he could do was stare down at it. Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention.

:Here's a little gift for a curious blowfly. See what you can do with it!:

On the floor near the basement door, Wells could see a simple candy wrapper.

"What have we got here?" the detective said, holding back the level of excitement growing inside of him. He almost smiled.

Wells picked up the candy bar wrapper, investigating it. It was the kind of wrapper used by charity organizations to help raise money via sales of chocolate bars. The same kind Leslie Dean was trying to sell. Wells started to whistle a curious tune. He re-entered the main hall; his face fixed with a look of determination.

:You know the truth, then? How nice.:

As Lex re-entered the main hall to finish his talk with Wells, the cook failed to see the look he was getting from the detective. Lex was too busy thinking and gloating about the call he had just had with his agent. Wells got the impression that Lex was walking on very dangerous ground. No man deserved the power that Lex seemed to control. No one deserved that much success.

It was time to make the game more interesting.

It was time to tip his hand.

"That was my agent," Lex stated, motioning back toward his phone, explaining. "He's trying to get my show in Great Britain. Well&where were we, detective?"

Wells put his hands in his coat pocket, preparing. "We were sestablishing that you had no visitors."

"Correct," Lex said, sitting back down in his chair. "I have had no guests. Terrible, though. That sweet, sweet, child."

Wells cleared his throat.

:I will protect you. Do not falter from the attacks on your person. I am here beside you, my favorite child.:

Wells stepped forward, holding the candy wrapper in front of Lex. Seeing the small piece of paper, all the color started to leave the cook's bloated features. Wells could see by Lex's sheer horror that the cook thought that he had picked up and cleaned up all the evidence. Wells simply stood there waiting.

:Fool! In your haste to have your tasty morsel orally pleasure you, you forgot the candy wrappers. The candy you ate while she cried, pleading for you to let her go. Oh, the sweet, sweet pleasure of seeing her bloodied naked body wobbling and bleeding while she cried, hoping for humanity where there was none to give. Oh! The sweet joy we had when you attacked her three more times, feeling her wet treasures as you attacked from the rear-from the front-from her head! When we killed her. The squeaky noises! The way her female fruit tasted-smelled- Oh! You are my favorite child.:

Lex cleared his throat. Trying to hold back the terror.

"Yes, Mr. Lex," Wells continued, waving the candy wrapper. "It was a very terrible thing. Care to add anything to the present conversation, sir?"

Wells could see that Lex was squirming in his chair, trying to think of a way to explain the paper away. Wells stood there, motionless, holding up the candy wrapper.

He seemed to love every minute of it.

"That's a candy wrapper." Lex nervously laughed.

"Ah, yes, sir," Wells insisted, "it is."

"I bought that one from a small boy outside a store."

Wells gave the cook a long look. Great tension started to fill the room.

:I will protect you.:

"Are you sure about that, sir?"

"I know where I buy my things, detective," Lex shouted, annoyed. He rose from his chair, turning defensive. "Am I under suspicion or something?"

"No, sir." Wells held up his hands in a cautionary gesture. "Just asking some questions."

Meekly, Lex started to grab for the candy wrapper in Wells' hand. The detective silently stopped him and placed the paper in his coat pocket. This last action, Wells observed, caused paranoia to grow in Lex's features. Lex thundered toward the mansion's front door.

"Well, then, since this is not an official action, I wish you to leave." Lex opened his front door, motioning Wells to exit. "I have started to bake a wonderful quiche that needs to be attended to."

Wells started to leave. The detective paused only long enough to stare Lex down. As if to say to the cook he would be back, and this time nothing would kick him out until he got all the answers he sought. After a few seconds, Wells left, causing Lex to wonder about his guilt. Alone, the cook closed the door.

* * *

:Look at me!:

As Lex closed his front door, he turned. The Shape stood behind him.

Her figure was rigid. Calm. Dripping with what appeared to be water, but smelled nothing like anything remotely similar to the liquid. Her hair was matted over her face. Her eyes peered out from behind her long hair, glaring a hateful glee at her latest victim. She started to sway from side to side. The sound of rustling plastic filled the air around the two of them.

Lex was not allowed to move or be himself.

He was nothing but a puppet. A puppet whose strings were all tied up in knots. Helpless to do nothing but dangle where the puppet master allowed him to dangle.

Lex was in a panic and was starting to breathe heavily. Uncontrollably. Frantically.

"You said that they would never know!" Lex paused only long enough to pick up a half-used roll of industrial duct tape. "You promised to take care of me!"

Lex ventured to a nearby window, pulling off a long piece of duct tape. The man was placing a plastic tarp against the windows, taping it up.

Lex began to cry. He could not stop what he was doing.

The Shape, enjoying the whole sight, turned her attention to the basement door. A slow grumble could be heard coming from the basement of the mansion. There were the sounds of movement, as if several bodies were behind the door trying to get out. Quite strangely, the door popped open, allowing the escape of the darkness.

The Shape disappeared.

* * *

Twelve days later&

"I got the bastard!" Wells stated with triumph as he headed toward Manchester House.

After leaving Manchester House, Wells had the lab work on the recovered candy wrapper sent to Kansas City. The lab stated that there was a 99.9997 per cent certainty that the recovered wrapper came from the lot of candy bars assigned to Leslie Dean to sell. It also helped the case solidify against Gilbert Lex when, upon further investigation, the Kansas City Crime Lab had discovered Leslie Dean's DNA on the wrapper found by Wells.

They had him.

Approaching Manchester House, the line of police cars had to look like something out of a grand movie scene, where the town sheriff cornered the criminals and called out the entire police force to help foil the plans of less honest men. In fact, Atchison had seven cars available at the time. So in point of fact Wells had called up all of the town's reserves.

When the cars came to a stop in front of the mansion with sirens blaring, all the patrolmen were surprised that there was not one peep of surprise coming from inside Manchester House. No windows being peeked out of. No blasting gunfire. Not even so much as a desperate attempt at escape. In point of fact: there was nothing.

Wells left his car, disappointed. He expected some kind of protest. Some kind of action from Lex. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He silently ordered police officers out of their cars and had them all follow him. They all approached the mansion's front door.

With several police officers behind him, Wells knocked on the front door loudly. There was no answer.

The door of the mansion was kicked open and both Wells and several police officers rushed in. Wells spearheaded the invasion, holding up a warrant.

"Police!" Wells shouted. "We do have a warrant."

They were greeted by the house's silence. The police officers put away their guns as Wells shouted for Lex. All spread out looking for their suspect.

"Mr. Lex?" Wells shouted. "This is the Atchison Police. You are wanted for questioning in the murder of Leslie Dean." He paused, trying to listen for movement. Nothing. "Mr. Lex?"

Wells silently motioned two officers to follow him. They all headed toward the kitchen.

"Smells like something's on the stove, sir," one of the officers commented.

Wells gave the man a hard look.

Wells entered the kitchen, after being directed there by the police officer. They were both guided to the room's stove where they spotted a boiling pot of soup. There was a sweet smell invading the whole room. One officer, upset, rushed out of the room vomiting.

"This is not good," Wells stated, annoyed.

"Sir?" an officer said, motioning Wells toward the stove and a boiling pot of soup.

Wells saw the pot. The meal had only just begun to boil, giving him the impression that it had been placed on the stove minutes before. Turning off the fire under the soup, Wells and the police officer noticed an abnormal amount of smoke coming up from the oven.

Wells' stomach began to tighten.

"Open it up," Wells said, motioning the police officer toward the oven's door.

Wells focused his attention on the oven as the police officer opened it. A burnt corpse was seen balled up inside. As an arm flopped outward, startling all, Wells could see it was what was left of Lex's body. Both Wells and the police officer backed away in disgust. A police photographer rushed in, taking pictures.

"Dear sweet Jesus," Wells whispered.

Between the photographer's flashbulbs, Wells got a good look at the burnt corpse. It was Gilbert Lex. He was a skeleton of a man and was covered with cuts, burns, and the remnants of a horrible beating. In short, he appeared to Wells to be in the same condition he had found Leslie Dean in. As Wells closed in on Lex to get a better look between the flashbulbs, he noticed Lex's eyes-they were looking up at him.

Lex, though dead, seemed aware; but this was totally impossible. Nerves and the cold air hitting the hot skin caused Lex's face to form a sneer or smile of some kind.

Wells noticed Lex's eyes: they were tinted blood red, and instead of a normal pupil Wells saw a spiral-like pattern running through the eyes. They were almost alien-looking and seemed to give all in the room an uneasy feeling.

The sight was getting to Wells. His breakfast decided that it wanted to come up for some air. Embarrassed, the detective left the kitchen.

Wells' attention was drawn toward the basement door. A noise. A movement?

Wells saw the basement door and focused his attention on the doorknob. It slowly turned, then stopped. As Wells approached the door, he heard the slight giggle of a little girl.

CHAPTER NINE

Teresa's hands stopped at the basement door. She soon awoke from her trance.

:That is all that I'm giving to you, little child.:

"Professor?" Teresa said, her voice trembling. She was exhausted.

Teresa put her hand on the doorknob and started to turn it.

:Do not venture further! I warn you.:

Holzer had been walking behind Sinclair the whole time, for almost an hour, while Teresa was in her trance. She had led them through various rooms of the mansion, telling and re-telling the story behind Gilbert Lex's bizarre death. Of how he was spared a lengthy trial by becoming one of the hundreds of victims of Manchester House. In Teresa's trance, she had stopped at the basement door. Sinclair had filmed everything.

"Got it, Doc," Sinclair whispered.

Holzer patted the man on the shoulder with satisfaction. Upon hearing Teresa call for him, he left Sinclair's side, motioning the man to continue with his filming.

The house, it seemed, had turned incredibly dark. The team's only source of light were the bright lights Sinclair had attached to his camera.

"Yes, Teresa, what is it?" Holzer asked, gingerly approaching the young woman.

Teresa's hands seemed to move closer to the door. The paint chips and water-damaged lines of the thing seemed to beckon to her, causing her to proceed cautiously. However, in her excitement to find out more from the house, her common sense kept her from actually touching the surface of the door. Her instincts told her not to cross that particular line.

"The kitchen is an important focal point, sir. But the basement seems to be the intelligence guiding the force." Teresa started to breathe rather heavily, as if suddenly stopping from a long run. "I sense thousands of souls here, guys. Souls desperately wanting to go away from the bonds of this world but cannot." She paused, horrified. "Something is holding them all here, at bay, fighting. A ghostly war. A war for control."

"What's holding them here, Teresa?" Miranda asked, gently pulling Teresa away from the door. "Here, come back to us. That's it. I think that you have had enough for a while."

"What is keeping the spirits all here, Teresa?" Holzer repeated. He tried to ignore the stern look he was getting from Miranda.

"I don't know." Her eyes looked up at Holzer's. They were pleading-haunted.

Holzer carefully headed toward the basement door, keeping in mind the powerful statements Teresa had just made. Reaching for the door, the professor noticed that it was locked.

"It was open, Professor." Teresa's voice contained a hint of warning in it that bothered the professor.

Holzer turned to Sinclair, annoyed. "Is there a key to this door, Sinclair?"

"You got me, Doc. I'm just the guy with the camera."

Hearing all of this, and concerned more about Teresa's mental well being, Miranda let out a tired moan. This caused both men to give her a concerned look.

"What?" Sinclair asked, looking away from his camera.

"Can't the two of you see that what we need here is a little diplomacy to open the damn thing?" Miranda had become extremely impatient with her team members.

"Huh?" Sinclair asked, lost.

"Break it in!" Miranda shouted.

Miranda took the camera away from Sinclair, forcing the cameraman to approach the door. Spitting into his hands, Sinclair prepared to use brute force to open the tiny basement door. Holzer, observing this, did all he could to keep from smiling.

Sinclair, reaching for the door, started to pull on it wildly. His failure caused Miranda and Teresa to laugh out loud. Sinclair took it all with a grain of salt-a grain big enough to choke a goat, but still he took it with controlled grace.

"A guy just can't get a break, can he?" Sinclair said, looking straight into Miranda's eyes.

Walking away from the door, Sinclair cursed under his breath. The door started to open on its own accord. The house was soon permeated with a foul odor which seemed to come from the darkness below.

:Do you not like what you are finding?:

The team shook the feeling of being watched.

Still laughing at Sinclair's folly with the door, Miranda reacted towards the foul smell. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she started to become ill-vomiting.

"Are you okay, Miranda?" Holzer asked, patting her on the back.

Miranda coughed out the last of her vomit, wiping away the mess from her lips. "God, how I hate that feeling. I'm okay. I don't know what came over me just now. I'm fine, thank you."

"Smells like six-month-old dead dog or something," Sinclair said. He turned his attention toward Miranda. "You sure you're okay?"

Miranda looked up, smiling. "I'm fine."

All focused their attention on the open basement door.

* * *

It awoke.

Deep inside the basement, it walked past and through several sheets of plastic tarps. The tarps appeared to be dripping with blood. It heard a scream of some kind, coming from an unknown animal. Perhaps the miserable cry of a long-forgotten prey? Shadows and movement were playing havoc with its senses-too many souls to keep track of.

It looked up toward the basement's staircase, frightened.

There was something coming into the basement.

:Nooooooooo!:

The Shape took her form once again.

* * *

The camera buzzed once more to life and Holzer took his place at the lead position.

"Ready when you are, Doc."

Now behind his camera, Sinclair started to document the team members' descent into the basement. Sinclair focused his attention on Holzer, who was waving both his EMR detector and Negative Ion device, looking for what science was too damn blind to see. Sinclair was not yet a believer like the rest of the team, but one thing was certain: a camera only recorded what it saw-what they were seeing was incredible.

"Is that camera secure and protected?" Holzer asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Just as you have specified, Doc," Sinclair reassured. "No problem."

Sinclair could see that their surroundings were getting darker. The only light seemed to be coming from the digital camera. Sinclair could hear the sounds of rustling plastic.

"What is it with this place and plastic?" Sinclair asked.

"I really do not know," Holzer said, looking around at the cameraman. "I at first thought it was just for the maintenance of the house as a whole. But upon hearing the statements from Mrs. Gonzalez, and by what we all have witnessed, I'm starting to believe differently."

"It is quite a manifestation, if I do say so myself," Miranda agreed. "In some cultures, it is considered proper that a curtain exists between our world and the world of the dead. Professor, perhaps that is what the sheets of plastic represent. A barrier between our world and the spirit world."

"Perhaps," Holzer agreed. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We are progressing nicely here and I do not want our investigation ruined by speculations. Not until we have the facts to back them up, that is. For now we will assume that the plastic sheets are just that-plastic."

"Sounds good to me, Doc." Sinclair paused. "But what about the dripping water?"

Holzer looked up at the camera, puzzled.

"There are no holes in the roof," Sinclair explained. "So where is all this damn water coming from?"

Sinclair focused his camera on Teresa.

"It's not water," the psychic said, shaking her head.

All the team members continued their trek down the basement. No one seemed to notice that they were traveling dangerously far, and quite longer than the reported foundation depth mentioned in the City Hall records regarding Manchester House's original blueprints.

Unknown to the team, they were now in Her world.

:Welcome, brave souls! Beware!:

* * *

Holzer had been taking in all the comments made by his team members, but being the leader he had to make sure what was recorded on camera was not from his own influence or direction. So it was up to Holzer to play devil's advocate in respect to the scientific eyes that would review all of this later. In truth, he theorized about the plastic tarps just moments before Miranda Wingate had suggested it. That is what he liked about his team - they all thought like him in regards to the world of the paranormal. Well, all except Sinclair.

Hearing the sounds of rustling plastic, Holzer caused all in the group to stop. The sheer magnitude of rustling sounds made it appear as if they were standing in the middle of an active hive of some kind.

Holzer, for the first time since he had started to investigate the unknown, was terrified. "Sinclair, flash the camera lights around so that we can get our bearings here," the professor said, doing his best to hide his urge to run back up the stairs. Back into the coolness and safety of the real world.

"Sure thing, Doc."

Sinclair started to wave the camera around, making sure to pay particular attention to Holzer's body language.

As the lights from the camera cut through the darkness in the basement, the team members could see hundreds of plastic tarps hanging in the tiny room. As they ventured toward the center of the room, they could all see that the tarps were becoming denser-bloodier. Sinclair, with his camera, could barely make out movement in the center, but could not seem to make out what it was.

All the team started to feel an uncomfortable popping sensation in their ears.

"What the hell is all this?" Miranda asked, rubbing her temples.

Holzer was speechless. He looked down at his EMR recorder. The device was letting out a high-pitched steady whine.

"It feels as if we have entered an environment that is at least three atmospheres too strong," Holzer stated, looking about. His eyes peered through his glasses, not really being able to see anything. "That could explain what we are feeling in our ears right now. Theoretically, that is."

"Yeah?" Sinclair said, turning the lights on his camera up to full power. "Theoretically, I'm shitting my pants here, Doc."

Holzer returned his attention to his EMR device.

Holzer saw that the EMR detector was spiking dangerously high. Most phenomena involving EMR never went above fifteen ergs. Holzer saw the device spike to one thousand four hundred fifty seven ergs. Overwhelmed, the tiny device literally exploded in his hand. Horrified, the professor dropped his detector.

The team froze, looking at the burnt-out device smoldering on the basement floor.

"Professor!" Teresa asked, her voice trembling. "What's going on here? Has this ever happened before?"

Silence.

Sinclair shifted the weight of the camera from one shoulder to the other.

Taking off his glasses, Holzer really didn't know how to react. He just stared blankly at his burnt hand.

"By all the known laws of science, and a few unknown, we should all be dead right about now." Holzer paused. "To answer your question, Teresa:,I really don't know what's going on here."

In his mystified state, Holzer accidentally dropped his glasses. Realizing that they had hit the basement floor, he bent over to pick them up.

"Damn!"

Holzer reached for the broken glasses, realizing painfully that they were cracked in the right lens.

Something started to stir in the basement.

Something brought to life by the sound of breaking glass.

"Some ghosts hate the sounds of breaking glass, Professor," Teresa brought herself to say, seeming to sense that they were no longer alone.

Holzer swallowed hard, doing his best to keep his mind from panicking.

Holzer wanted to panic.

* * *

Holzer looked up, noticing his surroundings. A flash of confusion, shock, and horror came across his face. Even with his glasses off, he could see that something was terribly wrong.

"What the&?" The professor did his best to control the fear in his voice.

The interior of the basement had changed slightly-almost appearing as if it were another room-a larger room than possible for the house it was resting under. The hundreds of plastic tarps had become thousands. The tarps seemed to be forming a maze of some kind. Its design seemed to be to confuse the team and trap them. In the middle of all of this madness, standing just feet away from Holzer, they all saw the Shape and what could only be called an army of the undead, looking coldly on.

"I do not like the look of this," Miranda whispered, holding a hand over her mouth.

"Whatever this is, Miranda," Holzer warned, "it appears to be real. So we need to treat it as such." Holzer turned to face Sinclair. "You filming all of this, son?"

Sinclair eyed Holzer with surprise-it was the first time Holzer had ever addressed him as "son".

"Nothing is going to keep me from filming this stuff, Doc. Don't you worry about me. Go and do your thing."

Holzer nodded.

All figures seemed frozen in their tracks.

Water was dripping everywhere.

:It's not water.:

Holzer turned his attentions to the army of the undead before them. He could not see details because they were all standing behind a plastic film, but he could see that they were many. Both male and female were represented in their ranks and appeared to be from several time periods. Their identities were all a mystery. The one thing Holzer was certain of was that the thousands of undead eyes that were staring at him and his team members through the plastic film were all angry at seeing invaders coming fresh into their world.

The Shape started to move.

She was in command.

The Shape, it was discovered, was the only entity that was standing outside the plastic and was the only one Holzer could see fully. Her head was bowed down and no one could see her face-her long black hair hid her features. She appeared to be a young girl in her teen years. Tiny. Fragile. Very dangerous.

"She is important to all of this, Professor," Teresa said, holding back her excitement. "Beyond the obvious-that she is here, that she is in command-there is something not yet discovered about this entity that is the key to all the hauntings, killings, and disappearances. Solve the mystery of this girl and you will solve the mystery behind Manchester House."

Holzer took what he was hearing from the psychic all in. "Are you able to make contact, my dear?"

"Possibly." Teresa raised her hands cautiously. "It will take some doing. She is quite angry."

"Why?"

Teresa tried to probe with her mind, her eyes closed. "It seems that she has been doing her best to warn us away from this place."

"What?" Holzer asked, startled. "Again, why?"

Holzer and the rest of his team started to not only see a change taking place in the room but could feel it as well. They all started to see a substance resembling blood drip down some of the plastic sheets.

Stepping forward, Teresa tried to make contact.

:You will not succeed, child. I will see to that!:

Teresa waved her hands in the air, closing her eyes. "Why are you here? What drives you to haunt this place? Please&we are here to help you."

Holzer silently ordered Sinclair to start filming all of this. Sinclair, just as dumbfounded and horrified as the others, blankly stared on. The professor got his attention, and the camera was activated.

The encounter was now being recorded.

* * *

"What the fuck am I doing here?" Sinclair whispered as his hands tightened around his camera. His world once more became the night-vision-green of his camera lens. He was more terrified now than he was during the bombing of Baghdad in the first Gulf War.

As Sinclair clicked on the last of his lights, he saw the basement from the tiny camera's point of view. Cameras did not lie. This was not the room of a nineteenth-century basement. This room appeared to stretch on for miles. This room seemed larger than the property Manchester House resided on, for Christ's sake! It all appeared just too impossible for the cameraman to believe in.

Sinclair could see that Teresa was fast approaching the Shape. Her arms extended outward, she was doing her best to make peaceful contact.

Keeping everything in focus, the cameraman had to admire the psychic's courage.

"We come as friends," Teresa pleaded, only feet away from where the Shape was standing. "Let us help you."

The camera momentarily focused on Holzer. He had found another EMR reader and was frantically monitoring the room.

"Dear God, we should all be dead right now!" Holzer said, reacting to the EMR readings. Sinclair had never seen the professor's face so livid.

Sinclair awkwardly turned the camera back toward Teresa.

Deep in a trance, Teresa's face was dripping with sweat. Her face looked both focused and fatigued. Sinclair could see that this encounter was taking a lot out of her.

"What are your intentions?" Teresa asked, curious.

Sinclair zoomed in on the image of the Shape. Opening her eyes suddenly, the entire team could hear a thunderous series of eerie screams and noises in reaction to the cold and evil look The Shape was giving Teresa.

"Oh shit&" Sinclair whispered, trailing off.

Sinclair's camera suddenly blinked black.

All the batteries went dead.

There would be no more filming.

* * *

"Power's out, guys." Sinclair apologized, checking his equipment. "Don't know what to tell ya."

Moans went all around. Someone had a flashlight.

Something started to stir in the basement, and it was frightening.

Without warning, a sudden burst of psychic energy attacked Teresa, sending her hurtling across the room, crashing against a nearby wall.

The Shape glared on, a sneer forming on her features.

Grabbing hold of her chest and in a great deal of pain, Teresa was helped to her feet by all the team members. They were now aware of the fact that this had become more than an academic exercise-this was serious.

Holzer wiped the dirt off Teresa's face. "Teresa! Are you okay?"

Teresa coughed. Everyone noticed a subtle trickle of blood coming out of the corner of her mouth.

"I think so, Professor," Teresa said, controlling her pain, coughing. "I'm hurting, though."

All eyes suddenly turned back toward the Shape.

:You are now my play toys!:

Standing alone, the Shape glared at the team through her long dark hanging hair. No longer in the basement decorated with plastic, duct tape, or dripping blood. Her undead army had vanished. She took one solitary step forward.

"GET&OUT&NOW!" the Shape slowly uttered. Her voice was ragged, slow, controlled, and filled with hate. Yet in all of that there was also something else-fear. But fear of what?

After a few moments, the Shape started to slowly move forward. As she did this, light bulbs, electrical outlets, and even the camera Sinclair was holding, all started to explode. Holzer took action and ordered all to leave the basement.

"Do what she wants," Holzer ordered. "Leave!"

Holzer was under the fear that if they did not heed the Shape's advice, she would kill all of them once she had ventured close enough. Having witnessed her actions toward Teresa, the college professor wasn't going to take the chance. Not while they were still one man short.

"Ingrid," Holzer prayed, running up the basement stairs, following the rest of his team. "Where are you?"

:What was that?:

The Shape stopped her pursuit of the invaders. Something had caught her attention. Something old. Something powerful.

Something within her circle of influence.

Something&

CHAPTER TEN

Ingrid Night had walked for almost three straight days to reach this point in the rainy woods of Atchison, Kansas. He had fasted for those days, saying special prayers passed down to him by wise and ancient men trying to make him pure. If he was to fight an evil force that even Jonathon Holzer could not bring himself to understand, he expected the worst.

The rain had made it difficult for the journey but had helped to clear his mind of trivial and worldly things. With his thoughts focused on arriving at the appointed spot, he could not afford to think about thoughts left in the world of man.

His only enemy was time. His only companion was his faithful servant, Lars.

The cold damp road called to the both of them.

An evil trembled at the sense of them.

Without knowing it, Ingrid Night stopped, looking at what appeared to be a gigantic wall of forest and weeds. Nothing existed, in his eyes, which could be called evidence that a house was nearby. No sign of Holzer and his team.

For almost an hour, with the rain falling all around him soaking him to the bone, Ingrid Night stared into the dark woods.

He never moved.

He never blinked.

He did nothing.

Lars sneezed, wiping away a small stream of snot from his lower lip. Night smiled. Lars was not a tidy man. Good at his job as an able assistant, yes, but not a neat man.

Lars was also a deaf mute. Incredibly accurate at reading lips and body language, but hell when it came to having a conversation with the man.

Night turned his head, giving Lars a cold look.

Lars, his eyes regretting his actions, gave his master a tearful glance of regret. The sickly-looking beagle-faced old man peered through his think eyeglasses-without them he was totally blind-and shrugged his shoulders. What was there to do but find the entrance.

The entrance that some evil force was trying to hide from them.

"The evil knows that we are here, my friend," Night stated, patting Lars on the shoulder. Night towered over his assistant in height and together they looked like father and son, but that was where the family resemblance stopped.

"So the evil wants to hide itself from us?" Night questioned. Rain poured down the front of the hat he was wearing, making it almost impossible for him to see more than just a few feet ahead. "Well, that's nice. The evil wants a fight; so we will give him one. Will we not, Lars?"

Lars stood by his master's side, silent. Ready.

Night rather slowly placed out his right hand.

Lars responded.

Reaching into a coat pocket, Lars pulled out a small white candle. Nothing particularly special about the object-a common candle which could be found in any department store. Still, there was a hint of a nervous shake in Lars' hands, in the handling of the thing, which gave one the impression that this was no ordinary candle.

"Then we are ready," Night insisted.

For almost another hour, Night and his companion studied the woods.

The portal was nearby. Of that Night was certain.

* * *

Night lit a single match. "I have it," he whispered, nodding his head toward Lars, informing him to make ready.

Lars, picking up their equipment, patiently waited for Night to take action.

Night lit up his candle.

"We begin here!" Night shouted. He raised the lit candle to face the bitter cold and wet of the night air. Although the rain was pouring down, the flame from the candle was not affected. In fact, the tiny flame grew brighter. "And I saw in the right hand of Him that sat upon the throne a book sealed with seven seals." Night began to pray out loud. "And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, 'Who is worthy to open the books and to loose the seals thereof?'"

Night paused, waiting.

The flame grew to be an enormous height. From the tiny candle in Night's hand, a nine-foot flare shot out, igniting the darkness. The trees and bushes, vines and dirt responded. A quivering started to take place in the thickness of the woods. And something was made aware.

"I am!" Night yelled to the woods. "I am strong enough to open the seals, you son-of-a-bitch!"

The thunderous noise, as if a huge vault had been suddenly burst open, echoed throughout the area in which Night and Lars were standing. Yells, screams, and voices of the damned began to attack the two. Night felt no discomfort, not even grabbing at his ears or having the need to care. Lars couldn't hear a damn thing to begin with, which made him vital in Night's goals. If Night failed, Lars was there to see them through. A demon had trouble seducing a deaf mute.

"Show yourself, you heathen! You whore of the world!" Night commanded.

A small earthquake could be felt under Night's and Lars' feet.

"So, it opens."

As if by magic, and with one blink of the eye, Night and Lars could easily see the lone dark road Holzer and his team had ventured down hours before. Why the road was hidden Night couldn't say-nor did he care. This was what he had come to expect after so many decades of fighting evil throughout the world. Evil had only one function on the earth according to Ingrid Night, and that was to be destroyed. There was no understanding quality to evil-only its death.

"Well, Jonathon." Night sighed heavily, picking up a small medical bag. "I hope that you have some coffee waiting for me. I am awfully damn tired right now."

Both headed down the hidden road. It was obvious to Night that Manchester House, having received new guests, did not wish to be found so soon. Night was also sure that the people of Atchison, Kansas knew of this little parlor trick the house liked to pull but had come to believe the act to be a haunting, or at the very least something to be ignored as a midnightghost story. Still, Night seemed to know that the house knew that he knew.

"We are not finished here, Lars," Night warned. "Be on guard."

Lars kept his attention on the surrounding woods.

It did not take Night long to find Holzer's car.

Opening the front passenger door of the car, Night discovered the letter that Holzer had left behind. Holzer, the letter instructed, had informed his team members that it was intended for strangers, should their car be discovered. This was a lie. The letter was meant for Night.

"So, Jonathon, what have you left for me, huh?"

Night read the letter.

Ingrid,

Manchester House lies ahead of you. I hope to see you soon. My friend, I hope that we can find the answer to this puzzle together. I know how much you love a challenge. This is why we founded SOURCE in the first place.

The people on my team are the best we have in this area and should prove themselves worthy in your usage. If we do not see you, or are not well, I hope to see you in the next life. I do not shudder at the thought of losing, my friend, but ManchesterHouse has taken her fair share of victims. I do not think myself arrogant enough not to be counted as one of her victims, if I am not careful, that is.

In any case, watch your step. There is a local legend that if the wood does not want you near the house, it will cause great harm. This is one theory behind what could have happened to the missing Civil War platoon that disappeared in this area so long ago. So my friends, take care, be careful, and see you soon.

Warmest regards,

Jonathon Holzer

Night folded the letter, placing it in his coat pocket.

The rain stopped.

The woods became aware.

"Lars, prepare yourself for some serious shit," Night whispered.

Lars took out a long Bowie knife and a small pistol.

The trees surrounding Night, Lars, and the car started to move. The vines became animated. The air around them started to thicken.

"It comes."

Before either man could react, they had sunk into the earth, bubbling in the mud and fighting for their lives. The dirt and foam of the earth stopped at their waists. Lars started to hack away at the rising dirt as he sank into it, but to no avail. It was as if the road was trying to bury the two of them alive.

Night did nothing. He only kept his eyes on the woods.

In the distance, Night could see a figure looming over them.

A figure of a little girl, peering through a mat of bloodied hair.

Night saw the Shape.

"You will not kill me, evil one," Night shouted, pushing defiant arms up into the air. "I have survived stronger devils than you!"

Lightening started to flash, allowing the full figure of the Shape to be seen by both men. Lars pointed to the ghostly little girl, doing his silent best to bring his master's attention toward the specter if he had not noticed her before. Night allowed the man the honor-Lars was only doing his job.

The Shape was smiling as she made sure that Night and Lars could not move.

Holzer's car suddenly darted up into the air, smacked aside by the fallen tree trunks that had blocked their way from before. Night and Lars missed the car by only inches, both clutching onto the other, burying their faces into the mud. Night could see the car land several hundred feet away, exploding. A burnt-out steel hulk.

"Hope it wasn't a rental," Night said to amuse himself.

Vines and tree branches started to advance toward Night.

The wood did not want them to go any further.

Night's thoughts turned to Holzer. What was he now going through?

In any case, Night knew that he wasn't going to be able to greet his good friend while sinking waist-high in the mud.

Night still had in his hand a small black medical bag, given to him by an admirer decades ago while on another case. It had proven itself to be a great and faithful servant, and like Lars Night could not imagine a day without it by his side. It completed him.

What was more important was what was inside the bag.

Charms, spells, and icons of every faith and religion. Good, like evil, had many faces. Though Night was partial to the faces of his faith, he realized that God was great enough to have other faces in the battle with evil. So it was long ago that Night became an expert at every religion practiced by man, and each means known to combat evil. Partial to the arts of Judaism, however, he couldn't help but be a little dramatic.

Night reached into his bag, pulling out an ancient Star of David. He had shown it toward the image of the Shape, which seemed to be coming closer-her power growing.

"The evil in the night has no power against me," Night started to pray. "I am a fortified tower in His presence. I am a good and faithful servant toward the forces of light, and shall not be conquered by those of the dark. I am one with Him."

A hint of ozone could be sensed in the air.

The wind stopped.

The Star of David started to glow, shining brighter than any flashlight or candle.

"I walk where those fear to tread, for I am a servant of Almighty God. I know the secret of life, and use that secret against evil." Night pointed his long bony finger at the Shape. "I have come to bear witness to you!"

A thunderous sound echoed through the wood. Night started to smile.

He'd pissed off the demon.

The Shape, it seemed, started to shiver. Whether that shiver was from the cold, anger, or fear, Night could not tell. It surprised and amazed him when he had discovered long ago that demons and spirits could still feel these things. And why not? God and his universe were more complex than anything Man could ever conceive.

"You do not fear me?" Night said, rather amused. He kept his voice below a whisper. This was a private moment between himself and the demon.

The mud surrounding him and Lars began to dry at an accelerated rate. It now became possible for Lars and him to pull themselves out of the trap. They did so, rather hurriedly, realizing that the opportunity would only be a brief one.

"Lars, watch where you are stepping this time. I cannot look out for you that much. Not this night." Night winked at Lars, causing the mute to smile back up at him.

Both Night and Lars stayed away from open pools of mud.

The Shape shirked out a powerful moan of anger, directing it at Night and his partner. She was enraged at the fact that Night had escaped her planned demise. How many other bodies were buried just inches under Night's shoes by this powerful force, the man had to wonder.

The Shape mockingly raised her hand, copying Night's gesture just moments before. Her lips started to move. Night ached to hear what she was saying, but could not.

"What is she doing, Lars?"

The wood turned remarkably quiet. Dead.

The silence was profound; Lars also seemed to be reacting toward it. Although deaf, Lars had proven himself to have a keen sense of danger. The silence bothered the little man, causing him to break free of Night's circle of influence. Lars moved outward, expecting a fight.

"Lars!" Night yelled, his friendship and concern for the man causing him to momentarily forget that Lars couldn't hear his warning.

A rainfall of rocks attacked Lars. Rocks of various sizes seemed to be falling out of the sky.

"Materialization?" Night mused. "Well, spirit, we have been bored, haven't we?"

Night dropped his bag, rushing to the aide of his dear friend.

"Lars! Am I to put you on a leash?" Night meekly chuckled, realizing that Lars was bleeding badly.

Before Night could reach Lars, who appeared injured, he was held in place by a powerful force. Cursing his stupidity, Night realized that by letting go of his bag, he had broken whatever protection he may have had.

He was now at the mercy of the Shape.

She stepped forward onto the trail, facing both Night and Lars. As she passed Lars, looking down at him on the ground, unconscious in a fetal position, knocked out by a large pile of rocks, she leered down at the man as if to silently say, "You, later."

Her focus was now on Ingrid Night.

"As in the days of old, when the prophets approached the face of God, it was written that no force could stop His will," Night said, challenging the Shape, never flinching from the bond that she had over him, nor did he give up. This was not the first time the Devil had him by the balls. "The beast in the night cannot harm me. I am a soldier of the light."

Night himself started to shiver. Controlled though it was, for he never allowed his foe to see him conquered, he could not but help feel that he was being watched. He felt as if a thousand eyes were looking down upon him.

There was movement behind him.

Slowly and carefully, Night peered over his right shoulder.

"Dear God," he whispered.

Night had come across people he knew, soldiers like himself, who had often talked about encounters with "elementals." These were ancient spirits that had been around since the beginning. Lower forms of spiritual lives which existed on the same plane as that of God, but were nowhere near his greatness. Still, these creatures did exist. Night had often questioned the theory that they were still around. Psychologists tried to explain them, but not to Night's liking. Up until the time he turned to look over his shoulder, he had thought all the elementals were gone.

Not so.

Towering above Night, a creature made of vines, rock, dirt, and dead trees walked toward him. It held no distinctive shape. It only appeared as an avalanche of wood, wishing to engulf him and Lars. Still, Night could feel the elemental's influence. It was coming from the little girl image of the Shape.

"You can control such power?"

The Shape smiled at him, almost innocently. Was he seeing an honest pride?

Vines darted out from the advancing tide of wood, grabbing hold of Night, engulfing him with leaf and bark like a mummy in its burial garments.

"Damn you, beast!" Night shouted, realizing that his feet were no longer on the ground. Within seconds, he estimated, the elemental had raised him two hundred feet in the air.

Night found his hands near his pants pocket.

Victory flashed in his eyes.

There was still a chance, by God! A glorious chance.

"I am the Wisdom and the Light, sayeth the Lord."

Reaching into his left pants pocket, Night realized that he had placed his Shamas candle there after the portal hiding the way toward Manchester House had been torn open. A Shamas candle was a blessed candle, treated with care by holy hands so that the flame drawn to light the Jewish menorah would glow with the purity of God's light. If anything humble and good upon the earth had the power to stop this monster, it was that tiny item overlooked by Night in his human arrogance.

The candle was there, and had not been damaged.

Night reached into his right pocket for a match.

Straining his muscles, Night brought both hands together.

The Shape started to retreat back into the wood, toward Manchester House. Something, it seemed, caught her attention. Perhaps Holzer was also fighting her on his end, with that particular scientific style of his which Night had come to both respect and love.

"Holzer, keep up the good fight!" Night laughed, lighting the candle.

A sharp vine lashed out at Night, almost striking him on the left cheek. It withered and spun in the air, animated, as if it were a snake. Several other vines flashed to action in response. It was as if the elemental had suddenly become aware that it was now acting on its own, with its major power influence gone, heading back toward Manchester House, and wanted to stop Night in his plans to defeat it.

Without blinking an eye, and gasping for breath, Ingrid Night lit the candle.

"My Light to the world, and the name of Justice at hand!" Night prayed.

The elemental froze.

The candle burned, its flame a beacon in the darkness of the wood.

"I cast you out!" Night yelled, raising the candle above his face.

The elemental let out a violent roar. In waves of flurrying bushes and dead tree trunks, the creature seemed to quiver in agony. The strength in the vines holding Night in place began to weaken, and the height in which he was held began to lower.

The vines holding Night burst into flames.

"Oh, shit!" Night said, realizing that he was still over fifty feet in the air, falling, splashing into a puddle of muddy water.

The elemental screamed, disappearing. The vines, bushes, and dead tree trunks in which it was held fell to the earth, lifeless. One thing was certain: the Parks and Recreations Department of Atchison would have one hell of a mess to clean up in the morning and none would be the wiser-blaming it all on the terrible rainstorm.

Anonymous in his victory, Ingrid Night was pleased.

Exhaling, he spat mud out of his mouth.

* * *

A familiar hand placed its worried presence on Night's shoulder. Turning around, his eyes met those of Lars. Still bleeding from his forehead, Lars gave his master a nod of triumph. Lars had witnessed the final moments of his master's fight and was glowing with pride.

"A hero I am, heh?" Night joked, wiping the mud off his face.

Lars shrugged his shoulders.

Both Night and Lars got up and headed toward Manchester House and their destiny.

Night, happy, was whistling his favorite song: Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The basement door of Manchester House burst open and Holzer and his team came out heeding the warning they had been given by the Shape. All were more than ready to exit the mansion.

Leading the team, Holzer paused as he opened the front door. It was raining again, heavily, and the bright flashes of lightning blinded them all. It was a rather terrible storm and not quite the ideal weather needed for them all to leave. But most were convinced that considering what they went through in the basement it would be safer to leave than to stay.

Holzer was embarrassed as well as enraged.

"What about your class, Doc?" Sinclair asked, his eyes sad. "Won't they object?"

Holzer gave the question some thought. He looked back into the darkness of the house with a great deal of respect-more than he'd had upon first entering.

"Perhaps, Mr. Sinclair, there are some questions which are best left&" He paused, regret clearly visible on his face. "Unanswered."

All turned to leave. Holzer, however, soon got the impression that they were not alone. That someone else had been listening to what they had been saying.

Stepping forward from the darkness, Holzer was delighted to see his old friend and fellow SOURCE founder, Ingrid Night. Night was a towering figure of a man, dressed like the "Quaker Oats Man from Hell" as Holzer used to call him. This figure was wearing a huge brimmed hat, dripping with both mud and rain, curiously enough. Night appeared to have been involved in some kind of mishap that Holzer, at the time, could not understand. His face was speckled with thick dirt and leaves. His face was weather-worn and had seen better days. Holzer could see that Night had led a seriously rough number of years since he had last seen him. Night, very straightforward, looked down at the horrified group, smiling wryly.

"Looks like I got here just in time, Jonathon," Night said, his voice dripping with a deep Belgian accent.

Night, responding to all the horrified looks he was getting and remembering the hell he went through to get to them, started to laugh, holding back a well-established cough. Although he looked old, Holzer could see that he carried himself like a man half his age. As quick as the cough hit him, he shook it off.

"Damn Kansas weather," Night huffed, sniffling. "Who needs it?"

"Ingrid, thank God you are here," Holzer said, taking out a handkerchief, wiping his forehead.

"Yes." Night tightly nodded his head in agreement. "Do thank God, my friend. Because if I were not his servant, you and your friends would be his latest tenants." Night timidly placed his hand on Holzer's shoulder. His eyes shone with a fatherly wisdom. "Jonathon, when will you ever learn?"

"Huh?"

"Evil cares not for the degrees that you hold. It cares not that you are curious." Night paused, tired. "It only cares to destroy."

Holzer's face turned cold. He had heard these words before on other cases and was quite sick to keep on hearing them.

"Nice to see you again, Ingrid." There was a long pause, which made Holzer slightly smile. "We could use your help, you know."

Night started to giggle. "Tell me, Jonathon, the car that you arrived in&"

"Yes?"

"Was it a rental?"

Holzer gave the question some serious thought. "No. It belongs to the science department at the college." Holzer's brow turned worried. "Why?"

"Consider it a loss, then." Night smiled.

Holzer let out a tired moan, not really interested in hearing any more.

"Yes. I thought you'd like that news," Night said, laughing. "Tough being involved in the economics of life, isn't it?"

Holzer said nothing. He was deep in thought.

Night left his dear friend alone with his thoughts.

Night paid particular attention to Holzer. The man was well aware of the controlled anger in Holzer's voice. He lightly smiled when he noticed it. Night's face, scarred and tattered, showed that he was a veteran of many hard battles. Still, there was enough charity in his features to show Holzer that he cared.

"Lars!" Night yelled, almost scaring everyone within shouting distance. "Get in here. I haven't all night, you know." Night turned to Holzer, explaining. "Good help is hard to come by. I apologize."

Night took off his hat, shaking the rain off of it. Placing it back on his head, he was sure that enough of the accumulated water was gone. He adjusted his brim.

A stumbling sound was heard as Lars entered the house.

Lars, a rather spidery looking little man, wore impossibly thick glasses and gave Holzer the impression that without them, he would be as blind as the proverbial bat. Lars was dressed in something of an Amish fashion and had long blond hair. Still, there was something different about the man that Holzer did notice: his forehead was cut and bleeding.

Night shook his head at Lars, silently judging the servant's slow movements. He laughed dryly. "Lars, I know you are slow. Death is quicker than you are, you bastard. Heh!"

From Lars, there was no response. He remained silent. Doing his duty.

Lars handed Night an impossibly large carrying case in which Night placed his small medical bag from before. This case was as much a part of Night as a rifle was to a soldier. It was his conjure kit. His Swiss Army knife for all occasions.

It was then that Holzer noticed Lars' injuries.

"What happened to Lars?"

"Huh?" Night asked, trying his best to look surprised.

Holzer pointed to Lars' bleeding forehead. "What happened?"

Night gazed at his servant blankly. "Must have tripped coming to this cursed place. The man's a damn fool, I think. But I keep him because he's a good friend and can bake one hell of a cherry pie when forced to."

Both Holzer and Night stared at each other silently for a long time. Holzer knew that he was being fed bullshit. Still, the matter was soon dropped.

"Again, Ingrid, I thank you for coming," Holzer said, slightly ashamed. "We had all but given up our investigation."

Night, momentarily, was concerning himself with the preparation of his conjure kit. He gave his friend an understanding glance.

"Think nothing of it," Night reassured him. "I have been where you are now, my friend. And you will conquer, for I am here to help you."

Holzer couldn't help it. He started to smile.

"I have work to start, my friend," Night said, turning serious.

Night looked inside his conjure kit. His hands explored several curious objects, from ancient Native American charms to stakes needed to kill a vampire--all methods known to assault evil. Night focused his attention on a long black cloak and a huge leather book. He brought these out of the case. The room became lit with a series of flashes and thunderous lightning coming from the storm. Or was it the storm?

Night placed the black cloak over his long trench coat. This seemed to enhance his seriousness-almost making him look like a nightmare created by Tim Burton. Taking his leather book, he broke this image by kissing the book lovingly, with a sacred feeling. He turned his attention toward the mansion's basement door.

"Take care," Night whispered to the house, challenging it. "Here I come."

Night ventured further into the house, heading toward the basement door via the main hall. Trotting along faithfully behind, Holzer could see Lars carrying Night's conjure kit if needed.

Entering the main hall, Holzer saw Night open his book and kneel in the middle of the room. Behind him, Lars removed a small bottle of oil, sprinkling it in a circle around Night. After doing this, Lars silently stood by his master. Night started to pray.

Holzer turned his attention toward Sinclair and was both surprised and proud that the cameraman was filming everything. In the time it took Night to set himself up and visit with Holzer, Sinclair had fixed the device. Holzer couldn't be more proud of the man.

Sinclair, noticing Holzer's surprise, gave the college professor a festive thumbs up display.

Holzer returned to studying Night's plan of attack. If anything else were to come from this night, it would be that what happened next would not be boring.

Night started to raise his voice. His prayers took on a life of their own. Powerful. Dignified. Not to be taken lightly.

"My superior nature worketh through thee&" Night said, challenging the house. "Happy art thou if thou canst grasp this truth. For by understanding that not thy weak self but my all-knowing mind looketh out upon the world through thine eyes, shalt thou have faith to let me see! Then shalt thou overcome the evil of thy senses by devoting them wholly to my use."

The house stood incredibly still.

Night paused, listening.

Lars stood vigilant. Sinclair continued filming. Holzer held his breath.

The flask of blessed oil Night was holding was an artifact that he had been carrying with him for years. It was said that this oil had been used by Noah to light the lamps of the Ark during his long voyage to the mountains of Ararat. Or that is what the monks at Mt. Ararat told Night when they gave the substance to him in honor of who he was and what he represented.

Chanting ancient prayers forgotten by most men of this world, Night sprinkled the oil on the floor toward the basement door. Whatever influence the evil of this mansion had, it seemed to be coming from that door. This was not just a job to Night. This was not old hat. This was life and death. He was both a professional and aware of what he was doing-what nature of beast he was facing. Just like any working soul in the world, this was his job and he took it seriously. He had to. If he didn't, people would die.

A rumbling roar could be heard coming from the basement. Night and Lars looked at each other.

"The beast has made itself known," Night proclaimed. "Let us prepare to test it then, shall we, Lars?"

Lars stood ready.

If not a witness to all of this, the team members and Holzer would have laughed at the pure melodrama that they were hearing. The only thing that kept any one of them from rolling their eyes, laughing, or just leaving the room was the fact that Ingrid Night was deadly serious about the whole affair. Night found value in what he was doing and that was enough for him.

So even though Night looked tired and in his own pool of pain, he was aware of his surroundings. He was also aware of Holzer's skepticism.

"Be careful what you think, Jonathon," Night warned. "The beast is aware of you."

Holzer didn't know what to say. In fact, during times like this, when watching Night at his work, the scared little child who only wished to stare in amazement always seemed to come to the surface. Although a scientist and dedicated to logic, Night always managed to scare the hell out of Holzer. And Holzer hated it.

Hearing the warning, though, Holzer took it seriously.

Teresa broke away from the group and ventured out toward Night. Lars, noticing the girl, only looked on.

"What is it?" Night asked, irritated.

"Mr. Night," she asked.

"Yes?"

"Look at the tarps."

"Tarps?"

"They're glowing." Teresa put a surprised hand up to her face, astonished.

Night turned from his book, studying the young girl by his side. She was brave, he gave her that. She also seemed to have a great power. A power that, if disciplined, could be used to combat evil and that he respected. Closing his book and lightly placing it down by his feet, he made sure that it was still within the blessed circle. "Hmm."

Throughout the mansion, wherever there was a hanging plastic tarp, and there were many, they all started to glow with a bright green tint. The house had so much illumination in it, it almost appeared as if all the lights were on.

"Sinclair," Holzer ordered. The professor motioned with his hands as if to alert the cameraman to what he was already seeing.

"No need to ask, Doc," Sinclair said, filming. "I got it."

Night started to see a writing of some sort appearing all over the house. Cryptic writing. Arabic. Russian. German. Some Latin. But, more important, he noticed Hebrew. Ancient. Cabbalistic.

"Wait a minute!" Night blurted out. He held up a shaky hand. "Nobody move!"

All in the group paused. The level of conviction in Night's voice was enough to cause Teresa to break herself out of whatever trance she was in; realizing that she had ventured toward Ingrid Night, she sought the safety and familiarity of her friend's company. Night noticed Teresa being comforted by the taller woman and admired the friendship.

"What is it, Ingrid?" Holzer asked.

Night slowly moved his hands, showing Holzer the symbols that had been painted, drawn, or magically placed all over the house. Holzer, noticing the things that Night had been privy to, smiled, his excitement growing.

Holzer took out his EMR detector.

Night made a face. "Why do you need that thing, heh?"

"It gets me through the night."

"Try faith, my friend," Night grumbled. "Anyway, I preferred the old EMF devices you used to carry. They were less noisy than these new inventions of yours."

Holzer waved the device in the air, taking note at what he was seeing from his side of the investigation. "Faith, like life, has many different levels of support."

"True."

"What have we got here?"

Night rubbed his chin-he needed a shave. "Someone has been here before. Many times. Trying to investigate what we have come here to seek. Recently, perhaps only just a few years ago, some of these spells were cast."

"Appears that none were successful," Holzer said, turning off his EMR device and placing it back in his jacket pocket.

"Jonathon," Night said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "if it were not for some of these symbols, charms, and spells, I fear that you would have been dead long before Lars and I arrived. A very skilled Cabbalist placed those symbols on the walls there. I fear, however, that the man placed them there at the cost of his life."

A creak went through the main hall, causing both men to dart their eyes up, looking to see if they were alone. Several of the hanging plastic tarps moved, as if some unseen thing had brushed them, passing by. There was no one there. There was only the wind.

"We have walked into something more powerful than either one of us had thought, my friend," Night stated. "Great danger waits."

"Why don't we just leave and come back with greater numbers?"

Night turned to his friend, giving Holzer a hard look. "We could bring the United States Marines and it would do us no good. The beast here is aware of who we are and can destroy us accordingly."

"Impossible."

Night put his hand on Holzer's shoulder. "Jonathon, I love you like a son. You are a great soldier on the side of good. A man I would like on my side in any battle."

"Thank you&" Holzer tried to say.

"But!" Night barked, interrupting. "You do not think! That has always been your problem. You need to think the way that I do. Evil cannot be explained. It cannot be tamed like a dog in the wild. It only wishes to feed off of you and to destroy who you are. If it does this, it extinguishes a great light of good. That is what this house wants to do. You see that, do you not?"

Holzer went through all the facts he knew about Manchester House. The various killings, disappearances, the several missing children that the area had been plagued with over the decades, the rise in crime in a rather sleepy town, the insanity that came from being lost in the woods. The cases he had studied of the home's past owners. All these seemed to back up what Night was trying to explain.

"Ingrid," Holzer stated, looking at his friend hard, "I agree with what you are staying..."

"But?" Night said, smiling.

"But we founded SOURCE because we both knew that good also has many different levels. Many different means of attacking evil and the forces of darkness that plague our society. My approach is no more right or wrong than yours." Holzer paused, diligent in his thoughts but cautious in his actions. "So please keep your thoughts about my scientific analysis to yourself. We have a damn job to do."

Night looked into Holzer's eyes for a long time, never moving and never saying a word. With the same conviction, Holzer stared back.

"You are right, my friend." Night's features softened. "I ask for forgiveness. I was trained by a very wise but old-fashioned teacher. We see things differently, but we are the same in our goals. Join me, and together let's go kick some ass."

Holzer couldn't help but let out a tired laugh.

Both men shook hands.

The house turned still.

All eyes darted around, noticing the glow from the tarps diminishing.

"The beast is with us, Jonathon," Night said, picking up his book, opening it to a marked page. "Join your friends. Stay away from the circle. Mind where you step. These symbols on the floor, I fear, will be needed by all of us tonight."

The Shape soon appeared.

At the top of the main staircase, looking timid, fragile, and scared, the tiny image of the teen-aged girl glared down at the team through the thick matting of the black hair that hung over her face.

Night looked up at her.

:LEAVE&.HERE&.NOW.:

The threat seemed to come from everywhere. But all who heard it knew that it came from the Shape. Although her lips never moved, it was she who uttered the warning.

"I think not, my friend," Night stated. "You see, I have traveled far and I take that personally."

Several of the plastic tarps started to drip with ooze that resembled blood.

"Nice parlor trick," Night commented, his face turning hard. "But I am serious."

From the corner of his eye, Night saw Sinclair move forward, peering through the eyepiece of his camera, paying little attention toward anything but what he was filming. Night tiredly huffed out a loud sigh-the cameraman had no idea of the danger he was in.

"Boy, this is so great," Sinclair stated, focusing the lens on the camera. Most new camera guys always relied on their camera's computer to auto focus-not him. Auto focus was for wimps. "Jeez, this is good."

"Mr. Sinclair!" Night yelled, pointing a warning finger at the young cameraman. "Do not go any further. I warn you, boy!"

Sinclair was too involved to listen.

The Shape turned her attentions toward Sinclair and his camera.

Sinclair could see the white, dead eyes of the Shape peer down at him from the top of the main staircase. He wondered why the girl favored the stairs when she made her presence known. The ghost could be seen in the basement, the front yard, and anywhere else one could think of, but when in a state of confrontation, the Shape always seemed to prefer the stairs. Or was it just his imagination? He had a habit of always formulating a plan, action, or idea half-cocked.

In any case, the stare of hatred caused Sinclair to pause.

His right foot had come to rest on the bottom step.

Sinclair had crossed the line of no return.

The Shape started to moan. Moving from side to side. Chanting.

"Holy Father!" Night said, flipping through his leather-bound book.

"What?" Sinclair asked, turning his camera from Night to the Shape repeatedly. "What did I do?"

"Get the hell away from the stairs!" Miranda yelled, terror clearly on her face.

The house turned deathly still.

Only the sounds of the Shape chanting softly and the rustling of plastic could be heard.

Also the responsive chants by Night.

"Sinclair," Holzer whispered, "please, while you can, stop filming and back away from the stairs."

Sinclair mockingly laughed. He turned his camera toward the Shape. "Not to worry, Doc. I've been through worse."

The Shape's eyes turned hard. Looking away from her chanting, she momentarily stopped her swaying, pointing a bony finger down at Sinclair and his camera.

:Die!:

Sinclair stopped. Frozen.

"Sinclair?" Miranda asked, her voice trembling.

Night momentarily looked up from his chanting, flipping a page of his book. He looked at Holzer, shaking his head. This was going to be a tough one.

"Doc, I can't move," Sinclair finally said. His voice was shaking.

Every muscle in Sinclair's body seemed to be controlled by another force other than his brain. Try as he might, the cameraman couldn't move. And once he discovered that he couldn't move, he started to freak out. Without wishing to, he stopped filming, turned off his camera, and tossed it across the room.

The camera smashed into thousands of pieces.

There would be no more filming.

The Shape continued her chanting. She started to slightly move her finger, causing the house to grumble with power.

Sinclair's eyes began to water. His head started to throb with pain. Blood dripped from his nose. The last thing Sinclair heard before his passed out was Miranda screaming.

"Stop!" Night yelled. He crouched down into his blessed circle, clearing his throat. "It's impolite to avoid your attacker."

The Shape turned toward Night, dropping Sinclair like a puppet.

"Get him!" Holzer ordered.

Night noticed Holzer rush toward Sinclair as he and the two women dragged the cameraman to safety. Sinclair was knocked out, but even from the distance he was away from the fool, Night could see that the man was still alive.

"We have business, you and I," Night said.

The Shape stepped forward, chanting louder.

Night tried to hear what the evil was saying but could not make out the words. "The hand of the prophet stands strong, knowing that the light of good is behind its actions. Be gone! Unclean ghost of sorrow. Be gone! Specter of pain. I stand here, a soldier of the eternal, drawing a line in the sand. A line that you shall never pass."

wNight, his eyes turning hard, closed his book with a loud thud.

"Lars!" he shouted.

Lars, approaching his master, brought him the remaining flask of oil. Taking it, thanking his friend silently, Night started splashing the blessed liquid at the Shape.

:Nooooooooo!: The Shape started to cry.

Night rose to his feet, meekly putting out his right hand. He stood there waiting. Like a combat soldier, Lars reached into Night's conjure kit, handing his master a tiny device. Clicking it open, inspecting it, Night appeared to be holding a weapon which looked to be part shotgun and part crossbow. Made of iron, silver, and oak, it looked more from the seventeenth century than the current one. Ancient writings seemed to be carved all over the wood, matching the writing and symbols Holzer and Night had discovered from before.

Round One was over.

It was now time to get down to serious business.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Holzer looked on with an almost jealous admiration. Ingrid Night seemed unaffected by the serious events and phenomena that he was facing. There was nothing in Night's world but the successful goal of completion. Holzer honestly knew that if faced with similar circumstances on his own, his doubts would have destroyed him. So it was that the college professor stood looking at Night, gawking like an ignorant street urchin, not knowing what to expect next.

There was a deep friendship between both Holzer and Night which was stronger than brotherhood. There was also a dark secret and an unknown hurt that kept them from fully embracing total fellowship. Night hated evil and fought it toe to toe whenever possible. But Holzer knew that there was something that Night hated worse than the evil he tried to destroy-himself.

Night was born from evil, and that was why he fought it so seriously.

Night's parents were from Germany, but his mother was Jewish. And being Jewish in Adolf Hitler's Germany was not an ideal situation. His mother had been sent to a concentration camp-Holzer could never get Night to tell him which one. All he could ever get Night to say was that his mother was cursed with great beauty. A beauty that caught the eye of the camp's commanding officer.

So in order to keep herself from the ovens, his mother had to give up her body. The camp's commanding officer took his time raping Night's mother, enjoying every inch of her body-taking what he could take and, by Nazi edict, forcing the rest.

Two months after D-Day, Night's mother learned that she was pregnant-with him. After his birth, his mother was sent to the ovens anyway. How he survived even Night could not say. All Night would say was that years after the war, he hunted his Nazi father down and killed the bastard with his own hands. Holzer, when visiting Night's home in the Himalayas, would always look up on his friend's mantle-Night kept his father's testicles preserved in a jar.

Hatred. That is what motivated Ingrid Night. Not bravery. Not God. Only hatred.

"Oh, my head."

Holzer turned from his friend and noticed that Sinclair was awake, rubbing his head. The two women were pampering the cameraman, making him look at them with an honest wave of confusion.

"Are you all right?" Holzer finally asked, kneeling down to look into Sinclair's eyes. "I was worried about you out there."

Sinclair laughed dryly. "Don't worry about me, Doc. I'm the Energizer Bunny. I keep going and going."

Miranda took a wet cloth and applied it to Sinclair's head. Holzer was surprised to see that the woman was crying.

"You stupid twit," Miranda said. "Look where you are stepping next time."

Sinclair, serious, took hold of Miranda's chin gently and raised her face to meet his. He was startled by her pure emotions and did not know what to say. Miranda, realizing that her feelings for the cameraman had come to the surface, fumbled her hands around, doing her best not to make eye contact with Sinclair.

"What about that, Doc?" Sinclair asked, motioning toward Miranda. Holzer was amused by his look of bewilderment.

"I'd say that you are a very lucky man," Holzer said, getting back up on his feet. "And a fool if you do not follow through."

"Huh?"

Sinclair sat on a dirty patch of rotted carpet, blankly looking up at Miranda, who handed him the cloth she had been using to wipe off his forehead and two aspirins. The cameraman was too speechless to respond. He had to blink his eyes in astonishment-Miranda was looking at him lovingly trying her best not to.

Holzer smiled, knowing all along that sooner or later this would have to happen on his team. And like a worrying father he both approved and wished that it had never happened. Life was indeed funny in an ironic way-we usually got what we tried to avoid.

"Jonathon," Night said, finally breaking out of his own chanting.

"Yes?"

Night pointed up at the head of the main stairs.

Holzer followed his friend's lead, noticing the stairs.

The Shape was gone.

"Have you won, then?" Holzer asked.

Night turned, looking over his left shoulder into Holzer's eyes. The level of disgust in them, was enough to inform Holzer that he had asked the wrong question.

"Certainly not!" Night rumbled. "This is just the end of the first volley."

"What now?"

Night smiled. "We wait." He paused, looking at Holzer's team. "If you wish, this would be the opportune time to start setting up your scientific equipment. This battle would indeed be an important log for the SOURCE Organization, would it not?"

Holzer silently agreed.

Night nodded with fatherly approval.

"Right, team," Holzer said, clapping his hands together. "Let's get set up."

"What?" Miranda asked, her mouth dropping open. "Are you mad?"

"We are here for a reason, people," Holzer barked. "Let's do what we are trained to do. Like Mr. Night here, we have a job. It's time we joined him and started doing it."

Meekly, all agreed. In unity, however, most wanted to go home.

"Let's not give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing what we look like while running away," Holzer softly said, understanding their hesitation.

One by one, the team gathered up their equipment and went straight to work.

Holzer was pleased to hear that Sinclair was okay. Even more pleased to hear that the memory chip from the camera was salvageable-they still had their footage.

* * *

Six hours passed without incident.

Then, by various degrees, the instruments set up by Holzer and his team began to click to life. Darting from their sleep, for all were exhausted, the SOURCE team went to work.

"What have we got here, people?" Holzer asked, reaching for his micro-recorder.

"Ozone level has doubled, Professor," Teresa said, reading the instruments in front of her.

"Ionic residue is also in the air," Miranda added.

"Ah, Professor," Sinclair said, pointing toward the EMR detector. "This here thingy's blinking very rapidly. Could mean something."

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair," Holzer said, nodding his head in agreement. "It means something."

Night had not moved from his circle. He just stood there, looking out into the mansion's darkness, peering, as if waiting for something to spring out at him. Was he right? Was Night waiting for something to attack?

"What's with the Lone Ranger there?" Sinclair asked, pointing a tired finger toward Ingrid Night.

"Sinclair!" Holzer barked. "Mind your readings. Shout out if they approach the danger zone."

"Is the danger zone the white mark you painted on the main meter, Doc?"

Holzer turned, looking at the cameraman. "Yes."

"Then we're way past worrying."

Holzer swallowed hard. He turned on his tape recorder. "SOURCE team here at Manchester House on October thirtieth at or around two in the morning. Team has been victim of paranormal activity equaled by no records on file. Subject haunt appears to be a teen-aged girl having both incredible powers and strength and a presence which causes one to pause. Who or what she was in life remains a mystery. This must be understood should haunt be listed in files by subject matter. All laws of known science seem to be in question in the structure's basement. Note: Must study mansion's design to see if this has something to do with the displacement phenomena experienced earlier tonight."

Holzer turned off his tape recorder and instinctively looked up at Night.

Night, it appeared, had heard all that Holzer had said and was doing his best not to smile. Holzer knew that smile-Night was agreeing with his actions.

Night started to slowly pour another vial of blessed oil into the weapon he had been holding. Whatever the weapon was, for it was definitely something Holzer could not recognize, it appeared to be designed to shoot the oil like a squirt gun.

Night took slow aim at a nearby wall.

"Ingrid, what are you doing?" Holzer asked, his voice filling with dread.

"My version of understanding evil."

"Please, don't."

Night, for a moment, looked at Holzer from the corner of his eye. While never losing his target or his aim, he coldly smiled and allowed himself to laugh.

Night pulled the trigger.

Lars, reacting the way a combat soldier would to a tossed grenade, hit the floor, landing in a prone position. Motionless.

Holzer turned to his team members, panic on his face.

"Okay, everyone hit the ground. Things will be getting pretty hairy here in a minute."

"Like they aren't right now, Doc?" Sinclair said, turning off all their equipment. "I wish that I had my camera right now."

"So do I, Mr. Sinclair," Holzer agreed. "So do I."

All the team members huddled near the rotted out sofa that Holzer had first seen when he had introduced Manchester House back in his classroom via the Webcam. God! That seemed like a million years ago.

A slight spring-activated click was heard coming from Night's weapon. Holzer studied the thing. It did closely resemble a crossbow.

From the crossbow, the blessed oil created a sort of liquid arrow, hitting the wall across the main hall near the entrance to the kitchen. Holzer was impressed with the fact that Night had guessed that the kitchen was a main focal point of the house.

As the liquid arrow flew across the room, Night handed the weapon back to Lars, who unfolded it, disassembled the weapon into three pieces, and placed it back into Night's conjure kit. And all this was done before the arrow had hit its mark. Both Lars and Night worked together like a well-oiled machine.

Holzer almost envied the way the two were so close. He had been trying for years to anticipate what the dark lone figure that was Ingrid Night would do next. To Holzer, Night was a mystery. To Lars, he was as easy to read as the Sunday morning funny papers.

The liquid arrow hit the wall near the kitchen with a thunderous force, splashing onto the wall, scattering in a butterfly effect across the whole of the target. After a few seconds the oil started to bubble, burn, and sink into the ancient plaster. The house started to react, creaking and roaring with fury. The oil was having the same effect on the body of the house as acid would have on living flesh.

Night remained in his circle, not a bit surprised. Again he picked up his leather-bound book, reading from it.

"What the hell was that stuff he shot onto the wall?" Sinclair asked, peeking up over the back of the sofa.

"It sure as hell wasn't grape juice," Holzer said, totally surprised at what he was seeing.

The hole in the wall caused by the liquid arrow had grown. Chunks of plaster started to fall, hitting the floor. The effects of the weapon appeared not to be stopping. It was as if the oil was trying to burn out all the accumulated evil that Manchester House had managed to store up over the years and the house didn't like it. Not at all.

Night grumbled, clearing his throat. "I come from the night," Night challenged, his voice rising with each passing moment. Holzer noticed that the man's hands were starting to shake. Was Night becoming frightened? "A warrior seeking answers. The force knows me for what I am. The moment approaches. The evil attacks. It knows that I am here!"

While this was happening, Holzer noticed that Lars was taking objects out of Night's conjure kit. He tried to see what they were, but couldn't make them out. The tiny little man placed odd stones, arranged in a pattern unknown to the professor, at Night's feet. Upon completing this arrangement of stones, Lars soon joined his master by his side.

The house turned remarkably calm again. Only the sounds of the team and the bubbling of the nearby wall were heard.

"What the hell is he doing?" Holzer asked. Under his breath, there was a wave of uncertainty that did not suit him.

"EMR readings are off the chart again!" Teresa stated, waving the tiny device in the air.

"Can't seem to get the Negative Ion Detector to work, Professor Holzer," Miranda stated, hitting the tiny black device with the palm of her hands.

All Holzer could do was wait for Ingrid Night to conclude the form of investigation he was doing. Only then would the college professor get the answers he needed from his mysterious friend.

* * *

Night closed his eyes, sensing the house around him. Deep inside his soul, he feared that the house was studying him, trying to discover a weakness. Something that it could use to deceive him, make him sloppy. Night knew that the house would have a long time to study him and hoped that he found the answer to its weakness before the house could destroy him. It was very capable of doing so. Of that Night had no doubt.

Looking up at the oil he had shot out of his gun, Ingrid Night noticed that it was glowing a bright green. The weapon was about to ignite.

Night covered himself and Lars with his thick cloak. He knew that he would have use of it sooner or later. Night turned his attention to Holzer, who was surprised by his sudden crouching movements. "You better take cover, Jonathon. It awakens."

The team had little time to react.

* * *

The basement door of the mansion suddenly burst open, and coming from the blast Holzer noticed that the house was filling with hurricane-like winds. The walls began to peel, cracking almost to the point of collapse. Lightning sparked the night's darkness and a roar unknown to human ears could be heard bellowing from the darkness. Holzer had only known such a roar once before-and it was during a case that had almost killed him twenty years ago. Every fiber in the professor's body gave him the impression that he and his team were about to die.

Then something mysterious happened.

Nothing.

"Holy shit, Doc!" Sinclair barked, coughing dry leaves out of his mouth. "What was all of that?"

"Incredible," Miranda said.

"Things appear&different, Professor Holzer," Teresa said.

"What do you mean, Teresa?" Holzer said, brushing dirt off his jacket.

The psychic looked around the house, trying to shake off what she was feeling. She couldn't seem to put into words the images that were suddenly flashing through her mind. All she could do was look out the windows, pointing at what she was seeing.

"Dear God!" Teresa softly said.

Holzer looked out the mansion's window. All he believed, all he knew, vanished in an instant.

The outside of the mansion was no longer what the team could call Atchison, Kansas. Swirls of purple clouds and dark images of death could be seen swimming through the air. This was not the world of the living. This was not the human world at all. It was as if Manchester House had been picked up by some powerful hand and tossed into another dimension.

The evil was now in control.

Holzer, almost in a panic, dropped his EMR detector on the floor and thundered over to where Night was standing, glaring at him in a controlled rage.

Night placed his hand out, warning silently: Be careful where you stand.

Holzer stayed away from the charmed circle of blessed oil.

"Ingrid," Holzer fumed, clearing his throat nervously. "What in the hell have you done here?"

"I have taken us to where the beast lives, Jonathon." Night dryly smiled. "This should be of great importance to you."

"In what way?"

"This is where all Manchester House's victims go before they die," Night explained, grandly pointing to the alien worlds buzzing by the house's windows. "This is the true face of the evil behind this house and, I dare say, the entire town."

"Town?"

"Did you not know, my friend?" Night asked, "The entire town of Atchison sits in the middle of the biggest damn ley line I have ever encountered."

Holzer, totally taken by surprise, said nothing. He only blinked his eyes several times, staring up at Night mutely.

"The main reason this land has any source of power is the vortex in which it is set, my friend." Night chuckled. "As a soul dies, it is free to leave the earth, to whatever promise of a better life-if there is one-that it prefers. Here, because of the vortex, when a soul dies it is forced to remain. Here. In this house. On this land. Forever in torment." Night pointed to the spiritual world attacking the outside of the house.

Amazed, Holzer peered out the window.

The grounds and identifying lines of the mansion's property looked the same to Holzer. All the trees, the road up to the house, and even the trash left behind by people unknown all looked the same. Only the sky appeared different. Purple. Flowing with ectoplasm. In this purple mist, one could clearly see the spirits of the departed souls that had ventured on these lands long ago. Screaming children, mothers and fathers. Animals. Men. Women. Whites. Blacks. Indians. All could be seen.

"Incredible," Holzer said, his voice almost a whisper. "Sinclair, I wish your camera was working."

"It would do no good, Jonathon," Night explained. "They would not appear on the film. Not in this world."

"Figures." Holzer huffed. "You know that I'm against all of this."

"Yes. I know."

Holzer walked away from the window, allowing the other members of his team to observe what he had just seen. They were all on the verge of panicking. Especially Sinclair, who could not bring himself to believe all of this.

"This is nuts, Doc. You don't really believe that this guy's made us all land in the Twilight Zone? Do you?"

Everyone remained silent.

"You guys are buying all of this!" Sinclair shouted, not believing any of it.

"Mr. Sinclair," Night insisted, "this is as real as it gets. Do not laugh at the gods. They might be listening."

"Yeah?" Sinclair challenged. "Fuck you!"

Night laughed. "You misunderstand me, my friend. Yes. We are friends here. I do not like you, Mr. Sinclair, but I am your friend. That is the truth."

"Oh, someone keep me from kicking this guy's ass!" Sinclair huffed, stepping forward toward Night.

Ingrid Night only smiled, not impressed at all.

Before Sinclair could reach Night, Lars stepped in front of the cameraman, blocking his way. Sinclair, seeing the man standing in front of him, shorter, leaner, and indeed weaker, fumbled with his uncertainty.

Lars silently looked up at Sinclair, challenging.

"Shut up!" was all Sinclair could say.

Night, surprised at what Sinclair had told his deaf mute friend, raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Now that's funny."

Sinclair huffed away, joining the two women of Holzer's group.

Night would have laughed if his eyes hadn't met Holzer's again. Like a disapproving father, the college professor looked on.

"You have always been a pain in my ass. Do you know that?"

"We are the same in our passions, Jonathon."

"You always seem to get the SOURCE team you are assigned to in deep trouble," Holzer stated. "Why is that?"

"Me?" Night's face flashed with honest surprise. "What did I ever do?"

"SOURCE Team Fifteen."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that."

Before Holzer or Night could go any further with their conversation, a sudden and violent shaking of the house interrupted them both. All were surprised to hear a beast-like roar echoing up from the mansion's basement as the house started to change at first by degrees and then later far beyond what they were used to in the real world.

"Professor, what's happening here?" Teresa's voice sounded pained. She kept rubbing the side of her head, wishing to stop a sudden throbbing that was occurring at her temples. Perhaps this dimension was too much for those of the psychic arts? Holzer had to wonder.

Manchester House started to become very bright. The walls seemed to be growing anew. They all seemed to lose their age, mold, and water damage. The house took on a new lease, appearing much the way it had when it was first built. It was beautiful. Its beauty took even Holzer by surprise.

"Don't move, Jonathon," Night warned, placing a gentle yet firm hand on his friend. "I do not wish to lose you this night."

Holzer took what Night had said seriously. "Is there danger of me moving?"

"More than you know."

From the corner of his eye, Holzer saw Night's face look around the house. Holzer prided himself on the knowledge he had obtained through the years working with this man. He even thought that having a doctorate in parapsychology would be enough to match wits with Night. However, like most schoolboys, Holzer learned that there were certain things that one could never learn in school. And by reading Night's face, Holzer could easily see that his friend was no stranger to what they were going through.

Night had been to this world before.

"Are you going to let me in on any of this, Ingrid?" Holzer finally asked.

Another shudder went through the house, causing one of the guestrooms near the main hall to expand to five times its normal size. The only reason Holzer knew this was because he watched it happen. Total expansive reversal of time and space. Einstein would have shit bricks at what they were all seeing.

Still, Night refused to answer Holzer's question. The man only looked at his friend with his tired eyes, shaking his head in silence.

There were steady attacks of knocking taking place at the mansion's many windows, which all were new, sparkling, and unbroken glass. The volume of sounds was enough to cause all in the house to jump with surprise-even Night. Only Lars was unaffected, looking on in controlled surprise.

At the windows of the house were hundreds of faces. All were pleading for Holzer or anyone else to let them in. They seemed horrified and tired.

"Let me in!" one of them yelled, a man by the sound of it.

"Mommie!" a young girl cried. "I want my Mommie."

"Sweet Jesus, this is all too much for me to handle." Teresa started to cry, trying her best to hold her shaking hands over her ears and closing her eyes so that she didn't have to see them anymore. "Stop it!" she yelled.

Silence.

The windows were clear.

The night sky, although still purple, looked remarkably calm.

The mansion was back in its original state.

All appeared quiet. All appeared normal.

Holzer's concentration was suddenly broken by Night's strong hand landing on his shoulder. The action practically scared Holzer to death. In turning to meet his friend, the professor was greeted with kind and understanding eyes. That was always the funny thing about Ingrid Night: although weather-beaten and tough appearing, he always retained the kindness in his eyes.

"My dear friend," Night said, "you know I would do nothing to put you and your colleges in serious danger, do you not?"

"I know," Holzer reassured. He gave his friend a playful wink. "You're still a pain in the ass, though."

Night laughed tiredly. "As you Americans are so fond of saying, tell me something I don't already know."

Another rumble went through the house, shaking it violently. So violently, in fact, that it knocked everyone down and almost caused Night to leave his circle.

"So violent," Holzer stated, adjusting his glasses. The professor turned his EMR device on again, hoping that it would at least try to work.

Nothing.

Holzer gave Night a look of disappointment.

"Your science, I fear, is of no use in this world, Jonathon."

"I'm starting to believe that, sir," Holzer said. He placed the EMR device in his back pocket. "Still, I will try."

"I would not expect otherwise."

Holzer pointed to the blessed circle. "When will you be able to leave that thing?"

Night calmly looked at his watch. "Soon."

Holzer shook his head.

All eyes turned to Sinclair, who for the last half-hour had been huffing and pacing the floor, looking out the window at the incredible sights of the surrounding activity. It was hard for the cameraman to accept what was happening. He tried to explain to everyone that there was some kind of chemical reaction going on inside the house that was causing all of them to mass hallucinate. No one accepted his logic.

"Will he be okay?" Night asked, concerned.

"Putting aside his aloof nature, Ingrid, Mr. Sinclair is a logical man." He looked up at Night, pausing. "This is hard for him to accept. He will have to change his whole belief system after all of this, and as you know that will not happen overnight."

Night shook his head. He'd once had a crisis of faith, many decades ago. But that was another life. Another faith. Best worth forgetting.

"This is crazy," Sinclair said under his breath.

Night's muscles started to tighten with anticipation.

Holzer swallowed hard.

Sinclair was heading toward Manchester House's front door.

* * *

"I have had enough of this!" Sinclair repeated, grabbing the doorknob of the house. It was his intention to leave, go home, and get drunk.

"I would not do that, Mr. Sinclair!" Night said, his voice thundering with authority.

"And why not?"

Night gave the cameraman a sly glance through the brim of his hat. He smiled with a genuine admiration for Sinclair's courage and focused desire to leave. He found it amusing, but he understood the human motivation to be in control of one's own destiny. Night knew this philosophy to be a cheap lie, but nonetheless he understood.

"Well, Quaker Oats man? Why can't I leave?" Sinclair challenged, his face dripping with sweat.

"Because!" Night huffed. "We are not in Kansasanymore."

The cameraman rolled his eyes. "Spare me the Wizard of Oz line, please." In a huff, the cameraman opened the front door of Manchester House and thundered out. He slammed the door behind him.

"Professor?" Teresa said. Her voice dripped with worry.

Holzer turned to Night, his eyes filled with questions.

"He will be back, Jonathon," Night reassured.

"And if not?"

Night shook his head. His eyes held within them a finality that Holzer tried to ignore.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sinclair had only walked five feet from the safety of Manchester House before he realized the mistake he had made. He felt the strange sensation of being watched. The cameraman soon broke out in a cold nervous sweat. Sinclair had never felt so frightened in all of his life.

"Just keep walking until you get to the car," Sinclair told himself. He closed his eyes, walking forward, hoping against hope that the purple sky he was seeing wasn't real.

There was a scent to the air which was unfamiliar to the cameraman. A sweet, sickly smell. The kind of smell one encounters when discovering a dead animal on the road for the first time. The stench of death hadn't attacked the discoverer yet, only the smell of sugary blood. That was what the aroma reminded Sinclair of.

Something stirred in the woods.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" a howling voice echoed through the darkness of the trees ahead.

Sinclair stopped, shaking uncontrollably. "Who's there?" Sinclair said, waving an empty fist in the air in front of him.

Sinclair noticed that he had ventured far away from Manchester House. He was quite near the shantytown discovered by him and his team hours before. The deserted town was dark and foreboding to the cameraman, only seeming to bring up dark thoughts and empty promises. This was where William Manchester had forced his workforce to live and die. This was where the rich fed off the rotting carcasses of the poor.

This was hell.

Sinclair felt quite alone.

He had to fight the urge to turn back, running toward the insanity of Manchester House. Toward other people. Toward safety.

"It's just all in your head, man," Sinclair tried to reassure himself. He started to see movement in the shadows of the rundown shanty shacks in the deserted little town rotting in the woods of Manchester House. "Just calm down and keep going."

The sound of several footsteps echoed around Sinclair. He knew that he was no longer alone.

The cameraman turned back toward the direction of Manchester House and found himself looking into the rotted-out eyes of a Civil War soldier.

"Jesus Christ!" Sinclair shouted, falling to the ground repulsed.

"Help me! Please!" the Civil War soldier pleaded, his arms extended, helplessly grabbing out at Sinclair but never really touching him. "I can't take this anymore! I'm a soldier in the United States Army. I'm with the Maine 69th Battalion. Please, I can't seem to find my way home. Please!"

The specter seemed to pass Sinclair, hoping to grab hold of someone, disappearing in the mist surrounding the shantytown.

"What the hell was that?" Sinclair yelled, falling to the ground.

For several seconds, the cameraman sat on the ground, breathing heavily. The wind stopped its attack and it became quiet.

"Have to get back to the house," Sinclair said. "Just make your feet work, get up off your ass, and start walking, man."

Before Sinclair could react, before he could make his terrified limbs work, the ground below him seemed to come to life and limbs of both men and women broke through the soil, holding him down.

"What?" Sinclair shouted, fighting the arms, hands, and fingers grabbing at him. "What is this?"

"Help us!"

"Yes. Help us!"

"We do not belong here."

"Show us the way to peace."

"I will love you if you can help me."

"Dear God! I want to be with my wife."

"Jonathon! Where is my Jonathon?"

The voices echoed in Sinclair's head, all assaulting him with an unending plea for help. So overwhelming was all of this that the cameraman almost lost his sanity. He fought, trying to break away from the grasps of so many corpses coming up from the ground, but to no avail. Sinclair was their prisoner.

Sinclair started to scream. A scream he had never before uttered.

Not knowing how or why, the cameraman broke free, dashing away from the soil, the reaching arms and hands, and headed back toward Manchester House.

The ghosts of the shantytown had other ideas.

Before Sinclair could reach the safety of Manchester House, he came face to face with a wall of rotting souls, all wanting to use his life-force as a means to find a way toward the other side-toward the gates of Heaven or Hell. Anywhere but where they were.

"We cannot rest," a soul cried out.

"Yes! Help us."

"Help us! Help us! HELP US! HELP US!"

Sinclair stopped running toward the mansion.

He knew that there was no way he could break through the wall of bodies coming toward him. They were a ragtag mob representing all timelines. He saw young men, old women, Native Americans, and Union Soldiers dressed in Civil War blue. They were in various stages of rot and death. Some were skeletons held together with only the barest of hopes, resembling what had once been human.

Sinclair found himself crying helplessly. What could he do?

As if on cue a steady hand, filled with both strength and direction, clamped onto Sinclair's forearm, pulling him in another direction.

At first the cameraman began to panic, believing yet another ghost had grabbed hold of him. However, something fantastic began to happen. The way toward Manchester House began to clear. He was slowly reaching the safety of his friends.

"What the hell's going on here?"

Sinclair looked up at the person who had grabbed hold of him and stared into the eyes of Lars. Lars, the silent yet faithful manservant of Ingrid Night who, by all accounts, seemed to venture through this strange spirit world with the same ease a cat uses to scale the ledge of a skyscraper.

"Lars!" Sinclair said, laughing with relief. "Damn you, you ugly son of a bitch. I've never been so happy to see anyone in all my life."

Lars looked back into Sinclair's eyes, giving him a short "I told you so" stare, but, in his seriousness, he was happy to see that his services were both needed and appreciated. Lars gave Sinclair a dry smile, and pointed a finger back toward the front door of the mansion.

Sinclair was no fool. He followed Lars with all of his strength.

Within sight of Manchester House's porch, the cameraman started to relax. In less than five steps, Sinclair knew that he would be back on the home's property and within the safety of Holzer and Night. All was well.

Lars, on the other hand, knew differently.

Sinclair's legs began to sink in the mud. It appeared that it had also rained in this spirit world at the same time it had rained in the real world of men. The lawn began to bubble in a pool of wet mud, almost quicksand-like. The cameraman found himself swimming in the brown liquid, desperately grabbing for a solid footing-a footing that no longer existed.

"Lars!" Sinclair screamed, spitting mud out of his mouth. "I'm sinking. Help me, God damn it."

Lars looked on, not really knowing what to do. He could not communicate his intentions to Sinclair, and Sinclair, it appeared, was in no mood to play charades. So the deaf man tried his best to place into action the means needed to save a fellow comrade.

Sinclair found himself sinking in the mud up to his chin. So close was the cameraman to the house that the splashing mud sprinkled the bottom step of the mansion's porch.

Lars jumped on top of a porch swing which appeared to have been placed hanging on a nearby tree as an afterthought and offered Sinclair a steady hand. In his struggle, the cameraman reached, slipped, and failed to make contact.

Sinclair sank below the mud, disappearing in a stream of bubbles. Gone.

Lars looked on.

All the spirits seemed to laugh, realizing that the cameraman had failed to reach his goal. They rejoiced in the knowledge that soon, upon his death, Sinclair would be joining them in their torment, reaching out, praying, in pain and very lost.

Lars still looked on. In his hands now, he seemed to be holding a small piece of rope. A rope, the deaf mute feared, that was too late in arriving.

Then in a burst of energy, Sinclair's arm exploded up out of the mud and found Lars'. The deaf man pulled with all of his might, raising the cameraman up and out of the danger he was in.

As soon as Sinclair was safe, the ground under his feet turned solid again. Grass grew there. It appeared as if nothing had ever happened.

"Let's get the hell out of here, Lars," Sinclair huffed, wiping mud off his face.

Lars silently agreed.

Both men entered Manchester House.

Safety.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The world going on outside Manchester House would have been one of normality, if seen by an innocent passerby. All appeared as it had. There was no sign nor sound which gave any kind of clue to the abnormal.

Nothing.

Suddenly, bright lights could be seen shooting from all the windows, and if someone were nearby, they would have heard a furious roar, explosion, and the sound of something heavy landing on the mansion's property. The mansion itself shook violently, as if it had been the object that had just landed, giving all who cared to notice the impression that a great force had just been seriously put into motion.

Manchester House had returned to her normal time and space.

The mysterious light disappeared as fast as it appeared, causing the house to look once more the isolated island of evil that it had been known to be.

Only those inside the house knew differently.

* * *

Holzer and his crew had been busy setting up an infrared sensor device around the room they and Night had been occupying, hoping to catch some scientific fact which seemed to support the fantastic phenomena they had been witness to. Teresa had tried to probe the walls of the house, but to no avail. Again, Night tried to explain to the group of scientists that their science would not work in the dimension they had visited. He knew. He had tried the art of science several times within the course of his life.

Still, they tried.

"I'm getting nothing from the infrared, Professor," Miranda stated, huffing out a sigh of frustration. "I don't understand. I personally checked this device before we packed it in the car."

"Do not be so hard on yourself," Teresa said as she tried to comfort Miranda. "I'm getting nothing myself."

"Looks like we have to&" Holzer began.

The thunderous opening of the mansion's front door interrupted all. Shooting into and onto the wet floor were both Sinclair and Lars.

"What the hell?" Holzer concluded, his eyes bugging out over his glasses in surprise. "Sinclair? Is that you?"

Opening his mouth, exhausted and shaking from either fright or the cold, Sinclair started coughing out huge amounts of mud and water. He couldn't talk. And in his exhaustion his eyes soon rolled white. He collapsed on the spot.

Lars on the other hand got up, brushed leaves from his long blond hair, and meekly joined Ingrid Night at his side, waiting for his master to leave the blessed circle. There was a tension growing between both servant and master, fearing the worst.

Holzer gawked on in surprise.

No one asked why Sinclair was covered from head to toe with wet mud.

* * *

Ingrid Night left the blessed circle grinning like a banshee. He looked out the window, realizing that the return of his friend and Mr. Sinclair had triggered a reaction, causing Manchester House to return back to the world of the normal.

All was well.

"Are we out of it, Ingrid?"

Night looked down at Holzer. "For now."

Miranda had had enough. Thundering toward Night, her features seemed to explode with rage. "I demand to know what's going on here, sir?"

"Who are you?" Night asked calmly.

"Doctor Miranda Wingate."

"Your purpose?"

"I'm a pathologist and archeologist," Miranda explained.

"Well, until I find a mummy who has been killed with a shotgun, please leave me alone."

Night walked away from the woman, ignoring the look of dismay he had placed on her face. He seemed not to care.

"Holy shit!" Sinclair said, darting back to life, shaking the layers of mud off his face.

Night, who had just sat down by the team member's scientific equipment, looked up from his cloak, grinning ear to ear. He had warned the cameraman of what would happen. "You are not far from the truth, Mr. Sinclair."

Sinclair looked up at Night, exhausted.

"All evil is something once holy that has fallen into shit."

"Ingrid," Holzer tiredly challenged.

Lars broke the scene by providing Night with a tiny china cup filled with hot tea. Taking the beverage, Night silently thanked his friend, sipping the beverage with the greatest of joy.

"That is what we are facing here, Jonathon," Night said, sipping his tea. He burned his tongue, giving the cup a hard glance. "This shit, however, remembers the joys of being holy. That's what gives it a bad attitude."

"In what way, Ingrid?" Holzer soon joined his friend and once more Lars provided yet another cup of hot tea from thin air. The professor accepted the tea.

Both sat sipping silently. Outside, it began to rain yet again.

"The spirit in question, Jonathon, this little girl shape is angry at the world. Not only is she angry at the fact that she is dead. This, understandably, would ruin anyone's plans. She is angry because she cannot grow any older."

"But," Holzer began, holding back the urge to laugh, "she's dead. She's not going to get any older. That's the nature of the beast, Ingrid. Once you're gone, you're gone."

"True." Night finished his tea. "However, you are wrong. The spirit can grow old, if given the chance."

"All right, I'll accept that for now," Holzer said. "But what's the spirit's motivation? What's causing the anger?"

"Puberty."

Holzer blinked his eyes dryly. "Excuse me?"

"She cannot reach puberty."

"Ah," Holzer said, motioning Lars to refill his cup. "Ingrid, she's dead."

"And her ghost cannot reach womanhood. This is what she wants more than eternity itself. She cannot reach that goal. She blames this house. She blames this town. She blames us."

"Us?"

"We are here, are we not?"

"I get that," Holzer said, his voice turning irritated. "I'm still having trouble with this puberty thing. I've studied hundreds of ghosts, but never one that was pissed because it couldn't get its groove on."

Night, surprised, could only laugh at what he was hearing.

Holzer stared back at his friend with eyes rapidly blinking.

"Do not hate yourself so, Jonathon," Night said, leaning forward. "The spirit world is open to many beliefs. I have only given you mine. But I tell you now, this little girl is a dangerous bitch. Watch her!" Night paused, taking yet another cup of tea from Lars.

Holzer looked at Lars. "Where does he come up with half this stuff, Ingrid?"

"I don't know," Night said, sipping his tea.

Holzer looked on, watching his friend sip at his tea, thinking. Thinking about the possibility of a spirit aging on its own. This was an aspect of the afterlife that he never considered. Were not most superstitions about the other world generally the same? Was it not the center of belief that what one could not achieve in this life would be promised to them in the other? What would a little girl want? She'd want to grow up and be a woman. She'd want to know love. She'd want a man. She'd want children of her own one day.

Perhaps Night was right on this one.

While Holzer was giving it all serious consideration, Lars produced yet another cup of tea for him to sip. So, sitting alone on old orange crates, Night and Holzer considered the very nature of death.

The others&they were lucky enough to keep their wits about them.

* * *

Miranda patted down Sinclair's forehead with a wet paper towel while he rested his eyes. The man had literally been through hell and back. She had so many questions for him, but knew that it would do no good. Sinclair, although an upbeat guy, took himself way too seriously. His ego would sooner or later get in the way of any scientific information or facts. Still, she smiled, noticing that the cameraman was in R.E.M. sleep-what was he dreaming? She had to wonder.

"You," Night said.

Miranda looked up, surprised at the harsh voice directed at her. "Yes?"

"You had stated that you were involved with law enforcement?"

"Pardon?"

"I get a cop vibe from you, madam," Night said, surveying her up and down. "Are you a cop?"

"I was. Now I'm a member of SOURCE. On the side, however, I am also an archeologist."

"But not a cop?"

"I worked as a pathologist&once."

Both Holzer and Miranda made brief eye contact. Night noticed this. There was a secret there, but one Night knew would be beyond him at the moment. He curbed his curiosity.

"Not Scotland Yard?"

"No," Miranda stated, stopping her administering to Sinclair's forehead. "With the RCMP, Homicide Division, Edmonton, Alberta."

"Canada!" Night huffed. "I have worked there, you know."

"Yes?"

"Clean," Night said. "Very clean."

Lars stood outside the little circle of people gathered around the lantern that was lit, doing his best not to participate. Night noticed the uneasy look of concern Miranda was giving the man.

"You care for his comfort, do you not?" Night said, motioning toward Lars.

"I do not understand why he distances himself from everyone," Miranda explained uneasy. "We are all equals here. That's all I meant."

Night shook his head solemnly. "And you do not like the servant-master relationship you are seeing then?"

"No, sir," Miranda stated, her eyes filling with fire, "I do not."

Night laughed, handing an empty teacup back to Lars, who was there instantly to remove the dish. Miranda noticed a kind glance from Lars, who seemed to be interested in what she was saying.

"Do not worry yourself so, young lady. Although your sense of camaraderie is quite admirable, Lars&well, he's a bit of a loner. Like me, young lady, he is only here to fight evil."

"Evil can be many things, Mr. Night," Miranda stated, an eyebrow arched. "Not just the Devil. Evil can be going forward half-cocked, destroying without understanding one's actions."

Night stared at the young woman hard. "You are right."

"Will Sinclair be okay?" Teresa asked, sipping on her cup of tea.

"You are the child with the inner eye, are you not?" Night pondered. He studied Teresa as a scientist would a bug under a microscope. "You do not look old enough to tie your shoes."

"Teresa is one of the most powerful psychics I have ever encountered," Holzer added.

Night looked at his friend with amazement. "I will take your word for it, Jonathon."

"Mr. Night?" Teresa asked.

"Yes, my dear?"

"What is wrong with this house?"

Night gave the question some thought. "Well, where to begin?"

"The beginning," Holzer said.

"Thank you, Jonathon." Night paused, looking at Teresa and Miranda with great kindness. "This house has the unfortunate happenstance of standing between four huge ley lines which are connected with the Lancelot-Pool Line."

"The what?" Teresa asked.

"The Lancelot-Pool Line. This line was discovered in the late eighteen-nineties. The whole world seems to be connected through it. It is a line of incredible power. Tribes all over the world worship it in one way or another."

"Ridiculous,[" Miranda huffed.

"Not so ridiculous, Miss Wingate," Night challenged. "Ever hear of Moses parting the Red Sea?"

"Yes."

"The Lancelot-Pool Line passes right through that part of the world. Quite near the site where most biblical scholars say the incident took place. Area 51, that great UFO mecca in the American West, lies right on top of it." Night paused. "The line ends here in Atchison, Kansas."

"Where does it begin?"

Both Holzer and Night looked at each other. Their eyes explained the finality of Night's answer. "No one knows where the line begins. It is just too saturated across the globe, following no apparent pattern."

"It has been known to change with the ages," Holzer concluded.

"Exactly, my old friend." Night huffed, admiring Holzer's intelligence.

There was a long moment of pause.

Holzer broke the silence.

"Ingrid."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for coming."

"Would I not do otherwise, friend?" Night looked up at Holzer with a fatherly pride, almost teary-eyed. "In any case, Jonathon, you were correct. There is paranormal activity here within these tortured walls. Not unlike a case I had back during the Korean War. That one was a pain! Whoa!"

Sinclair opened his eyes, waking up.

"Ah!" Night chuckled. "Foolish young man, listen to me next time. If it were not for Lars here, you would be waltzing around for all eternity with the other lost souls claimed by this house."

"What can I say," Sinclair said, rubbing the base of his neck. He paused only long enough to take a cup of tea from Lars. "I was wrong."

"Then you are not such a fool after all." Night laughed. "It is a brave man who can admit such a thing in front of his closest friends."

Sinclair wanted to say something, but much to his credit he did not. Instead, he just rubbed his head and accepted another cup of hot tea from Lars, who was more than happy to oblige.

"You should consider yourself a lucky man anyway, Mr. Sinclair."

"Why, may I ask?"

Night pointed toward his silent servant with great excitement. "Lars likes you! That does not come easy for him."

Lars, emotionless, started rummaging through Night's personal objects. He glanced up at Sinclair, seeming to sense that the cameraman was looking at him. Lars paused long enough to return a respectful nod in Sinclair's general direction.

Sinclair, having nothing better to do, returned the gesture with a wave of his hand.

While this was happening, Teresa was going over her own performance during all of this, and was not pleased at the way she had been handling herself. She wasn't up to par, and that irritated her. It was time that she earned her keep and pulled her own weight on the team.

"Mr. Night?" Teresa asked, standing up. She moved toward him, making the old man look up at her. She admired his eyes, and could have sworn that she saw them turn at least six different colors before they finally relaxed on her with a cool grey.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Is it now possible for me to use my sight?"

Night gave the question some thought, pulling out an old pocket watch, winding it. Teresa almost gasped in surprise, noticing an old Nazi Eagle across the front cover of the tiny golden object.

"Do you like my watch, little girl?"

"Oh!" Teresa looked away in honest embarrassment. "I do apologize for staring. I just noticed&"

Night sharply closed the pocket watch's cover, cutting off the psychic's words. He gave the young black woman a sharp but heavily controlled look of anger. Somewhere in that anger, however, was a huge level of personal disgust fighting to float to the top.

"The watch was my father's." Night paused, longing to change the subject. "I see no reason why you should not be allowed to use your inner eye. The evil is quite busy trying to break the spells I have laid, and we have the time."

"How long?"

"Believe me, you will know when we have run out of time." Night moved closer to the light of the lantern. "In any case, what is your plan?"

"I wish to hold a séance."

"A séance?" Night's brows darted up with surprise. "Why?"

"I am a medium as well." Teresa tried to explain. "With the help of my blessed crystals--I call them Apache Tears--and a Ouija board, perhaps we can contact this angry child. I'm still under the belief that we can help her. I would like to have the chance."

Teresa's honest attempt to help and her need to redeem herself in her comrades' eyes moved Night. The old man found Holzer looking at him, studying his reactions. Night shifted in his chair. He did not like his student formulating theories on the master. Holzer noticed Night's uneasiness and smiled.

"You pick good students, Jonathon."

"I learned from the best, sir."

Night comically winked at Holzer. "Of course you did."

"Then it's settled," Teresa said, grabbing her personal bag.

Opening up her own equipment, Teresa noticed that she was getting a lot of curious stares from Miranda, Sinclair, and, ironically enough, Night. Holzer was busy setting up his equipment, hoping to gain some knowledge, facts, and other data of a paranormal nature for further study once they left this cursed place.

Pulling out a small bag of crystals and a Ouija board, she was ready to get down to her "craft."

"Want to help me, Mr. Night?" Teresa asked.

Night put his hands up in a negating gesture.

"No disrespect intended, young lady, but no, I do not want to help."

"Why not?"

"I take what you do seriously, that is all." Night paused, uneasy. "I do not care much for Ouija boards."

"There is nothing to be afraid of, you know."

"There are things I know to be afraid of, miss."

Night's hard stare caused a shiver of coldness to flutter through Teresa, and she tried her best to avoid eye contact with the old man for almost five minutes. He continued his stare until he realized he was getting a return stare from Miranda.

"You can help me, Miranda," Teresa said, handing the Ouija board to the British woman.

"Certainly," Miranda said, following Teresa's lead. "This should prove to be quite fascinating. At any rate, I could write up an interesting paper for the SOURCE newsletter."

"Good!" Teresa huffed. "'Bout time that rag got some meat in it."

"Hey!" Holzer said, his voice dripping with protest.

Both women started giggling.

It took about an hour for everything to be set up.

* * *

"My friend, we have to talk."

Holzer looked up from his instruments and saw that Ingrid Night had a rather disturbing look on his face, which always had caused Holzer to pause whenever he saw it. From experience, Holtzer knew that troubled waters lay ahead.

"Can it wait?" Holzer asked, motioning to Night that he was rather involved in the study of Teresa's upcoming séance.

"I'm afraid not, Jonathon." Night cleared his throat, whispering in Holzer's ear. "This is serious."

Dropping his equipment on a nearby table that was rotted, blackened from fire, and just as dirty as the rest of the house, Holzer and Night entered another room. Private.

Lars blocked the door for absolute security.

"Ingrid, what's with the cloak-and-dagger routine?"

"Remember the Huntington case we were on a few years ago?" Night blurted out.

Holzer gave the question some thought.

"The case we both failed at," Night reminded.

"Yes."

"This is worse."

Holzer couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was the great slayer of evil calling it quits? Had the avenger of good finally met his match?

"You don't think that we can solve this one, do you?" Holzer asked.

"There are some things, my friend, that are best left as mysteries." Night paused. "Still, I fear for you and your young friends."

"Are you leaving?"

Night remained quiet for more time than Holzer had thought possible. The pause caused the professor to move away from Night in shock.

"I&can't," Night finally responded.

Holzer started to relax. "Now that's the Ingrid Night I have come to admire."

"This case may bring about a death or two," Night finally warned. "I did not wish to face this fact, Jonathon, but I just cannot stand by and see you dead. You would not have the good sense to stay that way, my friend. And I would not desire to meet you on the field of battle as an enemy."

Holzer laughed. "Ingrid, if I were to return as a ghost, believe me, I would run away from you."

"Then we are in this to the end, I fear?"

"To the end."

Night patted Holzer on the shoulder. There was a level of pride in the old man's eyes, which almost made Holzer uneasy. "Let's do this then."

"Ingrid?" Holzer asked. The professor's eyes were filled with worry.

"Yes?"

"These people with me are very important to me."

Night seemed to sense what his friend was getting to. He held up a strong hand of reassurance. "I will protect them as if they were my own. Have no fear."

"Let's hope it doesn't come down to that."

"Agreed."

"Why didn't I stay a psychologist?" Holzer nervously laughed. "I could be in Beverly Hills, making millions right now. No! I wanted to be a parapsychologist. Learn the unknown. Stupid!"

"You would have died long before you would have been buried, dear boy," Night stated. "Listening to the spoiled drivel of fat rich kids, under-sexed and over-paid wives, and why they want to have sex with their mothers! Bah! Zombies, all of them."

"Still, they pay with cash."

Night could not argue with that, and gave Holzer an ironic laugh.

Both men left the room, walking back to join Teresa, who was busy setting up her séance.

Neither seemed to notice the subtle sounds of rustling plastic, a wind starting to pick up, or the returning sound of dripping water.

Manchester House had once more become aware.

* * *

The lantern was lowered to a dim flame, causing the main hall of the mansion to take on the look of a macabre shadow play. Everyone in the group, with the exception of Night and Lars who only looked on, sat around Teresa's tiny Ouija board-which was handmade, blessed, and charged with the cosmic energy of Teresa's birth date. Birthdates and their energy were thought to be very important to the owner of a Ouija board-it helped with the connection to the spirit world. Holzer was rather impressed with the board's planchette. It was made out of a charged crystal and had a sharp silver point--a beautiful piece of artwork.

"Everyone breathe easy," Teresa cautioned. "Let's all relax. The events we have been through in the last several hours have more than disturbed our cosmic energies and we need to start focusing on the positives in order for this to work."

"Get me a pizza and I'll consider it," Sinclair said, his eyes closed.

Teresa opened one eye, giving the cameraman a hard look. She decided not to say anything, hoping that not doing so would help reshape her focus.

"Spirits of the other world, we speak to you as voyagers of the truth," Teresa began. In the base of her voice, everyone could hear a tiny hum-as if she were meditating at the same time she was talking. In a figure eight motion, Teresa started to move the crystal planchette. "We speak openly to the spirit of the little girl residing in this house. Please step forward and tell us why you are here among us. We wish nothing more than to help you in your plight."

Everyone remained quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were those of Teresa moving her planchette, the burning oil of the lantern, and Night's stomach grumbling, which he gave all who heard it a sorrowful apologetic bow.

"We seek contact," Teresa asked, almost pleading.

All eyes fell to the crystal planchette on the Ouija board. It was starting to take on a mind of its own. Although everyone's fingers were on the tiny device, it was hard to feel a free movement on the thing. As if another intelligence was starting to invade and take over. No more were the team moving the crystal in a figure eight pattern. It was moving illogically-haphazardly.

"What is the root of your anger?" Teresa asked, her voice starting to tremble. Everyone started to notice a chill building in the air. The psychic herself, however, started to sweat.

The planchette started moving around to certain letters on the board.

B&R&I&D&E&

"Bride?" Miranda asked. "Was she once a bride to someone?"

"Were you once a bride?" Teresa repeated.

Again the board came to life. Again everyone's hands were forced as if by magic to seek out certain letters.

H&E&R&

"Her?" Miranda asked. "What does that mean?"

"The spirits are sometimes terrible spellers," Teresa explained. "We just need to be patient."

"Her." Sinclair studied the phrase. "Terrible speller. Perhaps she means "here."

Teresa started to smile. "Perhaps. Good work."

Sinclair nodded his head in satisfaction.

The planchette continued to move.

L&I&E&S&

"Lies?" Holzer asked. "Just what is that one directed at? Is she lying, or are we supporting someone else's lie?"

"I believe that she was the victim of a lie, Professor," Teresa theorized. "Perhaps that's the reason for her anger. If this woman was from the nineteenth century, then she could have been a 'settling mail bride.' They were very common in that day and age."

"Settling mail bride?" Sinclair asked.

"I'm familiar with the term," Miranda explained. "Men of the American West found it hard to find women to marry, once they settled in the untamed territories. That is to say, it was hard to find white women. So several enterprising individuals started businesses-mostly fly by night-in which a man could pay as little as fifty dollars and up to two thousand to contact, invite, and finally marry a white women from the East." Miranda paused. "Quite common, actually."

"How do you know so much about all of that?" Sinclair asked, looking at Miranda uneasily.

"I read," she said with a huff. "You should try it once in a while."

Sinclair said nothing. He only stuck out his tongue.

The sound of rustling plastic filled the room.

The lantern burned brightly. Its flame adjusted without a soul touching it.

"Let go of the board!" Teresa shouted. "There is someone here."

The room turned incredibly cold.

Night and Lars opened their conjure kit. They were ready.

Teresa looked up at the top of the main staircase. They were no longer alone.

The Shape seemed to be leering down again at her guests. This time, however, there was a subtle difference. Unlike before, she appeared more human. More tranquil. No longer peering through a veil of long dark hair, The Shape's face was visible. She appeared as a young woman in her late teens, possibly no older than sixteen or seventeen. Very beautiful. She gave the impression of being a vain woman when she was alive, quite proud of her shapely figure, which did seem to catch the eye of all the men in the room, including Ingrid Night.

The Shape changed, turning hard.

"STOP!" it said. Her voice seemed to echo throughout the house. Several windows, the lucky ones that were still in one piece, shattered at the sound of her voice.

The Ouija board darted upward, as if an invisible hand had smacked the game away from its participants. Only Sinclair was amazed at the action. Holzer, Teresa, and Miranda seemed to sense that sooner or later there would be an encounter. In fact they had been hoping for it.

"Good!" Holzer stated. "A full-torso vaporous apparition of the kind only once encountered that I know of. The Texas case involving our study at the Alamolast summer."

"Fantastic detail," Miranda surmised.

Teresa gave each of her colleagues a warning glance. "This is not the time, guys. Please."

Night stepped forward. He was holding his crossbow. "I would listen to her."

The Shape turned, looking at Ingrid Night. Reacting quite like a cat, hissing and spitting out vulgarities at the old man, The Shape's appearance returned to normal. Dead. Cadaverous.

Without warning, The Shape started screaming. Her voice was so powerful that it started to rattle the plaster off the walls. So much pain, anger, and regret dripped from her voice that by itself told the story of her earthly life.

"He locked me in the cellar and raped me!" the Shape screamed. "When I failed to have his child, the one he forced me to carry, he raped me again. To show him that I was in control of my life, I killed both myself and the child while he watched!"

"Oh my God," Teresa said, her voice a rattling whisper, terrified. "What kind of a man could do that to such a dear young thing?"

"You'd be surprised what the mind of man is capable of," Night sneered.

Holzer started to rise, pointing a digital thermometer in the Shape's direction. "Temp is down twenty degrees here. This is fantastic."

"Jonathon," Night warned, his voice trying its best to control its volume. "I would watch what you are doing. This is a tricky time for both your psychic and the spirit."

"As you say, Ingrid."

Holzer was too involved in what he was doing to notice that his foot was about to land on a couple of pieces of glass. In old folklore, discussed by Miranda before they had reached the mansion, some spirits-especially witches-could not stand the sound of breaking glass. They turned violent and would do anything to stop the horrid sound. Even kill.

Holzer's foot shattered both pieces, causing him to stumble, almost falling to the ground, knocking over the Ouija board.

Night closed his eyes, preparing himself for the coming storm.

"Professor!" Teresa warned, almost yelling. "Watch your step. Don't!"

The sound echoed through the house, the sound of glass shattering under the pressure of leather shoes grinding blown glass. It was a hollow, horrid sound. Antiseptic.

The Shape broke her trance and was no longer controlled by the conduction of the séance. She blinked her eyes is surprise, glaring down at Holzer and his team through the cloak of her bloodied matted hair. Again she took on the veil of a walking corpse, angry, in control, and dangerous.

"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.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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.

Burt Helms was not an attractive man. And Sharon was the only woman he could get to be his wife. So Burt Helms always asked himself, what could he do?

"Damn it, Burt!" Sharon yelled, pointing a bony finger at him, scolding the man. "You got to keep your eye on these movers. They will rob you blind if you don't."

"Yes dear."

Helms looked up at the movers, who were busy walking a couch up the main staircase onto the second floor lounge. His expression was one of deep embarrassment and pity as he noticed that both movers had clearly heard what his wife said. Helms noticed a harsh look coming from the older of the two movers, who in turn gave Burt Helms a look of disgust.

"Keep an eye on them!" Sharon huffed, walking up to her husband, slapping him on top of the head. Her slap was more for control than for harm. Sharon hit her husband's head in the same way a master would try to control a dog.

Helms just stood there in silence, noticing the pitiful laughs coming from both the movers.

Silence.

Sharon Helms, for all her rudeness, was an attractive lady to look at. She was ten years Burt Helms' senior, but for her age she was stunning. She had no great love for her younger husband and would often tell her lovers-she kept many on the side-that she loved his money, not the man. Burt Helms was the answer to her rich dreams and he made sure she was supplied with only the best that life could offer. All this discomfort ever cost her was a night in bed-once in a great while, that is.

"Hate to be married to that one," Helms heard one of the movers whisper.

He bore it well, realizing, again, that he was the center of a sad joke.

"Dear," Helms tried to say, his voice always in a soft, low tone, "please be more careful about the volume of your thoughts. Those men heard you."

"I don't care what those men think!" Sharonhuffed. Her face was nose to nose with that of her husband's. "You would be a pauper if it were not for me and my guidance. Don't you know that?"

"Yes dear."

Sharon absolutely hated the way her husband allowed her to boss him around. There were times, although they were rare, when he did such a dear and enchanted act for her, proving his love, that she honestly wished that he would grow a set of balls so that she could love him. But then her husband was never really good in bed.

"Oh, Burt, where would you be without me?"

Burt Helms just remained silent. His eyes seemed to look off into the distance.

"I don't know, dear," he finally said.

Sharon gave him a sly, controlled laugh. Looking up at the movers, she noticed that one of them, the youngest, was staring down her blouse, admiring the fullness of her breasts. Unlike most women, who would find such an act uncouth, Sharonthrived on the attention. She glared at the young man who, obviously knowing that he had been caught, looked away in embarrassment.

"Be back soon, love," Sharon said to her husband, emptily waving at him. She climbed the stairs.

Standing still, staring into the house, Burt Helms tried to ignore the laughing sounds Sharon was giving, flirting with the young mover. He tightened his fists, closing his eyes.

:She does not love you! You are nothing more than an end to a means!:

Burt Helms looked up at his wife, at an angle from which neither mover nor wife could see him. What he saw killed him a little at a time.

"No," he whispered.

Sharon had her blouse open and the young mover was fondling her breasts and seemed to be nowhere near the human emotion of embarrassment. In fact, the young mover was doing his best to make love with Sharon. The old mover seemed to be nowhere within Mr. Helms' sight.

:She is a harlot, not meant for a man such as you. Stay with me and I will warm your heart to the task at hand.:

"Task?" Helms found himself saying out loud. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.

He found himself in the kitchen.

"How did I get in here?" he asked.

It had been years since Helms had sleepwalked.

:I will take care of you, dear man.:

A cold chill filled the kitchen, causing Helms to shiver severely. God! It was cold. So cold that Helms could almost see his breath. Ice started to form on the kitchen windows.

"This isn't right," Helms said, exasperated. "This is September. Where in the hell is all the ice coming from?"

A shadow started to fall on the kitchen.

Burt Helms was no longer alone.

* * *

The Shape had been asleep for a long time and only now had become aware of the people within her walls. She had been watching this couple and found a kindred spirit in Burt Helms. Beyond her evil, she did feel a microscopic bit of sorrow for him. She had made a rather entertaining little decision in which Burt Helms would not be allowed to die. No, he would live to tell the tale.

As the tiny little man turned to leave the kitchen, he came face to face with her. They seemed to stare at each other for a long time.

* * *

Burt Helms turned to leave the kitchen, only to be stopped by a strange figure standing in the kitchen doorway.

"What?" His terror lingered, testing his sanity.

The Shape glared at him through the bloodied long mat of her black hair. Her eyes seemed to hold him in place like those of a cobra's. He couldn't move. His body had to remind itself that it needed to breathe.

To Helms, this strange figure looked like one of the many street urchins he had encountered while on travels in India. Hungry little children too tired to beg. Hands extended, pleading-forever pleading-for attention and for food. A stench of death filled his nostrils as he tried to gain control of his motor skills once more.

"Kill her," the Shape whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"KILL HER."

Burt Helms mildly blinked his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the Shape was gone. He was alone in the kitchen. He thought it best to forget the episode and returned to finding his wife.

Walking back toward the staircase, the timid man hadn't far to go. All he had to do was follow the sound of his wife moaning. Soon he saw her walking back down the stairs. Burt Helms noticed a harsh look from the young mover, who had his hand on Sharon's shoulder.

"Hey, man, you got a cold beer?" the young mover asked, almost ordering.

"In the icebox."

"Can I have one then?"

Before Helms could offer, the mover had walked in, got a can of beer, opened it, and headed back to his work.

"You&" Helms tried to say, losing his nerve to go forward with his actions.

:See how those you cannot stand use you? Come to me and I will raise you above all my other children&:

The mover drank the last of his beer, emptying the small can in record time. Crushing the can, and giving Helms a contemptible laugh, the mover dropped the empty can on the floor, heading back to his work.

Sharon's blouse had been buttoned haphazardly-clearly showing that it had been opened in a moment of passion.

"Honey, can you fix us both a salad?" Sharonasked, walking away from her husband on a blissful cloud. "I've suddenly got an appetite."

Helms glared in silence, then headed back toward the kitchen.

"Yes dear."

Burt Helms failed to see the sad figure of the Shape glaring down at him from the top of the main staircase.

* * *

Helms started to prepare a salad for both him and his wife. In a silent rage, the man found himself cutting carrots with a little bit more than the usual energy. In fact he had cut his thumb, not realizing that he had done so. Not until Sharon came in and spotted the pool of blood.

"Burt!" Sharon yelled, coldly concerned. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What?" Helms asked, glaring at his wife over his shoulder.

Sharon rushed into the kitchen, seeing the pool of blood forming at her husband's feet, and honestly thought that the man had been stupid enough to cut off one of his fingers. She was worried about the man killing himself-that is, until he changed his will.

Grabbing Burt Helms by the bloody hand, Sharon pulled him over to the kitchen sink and ran cold water over his thumb. His thumb, dripping with thick blood, appeared to be seriously damaged. After frantically wiping away all the sticky red substance on the wound, however, Sharon was both relieved and angry to discover that Burt had only grazed the top of his thumb, cutting just below the skin. Her husband had always been an easy bleeder.

"Jesus, Burt!" Sharon shouted, wrapping a paper towel around Helms' thumb. "You scared me to death."

"Really?" For a moment Helms was pleased to see that the woman really cared about him.

"You're a clumsy brat, do you know that?" Sharon huffed. "Fix the salad and bring it into the living room. You silly man. Ruin a dinner by bleeding on it. No sex for you tonight!" With that she huffed out of the room.

Burt Helms knew there would be no sex. Sharonneedn't inform him. He would try. She would refuse.

Life as a married man.

Helms picked up the two salads and left the kitchen.

Later they had a fight, and Helms found himself sleeping on the couch.

* * *

In the dark of night, the mansion's kitchen was a silent tomb.

The pool of Helms' blood was still there, almost dry.

It started to boil.

It started to move.

It started to move itself in a spiral-like pattern.

The blood slowly seeped into the floor, never to be seen again. In fact, when both Helms' got up the next morning, both forgot about not cleaning up after Burt's accident.

Manchester House had gotten its first taste of blood in over twelve years.

And it was hungry.

* * *

In the cold basement of the mansion, vast plastic sheets started to drip with thick layers of blood. In the center of all this, the Shape stood in the dark maze, silently looking up and through the floorboards.

Above her, a wet stain started to form, filling with liquid. Filling with blood.

The Shape meekly started to smile.

The liquid forming above her was blood. Burt Helms' blood.

The Shape opened her mouth, waiting.

A cold wind blew through the basement, causing a rustling sound of plastic to echo. The number of plastic tarps seemed to double, making it almost impossible for a mortal man to walk through the basement and not get caught in a web of plastic and decay.

The room filled with the stench of death.

"Mine!" the Shape whispered.

The blood started to drip.

The Shape lapped her tongue, drinking in the blood until the offering ran out.

The basement filled with the moans of several thousands of tortured souls as the Shape started to chant spells and words best left forgotten and unheard.

* * *

Two weeks later&

"Damn it, Burt!" Sharon yelled.

A hush filled the main hall of Manchester House as several dinner guests saw Sharon slap her husband, and slap him hard.

Burt Helms' crime was serving her a soda with no ice.

"Can't you do anything right?" Sharon yelped, not realizing that she had suddenly become the center of attention.

Burt Helms had changed since they had first moved into Manchester House. Unlike Sharon, who was doing her part to at least try to blend in with the people of Atchison, Kansas, he was more of a hermit. Sharon even commented a few times that he hadn't been spending enough time at work. He wasn't even making his monthly visits to the main office in Kansas City. For him to avoid his work was like asking a fish to step out of the water.

In truth, Sharon was upset because while Helms continued to stay in the new house, she couldn't invite over her young lovers. Helms knew. He just chose to ignore.

Rubbing the side of his face and lowering his eyes like a four year old, Helms side-glanced his guests, seeing the looks of pity, embarrassment, and comic insult.

Sharon handed Helms back her drink.

"Go fix it," she ordered. "And go fix it right.

Helms, ashamed, ventured toward the kitchen.

"Never mind him," Sharon stated to an attractive young man with blond hair. "He's a joke, but I keep him around because he does serve a purpose."

Helms wanted to turn and attack. He wanted to do so many things, but fear kept him from everything. He was a coward, plain and simple. For that, he was ashamed.

Helms entered the kitchen to fix his wife her drink.

* * *

:Do not worry so!:

Helms never told his wife or his associates of the voices he had been hearing since they had first entered their new home. He hadn't told anyone of the secret whispers he had heard in the dark of night, of things and people he could never understand. He certainly didn't want to tell his wife about the little girl.

The little girl shared herself with him. Not in a physical way. More mental. Pure.

He couldn't control his emotion any more. Burt Helms began to cry.

:Things will be better soon&:

The kitchen lights were turned off. It had bothered Sharon greatly that her husband preferred the kitchen dark, but as long as he prepared good meals and everything was clean, it did not concern her too much.

"I want&"

:Yes! What do you want?:

"Control," Helms said, his voice dripping with hate.

:Then you shall have it.:

The kitchen turned eerily cold.

The Shape appeared.

Burt Helms smiled.

The Shape smiled.

"I want to&" Burt Helms tried to say, but the Shape put her hand to his lips, stopping him.

Startled, Helms eyed the Shape, who was shaking her head no in silence. Her image and company had been helping Helms through many difficult weeks. Sharon was becoming more controlling, and even he was starting to believe that his marriage to her had become a liability.

"Prepare&" the Shape whispered. Her eyes filled with a devilment that Helms at first could not understand.

The kitchen shook.

It breathed.

The kitchen, it seemed, came to life.

The Shape's eyes were directed toward the room's ceiling. Helms tried to follow her gaze, but he found that he was paralyzed, frozen, looking at her corpselike face. She was a beauty to him, and he was sure that she knew of his growing feelings toward her.

The Shape was aware, but found the emotions&moot.

The ceiling of the kitchen started to break open, and a tentacle-like creature dropped from the ceiling's wound, dangling down dangerously close to Burt Helms.

"What?" Helms asked, fear in his voice.

"Do not trouble so&" the Shape whispered. Her gaze became as sweet as honey. Trusting and provocative.

Helms never felt the tentacle attach itself to the base of his head.

Helms started to have strange ideas and strange notions that were beyond his normal state of mind. He became empowered to say and do all the things that needed to be said. He was no longer afraid.

Picking up a roll of duct tape, Helms started to slowly seal up the kitchen. The rustling of plastic echoed within the entire kitchen. The Shape watched, giggling like a schoolgirl aware of an evil secret. Helms found himself laughing as well.

Outside, the party continued.

* * *

Sharon Helms said her farewells to her last guest, closing the door behind her.

She had started to feel a twinge of regret for the way she had treated her husband, especially after one of her guests mentioned the fact that she had been way too cruel for such a simplistic mistake.

"Burt?" she said. "Where in the hell are you?"

A clanking noise was heard coming from the kitchen. Was her husband cleaning up?

Sharon headed toward the kitchen feeling guilty. Perhaps, if he were really good, Sharon would allow her husband to have her tonight.

Sharon Helms entered her kitchen for the last time.

* * *

Holding a butcher knife, Burt Helms waited. This was it! After so many years of cruelty, he was now in control.

Burt Helms had changed.

His eyes, blood red, had a spiral pattern which seemed to have replaced his pupils. If one were to look at him, they would have gotten the impression that he hadn't eaten any food in weeks-his face was hollowed out and pale from lack of nourishment.

Burt Helms had taken on a zombie-like appearance.

"Burt?" Sharon asked, noticing that the kitchen lights were off. "Are you in here, dear?"

Helms giggled. He moved an iron skillet, making a noise.

"Come to bed, dear." Sharon's voice turned soft, playful. "Time to make up."

Helms smiled, showing a row of sharp fang-like teeth. His mouth dripped with saliva, wanting to rip, tear, and sink into soft flesh, devouring all. His hunger grew; his eyes watching and his heart beating, the mad husband waited.

He loved every minute of it.

:Did I not promise you great power? Did I not promise you revenge?:

Sharon entered the kitchen.

The kitchen door suddenly slammed shut.

The kitchen filled with the sound of rustling plastic, growls, and the sounds of a knife ripping through flesh. Through it all, Burt Helms only heard the rumbling of his own laughter and the screams of his wife. Her pleas were like musical notes to his demented ears. Each time he plunged his knife into her ribcage, he was pleased to hear the greedy bitch eke out his name. God! He felt so empowered.

At the base of the kitchen door, a thick pool of blood started to form.

The Shape looked down at Sharon, grinning from ear to ear.

It was the last thing Sharon Helms ever saw.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Manchester House had become aware of the fact that the people inside of her were not leaving, were not frightened, and would not budge until they had conquered. It was strange to assume that a house could have a soul, but Manchester House did. The energy of the ground, the spirits, and other powers had seeped into her boards, her plaster, and her bricks-it was alive.

The Shape stood in the middle of the basement, realizing that the house was communicating with her. It had been a long time since she had been talked to.

:They need to leave.:

The Shape shook her head in agreement.

There was only one thing left to do.

* * *

The foundation of the house shook with great energy. Certain aspects of the house started to change form, structure, and solidity. The room filled with the sounds of thousands of lost souls, all ready to attack.

Shadows played against the walls as one by one the dead seeped through the bricks and natural stone of the basement, waiting.

The Shape started to chant, moving from side to side.

Paint started to bubble off the bricks of the basement's walls. Like tissue paper, the walls started to tear open, showing all the dead inside the room the soft purple swirl of clouds that Night had introduced the SOURCE team to.

* * *

It had taken quite a long time for Ingrid Night to fall asleep. In his dreams he had visions of his mother pleading for him to free her from the fiery clutches of a crematorium oven. Of Nazis beating him, calling him a Jew bastard. And of the divine pleasure he had felt when he killed and castrated his Nazi father. All these images lived in his dream world. However, another invaded his thoughts. Another seemed to be in control.

The Shape.

Night blinked his eyes open in horror. Darting up out of his fold-away bunk, he startled both Miranda and Holzer, who was now awake and appeared to be all better from his Ouija planchette encounter. The hardened black tar-like substance was still visible on his shoulder, but the redness around the wound was gone. By all appearances, Holzer appeared cured.

"Ingrid," Holzer asked cautiously, sipping a cup of tea. "What's wrong?"

Night's face was covered with sweat. Blinking his eyes open wide, he glared around the room, trying to come fully awake. His gaze finally came to rest on Holzer.

"Jonathon," Night stated, wiping the sweat off his face, "we are in danger here."

"So you have said," Holzer academically agreed.

"No! Hear me out!" Night warned, his voice near panic. "The spells I have used, believing that I have done my best to keep the beasts at bay, were all a lie. They did nothing to stop this evil."

Holzer gave what his friend had told him some thought. For the first time the professor seemed lost, worried, and totally frightened.

"Then what have we been doing here?" Holzer finally asked.

Before anyone could answer, Teresa darted up from her sleep, causing Sinclair to awaken as well. Night turned, studying the psychic. Her features matched his in the level of horror that was growing in her eyes. Night recognized her as a gifted seer. Teresa had shared the same dreams he had about the house, about the deaths it wanted to inflict on each of them, and of the Shape.

"Look at your psychic, my friend," Night explained. "She knows the truth as well."

Teresa was crying for some unknown reason, clinging to Sinclair's torso the way a child would during the darkest of nights, hoping for both safety and strength. Sinclair, looking on, could just gently hold the young woman.

"What's going on here, Doc?" the cameraman meekly asked.

Holzer and Night made eye contact yet again. Only this time, the academic mentality was no longer in control in Holzer's eyes. He had turned into the frightened twelve year old boy who, when staying at his grandfather's house, had come face to face with a ghost. Holzer's world was changed forever in that instant-it made him who he was. Only now Holzer was more terrified and he couldn't figure out why.

"Ingrid?"

Night held up a hand, silencing the professor. He closed his eyes, "feeling" his way about the house. He cursed himself for not doing it sooner. Night finished his psychic probing with an ironic, hateful laugh.

"What?" Holzer asked. The professor rose from his sickbed, putting his shirt and jacket back on. No tie, however. Holzer absolutely hated ties.

Night looked up at his friend, tired and very much feeling like a fool.

"We have been played with, my friend."

"In what fashion, may I ask?" Miranda asked, joining the little group.

Night looked at the beautiful British woman and marveled at the way she was trying to control her own fears. "You have had some nightmares, I wager?"

Miranda looked at Night, surprised. "How did you know?"

Night silently motioned the woman to study the looks on her friend's faces. Miranda was amazed at what she saw.

"Ingrid, can we get back to the subject at hand, please," Holzer insisted, now fully dressed.

"What's the matter?" Miranda asked.

"Ingrid now believes that the house is using us for some reason," Holzer explained.

Night shook his head sadly. "The evil wants to enter our world."

"Impossible," Teresa stated, breaking free of Sinclair. "Studies have shown that the spirits must maintain their own environment. They cannot do that in our world."

"I believe that this house has absorbed enough energy and bad luck that it has become a separate entity," Night said. "Our laws of science no longer seem to apply."

"What do we do now?" Holzer asked.

Night looked long and hard at his friend. "If we keep going the way we are right now, we are doing nothing more than helping the beast achieve its goal."

All gathered around the team's lantern.

Serious talk was now greatly needed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Now we are in serious shit!" Night grumbled, lighting another lantern for the sun was going down on the SOURCE team again. "Make no mistake: if we fail, we will never leave this house."

All team members were awake and ready to hear Ingrid Night as he tried to explain the evil and rather intelligent force they were facing. He marveled to them of the symbols that he had seen painted on the walls, of former shamans who had failed. He tried to prepare them for the hell they would all soon be facing.

"All the paranormal mumbo-jumbo we have been witness to so far was just bait on the spider's web," Night explained. He looked at Holzer. "Remember the hauntings at Sterling Castle? This is child's play next to that horror we faced together."

Holzer gave the notion a hard and nervous gulp. "I'm finding this all very hard to accept, Ingrid."

"I know."

The group heard a scuffling noise nearby and saw Lars standing by the main staircase, holding Night's crossbow weapon. He had several flasks of the blessed oil needed to fire the device and was silently looking up the stairs, expecting trouble.

"Lars!" Night yelled.

At first the deaf man did nothing. Then, as if sensing that his name had been uttered, he turned to face his master. The young man blinked his eyes, which appeared rather large and bug-like in his thick glasses, and waved his assurance of all their safety.

"Keep watch," Night continued, "and give them hell!"

Both Night and Lars exchanged a very American notion of "thumbs up."

"Ingrid," Holzer said, deep in thought. "Is this a compiled haunting we are witness to?"

"Ahh!" Night said, rather proud and satisfied with his young friend. "You know!"

The room turned electric. Both Miranda and Teresa were charged with excitement. Only Sinclair looked on like an unknowing student.

"What's a compiled haunting?" Sinclair asked, honestly interested.

All eyes turned to the cameraman in shock.

Only Night seemed to enjoy the question.

"Don't you know anything?" Miranda said, giving the cameraman a hard look.

Sinclair raised his hands in defense. "Hey! Shoot me."

"Don't tempt me."

"Kids!" Holzer said, breaking up the fight. He turned his attentions back toward Night. "Could you please explain the phenomena so that all are made aware, Ingrid."

Night nodded his head in compliance. "A compiled haunting, for Mr. Sinclair's sake, is where there are more spirits, demons, and whatnot using a focal point, in this case Manchester House, as a means of communicating. It is called a compiled haunting because generally there are more ghosts than there are grains of sand on a beach."

"And this is difficult because?" Sinclair asked, scared, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"It is difficult, Mr. Sinclair, because no one potion, charm, or weapon can calm this beast," Night explained, his face a controlled sneer. "In fact this beast, unlike most hauntings, doesn't even need to use Manchester House-it just is here to be here."

Teresa held up her hand. "Mr. Night?"

"Yes, child?"

Teresa paused. She never really liked being called "child" even when she was one. "I have probed this house in the same manner that you have."

"Yes? I know."

"Then, Mr. Night, you know that there is more to this house than ghosts."

There was a long pause before Night responded.

"Yes."

"Were you going to share that, Ingrid?" Holzer asked, surprised. "It's not like you to hold back."

"I wasn't sure," Night explained, quite embarrassed. "And I was not sure of your psychic's abilities when I first arrived."

"Then please, Mr. Night," Teresa insisted, "explain what we both know."

"The haunting," Night said, "being powered by the strong emotions of those who have lived here, have forced the ghosts to unite, creating and evolving into an independent intelligence-a force remembering this world but never a part of it. It now wishes to change that small fact."

Holzer raised his hand.

Night nodded, allowing the professor to speak.

"Now comes the sixty-four dollar question: How do we study and in the end defeat the damn thing?"

Night started to speak, then paused. A look of confusion marked his features, and by habit he looked toward Lars. Lars, who had been guarding the main entrance and staircase area expecting trouble, shrugged his shoulders. The deaf man had been following what everyone had been saying by reading their lips. Night returned the look of bewilderment to his faithful servant.

"This is new to me, Jonathon," Night explained. "I'm afraid we'll just have to wing it."

Sinclair let out a tired, scared moan.

"I don't believe this," the cameraman said, rising and pacing the floor. "I feel like I'm in a deleted chapter of Kill Bill or something. I had a great job! I was supposed to go to Iraq and film the first openings of the new governmental buildings, but no, I had to play ghost buster!"

Night responded with a laugh, controlling his volume. "Things change, Mr. Sinclair. Always remember that. Things change."

* * *

If the SOURCE team were in the basement, their reactions would have been different. The Shape had been busy conjuring up the most powerful of the spells she had learned in the time that she had died and been buried in the basement of the house, wrapped in a tarp.

The basement had grown in size. Much larger than before, it was preparing for the battle that the tall man in black was discussing upstairs. This would be it. This would be the final showdown.

"Let us go!" a voice called out, pleading to the Shape. Pleading for mercy where there was indeed none to give. She was as much a victim as they were.

Curious, however, she opened one blood-filled eye, looking toward the unfortunate soul who dared to bother her in her work for the Master. The Master, being the house, what mortals had referred to as Manchester House.

"Please!"

The voice was coming from a man in a military uniform--what modern people would call a Union soldier's uniform. This man was standing in a pool of tar, wrestling with the black ooze as it attacked his heels, keeping him a prisoner where he stood. Maggots swam in what were left of his eyes and, truth be known, even the Shape was repelled by this sight. With each scream of his mouth, the Union soldier's intestines came out of his body, dripping with bile and filth. Truly he was an appalling phantom.

"You have been here a long time," the Shape insisted, smiling.

"Yes!" the Soldier pleaded. "Save me!"

The Shape could not but laugh as she saw the man's stomach vomit out of his mouth, returning inside him as fast as it had appeared. What did this fool think that she could do?

"Very well." The Shape laughed contemptuously. "I will help."

The Shape opened both eyes, focusing them on the unfortunate soldier.

"No!" the soldier pleaded.

Before other spirits around the Union soldier could react and before the soldier himself could try to evade the Shape's stare, four demon-like creatures appeared and severed the spirit's limbs from his body and proceeded to eat from his torso. What made the scene more horrible than the obvious was the fact that no matter how many pieces the Union soldier was torn into, he would not die. His screams became more horrid - his pleas even more pitiful.

The Shape only smiled, returning to her chanting.

There was a war to consider.

:Do not take hold of my power like that again!:

The Shape started to feel her neck contract. Although a spirit, she, like mortals, needed to breathe. Gasping for air, she noticed that her own neck was becoming smaller and smaller.

"I understand," the Shape pleaded.

The Master, or Manchester House, allowed her to breathe freely again. The Shape fell to her knees coughing. At her feet was what was left of the Union soldier's face-half eaten. His one blue eye glared up at her in helplessness. He would have screamed, pleaded, and cried if he had a mouth to do it with. However, he only looked up at her, a rat nibbling on his eyebrow, while color returned to the Shape's face.

"I will&obey."

:That is good.:

Manchester House shuddered again with great satisfaction. All was ready.

* * *

Ingrid Night slapped his hands together, rising.

Holzer seemed to know that whatever needed to be said, planned, or anticipated had already passed. It was now time to pray that Night knew what he was about to do.

"Jonathon, prepare your people," Night ordered.

"What can we do, Ingrid?" Holzer asked, holding out his hands in a confused gesture.

"Well, for one thing, I would hope that you do your job, my friend."

"My&job?" Holzer's face had turned tired. This case was having a great effect on his features. He almost looked five years older in Night's eyes. Holzer could see this as Night turned his gaze toward him, and the surprise in the man's eyes did not set well with the college professor.

"You have an obligation to SOURCE, Jonathon," Night insisted, pointing a fatherly finger at him. "Regardless of the fact that our methods are different, you have an obligation. I hope that we can at least understand this phenomena should we survive. That way if faced by another team they would know how to control it. In controlling it, we could learn to understand."

"You're right," Holzer agreed.

"More than right, my friend," Night joked, although rather dryly. "I intend to, as you Americans say, 'kick some ass'."

Holzer laughed. He couldn't help it. He stared at Night with softness in his eyes which showed more than friendship.

"Thank you, my friend," Holzer said.

"Thank you, Jonathon." Night bowed his head.

Both men separated, doing what they could to get ready for the job that was ahead of them. Night, joining Lars by the main staircase, took his weapon from the deaf man, inspecting it. Lars, Holzer noticed, had opened Night's conjure kit and the old man was taking out several objects and putting them in the many pockets inside his black cloak. Holzer could see that Night was loading up his arsenal, hoping to battle a wolf but prepared if he ran into a grizzly.

Holzer turned to his team, doing all that he could to control his own fears.

"Okay, guys, we have to do this by the numbers." Holzer found himself pacing and rubbing his hands together. You could take the man away from academia, but you couldn't take academia away from the man. "What equipment do we have left, and does it work?"

His team members stared at each other blankly. They could not believe what they were hearing.

"Professor," Miranda stated, tired, "almost all of our equipment is damaged or close to it."

"Don't you think that I know that?" Holzer stated, controlling his emotions. At no point did the professor want to show his anger. Once he showed his anger, his fear would not be too far behind. "Focus, people. Focus. What do we have?"

Miranda and Teresa started rummaging through the stack of equipment.

"Thermometer," Teresa said, holding it up.

"An old EMF reader," Miranda stated, disappointed. "Both EMR detectors are fried. Guess we will have to use this thing."

"Better than nothing," Holzer agreed.

"Compass," Miranda said, placing the thing around her neck.

Sinclair found an old instamatic camera, holding it up with surprise.

"Hey, Doc, found a camera! I'm back in the game."

"Great!" Holzer beamed. "Glad to hear it."

"No monster's going to keep me from filming this event," Sinclair stated, reading the back of the camera. His face started to droop in disappointment. "Even if I only have two exposures left."

In any case, the SOURCE team was up and running in less than two minutes. They all gathered up their gear and joined both Night and Lars by the main staircase. The house was way too dark to just walk through it, and they only had one flashlight left to venture through the dark.

"Jonathon," Night said.

"Yes?"

"Look on the bright side."

Holzer waited, saying nothing. His body language, however, told Night to continue with his thought.

"This case is well worth a semester of college studies and should provide your students with something more than the ordinary."

Holzer gave the opinion some thought and for the first time since he woke up, the professor had something to smile about. "Good point."

"Of course it is a good point."

"I could possibly write a paper on this as well."

"Or a book."

"Perhaps."

Night smiled, loading his crossbow with oil. "Perhaps."

Manchester House seemed to get darker. It was particularly creepy since the lights from the camera and other flashlights were not around on this extraordinary night. Holzer promised himself that he would never allow broken flashlights to get in his way ever again. He cursed himself for not thinking of extra lighting.

"Why is it so dark?" Sinclair asked, his instamatic camera posed in his hand just in case.

"The house is aware of our intentions, Mr. Sinclair," Night explained. "That is all."

"Right," Sinclair responded, his eyes filling with a sarcastic wonderment.

Night studied the cameraman's reaction and knew that the man was making fun of Night's morbid warnings about Manchester House. But this didn't bother Night. He had been faced with many a "modern man" who scoffed at his teachings, warnings, and images of dangers yet to come. That was the way of things.

So as the SOURCE team, Night, and Lars approached the mansion's basement door, all Ingrid Night could do was match smile with skeptical smile.

"Humor, Mr. Sinclair," Night said, slowly opening the door to the basement, "is a powerful weapon, sir. One, I have noticed, that you use with superior skill."

"So?" Sinclair said, placing his camera on his belt.

"You will have need of it this night."

Both men exchanged a hard and long glance. Out of the corner of Night's eye, Holzer could be seen watching the two, wondering what had just taken place.

"Jonathon, I would advise you to keep this one for use later in the battle."

Holzer nodded his head, agreeing.

"Battle?" Sinclair asked, confused. "What battle?"

"The one we are heading into, Mr. Sinclair."

Night opened the door, offering Sinclair the chance to lead the way.

To everyone's surprise, Sinclair started toward the door.

Before the cameraman could venture beyond the threshold of the basement door, Lars respectfully placed his hand forward, pushing Sinclair away from the dark opening, stopping him. At first Sinclair was upset, but upon seeing the look on Lars' face -which held no ill will-the cameraman stepped back instead.

Night laughed.

"Do not feel so bad at this, cameraman," Night said, patting Sinclair on the shoulder. "Because there is great danger, I will go first. But you can follow me if that is your wish, sir."

Sinclair turned to look into Holzer's face.

"What do you say, Doc?"

"Do what is best for the group, Mr. Sinclair," Holzer said. "But do not stand in the way. We have others who are seeking answers here as well."

Night raised his hand with a reassuring gesture. "Believe me, Jonathon, you will all see what is going on, but from past evidence of this place I will lead. I do not wish to place any more lives in danger. Agreed?"

All team members nodded their heads in agreement.

The battle was on.

Sinclair stepped forward, readying his camera. He took his place as second in line.

Night, hollowly laughing, agreed.

Lars let the cameraman pass.

* * *

Night stood at the opening of the basement door on the edge of battle and froze. He closed his eyes, using only his hearing. Stretching out his senses, he waited.

"Tell your people what I require, Jonathon," Night whispered.

Holzer looked up at his friend and realized that Night was praying-preparing for a fight. How many times in his life had he seen this strange and mysterious man do this very thing? There was something noble in the act, and something very frightening. Night had mentioned Sterling Castle earlier in the day and Holzer had been there to see Night's battle. The whole thing took over a week, and Holzer still winced at the memory of the iron taste of blood in his mouth. The horror of it all!

However, this latest SOURCE team was new to Ingrid Night.

They had the right to be warned.

"People," Holzer began, clearing his throat. His nervousness was compounded by the fact that Night was chanting in Hebrew in front of him, blessing the area around the basement's door. "I need you all to listen, and listen carefully."

All eyes fell on Holzer.

"Our fellow colleague Ingrid Night is currently cleansing himself for the confrontation he feels will be soon to come."

"Professor?" Miranda asked, her clipped accent brightening up the night air. "What are we venturing into here?"

"War," was all Holzer could say. "I'm afraid once we enter this door, science as we know it will no longer apply."

"Doc?" Sinclair asked, his eyes questioning.

"Mr. Night is a soldier of a very old religious order who has used SOURCE to his ends. After all, he is one of the founders, by God!" Holzer paused. "Just be careful, and do not trust what the beast tells you. Stay on the path that Night is opening."

"In other words, 'don't stray onto the moors'," Sinclair joked, faking a rather bad English accent, which he noticed caused Miranda to give him a discouraging face.

"Mind your ass, that is what I'm saying. This is serious, people. You all entered into the realms of parapsychology to seek answers. Now's your time to find them."

"Professor? Can we trust what we are doing here?" Teresa asked.

Holzer looked into the brown eyes of the young psychic and was troubled by her innocence. Would she be able to tackle this adventure?

"No," the professor finally stated.

"Can we still use our scientific equipment, Professor?" Miranda finally asked.

"I would be disappointed if you didn't," Holzer replied, trying to control his pride in Miranda's zeal. "After all, we are still scientists."

"After a fashion." Miranda winked.

"After a fashion," Holzer agreed.

Holzer turned to face Night. He was third in line, followed by Miranda and Teresa at the end. It was the silent suggestion of Lars that the young psychic be at the rear in case "something" wanted to attack from behind. Using her powers would be a good insurance to seek out any hidden enemies.

"Ingrid, we're ready." Holzer's voice betrayed the fear that was behind his words. His hands were shaking.

* * *

Night stepped onto the basement's first step.

"I am a servant of God," he prayed. "Evil will not harm me, for it fears my conviction. The Lord is my guide and he is my shield."

The house became aware of Night's presence and knew of his power. Night was sure of this and could feel the air around him become difficult to walk through. As if solid, the air was becoming a force he had to battle.

"Lars!" Night yelled, holding out his hands.

By the same mysterious reasons as before, the deaf man seemed to sense his master's call and his needs. Reaching into Night's conjure kit the deaf man produced a pair of funny goggles, placing them into Night's callused hand.

"Night goggles?" Holzer asked.

Night turned, giving his young friend's curiosity a friendly nod. "Something like that. Yes, my friend."

Night put on the goggles.

A Tibetan monk he had met in China gave the goggles to him during the revolution that nation had in the fifties. They were made from a stone which, it was said, fell to earth from "the tears of God." Night had discovered long ago that the goggles saw what mortal eyes could not-they had saved his ass more than once.

"Oh my!" Night said, adjusting the focus of the lenses.

Manchester House was indeed aware of their attempt to get to the haunt's heart. Manipulating the air, Night could see several invisible tentacles arching from wall to wall, creating a sort of psychic spider web in the entire entrance to the basement. So thick were these invisible strings of energy, they seemed to make the very air dense and more difficult to pass through. In all his life, this was a unique thing for an experienced warrior of the supernatural.

"What do you see, Ingrid?" Holzer was heard asking.

Night turned, looking at Holzer. With his goggles on, Night looked like an alien bug of some kind. He was clearly excited.

"Jonathon, the Lancelot-Pool ley line is real! There is proof of the energy coming from as well as stopping at this site."

"Proof?" Holzer asked.

"Proof!" Night confirmed. "The energy seeping up from this foundation is amazing. Quite extraordinary, if I do say so!"

Night turned back, motioning with his hands to have everyone follow him.

The energy rods seemed to stop their attack once Night had made everyone aware of them. Kind of like the old superstition of saying "Boo!" to help alleviate one's fears on a cold autumn night.

The rustling of plastic started to attack everyone's ears.

"Here comes the plastic sound," Sinclair said, his voice clearly frightened.

The mood of the basement was dark. Upon descending, they should have ventured down a seven-foot decline, fourteen stairs, and two concrete steps, onto a cobblestone foundation.

What they found wasn't on the blueprints.

Night took off his goggles. He rubbed his eyes.

"Dear God!"

* * *

Holzer, looking up from his EMF reader which he didn't like as much as the EMR detector-less reliable around electrical wiring-realized that the line had stopped. He too was feeling uneasy. He had counted thirty-eight steps to the bottom of the stairs.

"Professor?" Teresa asked, placing her shaking hand on his shoulder. "Why have we stopped?"

Holzer looked up at what Night was marveling at and he too was at a loss for words.

The entire foundation of Manchester House had changed, grown, and broken free from its normal time and space. Where there had once been a simple natural stone foundation, four walls and a furnace basement, there was now an endless space that seemed to stretch out as far as the eyes of the SOURCE team could see.

Holzer had once investigated a haunting on board a famous naval aircraft carrier and had befriended a retired Commander. It was during this friendship that Holzer learned that the average eye scan could pick up ten miles of the earth's circumference.

Holzer believed that he was seeing at least that much in mileage below the mansion-which, according to science, was impossible.

"What is all this, Ingrid?" Holzer asked.

Night looked down at his trusted servant, Lars.

Lars had seen much in his life, some of it even beyond Night's comprehension. What Night was seeing reflected back up into his own eyes was fear in Lars'.

"Jonathon, I do not know."

Holzer dropped his EMF reader. It spiked as high as the detector would allow.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ingrid Night swallowed a nervous gulp as he tried his best to hold a poker face. He was scared and there was no way around that fact. The wondrous labyrinth that he and his friend had run into, which had once been the basement of Manchester House, was more than he was mentally ready for.

The hanging plastic tarps, which seemed to hold some kind of importance in all of this, were stretched out by the millions, spanning across both time and space, taking on a maze-like structure. Night could only compare what he saw to the inside of a giant nautilus shell.

Purplish skies greeted the entire SOURCE team where there had once been boards from the overhanging floors. They could all feel a healthy wind spanning across the entire underground world. And they all seemed to realize that they were being watched.

"Jonathon," Night said. He waited for his friend to join him.

"Yes?"

"Look up toward the entrance to the basement and tell me what you see."

Holzer gazed back and was surprised to see that the staircase they had traveled down was no longer visible. However, hanging in the air above them, at least a hundred feet off the ground, floating, teasing, was the halfway open door to Manchester House. Holzer could clearly see the inside of the mansion.

Something was moving inside the house.

Police officers!

"We can't leave, Ingrid," Holzer said. "We're trapped."

"Not trapped. Kept where we can be controlled."

"Ingrid, I saw police officers in the mansion."

"Perhaps we have been gone a very long time." Night gave his young friend a horrid look, one that did not produce much positive reaction from Holzer.

"We've only been down here a few minutes."

"By our reckoning, Jonathon," Night stated. "By our reckoning."

Holzer shook his head.

"I want to leave this house, Ingrid. I have had enough."

Night patted Holzer on the shoulder.

"Then we need to win."

"Then win."

Night placed his hand out for Lars to see. The deaf man again seemed to read what the tall man in black needed to proceed. Night's face lost all emotion. All he could think about was the task at hand.

A silver Star of David was resting in Night's hand.

He raised it above the small group of people with him and waited.

Nothing happened.

"Oh-oh!" Night said, looking at Lars with worry.

"Oh-oh?" Holzer repeated. "What do you mean by that, Ingrid?"

The winds started to grow stronger and the sky above them turned a little darker. If they all stared hard, they could barely define the outlines of the overhanging boards of the mansion's basement. Although the icon Night had produced did not seem to have the effect hoped for, it was producing some results.

The ground started to shake.

Spirits of all types, shapes, and sizes began to fling themselves upon the members of the SOURCE team. Before any of them realized it, they were covered with corpses. Clawing, begging, and screaming for salvation.

"Ingrid, get us out of here!" Holzer screamed. The professor was busy taking a loose notebook and hitting a headless corpse of a Native American who was frantically searching for her head. The unfortunate spirit's neck oozed with thick black blood. The smell was enough to have caused a battle-educated soldier to get sick in his helmet.

"This is only round one, Jonathon," Night reassured.

Lars opened up Night's kit and produced another crossbow weapon. This time Lars was going to join his master in the fight. The deaf man put on a pair of goggles not unlike Night's, although more scientific-more normal.

"The creature seems to be growing in strength, Jonathon," Night explained, motioning Lars to join him. Both men stood back to back. Each was scanning the area in all directions.

"Creature?" the SOURCE team members all said in unison.

"There is a creature at the heart of this maze," Night explained, cocking back the firing trigger of his crossbow.

Holzer stepped forward, almost frantic. "Ingrid! No one said anything about a creature. What are we talking about here?"

"The energy of Manchester House has gathered so much power that it is taking on consciousness itself. It wants to become."

"And that is the thing that wants to enter our world?"

"Precisely."

"Okay," Holzer said, "let's kill it."

The SOURCE team looked at Holzer as if he were crazy. It had always been Holzer's point to explore, study, and create. Never once had anyone ever heard the wise professor say destroy.

"Jonathon, we have enough data so far to keep us occupied for a lifetime," Miranda softly protested. "We cannot turn our backs on what we're afraid of. Can we?"

"Miranda, do you want this thing free in our world?" Holzer asked, his hands motioning toward the horror around them.

Miranda couldn't speak. She only shook her head. Returning to her work, gathering up all the information that she could, she avoided eye contact with Holzer. She was angry and the college professor knew it. It would take time for her anger to subside, but in the end Holzer knew that she would forgive him.

Holzer turned to Night, who was staring at him, studying.

"Something to say?" Holzer barked almost rudely.

"No," Night replied softly. Taking in a deep breath and filling his face with conviction, Night turned his attention toward Lars. "Lars!"

The deaf man turned to face his master.

Using his hands, motioning them in the air, Night prepared his friend and manservant for battle. Reading Night's hand gestures, Lars was all attention. Finally Night resumed his position and Lars meekly followed.

Both aimed their crossbows up at different points in space.

Both fired.

The two streams of blessed oil shot out of their weapons and traveled about half a block before landing, hitting, and causing the area in which they landed to bubble and steam with great violence. A tremble could be felt in the ground beneath the SOURCE team members' feet as the oil sank into the ground. Color seemed to leave the area in which the oil had been placed, and more than a few spirits seemed to freeze like statues.

"What's going on there?" Holzer had been hiding behind a wall of monitors Miranda had managed to set up, bringing them down with her in the basement before all went strange. Holzer had to thank her later for her ingenuity.

Night looked up from his left shoulder over at the three frozen spirits that had reacted so violently towards Lars' attack. "It is their salvation, Jonathon. That is all."

The three spirits were all men ranging from thirteen to their late sixties. One was dressed in a World War II uniform and appeared to have been one of those unfortunate hitchhikers who had taken the wrong road, winding up at Manchester House. Night had a weakness for WWII GIs-after all, they saved him from the grips of hell. Night closed his eyes, holding back tears, waiting for the final effect of the oil to take hold.

The spirits began to quake, yelling at the top of their spiritual voices. Their skin started to crack and turn to dust. In the blink of an eye, all the frozen forms had crumbled down to three piles of white dust. A wind blew by, scattering them all into the abyss. Free forevermore.

"Are they dead?" Teresa asked.

"No," Night assured. "They have found what they were looking for."

"Which is?" Miranda inquired.

Night could hear the woman working on a notebook computer, adding facts to the observations she had just seen. He turned, wondering how the woman had managed to bring down so much equipment in such a short time and surmised that half of it had to have been down in the basement in the first place.

"Rest, Mrs. Wingate," Night said. "They have now the time to rest."

"You destroyed their souls," Teresa barked angrily.

Night's eyes turned sad. He shook his head with regret. "It was the only way."

Holzer walked over to Teresa, who seemed to have felt the agony Night's attack had caused the three unfortunate spirits. The professor took the crying woman in his arms, giving Night an understanding glance. Night in turn avoided the scene by returning to his work.

"Mr. Sinclair," Night barked.

The cameraman had been cleaning the lens on his camera, doing his best to focus his mind at the job he was on. Being back in the dimensional void was not a curiosity to him-he was reminded of his first encounter. Perhaps that was why he was more cautious than terrified.

"Yes sir," Sinclair said, springing to Night's side.

"How many pictures do you have left?"

"Two."

Night looked down at the tiny camera, inspecting it. "Does that include a flash?"

"Ever know a professional cameraman not to have one?" Sinclair returned Night's question with a question. "In any case, even though I hate these little disposable cameras, I never buy one without a flash."

Night shook his head with understanding. "As you have noticed, we are in the void into which you first ventured the other day. It is very dark in here. No light." Night paused, studying Sinclair's reactions. "Do you see where I'm going with this, Mr. Sinclair?"

Sinclair at first was busy putting his camera back on his belt, hanging from a piece of string. Then the cameraman's eyes widened with understanding. "The flash!"

"Exactly." Night chuckled. "You are not that dumb after all."

"Thank you, sir."

"I still do not like you," Night reminded the cameraman. He slowly walked away, leaving Sinclair alone with his thoughts.

"Guy talks like my editor," Sinclair protested, returning to his friends.

Night pulled down his goggles, readjusting them, studying the plastic maze that lay out in front of him and his friends. The attack he and Lars had just accomplished seemed to get rid of most of the spirits guarding the entrance to the maze, but other than that very little damage was done-besides the return of the basement's rafters to the purplish sky.

"Hmm," Night said, adjusting the focus closer toward the maze.

It appeared that Night's attempt to stop the creature had caused it in turn to only grow stronger. Whatever was at the heart of the giant maze, it was a great power. Night only hoped that it was a demon. Demons he could kill.

The invisible tentacles from before were in greater numbers at the entrance of the maze. In fact, Night could see new and thicker tentacles being born and ripping at the plastic.

"Jonathon!" Night huffed, waving a frantic hand for his friend to join him.

Holzer walked over, wiping his glasses off. Some of the dust from the three unfortunate spirits had landed on his glasses. "What is it?"

Night took off his goggles, handing them to Holzer. "Look!" he ordered.

Holzer placed the goggles on and saw the growing tentacles.

"What am I seeing?" the professor asked.

"The tentacles are playing with the plastic tarps," Night explained.

"So?"

"That is how we are constantly hearing the sounds of rustling plastic in a room that has no wind. It is not the wind that is causing the movement. It is the beast!" Night's eyes started to light up with understanding. He almost looked childlike in his reactions.

As if asked to respond on cue, the basement world they were all trapped in started to fill with the sound of rustling plastic.

Holzer turned his attention toward the plastic walls of the maze.

"Incredible," the college professor whispered, moving forward, adjusting Night's goggles.

What Holzer saw was beyond science. New life forms started to scrape at the hanging plastic as if trying to break through. However thin the plastic appeared to those on the SOURCE team, it had to be more powerful than first thought. In any case, the many tentacles, spirits, and hands that were pressing up against the hanging plastic were, by Night's discovery, trying in groaning agony to break through into the world of man. As if "something" was pushing them to do so.

"Why can't they get through the plastic?" Night wondered.

"Perhaps it is a barrier of some kind?" Holzer surmised. He took off Night's goggles, handing them back to his friend.

Night accepted the goggles.

Both men started to think the same answer.

"A dimensional barrier!" both men said in unison.

"But why plastic?" Holzer asked.

"Perhaps it is something more," Night said, pulling at his bottom lip in deep thought. "Perhaps in our minds we see the walls as simple plastic tarps. Perhaps that is the only form the dimensional barriers can take in our world. Or a participating member of our world gives them this form. You had stated on more than one occasion that the residents of Manchester House were painting, remodeling. Perhaps all these people influenced the simple manifestations of the barriers in this form?"

Holzer gave the theory some thought. He found it sound.

"This is definitely one for the books, old friend," Holzer mused.

Night chuckled dryly. "Book? Jonathon, this place and all the wonders we are seeing with each passing minute would fill a fucking library. We are at the threshold of a legend. Whatever happens from this moment on is beyond your training or mine."

Thunder filled the room and it started to rain.

"What?" Miranda was heard saying, looking up at the falling water with surprise. "Is there a leak in the floorboards?"

The rain fell stronger.

All Miranda's equipment shorted out.

"No!" she pleaded, playing with the keyboard of her computer.

"Will you lose any of the data?" Holzer asked.

"No. I saved it all on disk, thank God."

A heavy sigh lifted from the group.

"Jonathon," Night whispered. "We have to enter the maze."

Holzer gave his friend a surprised look. Nervously he pointed toward the plastic opening, remembering the many invisible tentacles, creatures, and spirits that roamed just inside the doorway.

"In there?" Holzer asked.

Night nodded his head.

"Is it safe?"

Night shrugged his shoulders. "Beats me."

Holzer moaned, rubbing his temples.

After about five minutes of preparations, the entire team stepped away from the concrete steps, which had been the bottom of the mansion's original basement steps, heading toward the entrance to the plastic maze. As soon as they had ventured off the concrete steps, they sank into a bubbling tar pit, which took the place of the staircase's foundation.

Whatever happened now, they had no choice but to go forward.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lt. Wells looked up from the paperwork he had been doing for the past five hours, regretting the fact that he hadn't called in. He came in early to work, having to deal with two teenage boys who had thought it fun to vandalize the train museum just off Main Street near the department of tourism and the famous Atchison Trolley Ride. Wells was never one to keep kids from having a good time, especially on a weekend night, but to deface the town's means of making a living? Not on his watch.

"Wells," a voice yelled out at him.

"Yeah?"

"Call on line four."

Wells thanked God for the break. He threw his pencil down, answering the phone.

"Wells."

"Ah, this is Dean Eager from the college," the voice on the other end of the phone said. Wells could clearly hear that the woman on the other end of the line was worried.

"How can I help you, Dean Eager?"

The college was a high-powered university, way out of the league of most universities and colleges in and around Atchison. Wells was curious as to why they would call him.

"I'm calling to file a missing person report, if I'm able to do that over the phone that is."

Wells' curiosity peaked. He was about to bite into a doughnut, but suddenly faced with something that would require thought, the detective decided to pass on his sugar rush.

"You can, Dean Eager," Wells explained, his voice turning sad. "I hope that this isn't a student who has passed through our small town."

"I hope not," Dean Eager agreed. "It's not a student, but an investigative team that left here over a week ago. We have heard nothing of them, and the webcam link that we had established has been broken since their first days of investigation."

"Investigation?" Wells asked, taking notes. "What sort of investigation?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Fingers hitting a desk nervously.

"Paranormal investigation, sir," Dean Eager stated. "The team we sent up there wanted to investigate&"

"Manchester House?" Wells asked, interrupting.

"Yes," the dean said, excitement in her voice.

"Jesus Christ, Professor Holzer! I almost forgot about him!" The detective slammed the phone down, looking for a few available uniforms.

Wells got up from his desk, pointing his fingers at two officers who had gathered by the box of doughnuts.

"You two," Wells shouted, "come with me."

"Where we going, sir?"

"Hopefully to stop a blood bath."

"Where?"

The other uniformed police officer, having been around Lt. Wells for a number of years, seemed to know.

"Manchester House," the older police officer said to the younger.

"Oh no."

Wells and his officers headed toward the exit. A car was assigned and back up was called.

On the other end of the phone, wondering what she had done to cause Wells to hang up, Dean Eager went over the semester curriculum, hoping that she wouldn't have to replace Jonathon Holzer's classes.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Leading the way, Ingrid Night aimed his crossbow ahead of him, expecting trouble. Lars was not too far behind, pointing his weapon in the rear, over the SOURCE team members' heads. Spirits were dishonest. That was the first rule of the haunt. Spirits were angry at the living; that was the second rule. The third and most important rule was: Spirits would, if given the chance, trade places with the living. That is what Night expected, and that is what he and Lars prepared for.

The plastic maze lay before them. Before they all could enter the maze, however, Night insisted that each member of the team be blessed, purified, and bathed with a sulfur-based liquid he had obtained near the ancient site of Megiddo in North Palestine. Megiddo was a powerful site in the Cabbalistic faith, oddly enough for the Christians as well. Night knew that in the Christian faith, Megiddo was the town in which occurred the New Testament mention of the end of the world-Armageddon.

"We need to leave our doubts and sins behind," Night told each member of the team. "Since I am not a priest, and I know that Lars is not either, we will have need of the sulfur water from the holy site of Megiddo."

"Is it harmful, Doc?" Sinclair asked, a little uneasy.

Night paused, studying Sinclair's genuine fear. "Why so upset, Mr. Sinclair?"

"I don't like medicines," the cameraman explained. "They frighten me."

"So they do." Night sympathized, shaking his head with understanding. "I will be especially kind to you. Fear need not be in your mind. Have courage, my friend."

The blessings went well-even with Sinclair.

The maze appeared to look like hanging plastic held in place by duct tape, spiraling around beyond the reach of the human eye to follow, and into infinity. A bright light could be seen shining from the middle of the maze-or at least what appeared to be the middle. At this point in the game, it was hard for Night and the SOURCE team members to believe in what they were seeing.

The entrance appeared quiet.

No spirits were there to fight with them.

"Ingrid, a thought has just occurred to me," Holzer said. The professor put his hand on Night's shoulder, wishing to grab the man's attention.

Night dared not move his gaze from what was in front of him. "And what is that, Jonathon?"

"If the plastic tarps represent the barriers between our world and that of the spirits wishing to invade it, what does the endless stream of duct tape stand for?"

The question intrigued Night. He stopped walking.

"Perhaps the logic of the universe, which seems to hold everything in check," Night mused. "This could be the hidden power we take for granted every day."

"Such as?"

"The sun rising each morning. That black holes do not devour the entire universe," Night explained, becoming greatly animated at his theory. "That when an egg is thrown into the air, we can relax with the certainty that it will tumble back down to earth. Perhaps the duct tape is a symbol of God's handiwork which helps keep the universe from blowing up."

Holzer let out an unimpressed grunt.

"You asked," Night reiterated.

Miranda cleared her throat. "Mr. Night?"

"Yes?"

"If we enter this maze and are ambushed, we will have nowhere to retreat."

Night gave the observation some thought. He shook his head in disagreement. "You are wrong. We do have somewhere to go."

"Where?" the pathologist asked.

"Why, Mrs. Wingate, we go&forward."

Miranda huffed, trying to hide the fear growing inside of her. Night understood. In fact he was greatly impressed by the bravery and fortitude of Holzer's followers. He hoped, should they survive, that he be given the honor to work again with each and every one of them-even Sinclair.

* * *

Teresa and Miranda tried to pass the time and control their growing fears by concentrating on the EMF reader in Miranda's hands. Focusing their attention on the rising meter was more comforting to the two women than seeing the rotted, bloodied, and panicky corpses clawing at the maze's endless plastic walls.

There had been spirits and specters along the sides of the maze to attack the fantasies and horrors of any taste.

Seeing living people walking toward the center of the focal point of this haunting had been too much for some of the spirits trapped in this fantastic void. Several rushed toward the plastic walls, giving the team members the general fear that they would all easily break through the walls, attacking them. But this was not and could not be. There was "something", some magical force that kept the thin plastic barrier intact. The agony of the tortured was beyond bizarre; they would claw away at the sheets of plastic, being pulled back by some unforeseen force which kept them clearly at bay.

This was too much for Miranda and Teresa.

They focused on their jobs, closing their eyes tightly every time they heard the shattering of body against rustling plastic. Like a bug light at a family barbecue, this was an annoyance best left to strong stomachs.

"The meter is overloading." Miranda said, trying her best to adjust it. "God, I wish that we had the EMR reader. The readings in this place would be amazing."

Suddenly the meter went dead. There were no readings. Nothing.

"Oh-oh," Miranda said. She started hitting the EMF reader on its side, trying to get it to work right.

"What happened?" Teresa asked, looking at the meter reader of the EMF with great curiosity.

"Well, the damn thing's stopped working."

"Did you break it?"

Miranda gave the young psychic a hard if not insulting look. "No, I didn't break it."

"Okay," Teresa said, raising her hands in mock defense. "Just curious."

Both women, wrapped up in what they were doing, failed to realize that the rest of their team had moved so far ahead of them that they were completely alone in their part of the maze.

They were both too involved to hear that the rustling plastic noise had stopped.

In fact, it was way too quiet.

Except for the heavy breathing.

Teresa was the first to feel it. A feeling of dread that made her shiver and the hair on her neck to rise. The psychic began to quiver with terror. She had the feeling that they were not alone.

"Miranda," Teresa whispered, "please, listen."

Miranda was still too interested in what she was doing to get the EMF device to start working again to realize that her friend was clasping onto her arm with more than a gesture to move forward, catching up with the rest of the team members. It was only after Teresa's terror caused the psychic's grip to become painful that Miranda really started to pay attention.

"Ow!" Miranda shouted, looking at Teresa with great annoyance. "That really hurts, Teresa. Stop it."

"Listen!" Teresa insisted, placing a shaking finger to her lips, quieting Miranda down.

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.

"You mean this thing's a flashlight?" Holzer asked, disappointed.

Night looked at his friend, saying, "To us, yes. It is a flashlight. To the spirits..." Night paused, smiling devilishly. "To them it is something more."

Night pointed the rifle at the plastic cubicle containing the two women and simply waited.

Nothing happened at first.

Then slowly, inch by plastic inch, a tear started to appear in the tarp hanging in front of the male team members. Both Holzer and Sinclair began to gawk, cheering with great surprise.

Lars gave both cheering men a stern look, shaking his finger at them, making both shut right up.

"We are only starting this battle, gentlemen," Night warned. "Please conserve your energy."

A pink liquid seemed to flow from the cubicle containing both Miranda and Teresa. Everyone could sense that whatever was holding them in place was slowly starting to lose its grip on them.

Suddenly the plastic wall exploded open.

Night blew out the candle burning in his weapon.

Gushing out of the plastic womb, both Miranda and Teresa spilled out onto the maze floor, coughing up mucus and fighting to breathe air once again. Night and Lars pulled away from the SOURCE members, expecting trouble from the open wall, but surprisingly there was none.

Holzer, while going to the women's aid, noticed Night had his goggles back on. The tall man was looking all around, pointing his weapon in every direction.

"Are you two okay?" Holzer asked, scooping layers of ectoplasm off his two team members.

"What happened to us?" Miranda asked.

Sinclair rushed forward, taking Miranda's weak hand in his, wanting to help the woman up. This action caused Miranda to look at him with great curiosity.

"You guys were frozen in some kind of a trap, right, Mr. Night?" Sinclair explained, rubbing Miranda's hand.

Night nodded his head.

A rumble started to fill the maze, as if something had been made aware of Teresa and Miranda's freedom. Night snatched both women up, bringing them to their feet.

"Dear ladies, please, forgive me," Night said, panic in his voice, "but we must keep moving."

All started to venture forward in the maze.

All except Lars.

"Lars, you better get&" Night started to say. Lowering his goggles once again, Night had thought it best to be prepared for another attack should there be one. What stopped Night from completing his sentence was what he saw seeping through the plastic walls of the maze, heading toward his deaf mute friend.

Behind Lars, gaining in strength and articulation was a huge tentacle which did not appear to be hindered by the maze. Instead it seemed to seep in from the outside of the plastic barrier into the known physical world. Night had suddenly been made aware of the bitter fact that his weapon helped break the spiritual barrier between both worlds-at least in that pane of plastic tarp.

In any case, the invisible tentacle started to wrap itself around Lars' waist.

The deaf mute, not realizing the danger he was in, meekly stared up at his master, puzzling over the look of dread he was reading on Night's features.

"Lars," Night whispered softly. "Be careful." He held up a warning hand. It was shaking violently.

Before Lars could do or sense anything, the tentacle went into action. Taking hold of Lars, it picked him up, pulling him toward the barriers separating our world from that of the spiritual.

Lars' eyes filled with terror. He seemed to know the danger he had been placed in and tried his best to combat the situation. Taking out a blessed knife resembling a Bowie knife, the deaf man started hacking away at the empty air. His mouth opened and closed as hollow attempts at sound seeped from his silent throat. Lars silently begged Ingrid Night to come to his rescue.

Breaking away from his other SOURCE friends, Ingrid Night grabbed hold of a sacred wand, a vile of oil, and a grenade, focusing his goggles on the creature that was attacking his friend.

"Have at me, you heathen!" Night yelled, splashing oil on the tentacle.

At first, it appeared as if the tentacle was going to let Lars go. It quivered a few times, relaxing Night's fears. The oil used had always served him well in past attacks, and there was no reason to believe that it would not in this instance.

It failed.

Tightening its grip around Lars' waist, the invisible creature took hold, causing the spidery old man to gasp out in a silent pain that could clearly be read on his face. Shaking the man like a rag doll, Lars lost his thick eyeglasses. Panic clearly in Lars' eyes, he dropped his knife, doing his best to battle away at the increasing pain he was going through. After all, the tentacle was slowly crushing his waist inward, making it almost impossible for the man to breathe.

Night attacked the creature again.

Taking out a magical wand given to him by a witch from Salem several decades ago, Night started to chant out a certain spell, hoping to cause the tentacle to fall apart into nothingness.

"Ingrid!" Holzer threw Night his crossbow weapon and another vial of blessed oil.

Night took the weapon, silently thanked Holzer, loaded it, and aimed.

Before Night could do anything further, the crack in the outer wall of the maze increased, shattered, and a gaping hole was left in its place. The invisible tentacle attempted to pull Lars through the walls of the maze, into the swirling purple mist. The same mists that had almost claimed Sinclair a day before.

Night's eyes widened with a horror he rarely allowed anyone to see.

"Dear God!" Night cried, pain and panic warring with each other, taking over the overall tone of his voice. "No!"

Realizing that he was in danger, Lars spread both his arms and legs, clinging to the edges of the plastic tarp, hoping against hope that he could break away to his freedom and safety. However, the grip of the creature was secure, and his fear was starting to take its toll on his strength. Night could see that the deaf mute was in terrible pain.

Squinting with unfocused eyes, Lars tried his best to make eye contact with Night. He seemed to be aware of his master's concern and smiled at the sense of it.

Lars was beyond saving and he knew it.

With swiftness found only by gunfighters, Lars let go, retracting his arms and legs, turning into a human cannonball. Like a shot through a gun barrel, Lars was pulled from the world of man into the spirit world. The only thing left behind was the man's glasses and knife.

"Noooo!" Night shouted, dropping his crossbow weapon. Night started to fling himself at the hole, wishing to follow his comrade into the purple abyss.

Holzer, in sheer panic, raced toward his friend, grabbing him by the legs, breaking his stride, stopping him. "Ingrid! Don't!"

Looking into the mist, hanging onto the edge of the maze's walls, Ingrid Night saw Lars sinking into the horrible world of the lost and the damned. All the tall old man could do was feebly yell for Lars' welfare. And, although deaf, Night knew that his dear friend could both see and hear him.

"Lars!" Night yelled, his eyes quickly tearing up. "Lars!"

Sensing a living being within their reach, hundreds of tortured spirits attacked Lars, burying him in a mound of rotted flesh. The only thing Night could see of the man was a defiant arm raising itself up out of a wall of bloodied and matted corpse hair, giving his master a victorious fist.

If they were going to extinguish the life force known as Lars, it would not be without a fight.

Ingrid Night could not have been prouder.

Within the course of twenty seconds, at least that was what Night had felt had gone by, Lars and the corpses attacking him were gone-vanished within a wall of purple haze.

Night, losing strength in both his legs, collapsed.

* * *

The SOURCE team members looked on, staring at the fallen figure of Ingrid Night meekly grasping at the clinging edges of the maze's wall. It was remarkably calm and silent considering the circumstances of where they were.

Holzer stepped forward, kneeling down to look into Night's face.

"Ingrid?"

No answer.

Night looked incredibly old to Holzer at that moment. There was haunting guilt swimming around in the old man's eyes, a kind that Holzer had never encountered in Night's features before. It was quite obvious to Holzer that Lars had become more than a manservant to Night. In point of fact, Lars was like a son to Night. His level of torment was enough to convince Holzer of that.

Still, Holzer had one thing on his mind: escape.

"Ingrid, we need you to help us out of this maze," Holzer pleaded softly.

Night slowly broke away from whatever private hell the death of his friend had created for him and looked into Holzer's eyes, lost. Night could only stare at Holzer with the same bewildering look a child might give his father once he has been made to realize that there was in fact no Santa Claus.

"What?" Night finally asked.

Holzer placed a pleading hand on Night's shoulder, hoping that the connection between the two of them would be enough to snap the old man out of his loss.

"Damn it, Night!" Holzer shouted. "I placed my kids' lives in your hands here. We need you, man."

"Need?" Night repeated the word, as if the very mention of it was enough to defeat the purpose.

"Ingrid, I need you," Holzer pleaded. "Lars would not wish to see all of us dead. Would he?"

Holzer could sense that Night was giving the question he posed some thought. Then, by degrees and very slowly, the glimmer of defiance returned to the gaze of Ingrid Night. Little by little, strength returned to the old man's limbs.

Night once more clasped hold of his crossbow and cocked the firing hammer back into an active position. He had never fired the thing and it was still loaded with the oil he had placed in there earlier with the hope of saving his deaf mute friend.

"We shall prevail, my friend," Night promised Holzer, hugging Holzer's face in the same loving manner a father might use to comfort his children.

"I have no doubt of it."

Night finally regained his footing, standing.

Upon reaching his towering height, Night studied the faces of those around him. Holzer could see that Night was aware of the personal pain each member of the team had felt by the loss of Lars. However, each wanted to live and wanted to escape the environment they were currently in.

"You do realize," Night started to say, clearing his throat, "that in order to leave this void we must proceed with our mission to destroy the beast at the center of this maze."

Slowly, all within the group shook their heads, realizing the task they were soon to face.

"More could be lost," Night suggested, helplessly raising his hands. "I cannot see any other way."

Holzer joined his friend. "We are all seekers of the truth here, my friend. We all knew the risks before we came here."

Night nodded his head with great approval. He was pleased with what he was hearing. "Very well." Night started to lead the way deep into the maze. "Follow me. We have a long way to go, I fear." Night's victorious tone had returned to his voice. He was once more the man Holzer had come to both love and admire.

"Crazier than a bed bug," Sinclair stated, folding up his camera.

"Perhaps," Holzer agreed. "But that bed bug is our only hope. Now pick up your gear and keep your damn smart-ass remarks to yourself. Understood?"

Sinclair was surprised at the harsh look he was getting from Holzer. "Okay, Doc. No offense."

Venturing toward the center of the maze, the SOURCE team prepared for war.

Unknown to them, a hidden evil was ready.

Ready for more blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Holzer was incredibly surprised when Night handed him the other crossbow weapon which had been reserved for his manservant Lars. Befuddled, the college professor looked at the bulky weapon as if it were an artifact from outer space.

"What the hell do you want me to do with this thing, Ingrid?" Holzer asked, not knowing whether he should hold it or drop the bloody thing.

"You will need defense of it, I think," Night explained.

"For heaven's sake," Holzer interjected, his face clearly on the verge of spastic panic. "This is your thing. I don't hunt dragons, I study them."

Night wiped away new tears from his eyes, storming down on his friend. It had been a long and challenging few hours for him and Night was in no mood for one of Holzer's debates. "Do as you are told! I have no time for this. We are approaching the center of the maze and I will have need of you. You do wish to leave this place, do you not?"

Holzer was surprised at the outburst. Night had usually been the calm one at an investigation. True, he had just lost a valuable and beloved friend, but Holzer could not accept the fact that Ingrid Night would lose his cool, biting off another authority just because.

"Ingrid?" Holzer probed Night's eyes, questioning.

Upon seeing the surprised look in Holzer's eyes, Night seemed to realize that he had crossed a variety of lines. The college professor could sense the battle to mourn and the not so strong battle to survive warring away inside the skinny frame of his trusted friend. Whatever became of them, Holzer seemed to realize that Ingrid Night had changed some during the course of this investigation.

"Jonathon, I apologize," Night humbly said, breathing deeply, trying to regain his focus. "We are near the center. If I am injured or worse&" He paused, pointing to the weapon Holzer was holding. "If I am injured, that weapon is your only hope. I lost one friend this night; I do not wish to lose a second."

Noises around the maze began to magnify in ferocity. Since entering the plastic maze, all the members of the SOURCE team were bombarded with the agonies of the damned. Moans, pleas, and the sounds of teeth ripping flesh invaded each of their ears. Dante himself could not have painted a more despicable picture. However, this time there was a sound that invaded their ears like no other. A sound they had never heard in this place before.

Silence.

"What's going on?" Miranda asked. In her hands, she had managed to piece together a makeshift EMF reader from the two that had been fried. It looked more like a toaster than a scientific instrument. She started waving the device in the air. Holzer perceived it as a comfort to Miranda more than a need to be a scientist in an unscientific moment.

Sinclair had been standing close by and was holding onto his small camera with the same level of need for comfort as his counterpart. The cameraman had a need to hide behind his camera, but because of the fact that he had only two exposures left in the damn thing, his comfort zone was quite small.

Holzer could clearly see that the bond between the two was strengthening and he was pleased to see that they were getting along famously.

"Would you do me the kind service of not stepping on my feet, you idiot!" Miranda huffed, knocking Sinclair away from her with a strong nudge of her elbow.

"Excuse me, your royalness."

Miranda's eyes held a panic in them Holzer had rarely seen. In fact he had never seen her this terrified. That bothered him.

Turning to face Sinclair, the pathologist started to cry. Not because Sinclair had stepped on her foot. Because she just couldn't hide the waves of emotions swelling up inside of her. Sinclair responded.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Sinclair pleaded, dropping his camera. "You okay?"

Miranda, dropping her barriers, simply embarrassed the cameraman. All she wanted at this point and time was comfort. Sinclair was happy to respond. Surprised, but happy.

The entire SOURCE team looked on with dumbfounded silence. They were witnessing a miracle.

"Okay?" Miranda cried, controlling the urge to laugh. She stared up at Sinclair, deeply escaping into his eyes. "Shut up and kiss me."

"Huh?"

Before Sinclair could act on the response, Miranda clasped her hands around the cameraman's head and pulled him close to her. Opening her mouth, she kissed Sinclair with the passion of a terrified lover who needed desperately to forget the world around her.

"Oh&" Teresa was trying her best to pay more attention towards the EMF Reader than the passion occurring two feet in front of her.

Holzer even saw a look of amusement coming from Night who, trying to be decent, was turning his attention towards the black void which lay in front of them. What lay beyond was anyone's guess.

Miranda pulled away from Sinclair, slowly wiping her lips. Taking a deep breath and patting down her clothes, the woman rubbed her hips nervously. As quickly as the emotions started, she was able to turn them off. Once again she was the trained professional.

"That was for luck," Miranda tried to explain.

For the first time in his life, Sinclair was speechless.

"Well," Night said. "On that note&"

The group started to move again as a whole.

No one seemed to notice that Miranda and Sinclair were now holding each other's hands.

* * *

"Remember, Jonathon, we are dealing with evil here," Night explained.

As the spiral came to its end, the SOURCE Team seemed to notice, more and more, the black void in front of them. So dark that it did not allow them to see what was on the other side. Night theorized that the time and space of the middle of the maze was so dense and complicated that it was its own dimension. Walking into the void was a gamble within a gamble. If they did not walk into it, they would possibly be condemned to stay within the maze forever. However, if they ventured into the void, entering yet another unknown dimension away from their own, they could find themselves in even more danger than eternal damnation.

"I make no promises," Night stated carefully. "You all wish to know the truth. The truth you will know."

Holzer turned to his people. "I personally have a date next Thursday. I say that we go."

There was a moment of silence, which seemed to speak volumes.

All were ready.

Night approached the void that lay in front of them and paused. He was surprised when looking down at his hands; he found them shaking. He shifted the crossbow from right to left hand, then back again. Night noticed Holzer studying him.

"This is all so fantastic, isn't it, Jonathon?" Night asked.

"It's certainly worth at least one book."

"I want a copy when you publish."

"Of course," Holzer solemnly agreed.

As if to reconfirm his own convictions, Night slowly gripped his crossbow and started forward. Reaching the dark void with inches to spare, he noticed that the darkness seemed to reflect his image back at him-as a black mirror might do. Was he near a door, or a wall?

Night placed his hand upon the dark void.

Several gasps of surprise were heard from the SOURCE team as Night's hand ventured into the void and seemed to disappear. It was as if his hand had passed into another world, losing its cohesion, dissolving once it entered the dark.

In his own horror, Night pulled his arm out, relaxing upon seeing that it was still intact.

"What manner of door are we about to enter?" Night whispered in deep concentration. He rubbed his arm, realizing that it was incredibly cold.

"What's wrong?" Holzer asked, noticing Night's discomfort.

Night turned his attention towards Teresa, the team's psychic. He answered Holzer's question only out of respect. "Cold, Jonathon. My arm is cold."

Teresa became quite aware of the tense stare she was receiving from Night and it bothered her.

Night approached the woman, saying, "I may call on you to help us all, once we enter the void." He paused. "I think that you are aware of that."

"Yes," Teresa stated, her eyes darting down to her feet. She was uneasy.

Night reached softly to the timid psychic's chin, raising her face and eyes to meet his. "You need not be concerned, Teresa. I will not use you just for the sake of the use. When I call on you, it will be for the better welfare of those that you love. Not to mention that it will be greatly beneficial to you as well."

At this last comment, Teresa let out a surprised laugh.

Night's eyes turned serious. "Can I count on you then?"

Teresa nodded her head in agreement.

Night took Teresa's hand in his and silently guided her ahead of her fellow teammates, and suggested that she follow Night into the void, leading the way.

"A warning," Night insisted, bringing a stern finger up to Teresa's face. "In the void, I am quite sure that your powers will magnify. Be careful not to allow them to totally consume you."

"Sir?" Teresa asked, confused.

"Just listen to the words of an old man," Night insisted. "If using your powers, keep in mind the motivations of good. Do not allow hate and negative feelings to dictate your motivations. If you do, your powers will destroy us all. Understand?"

Teresa did not. Night was plainly aware of this fact, but could see that the psychic was properly warned and was starting to build mental barriers, should they be needed to help save her own sanity.

Teresa was ready.

"Good." Night took Teresa's hand. "Shall we go?"

Behind him, Night heard Holzer pulling back on the spring-loader of his crossbow. The college professor looked terribly worried. Holzer started to fidget.

"You know," Teresa said, whispering so that only Night could hear her, "he really idolizes you."

"And I him, dear," Night stated, proud. "And I him."

Holzer poured some more oil into his crossbow.

"Jonathon?" Night asked.

Holzer became alert. "Yes!"

Night meekly handed Holzer Lars' old glasses. The college professor took them with a great reverence.

"Why?"

"For luck, my dear friend."

Teresa took Night by the hand, allowing the old man to trail behind her.

All headed into the void.

* * *

Holzer, his heart racing, was surprised to discover that once they all walked through the dark void, they only moved down about a six-inch hop. They all landed on very soft soil-very rich soil. The kind of soil Holzer's grandfather had tried to cultivate for years on the family farm. There was a sun, of sorts, which shone over the horizon that seemed miles away. All would have looked normal if it had not been for the row upon row of gravestones.

The gravestones were many, and made Normandy and Gettysburg look tame by comparison. Thousands upon thousands of calling cards marking a dead life and little more. No names. No dates. No nothing.

Bleak.

"Well, this is charming," Miranda tried to joke. Her voice quivered, defeating the motivation of her attempt. "Where are we?"

"I think we are on a neutral plane," Sinclair stated. "One where we and this evil force can combat each other without ruining the other's natural world."

Night turned, giving Sinclair a surprised if not astonished look.

"Be careful, Mr. Sinclair," Night warned.

"Be careful of what?" the cameraman asked.

"Keep talking that way and people are going to start to believe that you have intelligence."

Sinclair picked up his camera, focusing it. A flash went off as he took a picture of the graveyard. Within seconds, an instant picture spat out of the front of the camera. Sinclair took it, waving it in the air.

"Too bad," Sinclair winked.

"One more picture only," Night warned.

"I know," Sinclair confirmed. "And that's my money shot!"

Holzer waved his crossbow around, not wanting to be caught off guard like Lars had been. The thought of Lars spending eternity fighting with those poor souls who wished only to devour him was not a pretty one, but well worth the motivation to remember.

In fact, all in the group looked nervous.

All except Miranda.

"Pardon me for making such an observation, dear," Night stated, looking down at Miranda. "Why are you so damn calm?"

"Calm?" Miranda repeated, her eyes as innocent as a doe's.

"Yes," Night insisted. "You have been pissing your pants ever since we arrived. You do not give me the impression of a warrior." Night's eyes narrowed, looking sinister. "Why are you so calm?"

Miranda gave Night a sly smile. "Do you not see?"

"No," Night insisted. His hands tightened around his conjure kit.

Miranda pointed toward all the gravestones.

"Manchester House has shown itself naked to us."

Night and Holzer exchanged curious stares.

"These graves," Miranda explained, irritated that no one else saw the pure ideology of the whole affair. "All these graves are the victims of the house and the land, in most cases."

"Dear God!" Teresa stated, looking at all the gravestones.

"This can only mean one thing&" Night coached Teresa to continue.

"That the beast is waiting for us&" Teresa shivered. "And he is near."

"What the beast fails to realize, young lady," Night challenged, "is&so am I."

As if on cue, the group suddenly heard the roar of an enormous beast. Sounding a lot like a lion and more like an enraged bear, the fury behind the sound was hard to match. So much power was behind the roar that Holzer made a silent gesture to Night that he could feel the power of the roar vibrate from the ground into his shoes.

A storm of some kind came across the calm of the vast graveyard, violently attacking the SOURCE team.

Grabbing his coat and holding it closed with one hand, Holzer looked up at Night. "What the hell is this?"

"That is the breath of evil, Jonathon."

The team started to lose their footing as the strength of the wind picked up. Several of the tombstones rocked and tumbled over. Trees that seemed to be growing nearby started to uproot, crashing down to the ground, hungry for a body to fall upon. Several members of the SOURCE team had to dash away from falling trees, tombstones, and each other.

It was not a pretty sight.

"Stop!" Night yelled, holding up one of his many candles. The tiny light from the small white ordinary looking candle seemed to have the power needed to magnify the owner's will.

The wind stopped blowing.

The trees stopped falling.

The graveyard appeared whole once more.

Beyond the team, Night noticed a huge mound of dirt which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, towering over the rest of them. Consisting of rock, dirt, and coffins, the mound of dirt also appeared to have several of the plastic walls from the Manchester maze circling around it. If Night, Holzer, and his team were going to get anywhere toward the center of the mound, they would have to appeal to the power behind the whole affair, humoring it once again.

Appearing above the mound, grinning, was the Shape.

A soft wind seemed to tease at her dark auburn hair, covering once more the deathlike features which made up most of her persona. She was dressed in different clothing, however. Her appearance seemed more civilized.

"Notice the clothing, Jonathon?" Night said, helping his friend to his feet.

Holzer adjusted his glasses, accepting Night's help. "Yes. Quite different. More becoming."

"Dressed in her, as you Americans say, Sunday best," Night stated. "Would you not think so?"

Holzer nodded his head.

"What is behind all of this, I wonder?"

The Shape from time to time showed her earthly age by looking up toward some invisible figure as if listening to a dirty secret. Like a child being told something devilish by an older adult, the Shape giggled from time to time, stopping only long enough to glare back down at the SOURCE team. Her focus appeared to be centered on Jonathon Holzer.

"What's she doing?" Holzer asked.

"You do not ask the right question, Jonathon," Night said, aiming his crossbow up at the Shape, waiting.

"What's the question, then?"

"Who is she talking to?" Night's eyes locked with the college professor.

Holzer seemed to realize what Night was worried about. The Shape's body language did suggest another guiding her, speaking through her, and using her to do its unearthly bidding.

Holzer stepped forward.

His foot landed on a twig, breaking it.

Snap!

The Shape glared down at Holzer.

"Oh shit," Holzer said under his breath, scared. The college professor tried his best to ease himself back into the comforting zone of his friends.

* * *

The Shape had been listening to the Master, doing her best to maintain an air of calm-listening to all the evil things that had been planned. All the delicious hurtful things that these humans would be put through.

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.

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."

The Shape, realizing that Night had relaxed his guard, changed her appearance. Her kindness was soon replaced with hateful evil. Her attractive lines were soon overpowered by a clinging dread that reeked with the smell of the dead.

"Oh shit&" Night whispered.

Night realized that he had been tricked.

The Shape raised her hands, allowing a flame of evil to shoot out of them, attacking Ingrid Night where he stood.

The flame was nothing like that found in the physical world. That was the first thing Night noticed about the orange-like light which seemed to engulf him. Powerful streams of light continued to attack him, making it incredibly hard for the man to breathe.

"You think you can stop me by making me not breathe?" Night laughed. His lungs were starting to explode from lack of air, and the contemptible laugh he tried to imitate was only for show. Inside, however, Night was wracked with pain. "Little lady, I have crapped out worse shits than you."

Night raised his crossbow.

Taking aim, he shot straight at his mark.

"NOOOOO!" the Shape yelled. Her face showed both horror and surprise at the fact that Night still had the strength to raise such a heavy weapon.

The crossbow shot out a long stream of the ancient blood, hitting the Shape squarely in the center of her own small chest. A thundering if not grumbling crash was heard as the dark blood made contact.

Within seconds, the Shape's flesh began to burn.

Then to both Night's surprise and the SOURCE team's horror, the Shape did something neither expected: she began to cry like a frightened child.

Night could hear genuine concern coming from behind him.

"Be careful!" Night warned the SOURCE team, putting a cautious hand in the air, backing his teammates away from him. "It could be a trap. Keep up your guard, I beg you all."

The Shape was not looking well. The holy blood was doing its best to destroy her. That was its function. Night knew this.

"Take that, you bitch!" Night barked.

The pain must have been weakening the Shape, for it was not long before the flames coming from the Shape's hands stopped. Now she was the one in pain. The tables had turned and she found herself to be the hunted.

"Mommie!" the Shape cried. Only this time there was no power vibrating from her tone. No evil. No pretense. Just regular human pain and desperation.

"Dear God," Teresa was heard saying from behind Night.

Night turned his attention toward the psychic. "Be extra careful where you place your sympathies, child."

Teresa looked at Night with a shocked expression. "Look at her, Mr. Night."

Night cautiously glanced back, his guard never down. He was fooled once-never again.

Blood was starting to pour from the Shape's openings. Bloodstains started to spot in the crotch of the tiny girl's skirt and red crimson trickles started to mat up her long black hair. The Shape was doing all that she could to stop the bleeding. And from time to time she looked back toward the heart of the plastic maze, expecting help.

"There is no help for you, child," Night stated sadly. "I am a servant of God and you are now within the presence of His might. There is only salvation for you where you stand, guided by both my hand and your heart."

"Mommie!" the Shape repeated, blood slopping out of her mouth.

This last caused Teresa to act.

"Teresa!" Night yelled, holding up a warning hand. "Don't!" The old man didn't move from his own footing-he was too surprised to see the young psychic show so much courage, considering he, at first meeting, had considered her the team's weakest link.

The Shape turned her gaze from Night, casting her tender eyes toward the caring psychic. Blood continued to ooze out of her mouth. In point of fact, the tiny girl-spirit was becoming nothing more than a walking bloody rag. Her dress was even starting to trickle tiny showers of blood.

"You poor, poor, baby," Teresa started to say, reaching out to hold and comfort the Shape.

All on the SOURCE team froze.

All eyes stayed glued to Teresa, remembering what had happened to Ingrid Night earlier.

The Shape started to cry, embracing Teresa with the longing of a very lonely soul. Teresa, sensing the spirit's isolation, started to pat her on the head, stroking her fingers through the Shape's blood-soaked hair. Teresa had to do her best to hold back a huge layer of disgust, realizing that she too was now covered with blood.

"I want my mommie," the Shape cried.

"Sweet dear," Teresa soothed. "Sweet, sweet dear."

A rumble was heard rising from the center of the maze. An alien language unlike any spoke upon the earth started to echo through the air. Ancient and quite mysterious, all on the team started to pay the thundering voice some attention.

Holzer soon noticed the horrid look of bewilderment on Night's face.

"What is it, Ingrid?"

Night had his eyes closed, doing his best to reach out with his senses. He was trying to will himself to understand what the voice was saying. It wasn't working, and it showed in the worry lines of his brow.

"It is an ancient language," Night surmised. "I would almost say that it is related to the ancient Judaic."

"Hebrew?" Holzer added.

"No," Night insisted, "quite older. I believe however that this demon is speaking the common language of Moses."

"Then it should be Hebrew," Holzer said. "But I don't even recognize it."

"Hebrew has changed over the centuries, my friend," Night explained. "It has been corrupted by the many forces, armies, and conquerors that have maintained and held the Jewish race throughout history." Night paused, laughing ironically. "The greatest corrupter of the mother tongue has been the Jews themselves. An argument for another time, however."

"Well, do you know what it's saying?" Sinclair asked, irritated.

Night gave the cameraman a harsh look. "No!"

The Shape stopped her crying.

Everything turned quiet.

"HEEEEEEHHHHHH." The Shape started to groan. She pulled away from Teresa, startling the psychic.

"What's wrong, baby?" Teresa asked.

The psychic's eyes widened with horror.

A smell of rot permeated the air.

Teresa slowly started to step away from the Shape.

Teresa was terrified to see that the Shape's appearance had changed again. She was no longer a pleasant looking spirit of a preteen girl. The Shape was now a rotting corpse covered with mold, skeletal and stinking of rot.

"YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS PLACE&" the Shape started to scream. A flap of flesh that at one time had been the Shape's bottom lip fell down from the gaping mouth, hanging and dangling. A mist started to ooze out of the ghost's mouth and blood continued to escape the many openings that were forming.

The Shape was no more than a walking dead vision of hell as it plainly existed in the superstitious mind of man.

"Dear God!" Miranda exclaimed, holding back the urge to vomit.

"This is how she must now look," Holzer added.

"Done so by the blood of the blessed Carpenter, my friend," Night concluded. Stepping forward, Night grabbed hold of Teresa, pulling her back to stand with the rest of her team members. "You have done your duty as a psychic, dear lady, I give you that. Now I ask you to help me do my duty."

Teresa, still taken aback by the sudden change in the Shape's appearance, nodded her head in agreement. Slowly, anger started to grow within her. She did not like the fact that her charity had been taken advantage of.

"The chick is toast!" Sinclair added, grabbing his camera, aiming it.

"Taking a picture?" Miranda asked.

"Not yet."

Miranda gave the cameraman a surprised look. "This not amazing enough for you?"

"I have only one picture left," Sinclair stated. "Who knows what we may be facing ahead?"

Night broke the bickering by waving his hand toward the team.

"Jonathon, ready your people."

Holzer knew what Night was referring to, and opened up his conjure kit. The college professor then handed out several charms and potions to each member. As each member took the charm or vial holding unknown oil or liquid, they gave Professor Holzer a blank, begging for guidance look of desperation.

"Ready," Holzer stated, closing the conjure kit.

"We must now attack her in force," Night ordered, taking his own charm out for all to see. Night was holding the silver Star of David he had used earlier in the night. "She will never be more weakened than she is now."

There was a pause.

The Shape sneered at the team members. Her eyes clearly showed fear.

"This is so cool!" Sinclair barked, jumping just a little, looking like an excited schoolboy.

Everyone froze, giving the cameraman a surprised glance.

"Well&" Sinclair squirmed, uneasy. "You know&"

Everyone returned to the task at hand.

"Now, hold up your weapons," Night ordered.

Each member, not really knowing what else to do, held up the respective items Holzer had handed them from Night's conjure kit. Each in turn focused on Ingrid Night, very much requesting, silently, guidance from him.

"Evil that stands in front of us," Night started to chant, slowly stepping forward.

The Shape started to snarl in fear of Night. Several loose teeth fell from the girl's upper jaw.

"Brought here to this place beyond your powers. I call on you to seek the rest you so deeply deserve. Be gone, unclean spirit. Go to the glory that is our God!" With that, Night flung out the symbol of his faith, allowing it to do its respective power. He silently pleaded for the others to join him.

"Let's do this, guys," Holzer added, holding out his symbol. By all appearances, Holzer appeared to be holding a pagan symbol of some kind, quite possibly Egyptian.

Everyone attacked the Shape.

"Noooooo!" the Shape pleaded as she was meekly forced down onto her knees. She raised her hands up in a childlike defensive mode.

Night would not allow anyone to show mercy. Not this time. "Keep going!" he ordered. "The light of good is present. I am a servant of the living God. His hand guides me."

The Shape found herself on the ground, flat on her back. She started to tremble and shake the way an epileptic might during a seizure.

"Please, do not do this to me," the Shape pleaded, blood once more pooling from her mouth. A huge gap of flesh started to fall away from her forehead, showing bone.

"Rest now, unclean spirit," Night challenged, silently ordering all the SOURCE team members to gather around the crippled specter. All pushed their icons toward the Shape, making her scream more in agony.

The Shape appeared to be in pain. Her body was starting to show signs of decay, becoming nothing more than a bloodied skeleton in a rag of a dress-now tatters. As Night continued his prayers, with each thrust of his words the Shape appeared to sink deeper into the earth. She was once more being buried alive. Only this time by those who sought to help.

"MASTER!" the Shape finally yelled, her jaw breaking away from her skull, landing upon her chest, and then innocently rolling between Sinclair's feet. A gasping, unholy sound was heard gurgling out of the Shape's now useless mouth.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!

The sound was unearthly.

And it was fast approaching the SOURCE team.

Ingrid Night brought his attention to the top of the earthen mound. He could see both shadow and movement.

Whatever it was, it was big.

"Jonathon," Night said, his voice trembling with fear.

"Yes?" Holzer's throat turned dry. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Prepare for the worst."

All the team members banded together, readying themselves for the main horror which had held Manchester House for centuries. None knew what to expect. All were frightened beyond comfort.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Lt. Albert Wells, pulling back on the hammer of his pistol, slowly opened the front door of Manchester House. He usually arrived with a sense of dread, but seeing a car crumpled up like a ball of tissue paper and thrown two hundred feet away from the main road leading to the mansion was enough to send up red flags to any cynic. Wells had traced the VIN number of the car, or what was left of it, to discover that the college had been the last to obtain the vehicle.

"There's nothing left of the damn thing!" the young officer with Wells stated, trying his best to open one of the car's doors. He couldn't. Too much damage.

"What could have done this?" Wells asked.

The young cop seemed to have a theory. "Looks like something picked the car up, crushed it, and threw the damn thing like an unwanted toy."

Wells remained silent, glaring at his officer.

There had been an uncomfortable moment when Wells could feel a thousand eyes on him. He could hear and sense that the woods were aware. As a child, grandparents and friends alike had always told him that the woods around Manchester House were haunted. The house alone wasn't enough to scare most people, but almost everyone in Atchison avoided the woods around the site.

Wells, thinking of his retirement, kept this last to himself.

"Let's go toward the house," he finally said.

It took Wells and his officers thirty minutes to reach the shantytown, and then up toward the house.

"Looks like looters have been here, sir," the young officer pointed out, remarking about the fresh damage to the homes in the shantytown.

"Or our missing friends could have run into some trouble," Wells suggested.

"Impossible, sir."

Wells gave his officer a surprised look. "Why do you say that?"

"I know this house, sir," the young officer remarked. "No one has ever died in the shantytown. All have been&taken in the mansion itself."

Reaching the front door of the mansion, Wells could only agree. He silently ordered his officer to pull his gun and both found themselves entering the mansion, wishing that neither were there.

The mansion appeared deserted. Too damn quiet.

Wells held his breath, hearing nothing but the subtle sound of rustling plastic.

"Professor Holzer?" Wells shouted. He entered the mansion pointing his weapon up and down and then left and right.

Behind Wells, the young police officer followed his superior's actions. Nothing was left to chance. Wells in fact had been rather impressed with the officer's actions and made a mental note to place a commendation in the young man's file after all this was wrapped up.

There was no answer. The house remained calm.

"Looks clear," Wells insisted, silently ordering his officer to lower his weapon.

"Shall I holster it?" the young man said.

"Are you kidding?" Wells said. "Keep it at your side until we find out what has happened to the professor and his investigation team." Wells paused. "There are supposed to be at least six people here."

The young police officer looked around the mansion unimpressed. "Seems quiet to me, sir."

Wells gave the officer a long glare. "Just start looking."

The young man seemed to realize that he had angered Wells, and started to do what Wells suggested. Before he could reach the foot of the main staircase, his superior interrupted the young officer.

"Hey!" Wells barked at the cop.

The young man turned, giving Wells a curious stare.

"Keep on your toes," Wells warned. "This house knows we are here."

The young officer nodded his head. "I know. I can feel it."

Wells waved the young man on, hoping that his fears regarding Professor Holzer were just those of a shell-shocked investigator.

The mansion had not changed much from the last time he found it several days ago. It was still dank and wet and appeared to have a constant dripping sound coming from somewhere, but curiously enough no one could ever find the origin of the sound. Still, with all the water damage in the place, there was really no need to do so.

Wells found himself in the main hall heading for the front parlor room near the mansion's main kitchen. The site had several memories attached to them-all bad. He could still see fresh in his mind the bodies he had to drag out of each room several years before, and was hoping that when he retired to his bed later this night he would not be haunted by the same nightmares he had after each terrible episode.

CLICK!

The metallic sound caught Wells' attention.

He had stepped on something.

Looking down at his right shoe, the detective slowly removed his foot, revealing a camera-like device. It was tiny enough to be ignored if one did not know what to look for. The camera was about the size of an old-fashioned 110-mm camera.

"What the devil are you?" Wells asked to no one in particular. He bent down, picking up the tiny broken device. "Looks like you have been through hell and back."

Inspecting the camera, Wells discovered that it was from the college-this was evident due to the fact that the college's logo and address were blazingly printed on the back of the camera. Holzer had stated that he was installing a webcam, but he never said that it would be such a small thing.

"Lieutenant!"

The sound of the young officer's voice captured Wells' attention; however it was the level of horror in the man's tone which caused Wells to pause. Whatever it was that had caused a trained police officer to project such trauma, the seasoned detective wasn't sure if he was ready for another series of body bags.

Wells dropped the broken webcam, making a mental note to pick it up later. He was quite sure that he could get it studied by the Kansas City CSI lab later.

Passing through the main hall beyond the staircase Wells met the young officer, who was standing in front of the stairwell leading down to the mansion's main kitchen. Wells discovered the old feeling of dread coming up in his throat as he saw the expression on the officer's face.

"What's wrong?" Wells asked, almost tired.

All the young man could do was mutely point toward the closed kitchen door.

Wells, not really wanting to look, followed the officer's pointing finger. Glancing at the kitchen door, Wells looked beyond the green mold which seemed to have recently claimed the rich wood and discovered to his horror a fresh pool of thick red blood trickling through the bottom of the door.

"Is that what I thick it is?" the young officer asked.

"Well, son," Wells stated, taking out an evidence bag, "it sure in hell isn't ketchup."

Scooping some of the blood into his evidence bag, Wells could hear the young man gulping down the urge to vomit. He sympathized. However, if the man wanted to remain an Atchison Police Officer, he would have to get used to this-particularly if Manchester House continued to stand.

"What's that noise?" the young man asked, craning his neck.

Wells froze.

There was a soft scratching sound coming from inside the kitchen.

"I don't know." Wells folded up the evidence bag and placed it in his right coat pocket.

The scratching noise seemed to get louder, and every so often both officers thought they could hear a squeaking sound accompanied with the noise.

Against his better judgment, Lt. Wells opened the kitchen door. He tried his best to hide the fact that his hand was shaking.

The kitchen was dark, considering it was the middle of the day. For some unknown reason, the original builder of the house did not wish to have too much light entering the room. This made no sense to anyone who loved to cook, because any chef would tell you that light was more a friend than an enemy to food preparation.

"Oh, shit!" the young officer yelled, pointing his arm toward the kitchen floor. "Would you look at that."

Wells cast his tired eyes toward the kitchen floor. The very floor on which he had stood several years ago looking into the alien eyes of Gilbert Lex. Haunted by that image for almost a decade, what Wells was witnessing now was more horrifying.

Rats!

Several rats which appeared to be more dead than alive squeaked and moved upon the kitchen floor, yelling for some kind of mercy. Some of the tiny creatures seemed to be molded to the tile on the floor by the very rot of their bodies. What the two police officers were witnessing was beyond science-this was biblical shit. This was the stuff of a horror writer's nightmares.

"How can most of those things be alive, Lieutenant?"

Wells shook his head, not really knowing how to answer the question.

In any case, both Wells and his sidekick soon discovered where the blood was coming from.

Chewing and feasting in the middle of the kitchen, several new and rather healthy looking rats were devouring a severed arm. It looked to be dressed in an old Union officer's uniform-Civil War era in appearance.

Having seen his fill, Wells slammed the kitchen door shut.

Both officers vomited.

* * *

A search was completed of the Manchester House about twenty minutes after both officers had gotten sick. There was that awkward silence both men expressed after throwing up all over the main hall's floor. Embarrassment. Then anger at the fact that both had allowed the circumstances to get the better of them.

"Check the entire house from top to bottom," Wells ordered.

The young officer, all too eager to get away from the studying eyes of his superior, followed his orders to the letter.

No one was found.

It was as if all six people on the investigation team led by Professor Holzer had disappeared. More victims of the mansion? Wells sincerely hoped not.

Pulling his phone out of his coat pocket, Wells made the familiar Manchester Call to his captain.

"Captain?" Wells stated, the tone of his voice always the same on these calls.

"Ah, shit!" the captain was heard saying. Wells thought he could hear his Captain's hand hit his desk in frustration. "It's Manchester House, isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"How many?"

"Sir?"

"Bodies," the captain explained. "How many bodies this time?"

"None."

"None?"

There was a long pause. Neither wanted to break the silence.

"Captain?"

"Yeah! I'm here."

"There are six people missing."

"Missing?"

Wells turned uneasy. "Captain, I approved a team of paranormal investigators to investigate Manchester House about a week ago."

"You did what?"

Wells squinted. The level of controlled anger and surprise in his captain's voice guaranteed him at least to be on duty on all major holidays for the next ten years. The seasoned police officer prepared for the worst.

"I know a college professor, sir, quite capable of handling such things."

"Well, obviously not Manchester House."

Long pause.

"Sir, I think we need to send out another investigative team," Wells suggested. "At least to be sure."

The captain let out a tired exhale. "Damn. Six people, you say?"

"Yes sir," Wells confirmed. "That is what the dean of the college said."

"Christ, they were from the college?"

"Yes sir."

"Why couldn't it be a city college and not some damn Ivy League institution?"

"Sir, I will be here with one of my men waiting."

The captain, it had sounded on the phone, slammed his fist on the desk once more as if preparing himself for another trip to another murder scene he didn't really want to see.

"I'll be there is about an hour."

"I'll send my man up to guide you through."

"I know the way, Wells."

"Yes sir." Wells tried to explain. "Still, there's a site of an abandoned car I think you and the CSI guys should see."

The captain let out a tired grunt and hung up.

Wells remained frozen, listening to the familiar dial tone. Closing his phone, he instructed his man to walk back toward the road to wait for the investigation unit. This investigation, Wells had concluded, would not be a happy one.

"What did you find, Professor?" Wells asked himself, giving the empty halls of Manchester House a curious look. His eyes darted back toward the closed kitchen door. He couldn't hear anything on the other side.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Wells opened the kitchen door and saw only dead rats in various stages of decay littering the floor. Nothing more.

There was movement out of the corner of his eye.

Wells tried to pay it no mind. Indeed he had seen the same thing every time he arrived at the mansion.

From the corner of his eye, Lt. Wells thought he had seen a teenage girl staring at him. He tried to pay it no mind.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The entire SOURCE team seemed to cower behind the towering figure of Ingrid Night who in his own right was just as terrified and uncertain as those who sought comfort from him.

The thundering sound of the oncoming monster, which all could now see approaching them, peered up and over the earthen mound, looking down into the eyes of the towering old man. Night dared not show any fear-which was what the beast wished to see.

"Ingrid, what the hell's going on here?" Holzer finally asked, holding on tight to the light device that Miranda had handed him about an hour ago.

Night did not loosen his gaze on the oncoming form massing above them all.

"I had feared that he was here."

"Who?" Holzer asked.

Night looked at his friend with a level of genuine fear Holzer had rarely seen in his friend's eyes. "I dare not speak his name."

Holzer left the moment alone, not wishing to press more information from his friend. He only stood there, watching the looming figure approach.

"Jonathon, we are witnessing a sight not seen since Adam and Eve left paradise." Night's face was practically beaming with excitement.

"Okay, someone get off their soap box and let the rest of us know what's going on here?" Sinclair said, his voice shaking.

"I have chased this thing my whole life," Night explained. "Always I have been too late. Always he has escaped me." Night paused, laughing. "No wonder I could not track him down. He has been here all this time."

"Ingrid," Holzer asked, irritated, "who?"

Night almost spoke the name of the beast, but stopped just in time. Instead, he motioned Holzer toward him, whispering the monster's name into his friend's ear. Upon hearing the name, the college professor's face turned an ashen white.

"Impossible," Holzer said, almost in a whisper.

"It is true, my friend," Night reassured.

"But he was destroyed eons ago," Holzer challenged. "By the Druids, if I'm not mistaken."

"Held in place by the dreams, desires, and prayers of a hundred forgotten gods, my friend." Night opened up his conjure kit. He took out an oblong wooden box about seven inches in length and four inches in depth. "However, we have one thing on our side."

"And what is that, Mr. Night?" Miranda asked. The British woman was doing her best to hide her terrified expression with a look of business-like fascination.

"Me, Miss Miranda," Night said with no ego attached. "I know this son-of-a-bitch better than I know my mother. I know what annoys him."

In her fear, Miranda started to wrap her arms around Sinclair's waist.

"I would not do that," Night warned, pointing a stern finger at Miranda. "Not in front of him. Not here."

"Why not?" Miranda asked, insulted.

"He feeds on lust," Night explained. "Although the two of you, Miss Miranda and Mr. Sinclair, appear to dislike each other, there is an underlying sexual tension that even I can feel when I am around the two of you."

"What has that got to do with all of this?" Holzer asked.

"Everything, Jonathon," said Night. "The beast works through our hidden desires, growing in both strength and evil power. By giving you what you secretly desire, or have felt, he can rise and become more powerful."

"And that is why the Shape is so powerful?" Teresa added, stepping forward.

Night turned toward the psychic, giving her a look of pride. "Very good!"

Teresa gave Night a look of satisfaction.

"Imagine, if you can, the unwanted lust of a young woman wrongly used." Night suggested, "What is lust if not another layer of wrath or revenge? These two spirits were made to complement each other. And as I had said, the Shape is the Ankou, or guardian, of this damned place."

"How do we stop him?" Sinclair asked, holding onto Miranda.

There was a long pause.

"I know of ways to repel," Night explained.

"But how do we stop him?" Holzer asked, determined.

"I do not know, Jonathon," Night stated, embarrassed. "He is one of the original demons of hell. He was there in Eden with the angels and God. You cannot stop a power such as this so easily."

"But why Atchison, Kansas?" the college professor asked.

"Perhaps it has something to do with the land's history."

"Or the Lancelot-Pool ley lines?"

"Perhaps," Night accepted, "But we must prepare for battle. He will be here soon."

All in the group gave Night a crazed look.

"Should we leave?" Holzer asked.

"And go where?" Night shook his head. "We are trapped here in this world until we either overcome this evil or command it to allow us to leave." Night laughed ironically. "That will take more than asking the fucking thing 'pretty please'."

Sinclair tiredly laughed at Night's dry humor.

The skies above the SOURCE team started to fill with imposing storm clouds. All eyes turned skyward. There was a feeling of being watched and controlled humbling one's own sense of security. A foul smell permeated the air, giving off an aroma of death and decay.

"The beast comes!" Night warned, his voice filling with fear.

Holzer pointed toward the oblong wooden box Night had taken out of his kit. "Ingrid, what have you got there?"

Night held the box up for all in the group to see. "This is our get out of jail card. When the time comes, it could be our only hope."

"Will it work?" Miranda asked, her eyes frozen on the impending cloud opening up before them.

Night paused. "I don't know."

"What!" the members of the SOURCE team said almost in unison.

Night made a helpless gesture. "I've never fought this entity in battle before. I'm going on training alone."

"Ahh!" Sinclair said in frustration.

The cloud above them started to thin and dissipate. A towering, hairy, inhuman figure started to appear before them.

Holzer turned away from the incredible sight, realizing that they had all momentarily lost sight of the Shape.

"Where's the girl?" the professor asked.

At their feet was a human-shaped hole in the earth, empty, where once there had been the defeated corpse of the Shape. Now, only well-fed worms and insects looked up at them, resting in the deep hole the Shape had almost been buried in with Night's prayers and magic.

"She has been saved by the evil forces which control her, Jonathon," Night decided "Pay her no mind, for she will return. I'm counting on it."

Holzer noticed a certain turn of Night's smile which always had seemed to iterate that his mysterious friend had a master plan in store for the unfortunate foe who faced him. Knowing Night the way he did, Holzer relaxed, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.

"Behold!" Night said, pointing a shaking finger toward the powerful influence of Manchester House.

As the massive cloud above them all started to dissipate, Holzer got a chance to see the evil behind the legend of Manchester House. And as Night and he exchanged glances as to what they were witnessing, it was quite obvious to Night that the college professor had no words for what his eyes were showing him.

"Dear God!"

"Precisely, dear friend," Night said, tipping his hat.

The beast was horrid. If ever there were an earthly word for it, it was horrid.

The smell of death was everywhere. And still there lingered in the air a distinctive after-smell which all knowing adults could relate too. The air smelled of lust. Pure and simple lust. Lust brought on by half-planned sex and unwashed sheets. Death and sex. Both seemed to be the calling card of the demon the team was facing.

The demon in question towered above the SOURCE team, looking more like a bear than a demon. It had three huge heads facing in different directions. One head appeared to be that of a man. The man appeared Neanderthal in nature, but clearly the first head was that of a man. His hungry eyes bugged outward, gazing and coveting all in their sight. His face was hungry and bored, his mouth a filth of sloth and decay.

The next head, the one hanging down to the left, was that of a bull. A prize farmer would have been envious of the head the members of the investigation team were looking at. For it was the most magnificent specimen of bull breeding ever shown upon the earth. Its only drawback: the nose of the bull would not stop dripping. Thick nasal liquid poured out of the head's openings, giving the proud bull the look of a creature suffering from a sickness.

The last and clearly most horrid head was that of an ogre. Gorging himself with the rotted corpses of the earthen mound at his cock-like feet, his scales, hair, and bat-like wings took up the remainder of the demon's body. All together, it was about the size of a battle tank.

Clearly it would take more than Ingrid Night to stop him.

"Demon who sits at the left hand of Satan," Night started to pray.

Someone forgot to tell that little fact to Ingrid Night.

* * *

Holzer, dumbfounded, looked down at the crossbow weapon Night had suddenly thrust into his hands, and for a minute questioned the sanity of his warrior friend.

"Ingrid," Holzer asked, shifting the crossbow from hand to hand. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I need your help, Jonathon," Night explained. "Your&zeal."

"My zeal?"

"Yes." Night paused, exhaling deeply. "You are a passionate man, sir. This job requires passion."

"But I don't&"

"You will learn!" Night barked.

Holzer absently started to inspect his weapon. Finding the opening where he had seen Night pour his blessed oils in, the professor looked meekly up at his friend, waiting. Night nodded his head with understanding.

Night produced the oblong wooden box he had taken from his kit. Opening it, both men's senses were suddenly hit by the strong smell of rotting fish.

"What is that stuff, Ingrid?" Holzer asked, waving his hand in the air.

"The only thing recorded in the world of man that can stop this thing, Jonathon," Night said. He picked up a fragile crystal flask containing a mercury-like substance which did reek of the smell of rotted fish. He poured some of the oil in both crossbows.

"What is it?"

"I do not know," Night explained.

Holzer returned the comment with a blank stare.

"It is said," Night tried to explain, keeping a watchful eye on the demon which was calmly staring down at his five visitors, "that the flesh of a fish known only to the angels of heaven can destroy him."

Miranda, stepping forward from the crowd, said, "May I examine the liquid?"

Night gave the woman a startled look.

"Do you object?" Miranda asked, surprised.

"No," Night clarified. "I just do not remember reading anywhere of a woman being allowed to touch this substance. I honestly do not know if you can."

Miranda let out a tired exhale of frustration. She grabbed the container, gently taking it from Night's hand. The old man cautiously waited for a reaction. When there was none, he relaxed briefly.

"The last thing I need to hear right now are the chauvinist renderings of an antique god," Miranda huffed. She raised the liquid into what light there was and tried to peer through it. "Appears to be mercury." She sniffed the air. "Smells like fish. Mercury has no apparent smell, though. May I have a sample for later study?"

"No!" Night huffed.

Miranda gave Night another insulting stare. "Mr. Night, I am a scientist."

"It is not that, my dear," Night stated, holding up his hands in gentle surrender. "The flask was given to my order on a sacred trust. By my life, I will not break it."

Holzer and Miranda exchanged glances. The college professor was trying his best to calm Miranda down. Miranda, however, didn't really need the coaxing. She seemed to understand, and quietly handed the flask back to its owner.

"I mean no disrespect," Night said, placing the flask back into its wooden box.

"None taken."

Miranda returned to Teresa and Sinclair. All three seemed to be readying themselves for the upcoming battle; they had dug a tiny foxhole to hide in.

* * *

Ingrid Night prepared everything, purifying his body with the powers of old prayers. Wrapping his black coat with yet another dark cloak, the tall old man appeared to look like an ancient knight ready for battle. He noticed a look of amusement coming from his dear friend. Holzer soon noticed the ancient Hebrew letters written on the back of the long cloak.

"You are curious about something, old friend?" Night asked, adjusting the cloak's ties.

"The prayers you have been saying&" Holzer said, his voice trailing off.

"Yes?" Night could hear the fear in Holzer's voice and paid it close attention.

"You are saying prayers for the dead," Holzer said. "Are you not?"

Night gave Holzer an impressed look. "Ah! You know your Hebrew. Good!"

"Ingrid," Holzer said, irritated, "you are saying the prayers of the dead."

"So?"

"So! We are not dead yet."

"Not yet, my friend," Night whispered. "Not yet."

Holzer looked up nervously at the beast towering over them and soon noticed that one of the heads was studying him. Its eyes were glazing over, trying their best to see past the humanity that was Jonathon Holzer, to see if it could discover the secrets that were Jonathon Holzer. Holzer was certain that the demon was aware of his dreams, his fears, and his secret desires, and the very thought of that terrified him even more. As if on cue, realizing that Holzer was aware of his studying him, the beast started to let out a sick giggle.

"Do not fear it so, Jonathon," Night pleaded, reaching into his conjure kit.

"It draws me toward it."

"Of course it does," Night accepted. "It has been drawing men in since the Garden of Eden."

"Eden?"

"Yes. It was there." Night explained. "Who else do you think dared Eve to bite of the forbidden fruit?"

Holzer, both surprised and horrified, pointed a finger up at the beast as if to ask, "Was it this thing here?"

"Yes!" Night said, "See what we face?"

Holzer stared back up at the demon with a greater awe. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed that all three heads were now looking at him and Night. None of the faces of the beast looked friendly.

Night handed Holzer an icon to wear around his neck.

"Put this on." Night ordered.

"What is it?"

"Something that will keep you alive."

Holzer did not question. He put the icon on over his neck, allowing the silver medallion to hang just over his heart. On the silver icon, Holzer noticed the Hebrew symbol for life.

The demon started to chant.

* * *

The survival instincts Sinclair had learned while filming in the Iraqi desert and Vietnam and several other cursed places upon the earth started to take over. Upon seeing the horrid monster appear above them, the cameraman started digging a foxhole. Upon seeing how huge this demon was, however, Sinclair knew that to hide in a hole in the ground would be a futile effort at best. Still, he couldn't stand around and do nothing.

He ordered the two women to help him dig, giving both a sharp flat rock to do it with. Within thirty minutes, all three had dug a hole about six feet deep and five feet in circumference.

"Is this thing going to help us?" Teresa asked, huffing, trying to catch her breath.

Sinclair peeked over the dirt wall, noticing that both Holzer and Night were slowly walking toward the base of the towering beast.

"I hope so, dear," Sinclair stated. "We will need something soon. The doc and Night appear to be readying their attack."

Miranda took it hard. She couldn't seem to bring herself to accept the fact that they were hiding in a hole from a creature best left to fantasy.

"What now?" Teresa asked.

"We wait."

Teresa started to peek out the top of the foxhole, doing her best to cure the curiosity she was having, but to no avail. There was something pulling at her special awareness. Something ancient, something very powerful.

"I wonder what this thing really wants," Teresa asked.

"It wants to eat you," Sinclair said rather sarcastically.

"I think that I can reach it."

"What?" Miranda and Sinclair blurted out almost in unison.

Teresa rose from the foxhole, raising her arms.

"I'm going to try."

Both Sinclair and Miranda did their best to pull Teresa back into the foxhole.

* * *

"Get ready to fire, Jonathon," Night ordered, raising his crossbow to his right eye. The old man took aim and started to hold his breath.

Holzer brought his crossbow up to his face, aiming. By his body actions, Night could see that the college professor was confused.

"Aim for a vital organ," Night tried to suggest, pulling back on the firing mechanism of his weapon.

"Where is a vital organ?" Holzer asked in controlled panic.

"Guess!" Night shouted.

Both men turned silent, aiming.

The demon started to chant in a language that neither man could bring himself to understand. At first, the chant seemed harmless enough; however, after a few seconds the area around the SOURCE team started to fill with a thick fog. So thick was the fog that it was becoming impossible for Night and Holzer to see where they were aiming.

"It won't be that simple," Night shouted up at the demon, almost challenging the monster to continue with its unholy magic.

The demon started to chuckle.

Both Night and Holzer pulled their triggers almost at the same time.

With two loud whips of ignition, both crossbows fired a stream of mercury-like substance toward the giant beast. As soon as the liquid made contact with the demon's flesh, it cried out in an agonizing pain.

"A hit!" Night shouted, laughing. In his excitement, he rushed over toward Holzer, who could only look up at the screaming monster in awe, and slapped his friend on the back with boyish glee.

The monster rolled on its back, trying desperately to rub off the oil that had been splashed upon its back and front rib cage. Two of the three heads made a point to stare down at both Night and Holzer as it continued to roar out in dire pain.

"Take that, you son-of-a-bitch!" Night yelled, waving a defiant fist in the air.

:YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED!:

Both men soon fell silent.

The voice seemed to echo from everywhere, but did not appear to be coming from any mouth belonging to the monster they had been fighting. It was as if an invisible god of some kind had been watching.

"Ingrid, what was that?" Holzer asked, raising his crossbow more for comfort than for defense.

Night tried to shoo the voice away by turning his attention back towards the agony of the monster. "We must attack it again."

:YOU WILL ALL DIE!:

"Ah, Ingrid&" Holzer pointed up toward the beast, scared.

A small dust cloud started to rise up around the creature both Night and Holzer were battling. This monster whose name was so feared that Night could not utter it. Holzer clearly knew who the demon was, but following the wishes and directions of his seasoned friend, he respected the silence.

The dust cloud was a result of the creature's movement of its bat-like wings. Leathery and torn full of holes, the wings were as scared as their owner was evil. Several times, the creature flapped them, stretching and showing its prowess.

It was what was below the wings that seemed to catch the fear of Holzer.

"What in the hell are those?" the college professor asked, pointing up toward the monster's wings.

Under the demon's wings, both Night and Holzer discovered several hundred tentacle-like appendages that seemed to dart outward and explore the surrounding world on their own. Like the fibers of a spider web, they surveyed their surroundings, aware of every single entity in their path. And like a spider web, very capable of holding onto their prey, doing their master's will.

In trying to answer Holzer's question, Night was momentarily taken aback. It was clear to anyone who observed the old man's face that he was just as startled as anyone on the SOURCE team.

"I think, Jonathon, that is nothing but trouble."

As if on cue, the demon was aware of Night's apparent surprise and flung a tentacle at him. The speed of the beast was fantastic.

As the tentacle approached Night, he tried his best to avoid the appendage. However, as the tentacle approached, Night discovered that it was not deployed to attack. It was deployed to shame.

The tentacle knocked Night's hat off his head.

Anger filled Ingrid Night's eyes as he, embarrassed, tried to cover up his scarred and bald head. Very touchy was Night about his head. He had confessed to Holzer decades ago about how shamefully he had received the scars he tried to cover with his dark brim hat.

Night, standing still as a statue, glared up at the demon. The only strand of white hair he possessed dangled down into his eyes. Everyone in the group held their breath, not really knowing what would happen next.

"You knocked my hat off," Night whispered, pointing a warning finger up at the demon.

The demon seemed to look down at Night upon hearing this remark and gave him a curious stare. Almost chuckling, the three heads of the demon talked amongst themselves, realizing that they had struck a personal chord with their attacker.

Night, on the other hand, did not find it amusing.

Closing his eyes, Night started to chant a spell under his breath. The air cooled around him. There was something in the dust under his feet that began to electrify and charge, causing a swirling dust cloud.

Night's hat, which had only strayed about twelve feet from its owner, began to stir. Wobbling on its brim, the hat suddenly took flight into the air and automatically flew back into Night's hand. Upon reaching its owner's hand, the surrounding environment returned to normal-as normal as a parallel world of the undead can be.

Slowly Night placed his hat back upon his head. His eyes never left those of the demon's.

The demon was heard chuckling.

"You knocked my hat off," Night repeated. He raised a warning finger. "Now I take that very personally."

There was a moment when all participants were remarkably calm.

It was the calm before the storm.

A sudden flash of discomfort could be seen on the three faces of the monster. In its pain, all noticed several wounds opening up on its huge body. Blood started to ooze out of the wounds, giving both Night and Holzer the courage to continue their war.

"Quick, Jonathon," Night ordered, throwing Holzer the crystal vial they had used before. "Reload your weapon. The beast is weakening!"

Both men reloaded and fired their weapons in less than a minute. Night was somewhat amused at the fact that his friend could handle his crossbow so proficiently.

"You have learned well, my friend," Night was heard saying.

Both men waited for a response from the creature and were not disappointed. As the second wave of the attack hit the creature, the tentacles started to attack both Night and Holzer. Holzer was horrified to discover that the tentacles had a mouth-like opening and razor-sharp teeth inside each of them.

Night warned Holzer, "Do not allow one of those things to attach itself to you, Jonathon!"

"What are they?" Holzer asked, taking out a small pocket knife for protection.

"If they attach, you will become one with the beast."

Upon hearing that advice, Holzer could feel a tentacle nibbling away at his collar. The thing was trying to do just what Night had warned against. It was trying to attach itself to Holzer's neck.

In disgust, Holzer took hold of the slimy octopus-like thing and sank his knife's blade into it.

"Good hit!" Night responded, firing yet another volley at the creature with his crossbow.

The demon was starting to bounce up and down, giving both attackers the idea that they were winning the first round. However, both men and their investigative team soon paused.

The sky started to rip open.

Blood started to fall down upon Night and the SOURCE team as if it were a spring rain.

* * *

"Grab a recorder!" Miranda shouted as she dragged Teresa back down into the foxhole Sinclair had dug for them.

"What?" Sinclair asked, trying to rub the dripping blood off his forearms.

"This is the greatest event in the world of parapsychology," Miranda shouted, "and I'm not going to miss this opportunity to at least record something."

Sinclair knew there was no use fighting with his colleague, so he did as he was instructed.

"You all right, Teresa?" Miranda asked.

Teresa was shaking. She had been doing so ever since she had tried to make contact with the demon. There was nothing there for the psychic to contact. No mind as she knew it. No motivation. Nothing. This was a totally new area of the mind. An area that Teresa knew nothing about. And that frightened her.

"Nothing," Teresa whispered.

"What, dear?" Miranda asked, handing Sinclair an EMF reader she had put together, hoping that the damn thing would work.

"I sense¬hing," Teresa mumbled. She shook one last time and then passed out.

Sinclair dropped his EMF reader and tried to take Teresa's pulse. "Oh, Miranda, she's out cold."

"Good. Now she can rest."

Both Miranda and Sinclair prepared to take notes and study the phenomena in front of them.

Neither one saw that they were no longer alone.

High above the foxhole the Shape, now fully restored to her earthly beauty and spiritual evil, glared down at them with a vengeance.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Lt. Wells and his two young officers could hear the wave of police cars approaching the front lot of Manchester House. A "fleet" of police cars, in a small town such as Atchison, numbered about four. If this same event had happened in Topeka or Kansas City, Wells would have at least fifteen cars and thirty officers at his disposal. But this was a small town, and at the moment Wells was investigating a touchy case in a touchy part of town.

"Oh, God," Wells whispered.

Stepping out of the first squad car to park in front of Manchester House was Wells' captain.

The man didn't look at all happy to be pulled away from his family dinner in his Sunday best suit just to hobnob around the town's haunted house. The captain hated this mansion as much as Wells did. The only difference was that Wells wasn't trying to retire and become mayor.

"Spread out!" the captain barked, silently pointing around the house. "If we're here, we might as well do this by the numbers."

Chewing on a cigar, the captain walked up the steps to the front porch of the mansion, glaring Wells in the eye.

Wells knew that he was in trouble.

"Captain."

"Wells, I'm getting sick and tired of being called at odd hours by you about this house. How many body bags will it take to shut you up?"

Wells let out a heavy sigh. "Captain, there's only one way to stop all of this."

"Fire you?" The captain tiredly chuckled.

"No," Wells insisted, surrendering. "But I will not stop that action if it is your wish."

"No." The captain waved his hands. "I'm just letting off some steam. You're a good man, Wells. Just a pain in the ass."

"Yes sir."

The captain meekly looked inside Manchester House, not really wanting to go inside. "What's the story this time? Were you able to find the investigation team?"

"No sir."

There was a certain tone to Wells' voice which caused his captain to study the man. Chewing on his cigar, switching it from side to side in his mouth, the police officer started to notice the uneasiness in Wells' features.

"You okay, Wells?"

"Captain, I know the man in charge of this team." Wells paused. "My daughter was in his class."

"This time, you mean, it's personal. Right?"

"Yes," Wells confirmed.

The captain patted Wells on the shoulder. "Son, if this piece of shit house is in any way responsible, I personally will sign the papers to have it bulldozed to the ground."

"Let's hope it doesn't come down to that, Captain."

Finally lighting his cigar, the captain gave Wells a hard and long look. "Why not?" he asked, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke. Absently, he put out the wooden match in his hand, flinging it to the ground. Wells made a mental note as to where the match landed, so that he could warn the surrounding police officers about not picking it up as evidence.

"Let's go inside then," the captain stated, preparing himself for yet another unpleasant encounter.

All but two officers went inside the mansion.

* * *

Upon entering Manchester House, one of the younger officers lost his nerve, not to mention his last meal. Grabbing his mouth in surprise, the police officer failed to stop himself in time, allowing a fountain of digesting food and stomach fluid to splash all over his shoes.

The captain and Wells looked away from the painfully embarrassed young man, understanding what he was going through. Many a time, both Wells and the captain had hidden behind a door or two inside this house doing what they could to save face.

"You okay, son?" the captain asked, patting the young officer on the back.

"Sir," the officer said, wiping his mouth.

The stench coming up from the pool of vomit was starting to get to everyone's nostrils. Whatever the young officer had eaten hours before was coming back for revenge.

Completely recovered, the young officer grabbed his flashlight and started to investigate the house.

"We got ourselves the future Chief of Police here!" The captain chuckled.

All laughed, including the embarrassed officer.

There was a stirring noise coming from behind the kitchen door.

"What was that?" Wells asked.

Again, a scratching sound brought everyone's attention towards the closed kitchen door.

A light suddenly clicked on, showing the officers a stream of activity from behind the door.

Wells pulled out his gun.

"I thought you said that the power had been turned off?" the captain asked. He had his pistol aimed and was pulling back on the hammer.

"Been turned off for years, sir."

The captain motioned towards the door. "Then what's all this?"

"I don't know, sir." The fear in Wells' voice was obvious.

The captain let out a frustrating moan. "I hate this shit!"

Everyone, with pistols drawn, slowly headed toward the kitchen door.

A shadow trotted across the bottom of the door, casting a reflection on the visible light. Someone, or something, was in the kitchen.

"Professor?" Wells asked slowly.

No response.

The figure behind the door was aware of the police officers addressing it on the other side. This fact was abundantly clear because each time someone moved, coughed, or talked, the shadow reacted and moved accordingly.

Both Wells and his captain looked at each other, hoping that they could guess their next actions by reading the other's face.

Without warning or further action from the police officers, the kitchen door flung open. The rays of light coming from the kitchen momentarily blinded all.

In the doorway stood the Shape.

Wells blinked, fighting the brightness of the kitchen lights. It still freaked him out to see the lights on. In all his time investigating the murders, he never had the comfort of electric light-he had always been there during the day.

Lowering his hand, adjusting to the light, he saw a little girl looking up at him from the threshold of the kitchen door. For a brief moment, he thought he saw something looming inside the kitchen, standing just behind her. Tentacle-like. Demonic in nature. Then it was gone.

Wells chalked it up to fatigue.

"Are you all right, miss?"

Wells noticed that the officer who asked this strange young girl the question was the unfortunate man who had gotten sick minutes before. The police officer took his flashlight and shined it in the young girl's eyes.

"Sweet Jesus!" Wells heard his captain yell, clearly frightened.

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

"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.

Again Jonathon Holzer squirmed in pain, screaming loudly.

"Jonathon?" Night said, almost crying, swallowing the emotion hard.

Night stood frozen, watching as Holzer's life force was slowly being sucked out of his body. Holzer started to age rapidly. His hair took on a gray look and his pallor became that of an ancient man. In time, Holzer started to look even older than Ingrid Night, and Night knew that was old.

Angry, Night looked up into the beast's eyes with a need to seek revenge.

"Hear me, you thing of evil!" Night shouted, waving a warning finger up at the creature. "If you kill this man, I will not leave this realm of existence until I have killed you. There will be no rest for you! No means or spare time to plan the conquering of worlds." Night started to scream with the passion of a zealot. "I will become your worst goddamned nightmare!"

At first there seemed to be no response from the creature. The monster just continued his attack on Holzer.

"What will become of the professor?" Teresa asked, holding back the tears in her eyes.

Night shook his head. He could not answer the question.

A cold wind blew past Night, tickling his ears.

Someone was standing behind him. It was the Shape.

"You are no champion," the Shape mockingly laughed. Her voice was no more than a whisper, but Night could hear each word she uttered. "You can't even save the lives of your friends."

The girl-like specter started to giggle.

Night closed his eyes and tightened his fists. He understood the agony and torture of this spirit, but enough was enough.

"Teresa," Night whispered.

"Yes?" The psychic looked up at Night with silent understanding.

"I do what I have to do." Night paused, looking into the young black woman's eyes. "Understand?"

Teresa could not speak. Her eyes started to fill with tears. She looked back at the agony Holzer was in, and then at her two friends. Miranda was still trying to comfort Sinclair, who by all appearances still was unconscious. She did not support what Ingrid Night was about to do, but she understood why it had to be done.

"Do it," Teresa whispered, lowering her head in shame.

Night appreciated and respected the pain he saw flowing easily from the psychic's face. For a moment, his fatherly instincts wanted to take hold of the young woman and comfort her, but he had friends to save.

He had a spirit to destroy.

"Listen here, little woman," Night said, directing all his anger at the Shape. "I do think I have had enough of you."

Not feeling at all threatened by his actions, the Shape continued with her contemptible laughter. Night could barely make out the faint smell of the Shape's perfume. It was the first time the old man had noticed it. The fragrance seemed innocent enough-vanilla-a popular brand of the century the Shape had come from.

Tightening his grip on his own crossbow weapon, Night soon noticed Holzer's weapon near his feet. Night cleared his throat, focusing his mind on the task at hand. There was a lot for him to do within the next five minutes, and he needed to focus all his skills on what he needed to accomplish. He was never one for killing for pleasure, even as a boy when forced to forage for food. But this was only the second time in his life that he wished to extinguish an evil that the world could wholly live without.

"Then we begin!" Night huffed, darting toward Holzer's crossbow.

The Shape stopped her laughing.

Night sprang forward, breaking his circle with Teresa, and rolled on the ground, picking up Holzer's crossbow weapon with his free and empty hand. Darting back up erect, the old warrior turned to face the Shape with two weapons pointed directly at her.

"You can no longer hurt me," the Shape warned.

Night laughed. This time his voice was mocking. "Madame, I do not wish to hurt you. I wish to destroy you."

Both stared at each other. The scene resembled the shoot-out scene of any contemporary American Western. Each participant was waiting for the other to make the first move.

Suddenly there flashed a light from outside the arena created by both Night and the Shape. The distraction was enough to cause the Shape to momentarily lose her concentration, directing her gaze toward the source of the light.

This precious moment was all Night needed to attack.

Aiming, Night pulled both triggers.

The twin streams of blessed oil shot toward the Shape, one entering her mouth, causing the ghost to swallow the substance. Night allowed himself the pleasure of shouting out a triumphant yell, realizing that the woman spirit had just made the greatest mistake a spirit of her level could make. A spirit might survive an outward attack of the oil Night used, but in all his years the old man had never experienced a spirit-even the most powerfully advanced-that could resist an attack where the entity had allowed the oil to enter its vaporous body.

"At last!" Night joyfully proclaimed, allowing himself the moment.

The Shape started to cough up blood, realizing that Night had successfully shot a stream of his oil into her mouth. She seemed to violently shake as if she were having some unknown seizure. The Shape discovered that she no longer had control of her body, and little by little her tiny frame began to disappear.

The creature the SOURCE team had been fighting seemed to realize what Night had done and shrieked out a series of painful roars. It was as if a beloved pet had been taken away from a demanding master, and now that a void of servitude had been created, the value of the pet was appreciated. Night got great pleasure out of the panic that he was starting to hear come from the throat of the monster. Each of its three heads paid close attention toward the Shape and her fate.

Like a candle warming and melting in the heat, the Shape started to lose her bodily cohesion and dripped down into a liquid state. She could not understand what was happening to her, and indeed the destructive act was so quick, she only had time to look up at her Master, hoping against all hope that this bitter experience was nothing more than a sick joke.

In a gurgling puddle of bubbles boiling up from both slime and blood, the Shape's last scream died away into that of futility. Only the bright and bony crown of her skull seemed to survive, gleaming in the eerie darkness.

"May your soul find peace forevermore," Night prayed, bowing his head in solemn prayer.

Stepping forward, Night smashed what was left of the Shape's skull with his right boot, shattering the crown into a dozen pieces.

The Shape would never again dominate at Manchester House.

Night, curious, turned to see where the distracting flash of light had come from, and was surprised to see a weak but totally aware Sinclair holding up his camera. The cameraman had provided Night with the needed alliance to conquer an enemy. Sinclair, on the other hand, blinking his eyes to life, was looking at the precious picture he had just taken.

"I thank you for that, Mr. Sinclair," Night said, tipping his hat. "Very well done. I am glad you are back with us."

"Only one more picture left."Sinclair's voice was weak, but there was still the sound of sarcastic spirit in him. Something Night was starting to see as not so much a negative thing.

"Aim well, then, sir."

One last time, Night looked upon the remains of the Shape. In the distance, the old man thought he heard the sounds of the beast crying, but this could only have been Night's imagination. Still, the Shape had been a kindred spirit. That was why the beast had chosen her as its mouthpiece. Could demons feel remorse for the fall of one of their own? No matter. Night had a job to do.

"Do not trouble yourself so," Night said, comforting Teresa who was openly crying. "The dear girl's spirit is now at rest."

"Damn fine way to accomplish such a thing," Teresa commented.

"Come." Night tried to change the subject. "We have others to attend to."

In exhaustion, the beast started to remain impossibly calm-impossibly still. This action caused Teresa to bring Night's attention towards that thing.

"What of him?" Teresa asked, pointing up at the beast.

"It is weak," Night surmised. "The time for final conflict is soon approaching."

"Will we win?"

Night remained calm but did not answer the question.

Holzer was let go of by the beast and fell to the ground. He was weak, but seemed to appear normal in both health and age.

"Professor?" Miranda was heard saying.

Both Sinclair and Miranda pulled Holzer into the foxhole.

Night reloaded his two crossbow weapons, paying attention to both his concerns for Holzer and the beast, which appeared to be resting. Night wondered why the monster hadn't finished him and his friends-it certainly had the power to do so. Or perhaps there was something to the place where the beast had made its appearance known. Perhaps Manchester House and its properties had something to do with it.

Reloaded and ready, Ingrid Night walked over toward the foxhole, paying attention to Jonathon Holzer.

Both Teresa and Miranda were doing their best to perform a medical examination of Holzer, patching up the two bleeding wounds left over from the attachment of the beast's tentacles. Holzer started to moan, slowly opening his eyes.

"Professor?" Teresa meekly asked. "Are you okay?"

Holzer made a face, as if he had a terrible taste in his mouth. "What the hell happened to me?"

Night, moved by the fact that his friend was around and talking, heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching into the foxhole, he placed a hand on Holzer's shoulder. The action did not go unnoticed by his fellows.

"You had almost, as you Americans like to say, bought the farm, Jonathon." Night smiled.

"You know me, Ingrid," Holzer weakly joked. "Hard to get rid of."

"This is true."

There was an awkward moment of silence as the stirring of the beast interrupted the calm air. It seemed to be laughing quietly at what was going on literally at the foot of its bulky paws.

Night looked up at the monster with finality in his eyes.

"Jonathon, are you well enough to take action?"

Holzer looked up at his friend, noticing the seriousness in Night's features. "Are we leaving here soon?"

"Soon," Night confirmed.

"Then you have figured out the puzzle behind this maze-this spiral?"

"I believe so." Night paused, reaching into his conjure kit.

All eyes turned to Night's curious kit, wondering what kind of ancient weapon he would be pulling out next. Most were disappointed.

"What the hell is that?" Sinclair asked, finally finding the strength to stand. His legs were a bit wobbly but he stood nonetheless.

"It is a key, Mr. Sinclair."

What Ingrid Night removed from his conjure kit, did not appear to be that imposing, nor did it appear to be any kind of a key. In fact, the item was so commonplace anybody could have found it anywhere.

Holding the item up for all to investigate, Night revealed a small polished black stone about the size of a fifty cent piece. No moving parts. No apparent magical spells. Just a small stone. Quite ordinary.

"You mean after all this, the thing that's going to save our ass looks like a rock I keep at the bottom of my fish tank?" Sinclair barked.

Both women turned to stare at the cameraman.

"You have a fish tank?" Miranda asked, surprised.

"Well, yeah," Sinclair stated, uneasy. "Doctor says staring at fish calms the nerves."

Teresa let out a little giggle.

"What?" Sinclair asked, defensive.

"Nothing," Miranda said, fighting to hold back a smile.

Night broke the comical mood by clearing his throat. "It is the simplicity of this icon, Mr. Sinclair, which has helped me through the decades and will save us all."

Night handed the polished stone to Holzer, who took it with great surprise.

"What do you want me to do with this, Ingrid?"

"I cannot use the device, Jonathon," Night tried to explain. "It has to be thrown by a surviving victim of the evil we are facing. That, dear friend, would be you."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Are you well enough to keep by my side?" Night asked.

Holzer slowly got to his feet, staring Night directly in the eyes. "Is this well enough for you?"

Night nodded his head in affirmation. He held great pride for Holzer at that particular moment. "Good enough."

"Again, Ingrid, what do you want me to do?"

"As we get close to the beast&" Night paused, confirming. "And we will have to get dangerously close, my dear friend. I need you to recite the most sacred prayer you can think of at that moment and then proceed to throw that stone into the creature's mouth."

"That's all great and everything," Sinclair said, "but what are you going to do to allow the professor to do all of this?"

Night closed his eyes. A sudden shiver came over him.

"Mr. Sinclair, I'm going to do the one damn thing this monster believes that I would never logically do." Night paused. "I'm going to recite the beast's name."

Holzer looked up at his friend, horrified. "Ingrid! By God, you can't do that!"

"Why not?" Miranda asked. Scared, she grabbed Sinclair's hand, holding tightly onto it.

"It is written," Night began to say, "that if a mortal man recites the name of the beast he will spend forever battling the thing until one or the other survives."

"You would be placing yourself into a living hell," Holzer shouted, his voice pleading for Night to honestly listen to what he was saying. "A hell more horrible than Lars is going through right now."

At the mention of his fallen comrade's name, Night gave Holzer a harsh glance. "I will be saving your lives."

"At too high a price."

The beast, having been so quiet for such a long time, suddenly came to life once more. All three of his heads came to turn, focusing on the four humans gathering inside the freshly dug foxhole. At one point, the bull-like head noticed Holzer holding a small black stone, recognizing it for the powerful force that it was. In horrifying clarity, the beast seemed aware of what Night was planning.

The beast opened up its wings, attacking the group below.

With the wrath Night had only seen once before during the Berlin bombings of the Allied Forces of WWII, the tentacles of the demon drove themselves into the ground around the four of them with the force of exploding bombs. All four scattered out of the foxhole, doing their best not to get hit.

"Jonathon!" Night yelled, avoiding six tentacles which were attacking him. "You have to do this! You know that I'm speaking the truth." Night paused, pointing the way he intended to attack. "You must follow me. Now!"

Holzer, dodging several tentacles attacking him, looked up at the beast and saw the anger, evil, and intent to kill in all six of its eyes. Sharp teeth snapped down at him, and the air was full of the foulness of the monster's breath. A huge leathery wing breezed past him only feet away from his head and had no intention of stopping its work. Night was correct about one thing: he was now their only hope of ever getting back home.

With agonizing awareness, Holzer moved forward, following Night, as both of them continued to gain ground, heading toward the attacking beast.

"Professor?" Miranda shouted. Her forehead had a bleeding wound across it. She had become victim of one of the demon's tentacles.

"Stay where you are!" Holzer ordered. "Ingrid and I will tell you when it will be time to move."

"Have courage, dear lady," Night said, his hand waving down at the lot of them.

The SOURCE team members looked helplessly up at their two leaders as they continued to inch toward the three heads of the beast. Either ignoring them or not aware of their advancement, the beast did nothing. He only attacked using his tentacles.

Night was hit by one of the tentacles, knocking him down. The old man's face buried itself in the mound of dirt supporting the beast and he appeared out for the count. However, within seconds Night shook back to life, spitting chunks of graveyard dirt out of his mouth and continuing his trek up the hill. Holzer noticed, keeping his nerves in check, that his friend barely missed seven hungry tentacles landing square in the middle of his back.

"We are almost there, Jonathon!" Night shouted, smacking tentacles away from his head. "Be ready."

Holzer, himself trying his best to dodge the tentacles, felt a familiar sensation in his lower inner thigh. Looking down, the college professor saw a tentacle attached again to him, sucking out a great amount of blood. Holzer's pants were dripping with the substance.

"Ingrid!" Holzer pleaded.

Night turned to look. He noticed the new horror his friend was going through.

"No time, Jonathon!" Night waved a caring hand. "Just prepare to throw the stone."

Holzer, his eyes losing their focus, shook his head with the greatest of concentration. He could feel the urge to throw up, but he knew it would be a useless gesture-he hadn't eaten in quite a while.

Night approached the three heads. They were all throwing themselves about, chanting, laughing, and talking amongst themselves. So close was the tall old man that it would have been very easy for one of the heads to just simply snatch him up, swallowing him as nothing more than a juicy morsel.

"Asmodeus!" Night yelled, throwing his fists in the air, challenging the monster.

Upon hearing its earthly name, the beast stopped its attack, yelling out in a great cry of anger. All three heads darted down to study Night, as if to ask the silent question, "What mortal man speaks our name?"

From behind his cloak, Night pulled out the two crossbows he had been using and fired both at the faces of the creature. One stream hit the bull-like creature in the eye, the other landed in the mouth of the man-like head, causing that head to bleed, shake, and collapse.

"Ahh!" Night laughed. "A good hit, Jonathon!"

"What do I do now, Ingrid?" Holzer could feel the influence of the beast attacking his senses.

:Kill him! He is nothing to you! I am here always. I will love and protect you. You and I are one. We have desires in common. Together we will learn the secrets of God. KILL HIM&.NOW!:

Holzer felt his right hand grabbing hold of a stone at his feet. His eyes turned to the back of Ingrid Night's head. Incredible hate had entered him and he could not explain why. He suddenly remembered all the irritating times Night had proven him wrong or questioned his own logic. And for one brief evil second, Jonathon Holzer wanted the old man to die.

"Throw the stone, Jonathon!" Night ordered. "Throw it now."

Night turned to face his friend and was horrified to see the college professor approaching him with the desire to commit murder. At that moment, Ingrid Night started to show his age. He attacked Holzer's actions with the only strategy he could think of, for he knew it was not his friend pulling the strings.

Ingrid Night simply smiled.

"Do not forget to pray," Night whispered.

:KILL HIM! KILL HIM! Make his brains splatter nicely!:

Holzer closed his eyes, fighting the voice in his head.

Jonathon Holzer dropped the rock.

"Throw the stone, son," Night calmly said. He looked down at the tentacle doing its work on Holzer and noticed that it was sucking him dry. If Night were to save everyone, Holzer had to act fast.

Holzer cleared his throat, weak. The college professor began to pray. "God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for this&food."

Night opened his mouth in complete surprise. "At a moment like this, Jonathon, all you can think of is saying grace?"

Feeling like a complete ass, Holzer threw the tiny black stone into the mouth of the bull-like creature. It was so tiny and so innocent looking that the monster barely knew that it was even thrown. It swallowed the tiny thing with not so much as even a burp.

Asmodeus, the ancient Hebrew god of lust, screamed one last time, collapsing. The creature appeared dead.

Everyone froze.

"All right!" Sinclair was heard screaming. "We won!"

"Not just yet, Mr. Sinclair!" Night huffed, turning sadly.

Both Night and Holzer stared at each other. The tentacle holding onto Holzer's thigh broke free, withering into a harmless pile of ash. The college professor was once more the master of his own fate.

"You called me&son." Holzer's eyes opened wide. His face looked as wondrous as a small child's might upon discovering Santa Claus at the foot of his Christmas Tree.

"I have always loved you, Jonathon." Night placed his hand upon the college professor's shoulder. His eyes started to dart around the surroundings as if expecting something. "Always remember that."

A thunderous echo filled the dark.

As if ripped open, a bright and gaping hole appeared no more than six feet away from Sinclair, Teresa, and Miranda. Through the hole all, including Holzer, could see the inside closet belonging to Manchester House.

It was a way home!

"Let's go," Holzer suggested to Night.

Night remained where he stood. In fact, the graveyard dirt around his feet grabbed hold of him with earthly hands, not letting him go. "Alas, Jonathon, I told you that there was a price for your safe return." The old man paused, holding back the urge to cry. "I cannot go."

"You cannot stay," Holzer suggested, his voice dripping with hope.

"I will fight," Night toughly asserted. "I will find a way."

"Professor?" Miranda was heard yelling up at Holzer.

"Ingrid says that we now have a way home," Holzer said, pointing at the rift. "I suggest you jump through it quickly."

Without hesitation, all three jumped through the rift.

Safe.

Home.

"Go, Jonathon," Night weakly ordered.

The college professor nodded his head in agreement. Silently he hugged his dear friend, his eyes filling with tears of respect. In turn Night returned the hug with a passion Holzer had always felt the old man incapable of. It was indeed the most heartbreaking moment of Jonathon Holzer's life.

"I will be seeing you!" Night triumphantly yelled. The old man pointed to the rift, silently ordering Holzer to walk through it.

Holzer turned, walking toward the rift.

Ingrid Night was now completely alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

While investigating the main hallway of Manchester House, Lt. Wells thought he heard the sound of a rather heavy thud. The disturbance reminded him of a moving trunk being suddenly dropped because it was just too heavy. In his hearing of the sound, Wells discovered that he wasn't alone.

"Wells!" the captain yelled, entering the hall. A rather curious look was on his face. "Did you hear that?"

Wells nodded his head in confirmation.

The scuffling seemed to be coming from the closet under the staircase. Were those muffled voices Wells was hearing?

Wells silently pointed toward the closet's door as if to inform his captain that they were not alone. There was someone in the closet.

The captain motioned several police officers to enter the hallway. Most had their guns aimed at the closed door.

"I'm too old for this shit," Wells said as he slowly approached the closed door.

The police detective held his breath, placing his hand on the closet's doorknob. Inside the tiny room, Wells thought he heard the sound of several people bickering. It was indeed a strange, if not amusing, sensation.

The door suddenly burst open, knocking Wells to the ground. A horribly foul wind swept through the mansion's main hallway, causing a few younger officers to become just as sick as their fellow missing man from hours before.

Exploding from the confines of the closet, Wells saw four people come falling out of a room. It was the missing investigation team they had been looking for. Wells clearly saw Professor Jonathon Holzer at the bottom of the pile of people, who all looked as if they hadn't eaten a good meal in days. Weak, dirty, and bleeding badly, Holzer looked around him and smiled, laughing joyfully.

"We're back!" Holzer said, rubbing what appeared to be mud off his forehead.

Two women who were a part of the team silently asked Wells to help them get Holzer to his feet. Holzer did not look good. In fact, his face was rather pale.

"Who says that there never is a cop around when you need one?" the youngest of the men said. Later, Wells would learn that this man was the team's cameraman.

With a grunt of pain, Holzer made it to his feet.

"Professor Holzer?" Wells said, holding back his relief. "Where have you been?"

"That's a question, sir, which will quite possibly take the rest of my life to find an answer to." Holzer looked at Wells, blinking his eyes tightly. "Are you by chance Lt. Albert Wells?"

Wells nodded his head in confirmation.

"Thank you for not giving up on us."

The captain stepped forward, lighting another cigar. "Wells! What the hell is all of this? What's with the tea party?"

Wells cleared his throat.

Holzer shut up.

Both realized that authority had just entered the picture.

"Captain, this is Professor Holzer and his crew." Wells paused. "These were the team members I informed you about. However&" Wells paused, giving Holzer a curious look. "I count four. I thought you said&"

"Two did not make it back," Holzer explained.

There was an awkward silence in the hallway for a moment.

* * *

Ingrid Night looked up at Asmodeus through the brim of his hat. He couldn't explain it, but he found himself smiling. He was happy. Alone in a dimensional shift facing a hellish demon with little or no hope of ever smelling the fresh air of earth again, and he was happy. Night always found great amusement in Holzer's assumption that he was insane, but this time the old man seemed to be agreeing with his dear friend.

The beast roared to life, moving forward, dwarfing Night as he stood looking up at him with triumph.

Chanting a spell he had learned from a voodoo priest in Haiti, Night surrounded himself with a glowing symbol of protection. He reached into his conjure kit, pulling out a red polished rock quite similar to the one he had Holzer use-it was his one and only gamble.

"Death is but a memory," Night started to chant. "Life is but a lie, in the middle we have the moment, that is where you will find&I."

Upon hearing Night's words, the two remaining heads of the creature lowered and glared into the old man's eyes. The dead bull-like head appeared to be rotting on its stump, already bloating with flies and maggots. The stench was hellish, and Night was doing all that he could not to show the monster that its sickly-sweet smell was roiling his stomach to no end.

"Get down with it, motherfucker!" Night yelled. He took out his crossbows, throwing one to the ground, maintaining the other in his left hand. In his right hand, he held the blessed red stone. He would only need a moment. One precious instant of weakness from the beast.

Night's foot kicked something. Something metallic.

Looking down, Night spotted the flashlight device Miranda had created earlier and realized that he had another weapon he could use. Never taking his eyes off the two heads, Night reached down, picking the device up.

The beast attacked, knocking Night to the ground with one of its cock-like paws. One of its three claws tore at the skin of his chest, opening a great wound. Blood poured out. Ingrid Night screamed.

Night leaped at the creature. Asmodeus screamed in terror.

The old man had the moment he had been praying for. He knew that he was going to win the day.

* * *

"Captain, the ambulance is on its way," a young police officer stated, sticking his head into the main hallway of Manchester House.

"Good." The captain ordered, "Go out on the main road and direct the thing in. These people need to see a doctor."

Before anyone else could move or react, a terrible explosion hit Manchester House, rocking its entire foundation. This was not the kind of explosion associated with demolition, but a sonic radiance of expanded energy.

"Jesus! What the hell was that?" Sinclair asked, holding Miranda's hand tightly. Since coming back though the rift, both he and Miranda were becoming inseparable.

Holzer opened his eyes, smiling. "That, Mr. Sinclair, was Ingrid Night."

The entire SOURCE team were finding themselves smiling and cheering silently.

"Greatest man I have ever known," Teresa found herself saying, wiping tears out of her eyes.

Again the house shook with force. Only this time it felt as if the entire town of Atchison, Kansas was involved. Atchison shook with the energy of a California earthquake. There was a feeling of the mystic in the air.

Holzer noticed that Lt. Wells was rubbing his temples-a headache?

"Ahh!" a muffled voice shouted from the kitchen of the house.

All eyes turned toward the troubled room.

"That came from the kitchen," Miranda suggested.

Everyone headed around the main staircase and into the living room, passing into and toward the kitchen's closed door.

Wells, with Holzer and his team not too far behind, opened the kitchen door with a shaky hand "What the hell?" Wells said, his voice both curious and controlled.

The kitchen floor, once the scene of the horrid rat graveyard, was now uprooted and torn asunder. It was as if some powerful force had exploded the floorboards of the room, leaving a gaping hole. Steam was seen rising from the hole and it appeared as if something was moving-getting closer.

Miranda, standing behind Holzer, handed him her last functioning EMF detector. "Professor?" she said.

Holzer took the device, activating it. Pointing the EMF detector towards the new hole in the kitchen, he and Wells were surprised to see the instrument's needle peak past the highest mark, spark, then die in his hand.

"Well," Holzer said, not at all surprised. "That's the end of our equipment."

A hand rose from the middle of the hole, grabbing hold of the kitchen floor. Soon another hand joined in.

Ingrid Night rose from the pit, seeing three police-issued weapons pointing down at his head. His face was covered in blood and he was bleeding heavily from his chest. The man looked like a living abortion, spewing forth upon the earth.

"Jonathon," Night weakly asked, not at all fazed by the pointing weapons. "Could you please give me a hand?"

Holzer and his team jumped with joy and Teresa and Miranda hugged each other. Both Sinclair and the professor broke away from the local police, rushing into the mansion's kitchen to help their friend back to safety.

"Ingrid!" Holzer shouted, surprised. "Christ in Heaven, I thought that we lost you for good."

"Never believe that Ingrid Night can be taken, Jonathon." The old man grunted as he was pulled from the pit. Waves of steam came off his body as he stood looking at his team members.

"Who the hell is this then?" Wells asked.

"This, Lt. Wells, is Ingrid Night," Holzer explained, patting the old man on the shoulder with great pride. "My dear, dear friend. He is the missing man from our team."

"No," Night corrected. "There was one more."

The SOURCE team turned silent, sad, thinking of Lars.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Night suggested.

Without waiting for permission, without wanting to explain a damn thing, Holzer, Night, and their team left Manchester House.

* * *

Outside, with Manchester House behind them, the SOURCE team members waited until almost all the police officers were in their cars ready to leave. The captain, shouting and yelling every step of the way, was the first to go. Wells had been informed that he would soon be put in charge of traffic violations and could expect to stay there for many years-one too damn many Manchester House cases, he surmised.

"Professor," Wells stated, rubbing his temples, "I am leaving now. Please tell me you will not be staying."

Holzer looked at Night, who tiredly chuckled.

"No, sir," Holzer confirmed. "Manchester House is no longer, shall we say, haunted. The house is clear."

"Amen!" Night barked.

"Then I have all of your addresses and statements," Wells said. "If I need to contact you, Professor, I'll call your office."

Holzer nodded his head, waving the detective off.

The team was now alone.

* * *

Sinclair raised his camera, taking the last picture-it was of Ingrid Night.

Night, blinking his eyes, looked up at the cameraman, fully understanding the honor Sinclair had just paid to him. He knew that there were several fantastic moments Sinclair could have preserved on film, but had chosen him, looking like a drowned puppy, to capture.

"I still do not like you, Mr. Sinclair." Night meekly laughed. "But I am honored to call you friend."

Sinclair looked at the old man, hurt. "Thanks, I guess."

"I want a copy of that picture!" Night demanded, pointing a serious finger at Sinclair.

The team members started to break out in laughter.

"I have a question," Teresa said.

"Yes?" Night answered.

"How the hell are we going to get back to town?"

Suddenly it hit everyone. They had no car, no food, and no proof of what had happened to them. They were, in essence, marooned all over again.

"Ain't that a son-of-a-bitch," Night huffed.

Surprised eyes turned on Night, who rose to his feet, walking away from the mansion toward town.

"Well?" Holzer said, picking up his gear. "Let's go."

The SOURCE team, with Night leading the way, walked back to Atchison alone, weak, hungry, and unsung. But then again each member of the team would have preferred it that way.

"Ingrid?" Holzer asked, catching up with his friend and mentor.

"Yes, Jonathon?"

"What of Manchester House?"

"You have enough information to please your students, do you not?"

Holzer huffed. "I have enough to fill at least three books on the subject, but that's not my point."

"Then what is?"

"Is the house safe for human habitation again?"

Night stopped walking, slowly looking back at where they had all come from. Holzer thought, if only for a moment, Night's eyes showed great fear. "If any house is now safe in this tiny hamlet of a town, it is Manchester House. Evil will never again be able to haunt that land."

"Good," Holzer stated, smiling.

"However," Night added, "the rest of Atchison is not so lucky."

Night started to walk again. Taken by surprise, Holzer and his team had to run to catch up with the tall old man.

"Wait!" Miranda huffed, dragging Sinclair behind her. "What about the rest of Atchison?"

"I had to cleanse Manchester House long enough for my escape," Night explained. "The evil decided to leave me be. I do not know where it fled."

"You mean you didn't kill it?" Holzer shouted.

"Jonathon, you cannot kill a god," Night explained. "You can only ruin its day."

The rays of the sun began to peek through the woods surrounding Manchester House and for the first time in decades warmth could be felt. There seemed to be a welcoming feeling toward the whole property, quite unlike the feelings the SOURCE team had experienced upon entering.

"Well," Holzer said, continuing his walk, "at least we succeeded."

Night turned, glaring at Holzer through the brim of his hat, looking both worried and quite sinister. "Did we?"

Holzer swallowed hard. For him at least the forces of good had won the day and science stood victorious with new and much-needed knowledge.

It took the team over two hours to head back into Atchison.

"Jonathon?" Night said.

"Yes?"

"Happy Halloween."

Holzer looked at his watch in surprise. It was now October thirty-first.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

One Year Later&

Albert Wells, formerly of the Atchison Police Department, thought it best to retire shortly after his last encounter with Manchester House. Having been informed by Professor Holzer and his team from the SOURCE Institute that the hauntings of the famous mansion were over, the old derelict became a beacon for the small crime element of the community. Wells was soon transferred from traffic violations back into homicide and, ironically enough, was pulling more body bags out of the goddamn place.

After a particular case where his neighbor's sixteen-year-old daughter was pulled out of Manchester House's basement dead from an overdose and evidence of being the victim of a gang-rape, Wells decided to retire his badge, much to the moral chagrin of his captain.

Retirement had been kind to Wells. He visited Holzer once, buying a copy of the professor's latest book The House that Dripped Evil, and was mildly amused at the fact that Holzer had dedicated the book to him and the people of Atchison. Wells bought a small house, ironically enough quite near the site of Manchester House, and was enjoying the good time of his declining years.

Atchison was no more the worse for wear. Lives went on, dreams were both lost and found, and business went on with its profits and losses. However, one small change had taken place: the Haunted Trolley Ride scheduled every October changed its route to include their newest haunted house-new in the sense that Manchester House was safe enough to have human contact on a regular basis. Safe again if you didn't count the local crime cartels.

Wells' day started like any other. He got up at four in the morning-a habit he couldn't break himself of from decades in the police force-drank his coffee, and read his morning newspaper. Wells' morning newspaper usually meant the paper he bought the night before before heading off to bed.

Something blazing from the paper's headline banner caught his eye and made him laugh with both glee and relief-the news made his day-his whole damn life, in fact.

MANCHESTER HOUSE DESTROYED BY FIRE

"Well, I'll be goddamned!"

There was a movement which Wells caught out of the corner of his eye, but due to the fact that his paper had held such great and positive news he paid it little mind.

Someone knocked at the front door.

Wells rubbed his temples. The headaches were starting to get worse.

Opening the front door, Wells was greeted by a familiar face.

"Lt. Wells?"

"Professor Holzer?" Wells gasped, motioning the man to step inside. "Hey! It's great to see you." Wells paused, sad. "It's no longer lieutenant, Professor."

"Oh?"

"Retired, you see."

"Oh."

There was a serious tone of finality in the college professor's voice which gave Wells the impression that Holzer believed him to be the victim of politics. Not true. If asked, he would explain that to the man. But only if asked.

"What are you doing in Atchison?" Wells asked, silently inviting Holzer to take a seat in an old recliner.

Holzer held up his copy of the local Atchisonpaper. "Saw this," he explained.

"Yes." Wells tiredly laughed. "I was happy to read that one myself."

Holzer turned worried. "How was it started?"

"Don't know." Wells explained, "I no longer have the police department's ear. They have a new captain now that mine has moved on."

"Oh?"

"Yep. It seems that my captain was too militant." Wells huffed ironically. "The City Council offered him his own retirement package."

"I see." Holzer turned solemn.

For a moment both men sat looking at the other. Both wanted to talk, to joke, and to rejoice at the fact that Manchester House was no more. No more would the town's police force have to pull out body bags. No more would parents have to be informed, in the dawn of morning, that their loved ones would not be coming home any more. All these things these two men wanted to say, but neither could find the way, words, or moment to do so.

"Well, I just thought that I would come by and say hello." Holzer rose to his feet.

Wells darted up as well, always a good host, opening the door.

"Where are you off to now?" Wells asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh&" Holzer beamed, eager to explain. "My team and I are off to Scotland."

"Scotland?"

"Yes." Holzer stepped out onto Wells' tiny porch. The sun started to rise, promising a great Kansas day. "There is a castle there."

"Well, I should hope!" Wells joked.

Holzer turned serious. "The local population claims certain stories that have caused the SOURCE Institute some concern."

"Oh?"

"Something about bloodied corpses attacking a nearby town every night and the people of that town have asked for assistance." Holzer paused. "We are giving it."

"I wish you great luck," Wells solemnly stated.

Holzer waved goodbye, and left Wells to explore the mystery of the rest of his life. Wells, closing his door, for a moment wished that he knew of Holzer's.

:Hello&:

The headaches were getting worse.

Wells thought he heard the sounds of rustling plastic.

Picking up a fresh roll of duct tape, Albert Wells began sealing up the windows, vents, and doors of his house.

THE END

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