The Manheim Horror Read online

  The Manheim Horror

  by

  Brett Williams

  All rights reserved: The Manheim Horror, Deaths Before, and Legend of Kill Creek Woods

  This edition copyright 2014 by Brett Williams

  BrettWilliamsFiction.com

  [email protected]

  Published by Zoe Books

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  The Manheim Horror

  Through the millennia tomes have been written, each offering insight or painstaking detail into various aspects of the occult. These ancient writings, many of which have disappeared, been destroyed, or are now secreted away for safekeeping in the clutches of power-hungry recluses, these books no longer offer their cryptic information to those who would make use of it – for good or for personal gain.

  But something more powerful has since replaced them.

  That, Gordon Manheim firmly believed. For he had seen bits of it with his own two eyes.

  Beyond what he had seen, he had also heard or read. Repeatedly. From friends, acquaintances, and coworkers – both on-line and off.

  With that grim knowledge (and subsequent paranoia) he feared his current work assignment. For he had never before paid visit to this location, this building. However, unfortunately for him, tonight he had been chosen.

  Gordon Manheim parked the company van beside the building. Illumination from the van's headlights splashed against the ivy-covered brick wall. Vines covered most of the wall, with the exception of an inset metal door. The building possessed no windows, front or side. Besides the two doors he had seen (one at the front of the building), a louvered exhaust vent adorned the wall before him. Nothing else existed, save utility lines attaching the building to the outside world.

  He shut off the engine and removed his company-issued cell phone. Three bars of reception displayed. That, he knew, would change once entering the building, for server and switch rooms were often shielded for data protection. He expected nothing less within this fortress-like structure. He re-read his work assignment, which had been transmitted, apparently, by the inside equipment itself. The verdict: disk drive failure. The company service agreement demanded immediate replacement.

  “Sonovabitch,” Gordon muttered. These drives, hell, these entire locations featured redundancy. Redundant redundancy. Data spread out across an array of drives, servers clustered in event of failure, backup or fail-over sites to protect against natural disaster, even off-site data backups themselves.

  This shit could wait until morning.

  Except the client contracted for immediate replacement. You pay for it, we deliver. What a crock. Someone's data protection paranoia necessitated Gordon's wake from sleep since it was his week to provide after-hours support.

  He grabbed the box containing the replacement drive from the passenger seat, along with a small bag containing some of his tools, and exited the vehicle. Chilly mid-October air cut through the company jacket he wore.

  The side door offered no means of entry without a physical key. No keypad, no badge scan, no doorbell. Manheim followed the sidewalk around to the front of the building. The meager “lawn” between building and sidewalk had been cut. The grass appeared to be the only aspect of the building to receive recent attention. Probably contracted with a lawn service. Even the metal door frame around the front door was flecked with rust. Surface rust also spotted the front door in areas, which had been left ajar.

  Before entering Manheim communicated via text message to dispatch that he had arrived at the location of failure.

  With a rap of knuckles on the door, Gordon called out, “Hello. Gordon Manheim, HP C.E., here to replace your drive.”

  Nobody answered, so he dragged the door open. An eerie creak sounded.

  “Gordon Manheim with HP service. Can anyone hear me?”

  Still no reply.

  He entered and the door shut behind him.

  The room he found himself in consisted solely of metal desk, chair, dusty dumb-screen terminal and attached keyboard. A file cabinet sat in a corner, basking in the terminal display's pale amber glow.

  A nearby light switch failed to provide light despite his repeated clicks presumably off and on. Manheim was forced to retrieve a penlight from the pocket protector in his shirt pocket. Its flash found a keyring and impact printout facing him on the desk. Perforated edges of the computer printout's tractor feed were partially removed. The note read:

  Replace drive D013, level 5, sector F – 6 – F.

  REMINDER: Active non-disclosure clause within service agreement. We will litigate to the fullest extent of the law.

  Seeing the reminder caused gooseflesh to form on Gordon's arms. Certified Engineers talk, and many of Manheim's fellow C.E.'s had mentioned the Lowell building by name, a time or two. However, since Gordon had never visited here before, his colleagues had been wont to offer much information, other than to mention a common desire to avoid paying the location any service calls, if possible. Chester Winfield had taken early retirement the day after a service call here, or so rumors went. Sometimes C.E.'s jokingly referred to the Lowell building as the Winfield Horror, yet refused to divulge details of its name.

  Whatever the reason, colleagues loathed the place, attributing to its mystique and promoting its horrible reputation, deservedly so or not.

  Furthermore, evidence of the Lowell building housing proxy servers to mask the digital trail of Internet predators had flashed across Manheim's eyes. The bowels of the place supposedly housed terabytes of illegal content: child molestation/kiddie porn, snuff videos, degrading animal acts, and the like.

  Those crazy bastards back at the office probably didn't believe a word Manheim said when he mentioned this possibility. At least not about the pix or video files. He was just an overworked, under-appreciated bored tech type with nothing better to do than perpetuate urban myths at the office.

  But Gordon Manheim believed it. For he had not just filed those stories into memory, he had, as a self-described white hat hacker, spent countless hours following leads, researching, tracing connections to IRC channels, changing (or seemingly changing) locations of USENET groups, IP addresses associated with files originating with BitTorrent, et cetera.

  He had found all manner of vile things. But also, information. Anything to do with the occult, astronomy, demonology. This information lay scattered on servers across the globe. Much of it phony – easy to find. Enough of it, however, Manheim suspected, legitimate. At least believably so to those offering the information. And those willing to search for it. And some of it, the mere tip of the iceberg, really, lay buried within the Lowell server and switch building. Gordon Manheim knew this to be true. Using various technical tools and techniques (as well as social engineering and his professional connections), a significant number of his searches had led him electronically to the Lowell building and its registered (and unregistered proxy) IP addresses. Or rather, the Winfield Horror.

  A datestamp on the computer printout caught his attention: 13:57:11

  Whoever had printed out the note had done so just before 2:00 PM. Why had the work request been sent after midnight? Checking his phone (no reception bars), Manheim found the repair request timestamped a few minutes past midnight. Just long enough for the repair request to route through systems and be assigned out, had an automated request been sent at exactly midnight, as if via a scheduled UNIX cron job.

  Could it be that someone specifically wanted repairs performed after hours when nobody was here? That would explain the door being ajar, and justify costly after-hour fees. Nothing else made sense.

  Manheim pocketed the note and went looking for a way down to Level 5, as the
building was merely one-story tall.

  He located a hallway leading to a small restroom and a stairwell leading down.

  “Can anyone hear me? It's Gordon Manheim placing a service call.”

  His voice echoed off hard surfaces. Again, nobody answered. Despite the warmth the building provided, a chill climbed his back. Light switches here did not work, either, although weak emergency lighting provided (barely) adequate illumination.

  Before descending down to lower levels, Manheim opted for a peek around the main floor in search of staff. Or perhaps out of curiosity (or to delay the inevitable).

  The light switch did not work in the next room, and no emergency lighting existed. He began to wonder if the lights had been placed on a timer, although that made little sense. The room, though, featured a massive fuse panel, battery backup units, and telco cabling. The cabling passed through a thick partition to where it connected to rack upon rack of networking equipment on the other side. Lights flickered on all of the equipment, dancing ominously in the darkened room. The room buzzed with electricity, a steady warm hum not unlike a low roar. A sweep of his penlight uncovered a row of three personal computers positioned on a long table. Wheeled office chairs were parked before each sleeping flat-screen monitor. LEDs lit the front of each tower case. The only movement besides LEDs in the room belonged to shadows cast by his penlight. All equipment, except the PCs, were protected within locked mesh cages. Would one of the many keys on the keyring unlock any of these cages?

  Gordon Manheim, unnerved, retreated to the stairwell.

  Never before had a company allowed him free rein within their walls. Either they provided an escort, or, rarely, simply staff swarmed the premises. Even late at night.

  Cobwebs greeted Manheim in the stairwell. Musty air filled the corridor while the echo of his footsteps surrounded him. He couldn't quite shake the feeling someone was coming up to meet him (or following along behind him). He dared to speak “Hello” once again but feared his own voice echoing hauntingly. He vowed not to speak again. Obviously no one staffed the facility. At least not tonight.

  Despite the vow (and his growing dread at having been given this assignment), Manheim could not resist a peek at Level 2. He did resist an urge to knock at the door, instead forcing himself to seek out a key on the keyring to open the fire door. In doing so he noticed similar keys grouped together, each labeled with their corresponding level.

  He eased open the creaky door. Nothing had prepared him for the bright, lively furnishings he found on the other side.

  Many rooms, each decorated like that of a house. Here, light switches did not work, as expected. However, he did discover lighting, which, in one of the rooms, he switched on. The room, the same as all the others, wasn't a room at all, but merely a set. One stage spotlighted a young girl's bedroom, complete with stuffed animals, frilly pink bedspread, dolls and other toys. Nearby a tripod stood ready to accept a camera. The set's carpeted floor gave way to concrete, presumably out of frame. Manheim also noticed a small red lighted dot high in a darkened corner. A flash of his penlight uncovered a security camera – although not used for security. Instead it pointed directly at the bed. Could it be wired for a live feed?

  Disgust assailed Gordon Manheim, a man who had two nieces and a nephew. Such horrible images had never flashed through his mind. He found other sets. Those of a teen-age girl's room, another belonging to a young boy, what appeared to be a fully functional bathroom, living room, and also kitchen. A refrigerator hummed menacingly. Glass cookie jars offered several tasty treats. The sets were spotless, unlike the dusty rooms on Level 1 and the confines of the stairwell.

  Soon his feet led him to Level 3, where he again stopped. Should he look around? Manheim decided he should first and foremost complete his assigned task. He continued down to Level 5. With each flight of stairs leading him deeper into the belly of the building, the warmer the ambient temperature became. Without hesitation Manheim used the #5 labeled key to unlock the fire door. It felt like opening the door to an oven when he entered. Light blinked in red, amber, green, and blue, as LEDs danced on row after row of computer servers. Inside the room was sweltering. Typically server rooms featured adequate (and redundant) air conditioning units. This room, or at least the aisles between servers, should have gusts of arctic air blowing up through holes in a raised floor. Instead, servers stood tall as refrigerators, singly or clustered within wire cages, on a concrete floor.

  No wonder the drive had failed. Heat, the bane of electrical equipment, must be to blame. Manheim was surprised this location didn't require more regular service calls. He removed his jacket and, casually folded and wedged beneath the door, used the garment to let some of the heat escape.

  And what about all the locked, caged servers? Very rarely did he see such measures. Primary Domain Name Servers and high-traffic servers such as those supporting Microsoft updates that were off-site next to the Internet backbone required this level of security. But this?

  On closer inspection of engraved serial numbers and location tags on the cages, Manheim got the distinct impression that this location housed servers for multiple entities. Most likely renting out space. Very odd. But if you didn't want to house your own illegal content (and needed additional network precautions such as IP masking or network shielding), such a configuration made much more sense.

  In addition to the whirl of spinning drives, another sound tickled his ears. It sounded like gnawing. And the skittering of rats. He flashed his penlight around, only catching shadows retreating into corners.

  Manheim found it all quite disturbing. And a validation of his research and paranoia.

  With a sigh he began following cage tags until he spotted F – 6 – F, one row over. Labeling tape clearly marked drive D013. After a minute of searching the keyring, Manheim located the cage key and used it to gain access. The server rack held a console associated with that server. He woke it with a press of the space bar. The cursor blinked at the login prompt – he did not have access and the login information had rightfully been withheld. An operator would need root access to take the drive off-line; however, lack of a lighted LED on the drive indicated that D013 had already been taken off-line.

  Any smuck could replace the drive at this point. Why had they requested service? Companies did some strange things, that couldn't be disputed. And what could be stranger than the Lowell building?

  Gordon Manheim got to work unboxing the replacement drive – the correct part – and then depressed the buttons which allowed the old drive to slip free of the enclosure. After removing the new drive from its anti-static bag, he used a screwdriver to relocate the drive rails from the old drive to the new. A firm click sounded once the replacement storage unit had been firmly seated in the server. Someone with valid login credentials would have to bring the drive on-line, and then the server would re-stripe its data from other drives in the array.

  He mopped sweat from his brow with a long sleeve then pushed it up. He slid the old drive into the anti-static bag, and placed it in the box. This drive would return with him to the office to potentially be refurbished. He wondered what contents it held. Directions for occult rituals? Images of bestiality? Somebody's aunt's secret oatmeal cookie recipe? He doubted the latter, and he doubted the drive had been thoroughly wiped clean. Again, odd.

  Cage locked, Gordon Manheim turned to find a little girl standing behind him and his heart skipped a beat.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” he said clutching his chest. “What in blue blazes are you doing down here?”

  “Showing you what you want to see, you pig,” the girl said with a giggle. She then raised the hem of her dress. Bloody knickers stretched around her knees. Before Manheim could avert his gaze from the obscene display, he saw not what he expected to see. Mangled meat pierced with fishhooks awaited him beneath the clothing, nothing at all resembling a healthy prepubescent being.

  His gorge rose. He thought he was going to be sick.

  Befor
e he could say anything else the little girl dashed away, pigtails bouncing.

  Manheim gave chase, planning to help her. She needed an ambulance. She needed to get out of this place. Good heavens above, what had she been through? Manheim could only assume torture for entertainment. How could she think he would be interested in something like that?

  Rats darted across his path. In the stairwell Manheim could hear tiny footsteps echoing down below.

  “Little girl, come back. I'm not like the others. I'm here to help you.”

  The ring of a door shutting cut off another series of giggles. At the door to Level 6, the last level, the knob refused to turn. It took a moment to locate the right key, but Gordon Manheim intended to find the girl, get her help, and expose the goings-on here to the authorities.

  Those thoughts escaped him when he entered Level 6. For there he discovered the first staff member of the night. A bald man in wrinkled clothing sat facing away, scanning pages by candlelight. Didn't the fluorescent lighting work in this damn place?

  Crazy...

  There were five candles, each, Manheim now noticed, held in a candle stand set equidistant around the man... Each stand placed at the point of an encircled star coated in paint (blood?) on the floor... A pentagram. Light from the flatbed scanner traveled under the book. The man turned the pages of the leather-bound tome – cryptic text fluttered by – and placed it face-down with bony fingers.

  “What the hell is going on around here?” Manheim said. “Where did that little girl go?”

  The man turned, as if to speak, his wrinkled clothing not clothing at all, but aged skin. Skin flexed around the sewn-shut features of his mouth when he gazed? upon Manheim with dead eyes.

  Time stopped.

  A giggle broke Manheim from a state of horrid shock.

  He turned to see the door behind him closing. A pitter-patter echoed from the stairwell.