The Manitou

by Graham Masterton

  “Oh, Christ,” said Dr. Hughes. “Mr. Erskine, you’d better—”

  “Aaaahhh,” groaned Karen. “Aaaahhhhh.”

  Her fingers clutched the sheets, and she tried to toss her head. The tumor squirmed and wriggled some more, as if it was clutching the back of her head, and squeezing it.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” she screamed. “DE BOOOTTTTTT!!”

  Her eyes rolled toward me, and for one strange moment they looked like the eyes of someone else altogether—bloodshot and fierce and remote. But then Dr. Hughes was ringing the bell for the nurses, and fixing a syringe of sedative, and I was ushered away from the bedside and into the corridor. I stood there, hearing her scream and fight inside, and I felt as helpless and isolated as I’d ever been in my whole life.

  Chapter Three

  Through the Shadows

  A few minutes later, Dr. Hughes came out of Karen Tandy’s room, stripping off his gloves and his mask with weary resignation. I went up to him immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I just didn’t realize it would have that effect.”

  He rubbed his chin. “It’s not your fault. Neither did I. I’ve given her a light sedative and it should help her to calm down.”

  We walked back to the changing-room together and took off our surgical robes.

  “What worries me, Mr. Erskine,” said Dr. Hughes, “is that she responded so violently to those words you came out with. Up until then, she was okay—or at least as well as anybody could be expected to be with that kind of a tumor. But it seemed like you triggered something off there.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But exactly what was it? Why should a normal intelligent girl like Karen Tandy get so upset by the idea of an old Dutch galleon?”

  Dr. Hughes opened the door for me and led me out to the elevator.

  “Don’t ask me,” he said. “You’re supposed to be the mysticism specialist.”

  He pressed the button for eighteen.

  “What did the X-rays show you?” I asked. “The ones you took in the operating theater?”

  “Nothing very clear,” answered Dr. Hughes. “When I said there seemed to be a fetus in that tumor, I should have said it was something fetus-like, but not exactly a baby in the accepted sense of the term. There is a growth of bone and flesh, which seems to have a systematic pattern of development, the same way that a baby has, but whether it’s human or not, I can’t say. I’ve called in a gynecological specialist, but he can’t make it here until tomorrow.”

  “But supposing tomorrow’s too late? She looks—well, she looks as though she’s going to die.”

  Dr. Hughes blinked in the bright light of the elevator. “Yes, she does. I just wish to hell there was something I could do about it.”

  The elevator reached the eighteenth floor and we stepped out. Dr. Hughes led me into his office and went straight over to his filing cabinet and brought out a bottle of whiskey. He sloshed out two large glassfuls, and we sat down and drank in silence.

  After a while, he said: “You know something, Mr. Erskine. It’s ridiculous and it’s insane, but I believe that this nightmare has something to do with this tumor.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, the two seem closely inter-related. I guess you spiritualists would think that the nightmare was causing the tumor, but I’d say it was the other way around—that the tumor is causing the nightmare. But whichever it is, it seems to me that if we can discover more about the nightmare we can discover more about the condition.”

  I swallowed a burning mouthful of neat Scotch. “I’ve done all I can, Dr. Hughes. I located the ship, and the ship seems to provoke a pretty severe reaction. But where can we go from here? I’ve told you—I’m only a quack when it comes to the real occult. I don’t see what else I can do.”

  Dr. Hughes looked thoughtful. “Supposing you do what I’m doing, Mr. Erskine. Supposing you seek expert assistance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, surely all clairvoyants aren’t—quacks, like you. Some of them must have genuine talent for investigating things like this.”

  I put down my glass. “Dr. Hughes, you’re really serious, aren’t you? You really believe there’s something occult going on here.”

  Dr. Hughes shook his head. “I didn’t say that, Mr. Erskine. All I’m doing is exploring every possibility. I learned a long time ago that, in medicine, it can be fatal to leave any avenue unexplored. You can’t be narrow-minded, not when a human being’s life is at risk.”

  “So what do you suggest?” I asked him.

  “Simply this, Mr. Erskine. If you’re interested in trying to save Karen Tandy from whatever it is that’s making her ill, go out and find a real clairvoyant who can tell us just what this goddam ship thing is all about.”

  I thought for a while, and then I nodded. After all, I had nothing to lose. At least, I didn’t think I had anything to lose. And who knows, I might end up with some real occult knowledge.

  “Okay,” I said, swallowing the last of my whiskey. “I’m on my way.” Back at my flat, I went straight into the kitchen and made myself four slices of cheese on toast. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and I was feeling sick. I opened a can of Schlitz, and carried my meal into the living room. I couldn’t help sniffing around the place, just to see whether the evil spirit that had possessed Mrs. Herz was still lurking in her shadows, but there was no evidence that anyone had been there. Mind you, I don’t suppose that spirits leave footprints.

  Munching my toast, I telephoned my friend Amelia Crusoe. Amelia ran a small knick-knackery store in the Village, and I knew she was well into spiritualism and all that kind of stuff. She was a tall dark lady with long brown hair and soulful eyes, and she lived with a bearded guy called MacArthur, who made a living selling customized social security plates.

  It was MacArthur who answered the phone. “Who is this?” he said grumpily.

  “Harry Erskine. I need to talk to Amelia. It’s pretty urgent”

  “The Incredible Erskine!” said MacArthur. “How’s business in the up-and-up field of ripping off old ladies?”

  “Pretty good,” I told him. “How’s the Engravaplate industry?”

  “Not so bad,” he replied. “It’s not what you’d call a fulfilling career but it brings home the bacon. Hold on, Amelia’s right here.”

  Amelia sounded her usual soft, husky self.

  “Harry? This is a surprise.”

  “It’s business, I’m afraid, Amelia. I was wondering if you could help me.”

  "Business? Since when have you been into business?”

  “Cut the sarcasm, Amelia, this is really important. I have a client who is very ill, I mean really, urgently ill. She’s been having these terrible nightmares. I’ve talked to the doctors and they think it might be something to do with spiritualism.”

  She whistled. “The doctors? I didn’t know doctors believed in spirits.”

  “I don’t think they do,” I told her. “It’s just that they’re totally baffled, and they’re willing to try anything to save her. Listen, Amelia, I need to get in touch with someone who really knows his stuff. I need a clairvoyant who’s really together, and good. Do you know who could do that?”

  “Harry, that’s a pretty tall order. I mean, there are hundreds of clairvoyants, but most of them are about as good as you are. And, no offense meant, that means they’re lousy.”

  “No offense taken. I know my limitations.”

  Amelia ummed and ahhed for a moment, and went through her address book, but after five minutes of searching she still hadn’t come up with a name In the end, she gave up.

  “I just can’t help you, Harry. Some of these guys are okay when it comes to fortune-telling, or putting you in touch with your long-lost Uncle Henry, but I wouldn’t trust any of them with anything serious.”

  I bit my thumbnail. “How about you?” I asked.

  “Me? I’m not an expert. I know I’m a little bit psychic, but I’m not into al
l the greater arcana and that stuff.”

  “Amelia,” I told her, “you’ll have to do. At least you’re genuinely psychic, which is a damn sight more than I am. All you have to do is track down this signal or nightmare or whatever it is. Just give me a clue to where it could come from. I can do the rest by ordinary detective work.”

  Amelia sighed. “Harry, I’m busy. I’m going out to a dinner party this evening, and tomorrow I promised to take Janet’s kids to the park, and on Monday I have to open the store, and I just don’t have a single moment.”

  “Amelia,” I said, “a girl’s life is at stake. That girl is up there in the Sisters of Jerusalem Hospital right at this very moment, and she’s dying. Unless we can find out what her nightmares are all about, then she’s just not going to last out.”

  “Harry, I can’t make myself responsible for every girl who’s dying. This is a big city. Girls are always dying.”

  I wrung the phone in my fist, as if I could squeeze Amelia into helping me. “Amelia, please. Just tonight. Just for a couple of hours. That’s all I’m asking.”

  She put her hand over the phone and talked to MacArthur. They burbled and murmured for a while, and then she came back on.

  “Okay, Harry, I’ll come. Where do you want me to be?”

  I checked my watch. “Come round to my place first. Then I think we’ll have to go on to the girl’s apartment. It seems to be there that the dream started. Her aunt gets them as well, only not so bad. Amelia, I know this is a drag, but thank you.”

  “I’ll see you later,” she said, and put down the phone.

  The next thing I did was dial Mrs. Karmann, Karen Tandy’s aunt She was obviously sitting by the phone, waiting for news of Karen, because she answered almost immediately.

  “Mrs. Karmann? This is Harry Erskine.”

  “Mr. Erskine? I’m sorry, I thought it was the hospital.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Karmann, I went to visit Karen today. She’s still pretty weak, but the doctors think her chances might be improved if they knew a little bit more about her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you remember I called you yesterday about your dream. The one about the beach. Karen came and saw me and told me that she’d been having a dream just like yours. The doctors think it’s possible that there might be something in the dream—some due or other—that could help them to cure Karen’s condition.”

  “I still don’t see what you’re getting at, Mr. Erskine. Why didn’t Dr. Hughes call me himself?”

  “He didn’t call you because he couldn’t,” I explained. “He’s a medical specialist, and if any of his superiors found that he was messing around with spiritualism, they’d probably sack him on the spot. But he wants to try everything and anything to help Karen get well again. And that’s why we need to know more about that dream you’ve both been having.”

  Mrs. Karmann sounded confused and anxious. “But how can you do that? How can a dream give anyone a tumor?”

  “Mrs. Karmann, there are plenty of proven connections between people’s minds and their state of health. I’m not saying that Karen’s tumor is psychosomatic, but it’s possible that her mental attitude toward it is making it more difficult for the doctors to cure her. They aren’t operate until they understand what it is, and why it affects her so badly.”

  “Well, Mr. Erskine,” she said quietly, “what do you want to do?”

  “I’ve already contacted a friend of mine who’s something of a medium,” I told her. “What I’d like to do is hold a seance in your apartment, so that my friend can see if there are any vibrations around.”

  "Vibrations? What kind of vibrations?”

  “Anything, Mrs. Karmann. Anything at all. We don’t know what to expect until we find it.”

  Mrs. Karmann chewed this over for a few moments. Then she said: “Well, Mr. Erskine, I’m not at all sure. It somehow doesn’t seem right to be doing something like that while Karen’s so sick. I don’t know what her parents would say if they found out”

  “Mrs. Karmann,” I said. “If Karen’s parents knew you were trying everything within your power to help their daughter, then I don’t see how they could possibly object. Please, Mrs. Karmann. It’s that important.”

  “Well, all right, then, Mr. Erskine. What time do you want to come round?”

  “Give us an hour. Thank you, Mrs. Karmann, you’re terrific.”

  Mrs. Karmann sniffed. “I know that already, Mr. Erskine. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” She wasn’t the only one.

  It was half past ten by the time we had all gathered together at Mrs. Karmann’s apartment on East Eighty-second. It was a big, warm place, decorated in a wealthy but anonymous style—big upholstered armchairs and settees, thick red velvet drapes, antique tables and paintings. It smelled of scent and old ladies.

  Mrs. Karmann herself was a fragile-looking woman with white bouffant hair, a pinched but once-pretty face, and a liking for floor-length silk dresses and lacy wraps. She gave me her soft and ring-laden hand to hold as I came in with Amelia and MacArthur, and I introduced everybody:

  “I just pray that what we’re doing won’t make things worse for Karen,” she said.

  MacArthur, with his big bearded face and his worn-out denims, went round the apartment bouncing on all the chairs to see how soft they were. Amelia, who was all dressed for dinner in a long red-printed kaftan, stayed quiet and withdrawn. She had thin, haunted-looking features, with big dark eyes and a pale full-lipped mouth that made her look as though she were going to start crying at any moment.

  “Do you have a circular table, Mrs. Karmann?” she asked softly.

  “You can use the dining table,” said Mrs. Karmann. “As long as you don’t scratch it. It’s a real genuine antique cherrywood.”

  She led us through to the dining room. The table was black and glossy, with a deep shine you could have drowned in. Above it was a glass teardrop chandelier. The walls of the room were decorated in dark green figured paper and there were gilded mirrors and oil paintings all around.

  “This will do very well,” said Amelia. “I think we ought to begin right away.”

  The four of us sat down around the table and looked at each other rather self-consciously. MacArthur was used to Amelia’s spiritualism, but he was as skeptical as ever, and kept saying: “Is there anyone there? Is there anyone there?”

  “Quiet,” said Amelia, “Harry, can you douse the lights please?”

  I got up and switched off the lights, and the dining-room was plunged into total darkness. I groped my way back to my seat, and reached out blindly for the hands of Mrs. Karmann and MacArthur. On my left, a hard male hand. On my right, a soft elderly female hand. The darkness was so complete that I felt as if a black blanket was being pressed against my face.

  “Now concentrate,” said Amelia. “Concentrate your minds on the spirits who occupy this room. Think of their souls, wandering through the ether. Think of their wants and their regrets. Try and imagine them as they float around us on their spiritual errands.”

  “What the hell’s a spiritual errand?” said MacArthur. “You’re telling me they have ghostly newspaper boys too?”

  “Quiet,” said Amelia gently. “This will be difficult, because we don’t know who we’re trying to contact. I’m trying to find a friendly spirit who will tell us what we need to know.”

  We sat tight with our hands clasped while Amelia murmured a long incantation. I was trying desperately hard to think about the spirits who were moving through the room, but when you don’t really believe in spirits, it’s not exactly easy. I could hear Mrs. Karmann breathing right next to me, and MacArthur’s hand was fidgeting in mine. But at least he had the sense not to let go. From what I’ve heard, it’s dangerous if you break the circle once the seance has begun.

  “I am calling any spirit who can help me,” said Amelia. “I am calling any spirit who can guide me.”

  Gradually, I was able to concentrate more and more, direct
ing my mind to the idea that there was really something or somebody around, some vibration in the room that would answer us. I felt the pulse of our whole circle go through my hands, I felt us join together in a complete circuit of minds and bodies. There seemed to be a current that flowed around and around the table, through our hands and our brains and our bodies, building up strength and voltage.

  “Kalem estradim, ikona purista,” whispered Amelia. “Venora, venora, optu luminari.”

  The darkness stayed utterly dark, and there was nothing but the strange sensation that coursed through the four of us, the pulse that throbbed through our hands.

  “Spirita halestim, venora suim,” breathed Amelia. “Kalem estradim, ikon purista venora.”

  I suddenly had the feeling that somebody had opened a window. There seemed to be a cold draught in the room, breezing around my ankles. It wasn’t enough to make you feel uncomfortable, but there was a definite sensation of stirring air.

  “Venora, venora, optu luminari,” chanted Amelia softly. “Venora, venora, spirit halestim.”

  The realization that I could see something in the darkness came so slowly and gradually that at first I thought it was just my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. The shadowy forms of Amelia and MacArthur and Mrs. Karmann clotted into shape through the blackness, and I could see their eyes glittering. The table was like a bottomless pool between us.

  Then I looked up and realized that the chandelier was glowing, with a dim and greenish light. The filaments of the bulbs seemed to crawl and flicker with current, like fireflies on a summer evening. But it was colder than summer, and the invisible draught made it colder and colder all the time.

  “Are you there?” asked Amelia quietly. “I can see your signs. Are you there?”

  There was an odd rustling sound, as though there was someone else in the room, shifting and stirring. I could swear I heard breathing—deep, even breathing that wasn’t the breathing of any of us.

  “Are you there?” asked Amelia again. “I can hear you now. Are you there?”

  There was a long silence. The chandelier continued to glow dimly in the darkness, and I could hear the breathing more loudly now.