The Manitou

by Graham Masterton

  “Misquamacus,” corrected Singing Rock quietly. “Lieutenant, I’m warning you—”

  “Warn me no warns,” said Lieutenant Marino. “I’ve been serving this force for longer than a coon’s age, and I know what to do in situations like this one. There won’t be no trouble, and there won’t be no fuss. Just keep your heads down until it’s all over.”

  He opened the office door, and the press and the TV people came pushing in. Singing Rock and I stood amongst them, silent and depressed and frightened, while Marino gave a tough two-minute résumé of what he planned to do.

  “We’re going to seal off the whole floor, then comb the corridors with marksmen and tear gas. We’re going to do it real systematic, and we’re going to issue regular warnings to this nut that if he doesn’t come quiet he’s in genuine trouble. I’m also sending three men down in the elevator to cut him off from that direction.”

  The reporters scribbled down Marino’s plan, and then bombarded him with more questions. Marino raised his hands for silence.

  “I’m not saying anything else for now. Just watch how we flush him out, and then we’ll chew the fat later. Is everyone ready, detective?”

  “Ready, sir,” said Narro.

  We watched despondently as a squad of eight armed patrolmen went to the staircase and disappeared through the door. Lieutenant Marino was standing by the elevator with his hand held intercom, checking for the moment when the search-and-destroy team would reach the tenth floor. Three men—two uniformed officers and Detective Narro—were waiting by the elevator, revolvers ready, all keyed up for the moment to go down there and shoot it out. After nine or ten minutes of restless waiting, there was a buzz from the men down below.

  “How you doing down there?” called Lieutenant Marino through the intercom.

  There was a crackle of static, then a voice said: "It’s dark. We can’t get the lights to work. We may need some floods."

  “Are you into the corridor yet?” asked Lieutenant Marino. “Can you see anything?”

  “We’re just through the door and we’re ready to fan out and start looking. No sign of any trouble so far.”

  Lieutenant Marino gave the thumb’s up to Detective Narro and his two uniformed buddies, and they entered the elevator and pressed the button for 10. Singing Rock and I didn’t look at each other as the doors slid shut and the floor indicator blinked 18—17—16—15—14 and down. It stopped at 10.

  “How you guys doing?” asked Marino, into his intercom.

  "We’re fine," came the voice of the search-and-destroy leader. "So far there’s nothing to report. We’re going through every room, one after the other, and we’re checking everything."

  “Keep alert,” said Marino.

  Detective Narro’s voice, distorted by the intercom, said: "It’s very dark indeed. The flashlights don’t seem to work properly. Does anyone know what’s wrong with the lights?"

  Dr. Winsome said: “We’ve already checked. There’s no fault that we can detect.”

  Lieutenant Marino said: “They say the lights have been checked and they can’t help. Just be careful, and hold your flashlights away from your body. You don’t want to make yourself an easy target.”

  “Christ,” I whispered to Singing Rock, shaking my head. “They still think they’re fighting a mad gunman.”

  Singing Rock was very pale. “They’ll find out,” he said grimly. “I just hope it isn’t too bad when they do.”

  The voice of the search-and-destroy leader said: “I’m having some trouble here. The floor plan of these corridors doesn’t seem to tally with the maps. We’ve been around in a circle twice, and it looks like we’re just about to do it for the third time."

  “Illusions,” said Singing Rock softly. A newspaper reporter with carroty hair looked up and said: “What?”

  “What’s your position?” asked Lieutenant Marino. “What room is nearest to you?”

  “Room Ten-Oh-Five, sir.”

  Lieutenant Marino hurriedly consulted his floor plan. Then he said: “In that case, there should be a turning to your left, and then a right and you’re into the next section.”

  There was a brief silence, and then the voice said: "Sir—there’s no turning. I mean, there’s no opening. This is just a blank wall here. I can’t see anything."

  “That’s nonsense, Petersen. There’s a turning right in front of you.”

  "Sir, there’s no turning. They must’ve changed the place around since these maps were drawn."

  Lieutenant Marino turned around to Dr. Winsome, but Dr. Winsome simply shook his head. Lieutenant Marino said: “The hospital people say no. Are you sure that’s ten-oh-five?”

  "Affirmative, sir."

  “Well, keep on looking. There’s probably been some kind of mistake. Maybe the suspect changed the room numbers around.”

  "Sir?"

  “Well, I don’t know! Just keep looking.”

  At that moment, there was a buzz from Detective Narro. His voice sounded oddly hoarse and strained.

  "I seem to think we have trouble here, sir."

  “What kind of trouble?” rapped Lieutenant Marino. “Did you locate the suspect?”

  "Sir—we’re having some kind of a—"

  “Narro? You’re having some kind of a what?”

  "Sir—we’re—"

  The intercom crackled for a moment, and then went dead. For a brief moment, I heard the mournful monotone of that wind that blew and didn’t blow at all. Then there was silence.

  Lieutenant Marino pressed his call button “Narro? Detective Narro—can you hear me? Narro—what’s going on down there?”

  There was a buzz from the search team. Marino said: “Yes?”

  "Sir, we seem to have run into something here. It’s extremely cold down here. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere quite so cold."

  "Cold? What the hell are you talking about?”

  "It’s cold, sir. It’s so cold. I think we’re going to have to turn back. The flashlights won’t work. It’s very dark and it’s very cold, sir, and I don’t think we can carry on much longer."

  Lieutenant Marino jabbed the call button and shouted: “Stay down there! What the hell’s wrong with you people? What the hell’s going on down there?”

  There was silence. For the first time, in that room full of newsmen and cameramen and medics, there was silence. Then, almost imperceptibly we felt the floor rise and fall like a passing wave, and every light in the room flickered briefly. There was a strange sensation like a cloud passing over the sun, and somewhere we heard the dull, nagging sound of a mournful wind.

  Lieutenant Marino went to the uniformed officer standing by the elevator doors. “Get that elevator up here,” he said tightly. “I’m going down to look for myself.”

  The officer pressed the button and the elevator indicator rose up from 10—11—12—13—14. Lieutenant Marino tugged his police special out of his waistband, and stood by the elevator doors ready to step in when they opened.

  The light on the indicator said 18. There was a hum, and the elevator doors slid back. There was a horrified gasp from everyone in the whole room.

  The inside of the elevator looked like a butcher’s frozen meat store. The hacked and mangled remains of every policeman in the squad lay in a red, hoar-frosted heap. There were ribcages, arms, legs and torn-apart faces, all thickly rimmed with white crystals.

  Singing Rock turned away, and I watched him turn away, and I felt as helpless and agonized as he did.

  Chapter Nine

  Under the Cloud

  Half an hour later, we sat in Jack Hughes’ office with Lieutenant Marino and Dr. Winsome, smoking fast and drinking faster, and trying to think our way out of trouble. This time, Singing Rock and Jack Hughes and I were given something more than skeptical disinterest, and we told the police and the doctors everything we knew about Misquamacus and the strange dreams of Karen Tandy. I still didn’t know if Lieutenant Marino was prepared to believe what we were telling him, but he ha
d a slaughtered squad of police on his hands, and he wasn’t in much of a position to argue.

  The lights had started to flicker more regularly now, and that odd rippling motion of the floor was happening more and more often. Marino had sent out a call for reinforcements, but wherever they were coming from, they certainly seemed to be taking their own sweet time about it. Marino’s intercom seemed to be growing fainter and less effective, and there was a persistent crackle on most of the telephones. A young uniformed officer had been sent out of the hospital to call for help on foot, but there was no sign of him, either.

  “All right,” said Marino sourly. “Supposing it’s magic. Supposing all this garbage is true. What do we do about it? How do you arrest a manitou?”

  Singing Rock coughed. He was looking tired and strained, and I didn’t know how much longer he could keep going. The floor rose and fell underneath us, and the electric lights flickered an odd blueish color. It was like traveling by ship on a heavy swell. The remote monotonous sound of the Star Beast’s gale added to the impression of a desolate voyage into unknown seas.

  “I don’t know how we can stop Misquamacus now,” said Singing Rock. “You can feel these vibrations. They’re the preliminaries to the appearance of the Great Old One. According to the legends, the Great Old One is always preceded by storms and hideous minions. Dr. Hughes can tell you all about those.”

  Dr. Hughes, without a word, passed over a black-and-white photograph that had been taken of his mutilated hand. He had disturbed the hospital photographic unit to have it printed up specially. Lieutenant Marino examined it without emotion and then passed it back.

  “What do you think could have caused damage like that?” asked Dr. Hughes. “Those are sharp, narrow teethmarks. A lion? A leopard? An alligator?”

  Lieutenant Marino looked up.

  Dr. Hughes said: “It could have been any of those. But how many lions and alligators are there in midtown Manhattan?”

  Lieutenant Marino shook his head. “I don’t know, doctor, and I don’t really care. I’m very sorry about your hand. Believe me, I’m very sorry. But I’m a whole lot sorrier about eleven dead cops, and I want to do something about it. Redfern!”

  A slight, bright-eyed young cop put his head through the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “Any sign of those reinforcements yet?”

  “I’ve had a call from them, sir, on the r/t. They say they’re having some trouble getting into the building.”

  “They’re what?”

  “It was Lieutenant Geoghegan, sir, from the 17th. He said they would probably have to break down the doors. They can’t get them open.”

  Singing Rock and I exchanged glances. It looked as if Misquamacus had sealed the hospital off from the outside world. If there was one thing I didn’t want to be, it was trapped in a hospital when the Great Old One made his appearance. Preferably, I wanted to be in New Jersey, or even Ohio. I shook my last cigarette out of its pack, and lit it with shaking hands. Again, the floor swelled, and the lights went so low that the elements fizzed.

  “Call ’em again,” snapped Marino. “Tell ’em we’re desperate, and they better get their asses in here before the whole shooting match goes up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Marino turned back to the meeting. He wasn’t enjoying this job, and he wasn’t making any pretense that he did. He picked up the bottle of bourbon, poured himself a heavy dose of it, and drank it with his eyes challenging everyone to say it wasn’t for medicinal purposes only. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: “Right. I want to know every way there is of destroying the Great Old One. All the legends, all the bunkum, everything.”

  Singing Rock shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s nothing to tell. There is no way of destroying the Great Old One. If there was, he would have been annihilated centuries ago, by those wonder-workers who were far more skillful than us. As it was, they only managed to close the gateway through which he came into the physical world.”

  “And you say this guy Misquamacus is opening that gateway up again?”

  Singing Rock shrugged. “Can’t you feel these ripples? Do you know what it is?”

  “Earthquake?” suggested Marino.

  Singing Rock said: “No, lieutenant. It’s not an earthquake. It’s the beginning of a huge build up of astral energy. I imagine that, by now, the Star Beast has negotiated terms between Misquamacus and the Great Old One, and the nexus, the gateway, is being made ready. The gateway is made out of extraordinary energy, and only remains open for a short while. It takes an equivalent amount of energy to send the Great Old One back to where he came from. Even more, actually, because the Great Old One would be very reluctant to leave.”

  “Sounds hopeful,” said Marino, sarcastically.

  Singing Rock said: “We can’t give up hope yet. There has to be a way of containing the situation, even if we can’t totally destroy Misquamacus.”

  I crushed out my cigarette. A thought had occurred to me. I said: “That typewriter I threw at the Star Beast—did you see that?”

  “Sure,” said Singing Rock. “It saved your life.”

  “Well—when it exploded—when it actually touched the Star Beast’s outline—I’m sure that I sensed something. It wasn’t actually a face or anything as dear as that. It was more like a disembodied expression.”

  Singing Rock nodded. He said: “What you thought you saw was the spirit of the machine, the typewriter’s own manitou. In its conflict with the Star Beast manitou, it became momentarily visible while it expended whatever energy it had. You can rest assured that the Star Beast thoroughly destroyed it.”

  I frowned. “The typewriter had a manitou?”

  “Of course,” said Singing Rock. “Everything does. A pen, a cup, a piece of paper. There is a greater or lesser spirit in everything.”

  “I think we’re getting away from the point,” said Lieutenant Marino testily. “What we want to know is—how can we get rid of this Great Old One?”

  “Wait,” I put in. “This may be relevant. Why did the manitou of the typewriter come into conflict with the Star Beast? What did they have to fight about?”

  Singing Rock pulled a face. “I don’t really know. The spirits are as much in conflict with each other as human beings. The spirits of the rocks are in conflict with the spirits of the winds and the trees. I guess it could have been something to do with ancient sorcery against technology.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jack Hughes, leaning forward.

  “Simply that the Star Beast is a very ancient manitou, from times unknown,” explained Singing Rock. “The manitou of the typewriter is part of the manitou of human electrical technology. They are bound to come into conflict. The spirit world mirrors the physical world to a remarkable degree.”

  I thought for a while. Then I said: “Supposing we had the technological manitous on our side? Wouldn’t they help us? I mean—they’d be more inclined to support us than Misquamacus, wouldn’t they?”

  “I guess so,” said Singing Rock. “But what are you getting at?”

  “Look—if there’s a manitou in every piece of machinery and human technological creation—we must be able to find a manitou that’s able to assist us. The typewriter manitou was small and weak, but supposing we found one that was powerful and strong? Couldn’t that defeat the Great Old One?”

  Lieutenant Marino rubbed his eyes. “This is too much for me,” he said tiredly. “If I hadn’t seen eleven of my own men killed and frozen in front of my eyes, I’d run you straight round to the nuthouse.”

  Jack Hughes said: “What you want is a machine with tremendous power. Something overwhelming.”

  “A hydraulic power station?” I suggested.

  Singing Rock shook his head. “Too risky. The Water spirits would obey the command of the Great Old One, and hold back your power.”

  “How about an airplane? Or a ship?”
<
br />   “Same problem,” said Singing Rock.

  We pondered for a few more minutes. The floor began to sway even more violently, and pens and paper dips skated off Jack Hughes’ desk on to the floor. The lights dimmed, paused, and struggled on again. The floor heaved some more, and Dr. Hughes’ single Valentine card tipped over and fluttered under Lieutenant Marino’s chair. I began to hear that monotonous wind noise even more distinctly, and there was a denseness, a closeness about the air that made me feel we were all going to suffocate. The heating system may not have worked too well in this office before, but now the place began to grow insufferably hot.

  Officer Redfern came to the door. He said tensely: “They’re still trying to break in, sir. They came on the radio and they’re still trying. Lieutenant Geoghegan said the building looks as if it’s swaying or something. He says we got strange blue lights on the ninth or tenth floor. Shall I tell the rest of the men to evacuate, sir?”

  “Evacuate?” snarled Marino. “What for?”

  “Well, sir, it’s an earthquake, isn’t it? In disaster drill, sir, they say that you’re supposed to evacuate tall buildings.”

  Lieutenant Marino slapped the palm of his hand on the desk.

  “Earthquake?” he said bitterly. “I wish it damned well was. Just round up two or three of the guys and see if you can help that idiot Geoghegan to get in. Take the stairs and watch out for the tenth floor.”

  “Right, sir. Oh—and sir?”

  “Yes, Redfern?”

  “Detective Wisbech told me to say that he’s run the m.o. through Unitrak, and so far there’s no precedent. No known murderer kills that way, sir. Not by freezing.”

  Lieutenant Marino sighed. “All right, Redfern.” He turned back to us, and said: “That’s police efficiency for you. Eleven men get chopped up and chilled, and we have to run it through a computer to see if anyone ever went around doing things like that before. What the hell is wrong with memories these days?”

  Redfern left, with a quick salute. The floor was stirring again, and he looked relieved to have been sent down to street level. What’s more, the wind noise was moaning even louder, and how can you explain to people who hear gales blowing that there are no gales, and that the wind is the wind of occult malevolence?