Graham Masterton - Revenge of the Manitou

“Andy?” squinted Mr. Beaver. He was rapidly growing confused.

“That’s right, Andy,” said Harry. “And the nice thing about the whole investigation is that we pay a hundred dollars for every authenticated spectral sighting.”

He took out his worn leather wallet, and produced a ten-dollar bill, which he waved in front of Mr. Beaver’s face. It looked to Neil as if that was the only money he had left.

“See this sawbuck?” smiled Harry. “You can have this and nine more like it if Andy comes up with a ghost sighting that we can substantiate.”

Henry Beaver’s eyes followed the bill backward and forward. Then, without taking his eyes off it, he called out of the corner of his mouth, “Andy! Come on up here, boy!”

Andy Beaver, gingery and disheveled from play, appeared round the corner with his toy pistol. He frowned at Harry, and then at his father, but Henry Beaver waved him forward and said, “This gentleman here wants to ask you some questions, boy. You just go ahead and answer the best way you can.”

Andy peered over at the Pinto. “Hi, Mr. Fenner,” he called, and he gave a quick wave to Toby. Harry watched him keenly for any indication of a special wave or a hand signal, but it didn’t look like anything more than one schoolboy saying in to another.

Harry put his arm around Andy’s shoulders and led him along the veranda to a quiet corner. He perched on the rail, and Andy stood looking at him, his hands in his jeans pockets, his eyes screwed up against the sun.

“Toby tells me you’ve been having some nightmares,” said Harry. “Something about blood, and killing.”

Andy looked away, without answering.

“He says you’ve been having nightmares about Alien, and the day the Wappos caught Dunbar and the rest of the settlers up at Conn Creek.”

Andy turned back toward him again, but still said nothing.

Harry said, “Toby tells me that you’re one of the twenty-two.”

Andy’s eyes fixed themselves on Harry with a strangely luminous stare. They were pale blue, but as he stared they seemed to widen and darken. It was hard to image that these were the eyes of an eight- or nine-year-old boy. They seemed to be infinitely wise, and knowing, and deeply self-contained in their malevolence.

“You are Harry Erskine,” said Andy. “We have been waiting a long time for you.”

“You and Misquamacus?” asked Harry, trying to appear unruffled. A chicken stalked up onto the veranda, lifted its head questioningly, and then stalked away again.

“You will discover nothing,” Andy growled. “I know why you have come, but you will discover nothing. The day is fixed, and you cannot prevent it.”

“The day of the dark stars?”

“The day when the mouth comes from the sky.”

Harry took out a cigarette, and lit it with the engraved Dunhill lighter that John Singing Rock had sent him at Thanksgiving. He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth and watched Andy closely, trying to size up what kind of Red Indian personality was concealing itself inside this small boy’s brain. It certainly wasn’t as dazzling as the mind of Misquamacus, judging from his first encounters with the greatest of all the wonderworkers. But it was dignified and powerful and proud, and he was quite sure that it would be quite enough on its own to wipe out all of them-him and Neil Fenner and Singing Rock and half of Bodega.

Harry said, “You’re going to call down Ossadagowah?”

Andy didn’t reply, but continued to stare at him fixedly.

“From what I’ve heard, that would be kind of dangerous to everyone around, including Indians,” Harry remarked. “Isn’t Ossadagowah the great demon that nobody can send back to the stars? The demon that only returns outside of its own free will?”

Andy said huskily, “You believe you know much, white man, but your knowledge is like one grain of sand in the deserts. It will not help you, neither will your traitorous friend Singing Rock.”

Harry shrugged. “Who knows? We licked Misquamacus before.”

“You achieved nothing. What you did served only to give him more strength than ever. This time he will return whole and with his powers intact, and you shall understand before you die the true meaning of strong medicine.”

Harry smoked for while in silence. Then he said, “Okay. I get your warning. The day of the dark stars is coming and you’re going to knock us all around the ball park. At least, you think you are.”

Andy gave a small, unpleasant smile. Then he turned his head slightly, so that he was looking toward Harry’s rented Pinto, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He repeated three times, “An-hut-ko, an-hut-ko, an-hut-ko.”

Harry turned around. Smoke was beginning to rise from under the Pinto’s hood, and from out of the rear-wheel arches. He yelled at the top of his voice, “Neill Get Toby out of that car!”

Neil, shocked and surprised, immediately pushed forward the folding front seat and lifted Toby out of the back.

“Now run!” shouted Harry.

Henry Beaver had hefted himself off his lawn chair and was looking at Harry in blank amazement. But then there was a sharp crackling of fire, and flames started to lick out of the Pinto’s radiator and air vents.

“Your goddamn car’s on fire!” said Mr. Beaver, in disbelief. “You can’t burn your goddamn car in front of my house!”

There was a soft, billowing explosion. Chunks of car tumbled lazily into the air, trailing fire and smoke. Harry, standing on the veranda, was struck on the arm by a flying upholstery spring, and a long piece of fender sailed across the yard and landed on Mr. Beaver’s roof.

The five of them stood there watching the remains of the car burn themselves out. A couple of neighbors came from across the street and watched, too, and after a while a man came with a garden hose and doused the last few flickers.

Neil, tightly holding Toby’s hand, came along the veranda wide-eyed and shaken.

Toby himself seemed almost indifferent, and even when he came close to Andy he showed no sign of boyish excitement or any urge to talk about the explosion. Neil said, “What happened? What the hell was all that about?”

Harry rubbed his eyes and then looked sardonically at Andy.

“Nothing,” he said, with a wry grin. “It was just one of those little bugs that Ford haven’t quite sorted out yet.”

“But the whole damn car-”

“Neil,” said Harry earnestly. “Let’s just forget it, shall we? I think we need to go talk about this someplace private.”

Andy, looking slightly dazed, said, “Did that car just blow up? Boy-did that car just blow up?”

Harry patted Andy’s gingery hair. “Yes, kid,” he said. “It just blew up. It was only a little trick I do to attract people’s attention.”

Henry Beaver, scratching his undershirt, came up and said, “You ain’t going to leave that wreck there, I hope? And what about my hundred?”

Harry sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beaver. What your son saw was very far from being an authentic mystical vision. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he almost owes me money, it was so far from being authentic.”

“He owes you money?” said Mr. Beaver, uncertainly.

“Sure. But we can get around that without any argument. Supposing you just have that wreck cleared away for me, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

They stood, a tense, silent group, and nobody was laughing. Andy raised his eyes and looked at Harry, and behind his childish expression were depths upon depths of ancient and arcane mysteries. Toby lifted his eyes, too, and they were even fiercer.

The eyes of Misquamacus, he who could call down the demons who were in no human shape.

Harry said, “Neil, I think we’d better get out of here.”