Graham Masterton - The Manitou

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 Amelia, who was all dressed for dinner in a long red-printed kaftan, stayed quiet and withdrawn.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, directing 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.

"Talk," insisted Amelia. "Tell us who you are. I command you to talk."

The breathing seemed to change. It grew harsher and louder, and with each breath the chandelier pulsed and flickered. I could see its green reflections in the dark pool of the cherrywood table. Mrs. Karmann's hand was digging deep into mine, but I hardly felt it. There was a persistent chilliness around the room, and the draught blew uncomfortably up my legs.

"Talk," repeated Amelia. "Speak and tell us who you are."

"Christ," said MacArthur impatiently, "this is —"

"Ssshhh," I told him. "Just wait, MacArthur, it's coming."

And it was coming. I stared at the center of the table, and there seemed to be something shivering in the air a few inches above the surface. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and creep as the air twisted and flowed like smoke, then began to form itself into some sort of shape.

The breathing grew deep and loud and close, as though someone was actually breathing in my ear. The dim light of the chandelier faded altogether but the pouring snake of air in front of us had a luminescence all its own.

Underneath it, the actual wooden surface of the table began to rise in a lump. I bit my tongue until the sharp taste of blood flowed into my mouth. I was petrified with fear, but I couldn't turn away, couldn't refuse to look. The power of the circle held us all too strongly, and we could only sit there and stare at this terrifying spectacle in front of us.

The black shiny wood in the middle of the table formed into a human face, a man's face, with its eyes closed like a death mask.

"God," said MacArthur, "what is it?"

"Quiet," whispered Amelia. I could see her white, intense expression by the unnatural light of the air. "Leave this to me."

Amelia leaned forward toward the frozen wooden face.

"Who are you?" she asked, almost cajolingly. "What do you want with Karen Tandy?"

The face remained still. It was a fierce, deeply lined face, the face of a powerful man in his late thirties, with a distinctively hooked nose, and wide full lips.