Graham Masterton - The Manitou

"Gradually, the guilt of what we did to the Indians has eroded our sense of owning and belonging to our own country. This isn't our land, Harry. This is the land we stole. We make jokes about Peter Minuit buying ManhattanIsland for twenty-four dollars. But, these days, that kind of deal would be considered a theft, an out-and-out con. Then there's all this business about Wounded Knee, and every other Indian massacre. We're guilty, Harry. There's nothing we could or should do about the past, but we're still guilty."

I had never heard Jack Hughes speaking so eloquently. I watched him drag at his cigarette and brush some ash from his crumpled pants.

"That's why this case is so interesting — and so frightening," he said. "If it's really true, this whole medicine man bit, then for the first time ever, white men with a fully developed sense of guilt are going to come into contact with a red man from the earliest days of our settlement. Today, we think about Indians in a totally different way. Back in the seventeenth century, they were savages and they were standing in the way of our need for land and our greed for material wealth. These days, now we have everything we want, we can afford to be softer and more tolerant. I know we've all been talking about destroying this medicine man, and fighting him, but don't you feel some sympathy for him as well?"

I stubbed out my cigarette. "I feel some sympathy for Karen Tandy."

"Yes," said Jack, "of course you do. She's our patient, and her life is in terrible danger. We can't forget that. But don't you feel anything for this savage from the past?"

In a strange way, Jack Hughes was right. I did feel something. There was a tiny part of my brain that wanted him to survive. If there was a way in which both Karen Tandy and the medicine man could live, then that would be the way I would choose. I was frightened of him, I was terrified of his powers and his mastery of the occult, but at the same time he was like a mythical hero of legend, and to destroy him would mean destroying something of America's heritage. He was a lone survivor from our country's shameful past, and to kill him would be like grinding out the last spark of the spirit that had given the United States such a colorful and mystical background. He was the last representative of original American magic.

Just then, the telephone bleeped. Jack Hughes picked it up, and said: "Hughes."

Someone was speaking very excitedly on the other end. Jack Hughes frowned and nodded, and said: "When? Are you sure? Well, have you tried forcing it? What do you mean, you can't?"

Finally, he laid the receiver down.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked.

"I don't know. It's Karen. McEvoy says they can't get the door open. There's something going on in her room, and they can't get the door open."

We left the office and rushed down the corridor to the elevator. There were two nurses in there with a trolleyful of bottles and kidney bowls and we wasted precious seconds while they maneuvered it out of the way. We got in, pressed the button for ten, and sank downwards.

"What the hell do you think has happened?" I asked Jack tersely.

He shook his head. "Who knows?"

"I just hope to God that medicine man isn't able to use his powers already," I said. "If he can, we're totally sunk."

"I don't know," replied Jack Hughes. "Come on, we're here."

The elevator doors hissed open, and we ran swiftly down the corridor to Karen Tandy's room. Dr. McEvoy was standing outside with two male nurses and Selena, the radiologist.

"What's happened?" snapped Jack.

"She was left alone for less than a couple of seconds," explained Dr. McEvoy. "The nurses were changing over their duty. When Michael here tried to get back in, he couldn't open the door. And look."

We peered into Karen Tandy's room through the glass panel in the door. I was shocked to see that she was no longer lying in bed. The sheets and blankets were rumpled and pushed aside.

"There," whispered Jack. "In the corner."

I angled my head and saw Karen Tandy standing at the far corner of the room. Her face was horribly white, and her lips were drawn back over her teeth in a stretched and grotesque grin. She was leaning forward under the weight of the huge distended bulge on her back, and her long white hospital nightgown was torn away from her shoulders, revealing her shrunken breasts and prominent ribs.

"Good God," said Jack, "she's dancing."

He was right. She was hopping slowly from foot to foot, in the same slow silent waltz that Mrs. Herz had been dancing. It seemed as if she were skipping to a soundless drum, a noiseless flute.

"We have to break in there," ordered Jack. "She could kill herself, running about like that."

"Michael, Wolf," said Dr. McEvoy to the two male nurses. "Do you think you can get your shoulders to the door?"

"We'll try, sir," said Wolf, a burly young German with a dark crew cut. "I'm sorry about this, sir, I didn't realize."

"Just get the door down," said Jack.

The two nurses stood back a yard or two, and then rushed at the door together. It splintered and cracked, and the glass broke. A strange cold draught, like the draught that had blown during our seance in Mrs. Karmann's apartment, flowed icily from the jagged hole.

"Again," said Jack.

Michael and Wolf stepped back again, and smashed against the door once again. This time, they wrenched it right off its hinges, and it twisted open. Dr. Hughes stepped in and went straight up to Karen, where she was bobbing and hopping on the rug. The great swollen hunch on her back was wobbling and jiggling with every step. It looked so obscene I felt sick.

"Come on, Karen," said Jack Hughes soothingly. "Back into bed now."

Karen turned on one bare foot and stared at him. Again, they were not her eyes. They looked fierce and bloodshot and powerful.

Jack Hughes came toward her with his hands held out. She backed away from him slowly, with the same glare of hatred in her eyes. The hump on her back twisted and squirmed, like a sheep imprisoned in a sack.

"He — says — you — must — not — " she said haltingly in her own voice.

Dr. Hughes stopped. "He says I must not what, Karen?"

She licked her lips. "He — says — you — must — not — touch — him."

"But Karen," said Dr. Hughes. "If we don't look after you, he will not survive either. We are doing our best for both of you. We respect him. We want him to live."

She backed further away, knocking a tray of instruments on to the floor.

"He — does — not — believe — you."

"But why not, Karen? Haven't we done everything we can to help? We're not soldiers, or warriors. We are medicine men, like himself. We want to help him."

"He — is — in — pain."

"In pain? Why?"

"It hurts — him. He — is — hurt."

"Why is he hurt? What hurt him?"

"He — does — not — know. He — is — hurt. It was — the light."

"The light? What light?"

"He — will — kill — you — all —"

Karen suddenly started swaying. Then she screamed, and screamed, and dropped to her knees, clawing and clutching at her back. Michael and Wolf rushed up to her, and carried her swiftly back to bed. Jack Hughes fixed a hypodermic of tranquilizer, and shot it without hesitation into Karen's arm. Gradually, her cries diminished, and she sank into a nervous sleep, twitching and shaking and flickering her eyes.

"That settles it," said Dr. Hughes.

"Settles what, Jack?" I asked him.

"You and I are going straight to her parents and we're going to tell them exactly what's wrong. We're going to get that medicine man in from South Dakota and we're going to fight that beast until he's dead."

"No guilt?" I asked. "No sympathy?"