Graham Masterton - The Manitou

"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.

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 had 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."