Graham Masterton - The Manitou

"But a book is a book, Singing Rock. This is a multimillion-dollar computer. It's powerful. It could even be dangerous."

Singing Rock sniffed the stench of the Great Old One that was already crowding the room. "Nothing could be more dangerous than what we are about to experience now," he said. "At least if we have to die, we will die a hero's death."

"A hero's death doesn't interest me."

Singing Rock laid his hand on mine. "You didn't think of that when you faced the Star Beast alone."

"No, but I'm thinking of it now. Twice in one night is too much for any man."

Singing Rock said: "What was all that noise outside? Was someone hurt?"

I reached for a cigarette from the pack on the desk. "I don't think so. It was a cameraman from CBS. He was walking about filming and he just collapsed. I guess he must've been epileptic or something."

Singing Rock frowned. "He was filming ?"

"That's right. I guess he was just taking shots of everybody in the whole place. He went over like someone had knocked him on the head. Don't ask me — I didn't see it."

Singing Rock thought for a moment. Then he walked quickly out of the office, and over to the CBS reporters. They were standing in an uneasy circle, five or six of them, smoking and trying to figure out what to do next.

Singing Rock said: "Your friend — is he all right?"

One of the reporters, a short stocky man in a plum-colored shirt and heavy glasses, said: "Sure. He's still with the doctors, but they say he's going to be okay. Say listen, do you know what the hell's going on here? Is this true, about evil spirits?"

Singing Rock ignored his questions. "Is your friend prone to fits?" he asked intently.

The TV reporter shook his head slowly. "Never saw him have one before. This is the first time, far as I know. He never said he was an epileptic or nothing like that."

Singing Rock looked grave. "Was anyone else looking through a camera at the same time?" he asked.

The TV reporter said: "No sir. We only have this one camera here. Say — do you know what that terrible smell is?"

Singing Rock said: "May I?" and lifted the portable television camera out of its case. It was dented where the falling cameraman had dropped it, but it was still working. One of the technicians, a dour man in blue denim, showed him how to heft it on to his shoulder, and how to look through the viewfinder.

The floor of the room began to tremble and pulsate, like someone shaking in fright, or a dog reaching a sexual climax. The lights dimmed again, and the sound of that gruesome wind grew steadily louder. There was a panicky babble from the twenty or thirty doctors and police and reporters crowded into the room, and Dr. Winsome, ashen-faced and sweating, finally had to leave his clamoring internal phones off the hook. We didn't dare to think what was happening in other wards and offices, and we couldn't get to them now if we did. Lieutenant Marino was still hanging on to the phone, waiting to hear from his reinforcements, but he had given up any semblance of optimism. He chain-smoked, and his face was set hard and grim.

As the floor spasm passed, Singing Rock pressed his eye to the black rubber socket of the television camera's viewfinder, switched it on, and slowly began to scan the room. He covered it in careful, systematic sweeps, exploring every corner and behind every door. The CBS crewmen watched uneasily as he circled the room, bent forward like a water diviner his thin body tense.

"What the hell's that guy up to?" said one of the technicians suspiciously.

"Ssh," said his colleague. "Maybe he's trying to find out where the smell comes from."

After a few minutes of careful searching, Singing Rock laid the camera down. He beckoned me across, and spoke to me in a low, hurried murmur, so that nobody else could hear.

"I think I know what happened," he muttered. "The demons which always accompany the Great Old One have passed through here. They are gone, now — probably down to the tenth floor to gather around Misquamacus. But I believe the cameraman saw them."

"He saw them? How?"

"You know the old story that Indians believed they should never be photographed, because cameras would steal their spirits from them. Well, in a manner of speaking that was correct. A camera lens, even though it can never steal a man's manitou, can perceive it. That is why there have been so many strange pictures in which ghosts — unseen when the picture was being taken — have mysteriously appeared when the picture is printed up."

I coughed. "You mean the cameraman saw these demons through the viewfinder? That's why he collapsed?"

"I think so," said Singing Rock. "We'd better go and talk to him, if he's still conscious. If he can tell us which demons he saw, we may be able to work out when the Great Old One is due to make his appearance."

We called Jack Hughes over and explained what was going on. He said nothing, but nodded in agreement when Singing Rock suggested speaking to the cameraman. He had a brief word with Dr. Winsome, and then he beckoned us through to the first-aid room.

It was silent in there. On a high hospital couch, the cameraman lay pallid and twitching while three doctors kept a close watch on his pulse rate and other vital signs. They greeted Jack Hughes as we came in, and stood aside to let us gather round the cameraman's bed.

"Don't be too rough with him," said one of the interns. "He's had a bad shock, and he's not up to much."

Singing Rock didn't answer. He leaned over the white-faced cameraman and whispered: "Can you hear me? Can you hear what I'm saying?"

The cameraman simply shuddered. Singing Rock said again: "Can you hear what I'm saying? Do you understand where you are?"

There was no response. The interns shrugged, and one of them said: "He's deeply unconscious, I'm afraid. Whatever it was that happened to him, his mind has kind of retreated and it isn't coming back out for anyone. It's quite common in severe shock cases. Give him time."

Under his breath, Singing Rock said: "We don't have time." He fished in his coat pocket for a necklace of strangely painted beads, and he gently laid them on the cameraman's head, like a halo. One of the interns tried to protest, but Jack Hughes waved him away.

With his eyes closed, Singing Rock began an incantation. I couldn't hear the words at all, and those which I could hear were in Sioux. At least I presumed it was Sioux. I'm not a linguist myself, and for all I know it could have been French.

The spell didn't seem to work at first. The cameraman remained pale and still, his fingers occasionally twitching and his lips moving soundlessly. But then Singing Rock drew a magic figure in the air over his head, and without any warning at all, the cameraman's eyes blinked open. They looked glassy and ill-focused, but they were actually open.

"Now," said Singing Rock gently. "What did you see, my friend, through your camera?"

The cameraman shuddered, and there were bubbles of saliva at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man dying from rabies, or in the terminal stages of syphilis. Something so terrible was imprinted on his mind that there was nothing he could do to exorcise it from his memory. He couldn't even die.

"It's — it's — " he stuttered.

"Come on, my friend," said Singing Rock. "I bid you to speak. It will not get thee. Gitche Manitou will protect thee."

The cameraman closed his eyes. I thought for a moment that he had dropped back into unconsciousness. But after a few seconds, he began to speak — very quickly and almost unintelligibly — in a wordy rush.

"It swam, it was swimming, it came swimming across the room and through the room at the same time and I caught a glimpse of just the edge of it like a sort of squid, like a squid, with waving arms, all waving, but it was big as well, I can't say how big it was, I was so frightened there was something inside my head like my whole brain was stolen. Only a glimpse, though, just a glimpse."