Graham Masterton - The Manitou

I looked at my watch. It was midnight. A good time for ghosts and spirits and a good time to be getting to bed. Tomorrow, I was definitely going to take a look at what Karen Tandy had scribbled down in her envelope.

The next morning, Saturday, an orange sun showed up at around half-past ten and the snowy streets started to turn into heaps of brown slush. It was still freezing cold, and my Cougar stalled twice on the way to the Sisters of Jerusalem Hospital. Passers-by went splashing along the filthy sidewalks in coats and mufflers, faceless black figures out of a winter's dream.

I parked right outside the hospital and went into the reception hall. It was warm and ritzy in there, with thick carpets and potted palms, and the murmur of conversation. It seemed more like a holiday resort than a home for the sick. I was greeted at the counter by a smart young lady with a white starched uniform and white starched teeth.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I believe you can. There was supposed to be an envelope left here for me this morning. My name's Erskine, Harry Erskine."

"Just a moment, please."

She sorted through a pile of letters and postcards, and eventually came back with a small white envelope.

"The Incredible Erskine?" she read, with one eyebrow lifted.

I coughed in embarrassment. "Just a nickname. You know how it is."

"Do you have some identification, sir?"

I shuffled through my pockets. My driver's license was at home, and so were my credit cards. Eventually I came across one of my calling cards, and showed it to her. Written across it was: "The Incredible Erskine. Fortunes told, forecasts interpreted, dreams delved."

"I guess you must be him all right," she smiled, and handed over the letter.

I waited until I reached my flat before I examined the envelope. I laid it on the table and inspected it closely. Just the sort of handwriting you would expect from a cultivated girl like Karen Tandy — firm, sweeping and bold. I particularly liked the way she'd written Incredible. I found a pair of nail scissors in the table drawer and cut along the top of the envelope. Inside were three or four sheets of lined paper, that looked as though they'd been torn from a secretary's notepad. There was a short letter with them, in Karen Tandy's script:

"Dear Mr. Erskine,

I had the dream again last night, much more vivid than before. I have tried to remember every detail, and two things were very striking. The coastline had a particular shape which I have sketched down here. I have also sketched the sailing ship, and as much of its flag as I can remember.

The feeling of fear was also very much stronger, and the sense of needing to escape was extremely powerful.

As soon as I have recovered from the operation, I will call you to see what you think.

Your friend, Karen Tandy."

I opened up the scraps of note paper and peered at them closely. The improvised map of the coastline was distinctly unhelpful. It was little more than a squiggly line that could have been anywhere in the world. But the drawing of the ship was more interesting. It was quite detailed, and the flag was good, too. There were bound to be books on sailing ships in the library and books of flags, as well, so there was a chance that I could discover which ship this actually was.

If it was a real ship at all, and wasn't just a figment of Karen Tandy's tumor-ridden imagination.

I sat there for quite a while, pondering over the strange case of "my friend, Karen Tandy." I was eager to go and check on the ship, but it was nearly half-past eleven, and Mrs. Herz was due — another dear old lady with more money than sense. Mrs. Herz's special interest was in knowing whether she was going to have any trouble with her hundreds of relations, all of whom were mentioned in her will. After every session with me, she went to her lawyer and altered everyone's legacy. Her lawyer made so much money out of these codicils and amendments that last Christmas he had sent me a crate of Black Label Johnnie Walker. After all, he and I were in much the same kind of business.

At eleven-thirty sharp there was a ring at the door. I hung up my jacket in the closet, took down my long green robe, stuck my hat on top of my head, and prepared to receive Mrs. Herz in my usual mystical manner.

"Come in, Mrs. Herz. It's a fine morning for everything occult."

Mrs. Herz must have been all of seventy-five. She was pallid and wrinkled with hands like chicken's claws, and spectacles that magnified her eyes like oysters swimming in goldfish bowls. She came trembling in on her stick, smelling of mothballs and lavender, and she sat herself down in my armchair with a frail, reedy sigh.

"How are you, Mrs. Herz?" I asked her cheerily, rubbing my hands. "How are the dreams?"

She said nothing at all, so I simply shrugged and went to collect the Tarot cards together. As I shuffled them, I tried to find the blank card that I had turned up last night, but there didn't seem to be any sign of it. I could have been mistaken of course, or overtired, but I wasn't entirely convinced of that. In spite of my job, I'm not given to mystical experiences. I laid the cards out on the table, and invited Mrs. Herz to think of a question she would like to ask them.

"It's a long time since we checked up on your nephew Stanley," I reminded her. "How about a peek at the comings and goings of that little household? Or how about your stepsister Agnes?"

She didn't answer. She didn't even look at me. She seemed to be staring over into a corner of the room, lost in a dream of her own.

"Mrs. Herz?" I said, standing up. "Mrs. Herz, I've laid the cards out for you."

I went over and bent down to look in her face. She seemed all right. She was breathing, at least. The last thing I wanted was an old lady giving up the ghost when I was in the middle of telling her fortune. The publicity would be ruinous. Or then again, maybe it wouldn't.

I took her old, reptilian hands in mine and said gently: "Mrs. Herz? Are you feeling all right? Can I get you a glass of brandy?"

Her eyes floated eerily around in her Coke-bottle glasses. She seemed to be looking in my direction, but at the same time she didn't focus on me at all. It was almost as though she were looking through me, or behind me. I couldn't help turning around to see if there was somebody else in the room.

"Mrs. Herz," I said again. "Do you want one of your pills, Mrs. Herz? Can you hear me, Mrs. Herz?"

A thin, sibilant whisper dribbled out from between her withered lips. I had the feeling she was trying to say something, but I couldn't work it out at all. The oil lamp started flickering and guttering, and it was hard to make out whether the moving shadows across her face were strange expressions or not.

"Booooo…" she said faintly.

"Mrs. Herz," I snapped. "If this is some kind of game, you'd better stop. You've got me worried here. Mrs. Herz, if you don't get yourself together at once I'm going to call an ambulance. Do you understand me, Mrs. Herz?"

"Boooo…" she whispered again. Her hands started shaking, and her large emerald ring vibrated against the arm of the chair. Her eyes were rolling around, and her jaw seemed to be stuck wide open. I could see her pale slimy tongue, and her $4,000 bridgework.

"Okay," I said. "That's it. I'm calling an ambulance, Mrs. Herz. Look, here I am going to the telephone. I'm dialing the number, Mrs. Herz. It's ringing."

Suddenly the old lady stood up. She grabbed for her stick, missed it, and it clattered on to the floor. She stood swaying and shuffling on the carpet, as though she were dancing in time to some song that I couldn't hear. The operator said: "Yes, can I help you?" but I put the phone down and went across to my hopping, waltzing old client.