Free The manitou by Graham Masterton

medium,” I told her. “What I’d
like to do is hold a seance in your apartment, so that my friend can see if
there are any vibrations around.”
    “Vibrations? What kind of vibrations?”
    “Anything, Mrs. Karmann. Anything at all. We don’t know what to expect until we find it.”
    Mrs. Karmann
chewed this over for a few moments. Then she said: “Well, Mr. Erskine, I’m not
at all sure. It somehow doesn’t seem right to be doing something like that
while Karen’s so sick. I don’t know what her parents would say if they found
out”
    “Mrs. Karmann,”
I said. “If Karen’s parents knew you were trying everything within your power
to help their daughter, then I don’t see how they could possibly object. Please,
Mrs. Karmann.
    It’s that
important.”
    “Well, all
right, then, Mr. Erskine. What time do you want to come round?”
    “Give us an
hour. Thank you, Mrs. Karmann, you’re terrific.”
    Mrs. Karmann
sniffed. “I know that already, Mr. Erskine. I just hope you know what you’re
doing.” She wasn’t the only one.
    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dinner in a long red-printed kaftan, stayed quiet and withdrawn.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