“He’s nearly finished calling the old one,” said Singing Rock. “When all twenty-one of them recite the summoning together, then the waters will open and you will see Ka-tua-la-hu. Well, I hope you won’t. Neil, Harry, you’d better get in that pickup and burn it on out of here. We’re not going to stand much of a chance now.”

“John,” said Harry, “I’m not leaving you here.”

“You have to,” insisted Singing Rock. “You’re no damned use to me anyway.”

“John—I’m not going, and that’s final.”

Singing Rock looked at Harry for a moment, and then offered his hand. “All right,” he said, softly. “I appreciate your staying. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Out on the lake, a huge, cold fog was rising in the darkness, and the waters were gurgling and seething in horrible anticipation. The earth cracked beneath their feet, and the temperature dropped lower and lower with each passing minute. Around them, police and reporters ran around in confusion. Only on the bridge itself was there any calm at all, an eye in the storm, as Misquamacus began to make slow beckoning gestures toward the lake, summoning Ka-tua-la-hu, the terrible elder god.

“I guess this is almost our last chance,” said Singing Rock. “Misquamacus is really preoccupied now. It’s going to take all of his strength to raise up Ka-tua-la-hu without the help of Ossadagowah, and all the strength of his friends as well. I’m going out there again.”

He opened up his case and took out two war axes, each one decorated with scalps and feathers. Then he gave Harry one last look, and made his way back through the barricades toward the bridge.

Harry called: “Take care, will you?” But he wasn’t sure if Singing Rock had heard him.

Now, hundreds of feet above the churning surface of Lake Berryessa, the grayish fog rose in the dim and terrifying shape of the elder god. It was so dark that Ka-tua-la-hu’s writhing form was scarcely visible, but as he strained his eyes, Harry could see something that looked like a nest of wriggling, repulsive serpents; something that disturbingly reminded him of every nightmare he’d ever had. It was the raw essence of fear and repulsion; the loathsome horror that crawled on the fringes of the night. It was the ancient lingering memory that still makes men afraid of things that creep and things that slide, even though they have consciously forgotten why. It was Ka-tua-la-hu, the spawn of the Great Old One, the most hideous god of madness and fear.

All twenty-one medicine men on the bridge had now raised their arms in obeisance to the elder god, and were singing a low, warbling incantation. They stood in their oweaoo, their circle, and they drew the overwhelming fog cloud nearer.