It took him a half-hour to locate the number he wanted. It was a Manhattan number, from an address on Tenth Avenue. He checked his watch. It was almost three o’clock in the morning in New York, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to wait any longer. He had to know now, before another day dawned, before the spirits gained even more time and even more strength.

The phone rang and rang for almost ten minutes. When there was no reply, he put down the receiver, dialed the number again, and let it ring some more.

Eventually, he heard the phone at the other end being picked up. A nasal, sleep-worn voice said, “Yes? Who the hell’s this?”

Neil coughed. “I’m sorry to wake you. I wouldn’t have called at all, but it’s desperately urgent.”

“What’s happening? Is the world coming to an imminent end?”

“Something almost as bad,” said Neil.

“Don’t tell me. They’re banning hot dogs because they give you bowlegs.”

“Mr. Erskine,” said Neil, and he felt himself unexpectedly close to tears, “I’m calling you because there’s nobody else.”

“Well,” answered the voice, “if it’s that critical, you’d better tell me what you want.”

“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Erskine. I’m calling because of Misquamacus.”

There was silence. To begin with, Neil wondered if Mr. Erskine had put the phone down. But he could still hear the singing noise of the transcontinental telephone cables. The silence lasted almost half a minute. Then Mr. Erskine queried softly, “Misquamacus? What about Misquamacus? Where did you ever hear about Misquamacus?”

“Mr. Erskine, I have met Misquamacus. Or a form that Misquamacus took. He came this evening, and it was only luck that I wasn’t killed.”

Again, there was silence.

“Are you there?” asked Neil.

“Sure I’m here,” said Mr. Erskine. “I’m just thinking, that’s all. I’m thinking that I’m hoping that you’re not telling me the truth, only I know that you are because nobody knows about Misquamacus except for the people who helped me get rid of him.”

“Then it’s true?” said Neil. “What Misquamacus said about you was actually true?”

“You say you’ve seen him,” Mr. Erskine retorted, “What do you think?”

Almost swamped with relief, Neil said, “It’s true. It must be true. My God, the whole damned thing is true.”

“That’s what makes it so frightening,” Mr. Erskine pointed out. “Did you say you saw him?”

“Only a form that he took. The form of a wooden man. And he’s been speaking through my son, Toby, who’s eight. He says that he’s coming back to take revenge on the white men. His spirit—his manitou—is going to take possession of Toby and get reborn.”