Revenge of the Wizard's Ghost

by John Bellairs

  The professor heaved a deep sigh. "I don't know, Byron. For the life of me, I don't. But look, let's get some wet rags and clean up this glop. We can discuss this matter later."

  As Fergie and the professor were wiping the table, the doorbell rang. The professor's heart leaped. Maybe it was Johnny. Maybe he had come back to apologize and explain that his behavior was all part of some insane practical joke. But when he went to open the door, the professor found Grampa Dixon standing there. He was a tall, gangly man in a gray work shirt, gray wash pants, and an unbuttoned tweed overcoat. A flat, paper-wrapped package was sticking out of one of the overcoat's pockets. A few wisps of white hair still clung to the old man's freckled head, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses. The flesh of his face was loose and wrinkly, but his eyes were bright and alert. At the present moment he looked very, very unhappy.

  "Hi, Rod," he said, smiling faintly. "Can . . . can I talk to you for a minute?"

  The professor gave Grampa a hard look. "Is it about Johnny?" he asked.

  Grampa was startled. "Yeah . . . how'd you guess?"

  The professor smiled sourly. "I have a crystal ball," he said sarcastically. "Sure, come on in. Byron and I are just cleaning up a . . . uh, an accident. It won't take us long to finish here. Why don't I pour a glass of port for you and me and some more hot cider for Byron? I suspect that we have a good deal to talk about."

  A few minutes later the three of them were in the professor's living room. Fergie was sitting in an armchair, and Grampa was on the sofa. The professor was standing in front of the fireplace with his arms folded, and he looked the way he did when he was conducting one of his classes at the local college. He had just finished telling Grampa about the strange way that Johnny had behaved this evening.

  ". . . and so," the professor went on, glancing nervously around the room, "I think we will all agree that there is something wrong with Johnny. But what is it? What strange disease could he possibly be suffering from?"

  "I dunno," said Grampa wearily, "but I found some-thin' in his room that really might help us figure the whole thing out. It's over there in my overcoat."

  Grampa's coat was draped across one of the living-room chairs. The professor walked over and slid the flat, brown-paper parcel from one of the frayed pockets. Moving to the coffee table, he knelt down and began to unwrap the package while the other two watched. Inside were a cracked glass photographic plate and a gold coin. The photograph showed an unpleasant young man with long, stringy blond hair. There were creases and lines on the man's face, and his mouth was drawn down into a sullen scowl. His eyes were hard and cold, and an ugly scar ran across the bridge of his nose and partway down one cheek. The man was wearing an old-fashioned high white collar with a wide black silk tie that was done up in a bow. As for the coin, it was rather plain and homely. On one side the initials JSO were stamped, and the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ran around the rim. On the other side was the phrase 5 DOLLS inside a border of little stars.

  The professor glanced up at Grampa. "Henry, where on earth did you get these things?"

  The old man looked sheepish. "I found 'em in the top drawer o' Johnny's dresser. I know I shouldn't've been pokin' around in there, but I was lookin' for my jack-knife an' I wondered if he had borrowed it. Where the heck d'ye think he got this stuff?"

  The professor frowned. "Where indeed? As for the picture, I would say that it was taken around the time of the Civil War, or maybe a little bit earlier. And the coin . . . well, Byron, you collect coins. Did you ever see one like this?"

  Fergie picked up the coin and turned it over. He held it up to the light and squinted at it. "Gee . . . I dunno, professor," he said at last. "I'm not rich enough to have any gold coins in my collection, but maybe . . . Heck, this looks like it might be one o' those gold coins that they minted out in California durin' the Gold Rush. A lota businessmen had their own coin-makin' machines, an'—"

  "Oh, my good Lord!" exclaimed the professor, cutting him off. A look of amazement and horror spread across his face. "You don't suppose—"

  The phone rang.

  In panicky haste the professor scrambled to his feet, tripped over a stool, and stumbled over to the phone table in the corner. He picked up the receiver and found that he was listening to Gramma Dixon. She was talking a mile a minute and it was obvious that she was scared half out of her mind.

  "Madam, madam, please try to calm down!" said the professor irritably. "I can hardly make out a word that you're saying!"

  "Calm down!" exclaimed Gramma indignantly. "You come over here an' see what's happened to Johnny an' then see if you can calm down! Just you see if you can!" She began to cry.

  The professor's face turned pale. "We'll be over right away," he said in a low voice. He hung up and turned to face the other two, who were sitting with their mouths open, staring at him.

  A short while later, the professor, Gramma, Grampa, and Fergie were all up in Johnny's bedroom. The reading lamp on the bureau was on and it cast a pale glow over Johnny, who lay still on the bed. He was wearing all his clothes, even his shoes; his eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily. His face had turned a coppery yellow, and around his neck was an angry red welt, like the mark of a rope. His mouth was curled down into an ugly sneer, and across the bridge of his nose ran a scar mark that had never been there before. Johnny's whole face was strangely distorted, and if he had not been wearing his glasses and his usual clothes, the four people in the room might not have known who he was.

  For a long time nobody spoke. Gramma held her apron to her face and sobbed softly, but that was the only sound in the room. Finally the professor spoke.

  "How . . . how long has he been like this?" he asked in a tight, strained voice.

  Gramma lowered the apron, showing her red eyes and tear-stained face. "I . . . I heard him come in a while ago," she said, sniffing, "an' he went straight up to his room an' slammed the door. I come upstairs a little bit after that, an' I was gonna knock on his door t'see if he was okay, only all of a sudden I heard this voice inside his room. 'Twasn't his voice, it was somebody else's. So I got scared becuz I figgered a robber had got in, an' I was gonna go call the police, but then I said to myself, 'Heck, it's jist the radio,' so I went back an' knocked, an' Johnny didn't answer, so I opened the door, an' . . ." Gramma broke down and started crying again. She just couldn't go on.

  "Oh, my gosh," wailed Grampa as he shook his head slowly. "What're we gonna do? What in the name of God can we do? Can you think of anyone who can help us? Should I call the doctor?"

  The professor laid his hand on Grampa's arm. "No. Don't call the doctor . . . not just yet, anyway. There's somebody we ought to contact first: my old friend Father Higgins."

  Grampa closed his eyes and put his hands to his face. To him, calling a priest meant only one thing: the Last Rites, the special ceremony that a Catholic priest performs for people who are dying. "Is . . . is it as bad as all that?" he said through his fingers.

  "No, no, no!" snapped the professor. "I didn't mean what you think I meant. No—there's another reason why I need to speak to Father Higgins."

  Grampa looked puzzled. Then he said, "Is there anything we can do? Right now, I mean, for Johnny?"

  The professor bit his lip. "Yes. Yes, there is: Go find a crucifix. You are devout Catholics—you must have one in the house. Find one and put it in Johnny's room." He turned to Fergie. "And as for you, Byron," he went on, "I think you had better head for home. There's nothing more you can do here, for the time being, and your mom will have a fit if you're out too late. If your folks ask about Johnny, tell them he's sick."

  Fergie turned to the professor and glared at him. "Look, prof," he said bitterly, "I'm Johnny's best friend, so if you don't mind, would you please tell me what the heck is wrong with him?"

  The professor's eyes met Fergie's. "Have you ever heard of possession by the devil, Byron?" he asked grimly. "And do you remember the ghost of Warren Windrow? You're a bright boy; you can put two and two together.
Now please go home, go home and pray. I'll call you later."

  Fergie went home, and the professor went downstairs to call Father Higgins. They talked for a long time, and the priest said that he'd be over as soon as he could possibly get there. When the professor stepped into the hall, he found Grampa waiting for him.

  "What did he say?" he asked breathlessly. "Is he gonna help us?"

  The professor sighed. "He says he's going to try. Henry, you heard the hints that I dropped to Fergie, so you may as well know what I think, if you haven't guessed already. The evil spirit of Warren Windrow has come back, and it has taken possession of Johnny's body. That photograph is almost certainly a photograph of him—I read in my granduncle Lucius's diary that Warren Windrow had a scar on his nose and a sneering mouth. And that coin from the Gold Rush days in California a hundred years ago—don't you see, it all fits! I know it sounds bizarre and unlikely, but it's the best explanation for what has been happening. So I've called in Father Higgins, and he is going to try to cast the evil spirit out. He says he's never done anything like this before, but he told me he'd try, and that is all that I can ask." The professor's eyes filled with tears, and his voice began to crack. "I hope it works," he added, shaking his head. "God, how I hope it works!"

  CHAPTER THREE

  Later that same night a small group of worried, frightened people gathered in Johnny's bedroom. Near the head of the bed stood Gramma, Grampa, and the professor. At the foot of the bed was Father Higgins. He was a tall man in a black suit with a stiff white clerical collar; around his shoulders was draped a narrow band of purple silk with black crosses stitched on it. In his hands the priest held a small black book, and as he made the Sign of the Cross in the air above the bed, he said; "Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini." The Latin words meant, Our help is in the name of the Lord. The professor gave the correct reply: "Qui fecit coelum et ten am"—Who made the heaven and the earth.

  On and on ran the Latin phrases. Sometimes the priest would stop and pick up a silver holy-water container that lay on a table nearby, and he would sprinkle the bed and then go on reading. Johnny lay perfectly still. He was now wearing his best pair of flannel pajamas, and he was tucked in between the clean sheets, his hands folded on the blanket. His face still had that ugly distorted look, and the livid red lines on his neck and nose had not gone away. Father Higgins continued to read. Finally the priest closed the book and laid it down. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small silver cross that hung from a chain of tiny silver links. At the place where the arms of the cross met was a tiny crystal bubble, and under it were two splinters from the True Cross, the cross Jesus died on. Father Higgins stepped around the end of the bed and moved toward Johnny, holding the cross and chain in both hands. But just as he bent to put the chain around Johnny's neck, something happened.

  Johnny's eyes flew open. They bulged from his head and his face turned red. He made choking noises in his throat and the red line around his neck turned to a ghastly purple. Suddenly a harsh, grating voice was heard—it seemed to come out of the air over Johnny's bed, and it said, "Move back. I will choke the life out of him if you bring that thing near. In the name of Azoth, aroint ye! Begone!"

  Horrified, the priest stepped back. Hastily he stuffed the cross and chain into his pocket, and he crossed himself rapidly while muttering a prayer.

  "I'm sorry, my friends," he said with a helpless shrug. "There's nothing more I can do. There are forces here that are just too strong for me."

  Gramma and Grampa hung their heads. The professor swore helplessly and clenched and unclenched his fists. The red faded from Johnny's cheeks, and his eyes closed, and the choking noises stopped. He looked just the way he had looked before the exorcism began.

  Gramma spoke in a husky, choked-up voice. "Do . . . do you think he'll . . . die, father?"

  The priest shook his head. "I don't know, Kate. I just don't know. I think that—for the time being—we better get him down to the hospital. They'll put a tube in his arm and feed him intravenously, and that'll keep him alive—unless the evil spirit has other ideas."

  A low chuckle was heard in the room, and everyone shivered.

  An ambulance took Johnny to Hannah Duston Hospital, and a feeding tube was put in his arm. He was examined by doctors and nurses, who drew blood and took his temperature and listened to his heart. Everyone was shocked by his appearance, but no one could come up with any good reason why he looked that way. Nobody tried to tell the people at the hospital that Johnny was possessed by an evil spirit—the doctors would have laughed at an explanation like that. At last they decided that he was suffering from "an unknown illness of the brain," which meant that they really didn't know what was wrong with him. Days passed, and Johnny's condition stayed the same. The professor came to the hospital to visit, and so did Gramma and Grampa and Fergie and Father Higgins. Much of the time the professor felt helpless, and he hated to feel that way, so he took several trips up to Durham, New Hampshire, to visit Professor Charles Coote, an old friend of his. Professor Coote was an expert on magic, and he had read many books on demons and ghosts. Professor Childermass hoped that he would get some sort of help from his old friend—at least he would feel as if he were trying.

  One night, about a week after Johnny had been taken to the hospital, Professor Childermass was driving back from Durham. He had had another long conversation with his old pal, and they had come up with some ideas that Professor Coote thought might be helpful in their battle against the evil spirit that had taken possession of Johnny's body. Professor Childermass had his doubts. He was becoming very depressed about the whole business, and as he sped along Route 125, his mind was full of gloomy and hate-filled thoughts. By the time he reached Duston Heights, he was feeling extremely cranky, and he knew that if he went straight home he would end up throwing dishes around and cursing at the top of his voice. So he decided to see how Johnny was getting along. Visiting hours at the hospital were over, but he could at least ask how the poor kid was doing.

  When Professor Childermass walked into the front lobby of the hospital, he knew immediately that something strange was going on. Nurses and interns were standing around in little groups, talking excitedly. A doctor was standing near the reception desk, and he was trying to answer some questions that a short man in a trench coat was firing at him. The professor recognized the short man—it was Eddie Gumpert from the local newspaper. Puzzled, the professor walked to the reception desk, where a frightened-looking young nurse was sitting.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," said the professor crisply, "but I wonder if you could tell me anything about the condition of Johnny Dixon. He's in room—"

  The nurse's eyes grew wide. "Johnny Dixon?" she said in a voice that was almost a shriek. "Oh. Oh, my. Well, it's odd that you should mention him, because . . . well, you see these people, well, they're all talking about Johnny, because . . . because . . ."

  At this point the professor felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a rumbly voice said, "Hi, prof! How's it goin'?" It was Doc Schermerhorn, the Dixons' family physician. He was a fat, shambly man who used bad grammar and told lousy jokes. The professor did not like Doc Schermerhorn—in fact, he could hardly stand to be in the same room with him. But now, as he turned toward the man, the professor tried hard to act polite. Doc Schermerhorn had been taking care of Johnny and he might possibly have some information.

  "Hello, Carl," said the professor with a forced smile. "Nice to see you. Look, can you tell me anything about Johnny? This place seems to be in a state of total chaos!"

  Doc Schermerhorn grinned and winked knowingly. "Heck, prof," he said cheerily, "you come along at just the right time. Johnny's all right!"

  The professor's jaw dropped. "He's ... all right? You mean . . ."

  Doc Schermerhorn nodded. "He's fit as a fiddle! It happened all of a sudden, coupla hours ago. Nobody knows why he got better, but then nobody knows why he got sick, either. It's weird."

  The professor was still stunned. A hu
ndred ideas came whirling into his head, but none of them made any sense. "Well, then, can I . . . can I go up and see him?" he asked.

  Doc Schermerhorn shrugged. "Don't see why not. C'mon, I'll take you up t'see him. An' I wantcha to see somethin' else too. Y'see, Johnny . . . well, he kinda wrecked his room when he got better. They got him in another room now, but I wantcha to see the room he was in. There's somethin' on the wall—darnedest thing. He must've done it, only they can't figger out how. Can't even find the crayon he did it with. I'll show ya—see what you make of it."

  Doc Schermerhorn led the professor to an elevator. They went up to the second floor and walked down a whitewashed corridor. Outside one door they halted, and Doc Schermerhorn knocked. No one answered, so the doctor pushed the door open and let the professor go in first. The room was certainly a mess: The bedside table had been tipped over, and a heap of broken glass lay on the floor. The curtains were pulled down, and there were long rips in a white cloth screen that stood near the bed. The pictures on the walls had been knocked crooked, and big holes had been punched in them. But one thing in the room drew the professor's attention immediately. On the white wall near the bed that Johnny had been in, huge words had been scrawled. The writing covered the whole wall, and ended with a flourish that ran halfway across the ceiling. At first the professor could not figure out what the enormous, scraggly words said, but after a little staring, he understood: They said, I GIVE HIM BACK TO YOU.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Johnny had been saved. He had to stay in the hospital a few days longer while the doctors checked him over, but after that he went home. He seemed to be in great shape. His eyes were clear, and the awful red marks were gone from his neck and nose. His heart was beating at the proper speed, and his temperature was normal. There was great rejoicing on Fillmore Street when Johnny arrived. The Dixons' parlor was full of bouquets of flowers that had been sent by his high school teachers, and there were get well cards from everybody who knew him. Father Higgins stopped by to see how he was, and so did Professor Coote, who had driven all the way from New Hampshire to see his favorite bookworm. And the professor threw a big welcome-home party for Johnny, with punch and Halloween candies and a big cake with orange-and-black icing. For the moment everything seemed fine, and Johnny's only problem was people who kept asking him questions like "Are you sure you really feel all right?"