Revenge of the Wizard's Ghost

by John Bellairs

  "Help! Fergie! Come here!"

  Fergie's eyes grew wide. It was the professor's voice, calling from inside the temple. With a wild yell Fergie dashed forward. He leaped the short flight of steps in one bound and threw his weight against the half-open door. Groaning loudly, it moved inward, and Fergie plunged into the darkness. Then he stopped.

  "Professor!" he called. "Hey, prof, where are you? Are you okay?"

  No answer. Then, suddenly, all around him, Fergie heard the hum and rustle of insects. They were buzzing furiously and brushing their wings over his face. Frantically, Fergie began to wave his arms, but the insects were all over his body, and then—suddenly— they were gone.

  Fergie was panting now, and sweat was pouring down his face.

  "Professor?" he said in a weak, throaty voice. "Are you . . . ?"

  Fergie's voice died. Something had stepped out of the darkness in the center of the room. It was short and stooped, and it wore a robe with a hood, and it looked like the statue on the outside of the temple. Tentacles reached out from the long sleeves, and they whipped around Fergie's arms, gripping them tightly. He was being dragged forward, and the sagging hood opened wide. Fergie's head was thrust into the darkness inside the hood, and something like a large, slimy suction cup was plastered over his face. He couldn't see, he couldn't scream, and his breath was cut off. Frantically he thrashed and kicked, but his struggles soon grew weaker, and as he started to lose consciousness, a voice in his brain kept saying, You're gonna die, you're gonna die, this is what it feels like, you're gonna die. . . .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Fergie woke up, he was lying on the grass outside the little grove of trees. The professor was kneeling over him and sponging his face with a wet handkerchief.

  "Wha . . . wha . . . how . . ." mumbled Fergie as he struggled to sit up. "Where'd you . . . I mean . . ."

  "Good evening," said the professor dryly. "So you have decided to stay alive. Good! Would you mind telling me what you were doing near that filthy, accursed temple? You were supposed to wait for me by the church."

  Fergie was fully awake now, and he was getting angry. "Me!" he exclaimed. "I was s'posed to wait for you! I came runnin' over here because I heard you yellin' for me! And I don't mind tellin' you, I wondered what you were doin' here, instead of bein' out at the car gettin' your wonderful, stupendous, precious flashlight."

  "I did go out to get the flashlight," said the professor quietly. "But when I tried to get back in through the gatehouse, the door was locked. I hammered and kicked at it, but I couldn't get in. So I had to start the car and bring it over and park it next to the wall, so I could use it to climb up. I made it over the wall, but by the time I got back to the church, you were gone." The professor sighed. "You know, my friend," he went on, "it was a very lucky thing for you that I found the holy water bottle lying on the bench. And it was also very lucky that I came over here to search for you. I thought that you might have come here to bury that dead dog. Well, when I arrived at the temple and saw that the door was open, I became very worried, and then I heard a sound of scuffling that seemed to be coming from inside. I rushed into the temple with the holy water bottle in my hand, and I saw you struggling with that evil hooded thing. I was scared out of my mind, but I had the holy water, and that did the trick. A few drops and our hooded friend shriveled up and vanished."

  Fergie clutched himself and shuddered convulsively. Then he wiped his arm across his face. "What was it, professor?" he asked. "What was that thing with the tentacles?"

  The professor glanced at the handkerchief that he had been using to wipe Fergie's face. It had a bad smell, so he flung it away. "It was a familiar," he said. "Old Zebulon Windrow was a wizard, and he had the power to conjure up familiar spirits, demons from the hellish pit. Sometimes these familiars take the shapes of cats or other small animals, and sometimes they take the shapes of monsters. That thing that attacked you was like somebody's bad dream, but it had the power to kill."

  Fergie thought a bit. Then he shook his head and smiled ruefully. "I promise you one thing, prof," he said. "I won't ever kid you about your holy water again. I thought I was gonna end up like . . . like . . ." He shuddered again.

  "Like the dog?" said the professor grimly. "You might have. That was certainly what somebody wanted. It was no accident that the gatehouse door was locked. Some evil intelligence is at work here, and it wanted to split us up. Are you ready to go back to the church with me?"

  Fergie nodded emphatically. "I sure am! What d'we do next?"

  The professor grinned and helped Fergie to his feet. They walked back slowly, and soon they were standing by the stone porch on the south side of the church. Moonlight shone down on the bench where Fergie had been sitting not so long ago. And next to the bench was the leather valise with their tools in it.

  The professor handed the searchlight to Fergie. Picking up the tool bag, he clicked on his own flashlight and shone the beam into the shadows under the porch. "If infernal powers have not sealed up this door," he said, "we will go have ourselves a look inside Zeb's church. Are you coming?"

  Fergie nodded. In silence they stepped in under the elaborately carved arch. Holding his breath, the professor twisted the iron ring, and the door opened. Into the church they went, and once again the cavernous dark space opened around them. Fergie could see the vague shapes of arches, and a glimmer of moonlight in one of the far-distant windows.

  "Impressive, eh?" whispered the professor. "I wish we had time to just wander around, but I'm afraid we have to stick to our business. Would you lend me your searchlight? It's a lot stronger than my little flashlight, and I need it to peer at the nooks and crannies high up on the wall. Byron, why are you glaring at me that way?"

  Fergie was furious. He had almost gotten killed when the professor went back to get his precious flashlight, and now he was saying that he couldn't use it! But Fergie swallowed his anger. He gave the professor the big red lamp, and took the small flashlight from him. They padded slowly down the aisle, and the long beam of the searchlight crept along the wall. Up, down, it moved, and it poked into the dark hollows under arches. As he went, the professor began to whistle softly. It was a weird sound to hear, in this empty church, at night. Fergie said nothing. He moved the beam of his flashlight over the pavement, hoping that he would find the lily-covered shield before the professor did. But he didn't find anything, and neither did the professor.

  Suddenly, with a loud, crabby exclamation, the professor stopped. "Of course! How could I have been so dense! Ensign French is the BOSS! Of course! What an idiot I have been!"

  Fergie did not have the faintest idea of what the professor was talking about. It sounded like he had figured out something, but it was hard to tell what. "Huh?" he said. "What's up?"

  The professor cackled. "Well you may ask what's up! Have a look for yourself!"

  As Fergie watched, the beam of the searchlight climbed the stone wall and moved out across the ceiling overhead. It was a curved, arched stone ceiling, and directly above the place where they were standing was a stone disk with four raised ribs running away from it, like this:

  "You see that disk up there?" said the professor. "Well, it's called a boss. In Gothic churches, those bosses are often carved into fantastic, grotesque shapes. And sometimes they have shields on them. And that, my fine friend, is what we've got to look for! Follow me!"

  The professor took the binoculars out of the tool bag and hung the strap around his neck. Then he started to move slowly along, whistling softly. Fergie followed the professor, who was now playing the searchlight beam straight up over the ribbed ceiling. They walked down the side aisle of the church and then turned right and moved along the nave, which is the main body of a church. Fergie got to see lots of bosses, and they all seemed to have decorations; but the bosses were so far away that it was hard to tell what the decorations were supposed to be. Every so often the professor would stop and ask Fergie to hold the light steady. Then, with the aid of the
binoculars, he would peer and squint a bit, grumble, and move on. As they crept along, Fergie found that he was getting more and more nervous. This vast, dark old building was really giving him the creeps—even more than it had the first time he was in it. He kept imagining that he heard tiny sounds, like footsteps or muffled coughing. But each time he stopped and strained to listen, he heard nothing.

  "Professor, I hope we can find what we came for an' get outa this place!" he muttered. "I'm gonna get the screamin' woo-hoos, but good, if we stay here much longer!"

  "I'm not feeling terribly calm myself," muttered the professor as he maneuvered the light beam along the ceiling. "It may be just nerves, but I have this funny idea that there is somebody here in the church with us. Somebody who hates us. On the other hand, I'll be darned if I'll be scared away by anybody or anything until—Aha! By the holy and invisible powers, I think we've found it!"

  Fergie looked up. Far above, on the ceiling, was what appeared to be a stone disk with a painted shield on it. The beam of the searchlight hovered over the shield, and Fergie could see little silver blobs on a background of midnight blue. Excitedly, the professor lifted the binoculars and peered up.

  "Hooray!" he whooped. "They are lilies! Hooray for the lilies of France Ancient! We've found it, we've found it!"

  As Fergie watched in amazement, the professor danced a little jig on the church floor. But in the middle of his dancing, he stopped. Angrily, he snapped off the searchlight and cursed loudly.

  "Blast! Wouldn't you know it! There's always something that can go wrong!"

  Fergie didn't know what to say. "Huh? I . . . I thought everything was okay. Isn't it?"

  "Oh, sure! Everything's just ginger-peachy!" growled the professor sarcastically. Everything's fine, except for one little bitsy detail: We're down here, and the shield is up there! How in the devil are we going to get up to it?"

  Fergie's heart sank. He glanced up again. He understood in an instant what the professor meant. The ceiling over their heads was very high, too high to be reached even with a stepladder. If the professor was right, the Urim and the Thummim were under the shield. But at this distance they couldn't do any poking or prying—they could only stare.

  Fergie set down his tool bag. He felt like crying, but he fought back the tears. There had to be some way! While the professor stood fuming and swearing in the darkness, Fergie moved the beam of the small flashlight around . . . and then his heart leaped. Not far away, a scaffold had been set up. It was made of crisscrossing steel pipes, and boards had been laid across the top to make a level platform. The scaffold was a tall one—it reached almost all the way up to the ceiling. Unfortunately, it wasn't right under the stone disk—but it just might be close enough!

  "Hey, professor!" Fergie exclaimed, tugging at his sleeve fiercely. "Look! It's absolutely perfect. Look at what I found!"

  "What is it now?" asked the professor wearily. He was still sunk in despair.

  "It's a . . . whatchamacallit!" said Fergie excitedly. "I mean, it's . . . a scaffold-type thing, the kind painters use . . . you know! C'mon! Look at it!"

  The professor turned his head and looked. And then he brightened up immediately. "Oh, my!" he exclaimed delightedly. "I see what you mean! Yes, I certainly do! Byron, you are a genius, an absolute genius! Bring the tool bag—we're going up!"

  A steel ladder was bolted to the side of the scaffold. Once again the two of them switched lights—this was done so that the professor would have both hands free to climb. Fergie hooked the handle of the searchlight into his belt, and with the tool bag in one hand he started up. When he got near the top, he threw the bag onto the platform and pulled himself up after it. Fergie heaved a deep sigh of relief—he had made it! But then he realized that he had not heard the professor climbing behind him. Where was the old man, anyway?

  "Hey, professor!" Fergie called. "Come on up! Are you okay?"

  A voice answered out of the darkness below. "I'm all right, but I'm afraid my poor old flashlight has had it! I was looking around for a mop handle or something to poke at the disk with, and I dropped the stupid gizmo, and now the switch won't work! Shine your light on the ladder, and I'll be up in five sec—"

  From deep below the church came a long, ominous, rumbling noise. The floor shook, and the scaffold creaked and swayed.

  "Good lord, it's an earthquake!" exclaimed the professor in a shocked voice. "We've got to get out of here! The whole bloody building is going to come down on our heads!"

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For ten terrifying seconds Fergie and the professor waited. Then the shaking stopped and the noise died away to a distant grumbling.

  "My stars!" gasped the professor. "What was that?"

  "You got me!" said Fergie. He leaned out over the edge of the scaffold and pointed the beam of the searchlight down onto the ladder. "I dunno what that was, but you better climb on up here so we can get what we came after an' then clear out! C'mon, professor! Hurry!"

  For a second more the professor hesitated. Was it right for him to risk his life and Fergie's in a building that might come down on their heads at any minute? But they were so close to the end of their search, so very, very close . . .

  "Hang on, Byron!" the professor called. "I'll be up in a jiffy!"

  A few minutes later the professor was squatting on the end of the scaffold with Fergie. In his hands he clutched a broom, and as Fergie held the searchlight steady, he began to prod at the shield with the handle. Now that they could see it up close, Fergie and the professor realized that the shield was not painted on the stone. It was a piece of metal held in place by bolts. As the professor prodded, the shield made a tinny whanging sound.

  "What're you tryin' to do?" asked Fergie.

  "I'm . . . trying to loosen the piece of tin . . . if I can!" muttered the professor, and he lunged again with the broomstick. "It would help if the scaffold were closer to our target, but it isn't!" After a few more blows, the professor paused and squinted at the shield.

  "Drat!" he growled. "We haven't done a thing to it, except dent it a little!" The professor paused. The corner of his mouth was twitching, and he seemed to be thinking. "Byron!" he snapped suddenly. "Is there a screwdriver in that tool bag of ours?"

  Fergie unzipped the bag and fumbled around inside with his hand. "Yeah . . . here it is!" he said at last, holding up a long screwdriver with a chipped red wooden handle.

  "Thank you!" said the professor. "That will do nicely! Hang on to it a minute, will you?"

  As Fergie waited, the professor laid the broom down on the scaffold. He took off one of his sneakers and pulled the shoelace out of it. After showing Fergie where to point the light, he took the screwdriver from him and began to bind it to the broom handle.

  "Good . . . and tight!" grunted the professor as he worked. "I learned to wrap and frap in the army, many years ago, and I still know how, it seems!" Finally he stopped and held the broomstick up. The screwdriver was bound tightly to the end, like the point on some caveman's spear. "All righty now!" said the professor, as he grasped the broom handle in both hands. "If you will point the beam up there, so, Byron . . . ah! Perfect! Now let's see what we can do!"

  There was a thin black line between the edge of the shield and the stone. Was it a space that could be widened? The professor meant to find out! Carefully, he slid the tip of the screwdriver into the dark crack and began to pry. Squeeeek. The gap widened, and a metal bolt fell out. They heard it hit the floor below with a tiny ping. But the strain of prying had knocked the screwdriver askew, and the professor had to haul it back, lay it on the boards, and refasten it. He fussed and fumed as he retied the shoelace. . . . Ah! It was tight again! With a triumphant growl, the professor raised the stick and went to work on the shield. The shadowy gap was wider. In went the point and the shank of the screwdriver, all the way up to the handle. The professor pried outward with the broom handle, and they heard a quick sliding noise. Something had been sitting on the under side of the shield, and now it
zipped out, and with a tock! it hit on the pavement stones below.

  "Hah!" exclaimed the professor as he glanced down into the darkness. "We've got the prize in the cereal box, whatever on earth it may be! Point your light down there, Byron, and . . . no, on second thought, forget it! Let's just climb down and glom the thing and get out of—"

  The rumbling started again, and the scaffold jerked back and forth as if a giant were shaking it. Panicked, the professor pitched the broom handle over the end of the scaffold and started shuffling on his knees toward the ladder. As Fergie tried to hold the light steady, the professor started down. The rumbling grew louder, and the scaffold vibrated. Its steel legs danced and chattered on the pavement, and the professor had to cling tightly to the rungs of the ladder to keep from being pitched onto the floor below. A short way from the bottom he jumped, and he landed on his feet.

  "Throw me the light, Byron!" he yelled in a panicky voice. "I'll hold it for you so you can climb!"

  But Fergie was already on his way down, with the handle of the searchlight clenched in his teeth. As soon as he got to the bottom, he took the light in his hands and waved the beam over the floor. There it was! A small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

  "I'll get it!" roared the professor, and he lunged forward, dropped to his knees, and scooped up the package. The floor of the church began to heave and pitch, like the deck of a ship in a storm. The professor staggered to his feet and reeled sideways as another shock hit. At the other end of the church things were crashing—it sounded as if parts of the ceiling and walls were coming down.