But Mr. Spofford would not say anything more, and so there was nothing left for the professor to do but say good night. Johnny shook Mr. Spofford's hand and thanked him, and then he and his elderly friend went upstairs to their nice warm beds.
Later that night Johnny was awakened from a deep sleep by a rattling sound. He sat up and shook his head groggily. What was making that noise? He glanced to his left and saw a window whitened by frost. Outside, the wind was blowing, and a bare branch was clattering and clawing against the window. The end of the branch was shaped a bit like a hand, and so it was easy for Johnny to imagine that it was some awful creature out there trying to get in. Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head. He tried to get rid of the unpleasant pictures that were forming in his mind. Then he opened his eyes again and stared out into the dark room. The professor was asleep in a bed over against the far wall. Johnny could hear the regular snortling sounds he was making. Noiselessly Johnny slipped out of bed and put on his slippers and bathrobe. He padded to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. The hall was chilly and drafty. A dim night-light burned at the top of the stairs. With an odd, dreamy look on his face, Johnny gripped the railing and started down.
The downstairs hall was dark, and it was even colder than upstairs. Icy air slithered in through the crack at the bottom of the front door, and it stung Johnny's bare ankles. But he moved on, like a sleepwalker, to the door that led to the workroom where the Childermass clock was kept. He paused outside the dark door and put his hands on the wood paneling, listening. He heard sounds, voices. It was as if people were muttering excitedly inside the room. What were they saying? It was impossible to make it out. Johnny's hand moved toward the white china knob. He twisted it and pushed the door inward. Then he gasped.
CHAPTER TWO
Johnny was surrounded by darkness, not the darkness of a small room, but an immense well of blackness. It was as if he were standing in a great hall or a cathedral. Before him, like a window in the night, was a lighted room. It was small and seemed very far away, yet somehow he could see every detail. It was like the dollhouse room in the old clock, but it was a real room in a real house. It was night, and Johnny could see snow falling outside the window at the back of the room. The oil lamp on the table was lit, and a fire burned in the white marble fireplace.
The figure in the room was like the doll, but it was a living man, an old, distinguished-looking gentleman with a gray beard and rimless spectacles. He was pacing back and forth before the fire, and he looked worried. As Johnny watched, he sat down in the leather chair by the table, picked up the Bible, and began to leaf through it. Eventually he found a part that interested him, and he settled down to read. From far away Johnny heard the ghostly ticking of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire. The old man read for a while and soon grew tired. He took off his glasses and slid them into the case on the table. After stifling a yawn, he rubbed his hands over his face. Then he leaned his head back, folded his hands in his lap, and dozed off. Johnny watched, wide-eyed. Blood roared in his ears, and his fists were clenched, but he stayed rooted to the spot: what would happen next?
He didn't have long to wait. As the old man slept, a subtle change came over the room. The flame of the oil lamp grew dim and dwindled to a blue point. The fire in the fireplace died, as if some unseen force were smothering it. And then a door in the rear wall of the room began to open. The light that fell through the doorway was cold, pale, and wavering. At first Johnny saw only the open door and the watery, shimmering light. Then he saw a tall, gaunt shadow that moved with dragging steps through the doorway and into the room. The light was poor, and so Johnny could not tell much about the shape, except that it was fearfully thin and appeared to be wearing ragged clothes. As he watched, the shape moved toward the sleeping man and hovered over him. The old man opened his eyes and looked up, and Johnny heard him scream. It was a thin wailing sound that seemed to come from far away, and it chilled Johnny to the bone. The old man shrank back in his chair as the gaunt, menacing figure bent over him. It stretched out a long thin hand and covered the old man's face, and then the old man began to struggle and writhe. Frantically he tried to push the hand away, but his struggles got weaker and weaker, and finally he lay still, slumped back in the chair. A pause. Then the figure took its hand away from the old man's face, bent over, and peered horribly close, as if it were trying to make sure that the man was really dead. Finally the shadowy form straightened up, shuffled toward the door, and went out. Immediately the scene went black. And Johnny was left alone in the dark cold workroom, listening to the wind that keened and moaned around the corners of the ancient inn.
For a long time Johnny cowered in the dark, wide-eyed and wondering. He was awed and frightened by what he had seen. But what was it that he had witnessed? It looked like the murder of Professor Childermass's granduncle. If that was it, then who had the murderer been? Was it a ghost who had snuffed out the life of the old man? And finally Johnny asked himself this question: Why had he, John Dixon, been brought down here to see this strange, ghostly drama? Was he supposed to warn the professor about something? And if so, what? Johnny had no answers for any of these questions. As he peered nervously around in the dark, he saw the faint outline of the old clock looming on the table next to the workbench. Shuddering, he turned and felt his way to the door. But the room was very dark, and as Johnny groped along, he caught his toe on the end of a loose floorboard and lurched up against the table that held the Childermass clock. From inside the clock came a jangling of chimes and a rattle of machinery, and then—to his horror—Johnny heard something roll out across the tabletop and drop onto the floor. It sounded like something small, maybe one of the delicate pieces of furniture from the dollhouse room.
Filled with guilt and worry, and already making up apologies in his mind, Johnny dropped to his knees and began scrabbling around on the floor with his hands. His fingers closed over something small and round, like a marble. Pulling himself to his feet, Johnny took a step toward the dark clock. But shouldn't he switch the light on so he could see what he was doing? Turning, Johnny took a few stumbling steps toward the door. Then—strangely—instead of trying to find the light switch, he grasped the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall.
With the door closed behind him, Johnny leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, and opened his hand. The light out here in the hall was dim, but he could see what he had—the skull! With an odd, fascinated expression on his face, Johnny turned the grotesque little object over in his hand. Then, with a sudden motion, he shoved the skull into his bathrobe pocket and padded on down the hall.
Johnny did not get any more sleep that night. He went back up to bed, but he tossed and turned and kept glancing nervously at the door of his bedroom. If it had suddenly begun to open, he was sure that he would have gone out of his mind with fear. But the door stayed shut, and Johnny lay there fretting and listening to the wind. He thought about what he had seen and about the tiny, toylike skull that he had stolen. It was in the pocket of his corduroy pants now, where he had stuffed it for safekeeping. Why didn't he want to give it back? Johnny couldn't say, but he did know one thing: when dawn came, he was very glad to see it.
Later that morning Johnny and the professor were down in the dining room of the inn having a wonderful wintertime breakfast, pancakes and sausage and hot coffee, but Johnny was not eating much of it. He felt totally socked. There were dark circles around his eyes, and his face felt prickly.
"John," the professor said anxiously, "you really look terrible this morning! What on earth is the matter? Did my snoring keep you awake?"
Johnny put down the piece of sausage that he was toying with and glanced warily at the professor. He realized that he ought to tell his friend what had happened last night. It was a strange and unlikely tale, but he was sure the professor would believe him. And it would get an incredible load off his chest. Nervously Johnny stuck his right hand into his pants pocket. His fingers twid
dled with the ivory skull, and he opened his mouth to speak—but something unexpected happened. He found that he couldn't talk! His jaw shuddered, and he struggled, but nothing came out. There was a pain in his chest, as if a band of steel were wrapped around his body, and someone were twisting it tighter. Finally Johnny stopped trying. He slumped back in his chair, exhausted. Sweat was streaming down his face, and he was scared half out of his mind.
The professor was stunned. "My Lord, John!" he exclaimed. "What in heaven's name is the matter? I've never seen you like this before! Do you want me to call a doctor? What should I do?"
Johnny didn't know what to say—he didn't even know if he could say anything. But the pain in his chest had gone, and he was breathing more easily. He was feeling better because he had stopped trying to tell the professor about the vision he had seen. Frightened, Johnny knew that he had to yield to this spell—or whatever it was—that had been cast on him.
"I... I guess it was just heart-heartburn or something like that," he muttered faintly. He closed his eyes, took out his handkerchief, and mopped his forehead. "I... I'm sorry I scared you," he added.
The professor was still quite concerned. He had seen cases of food poisoning when he was in the army, and he knew it could be fatal. He was ready to go out to the kitchen and give the cook a severe talking-to, but Johnny insisted that he was okay. And so the two of them went back to eating.
After an uncomfortable silence Johnny spoke up again. "How's your car doing?" he asked. "Is... is it wrecked, or can we go home in it?"
The professor made a sour face. "Ah, yes, my car! Well, I went over to Finsterwald's Garage before breakfast, and they told me that I could stagger on home with it. They said I might get picked up for having only one headlight, but considering all the one-eyed cars I've seen driving around in the last year, I will be very put out if the cops stop me. Yes, it's driveable... but the bill for the towing and the etcetera is not pretty, it's not pretty at all! However, I suppose it must be paid... ." The professor's voice trailed off. He leaned forward and stared hard at Johnny. "Are you sure you're okay? You're in my care while we're on this trip, and I'd feel awful if something happened to you. Please be honest with me. If you're feeling ill, I'll take you to a doctor and have you checked up."
Johnny really got flustered this time. He did not want to be taken anywhere for a checkup. So he gritted his teeth, smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way, and forced himself to eat two mouthfuls of pancakes and syrup. "Yeah, I'm all right," he mumbled, as he chewed. "Let's not talk about it anymore, okay?"
After they had finished their meal, the professor went out to the front desk to settle the bill and Johnny went upstairs to the bedroom to get the suitcases. Then the two of them got ready to stump off through the snow to Finsterwald's Garage to fetch the poor battered Pontiac so they could drive home.
A month passed. The snow melted, and the ice on the Merrimack River broke up and washed out to sea. As the March winds boomed in the trees, kids started playing Softball on muddy vacant lots. Johnny Dixon went on with his usual life. He did homework, watched television, and went places with his best friend, Fergie. He helped his grandfather carry out the ashes from the furnace and raked up some soggy leaves that were left from last fall. He visited with the professor and ate pieces of his delicious cakes and played chess and backgammon with him. But all the while, in the back of his mind, he carried around the memory of the eerie scene that had been played before his eyes in that dark back room in the Fitzwilliam Inn. Several times he got his courage up and decided that he would try to tell the professor about what had happened. But each time he felt that awful tightening pain in the chest and a deep nameless fear that was enough to stop him. Of course, he could have tried to tell somebody else about his experience, but in his mind the whole incident was surrounded with fear. It was as if he had done something horrible that he didn't dare talk about. So Johnny just kept quiet about that cold windy February night. He didn't tell Grampa or Gramma or Fergie or anybody.
He also kept clammed up about the skull. It was funny how he felt about it: He wanted to protect the thing, to preserve it from harm. For a while he carried it in his pocket, but he got worried that it would drop out through a hole in his pants or get scarred up by coins or his house keys. So he put the skull in an old blue watch-case with a snap lid, and he kept it hidden under the shirts in his top bureau drawer. Now and then his conscience would prick him, and he would feel guilty about keeping the skull. Shouldn't he wrap it up and send it back to the Fitzwilliam Inn? He could do it anonymously and stay out of trouble that way. But then he told himself that skulls were lucky. He remembered the story the professor had told him about Mexican village festivals, where they made candy skulls and ate them for good luck. And now that he thought about it, it was possible that the skull had saved him from an awful fate. He remembered the shadowy evil shape he had seen in the vision. What if it had decided to go after him? It might have done just that if the skull had not fallen out of the dollhouse room and landed at his feet. Perhaps there was some kindly force at work in the haunted clock, a force that had said, Here, take this talisman—it will protect you from harm. This was the way Johnny reasoned, and his reasoning always led him to one conclusion—he'd better hang on to the skull and keep it safe.
On a Thursday night late in the month of March, Johnny and his friend Fergie were doing their home work in the parlor of the Dixon house. They went to different schools, in different parts of the city, but they both were taking Latin, and right now they were helping each other memorize the demonstrative pronoun hic, haec, hoc. Hic, haec, hoc just means this, but it has lots of forms, and you have to memorize them if you are going to pass beginning Latin. Fergie was a gangly, skinny kid with dark skin, black, greasy, curly hair, a long, blunt-ended nose, enormous ears, and droopy features. At this moment he was trying to get through hic, haec, hoc without a mistake.
"Hic, haec, hoc," Fergie began, "hujus, hupus, hujus; huic, huic, huic; hunc, hanc, hoc... " Fergie's voice began to waver—he was getting the giggles, as he always did when he said these silly words too many times. He fought the laughter down and struggled on: "Hoc, hac, hoc. Hi, hae, haec; horum, harum... " But it was no use—he couldn't go on. He was giggling helplessly now.
Usually when this kind of thing happened, Johnny would break into laughter too. But this time he got angry. His face turned red, and he slammed the book shut. "Oh, come on, Fergie!" he yelled. "Will you cut that out! We've got work to do!"
Fergie was so startled by Johnny's outburst that he stopped giggling. He stared, open-mouthed. What on earth was the matter with his friend?
"Hey," he said in a soft, wondering tone, "what's got into you, John baby? I mean, it's not all that important, to lose your temper about! It's just a crummy Latin test, and you'll probably cream it anyway—you always do. So why're you in such an uproar, huh?"
Johnny put down the book he was holding. He wiped his hand across his face and shook his head. Sometimes you can be in a rotten mood and not know it until you pop off at somebody. That was the way it was with Johnny today. And it wasn't just bad temper all by itself. He had had a deep sense of foreboding all day. In his belly he felt that something bad was going to happen to somebody that he knew. He had brooded and worried, and that was why he was so edgy right now. He felt like somebody who is waiting for a thunderstorm to break loose on the world.
"I... I'm sorry, Fergie, honest I am," he stammered. "I dunno what's the matter with me. I've been worried all day about... about something. I keep thinking that a really awful thing is gonna happen."
"You mean, like you might step on a nail and get tetanus?" said Fergie, grinning. He knew about Johnny's fear of tetanus, and it amused him no end.
Johnny shook his head. "Nope," he said miserably. "It's not something that's gonna happen to me. It's gonna happen to somebody I know, like you or Gramma or Grampa or the professor. I don't know why I have this darned feeling. I just do, that's all."
&nbs
p; Fergie frowned skeptically. He was a real no-nonsense type—at least he tried to be. In some ways he was just as superstitious as Johnny, but he put up a good front. He was always saying that he believed in science and cold, hard facts. "You're probably just comin' down with a cold," he said, shrugging. "My uncle Harvey always used to think that he was gonna die durin' the night, while he was sleepin'. But he didn't—he got killed in a car crash. You can't believe in these funny feelings that you get."
"Maybe not," said Johnny. He grimaced and bit his lip. "All the same," he went on, "I wish I knew why I felt this... "
Johnny's voice died. He had been looking around while he talked, and he had happened to peer out the big bay window. Across the street was the professor's house, an enormous two-story barn of a place. There were lights on downstairs, but the upstairs windows were dark. Except for one. In it an orange jack-o'-lantern face glowed.
Johnny was utterly astonished. "Hey!" he exclaimed, poking Fergie in the arm. "Look at that, would you!"
Fergie looked, and he did a double take. Then he let out a long, low whistle. "Wow!" he said, shaking his head in awe. "Your pal the professor has finally gone out of his jug! I mean, he's only about seven months early for Halloween! My gosh! Whaddaya think of that?"
Johnny didn't know what to think. But his sense of foreboding came back, stronger than ever. It was true that the professor had a weird sense of humor, but making a jack-o'-lantern in March... well, it just didn't seem like the kind of thing he would do. For a long time Johnny just stood there, watching, while the grinning orange mask hovered in the darkness. Then—reluctantly—he went back to working on his Latin with Fergie.
Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull Page 2