The wind began to blow harder. An old bent elm tree grew in the field that lay beyond the graveyard wall, and they could see it waving its spindly, loopy arms. As the rain poured down, the boys squeezed themselves in against the chapel wall. There was no porch, but the edge of the roof hung out a little over the front of the building, and this kept them a bit drier than they would have been otherwise. Time passed. Every now and then Johnny would glance to his right, at the pool of lamplight that lay on the gravel outside the open window. There was no glass in the window, so he could hear the professor stirring around inside. He heard him sniffle and cough and get up and shuffle around. Then the professor went back and sat in the rocker, which creaked noisily as he moved to and fro. Johnny wanted very much to hammer on the door and demand that the professor let them in. But somehow it seemed wiser to stay outside, even though the rain was giving him and Fergie a good soaking. If the professor's mind was unbalanced, Johnny didn't want to do anything that would push him over the edge into total, screaming madness. Better to wait for Father Higgins to show up with his bottle of Hennessy Five Star. But the minutes ticked on, and Father Higgins did not come back. Johnny switched on his flashlight and peered at his watch, which said five after nine. He wasn't sure when the priest had left, but it seemed like it was an hour ago. Johnny was soaked to the skin, and his sprained ankle burned like fury. And on top of everything else, the chill had gotten into his bones. When he opened his mouth to speak, he found that his teeth were chattering.
"F-Fergie," he stammered, "wh-where do you think F-Father H-Higgins has go-gone to?"
"You got me. He's had enough time to go back to Duston Heights by now. I'm worried, John baby. I think one of us oughta go down to the boat and check up. You wanta do it?"
Johnny grimaced and shook his head. "I better not. I sprained my ankle real bad while we were runnin' across that field out there, an' it's all swelled up now. I think I might faint if I tried to run."
Fergie looked at him in astonishment. "Oh, great! Just great! I thought you said you were okay after you stepped in that hole! Why didn't you tell us about this before, for God's sake?"
"I didn't want you guys to make me go back," said Johnny miserably. "And anyway, I thought it might get better. But it hasn't—it feels awful!"
Fergie groaned. He stared helplessly up at the rain. "Well, then, I guess I better go!" he said, heaving a disgusted sigh. "You stay here 'n' make sure the prof doesn't turn into a bat an' fly away! See you later, John baby!"
And with that, Fergie took off, running. Imitating Father Higgins, he vaulted the turnstile and went galloping off into the gloom. Johnny watched him go. Now both of his friends had vanished into the night. Johnny felt the sick taste of fear rising in his throat. What if they were gone for good? What if something was swallowing up the people on this island, one by one? No, no—that couldn't possibly be! He was allowing his imagination to run away with him. Fidgeting and peering anxiously around, he limped back and forth in front of the chapel door. With each step he took, it felt as if somebody were shooting red-hot needles into his ankle.
Oh well, thought Johnny, it'll take my mind off of the other stuff I'm worried about. But he couldn't get rid of his worries that easily—as soon as he stopped walking, they came flooding back. Feverishly he went over in his mind things that could possibly have happened to Father Higgins. What if he had wandered into the ocean accidentally and had gotten drowned? Johnny was a very good worrier. He could dream up dozens of ghastly things that might have happened to Father Higgins. Minutes dragged past. The wind blew, and more rain pelted down. Johnny thought of the song the professor always sang when it was raining:
When and that I was a little tiny boy
With hey ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy
For the rain it raineth every day!
With hey ho, the wind and the...
"Oh, come on, somebody!" Johnny yelled into the wind. "Please, come back!" No answer came. Johnny was in an agony of indecision. What should he do? If Fergie and Father Higgins were in trouble, shouldn't he go and rescue them? Around his neck he wore the silver crucifix with the fragments of the True Cross imbedded in it. This was what had saved him from a horrible death just a few short hours ago. It was hard to believe that Father Higgins had come out to this island with his pockets crammed full of sacred things that would ward off evil forces and demonic shapes. So maybe he, John Dixon, was the only one who could save the day. Maybe he ought to dash back to the boat. It wouldn't take long... or would it? He remembered his bad ankle. What if it was not just sprained but broken? What if he collapsed from the pain on the way to the boat? Hundreds of what if's came leaping into Johnny's mind—he was so nervous and frustrated and frightened that he wanted to scream. Unzipping his jacket, he reached inside and closed his hand around the lump of cloth that held the silver crucifix.... And at that moment Johnny heard a sound behind him, a strange unearthly sound that was like the hinges of a hundred doors creaking and men and women and children groaning in agony. Johnny's hand relaxed its grip on the crucifix. Slowly he turned around. And what he saw gave him the shock of his life.
CHAPTER TEN
The chapel was gone. In its place stood a dignified old Victorian mansion with a mansard roof and deep-set attic windows. The ground-floor windows were long and had heavy drapes on the inside. The drapes reached all the way to the floor, and they had been pulled tight so that no glimmer of light could be seen. Over the front door was a fanlight, and flanking the stout oak portal were two flat pilasters with scrolled capitals on top. At Johnny's feet lay a semicircular slab of stone that served as a front stoop for the house. And on the stone lay little wandering white trails of snow. Johnny gasped. He staggered back, awestruck. And he saw, off to the left, a light shining. In a dreamlike trance, trembling and holding his breath, he moved around the corner of the house toward the lighted window—and then he got his second shock.
He found that he was peering in at a horribly familiar room. It was the dollhouse room, the one he had seen in his midnight vision at the Fitzwilliam Inn. There was the fireplace, the red Oriental rug, the built-in bookshelves, the table with the oil lamp and the Bible on it—everything. And in the black leather chair sat Professor Childermass. He was still dressed in his ragged shabby clothes, and he appeared to be asleep. His hands were folded in his lap, and Johnny could see his chest moving in and out as he breathed. Icy terror gripped Johnny's heart. This was the death room. Without being told, he somehow knew that a dark shape would soon appear in the doorway off to the right. The unearthly thing that had snuffed out Lucius Childermass's life would be returning, and it would put its hand over the professor's face, and... "No! No!" yelled Johnny, and he rushed at the window. With all his might he banged and slammed on the glass. He pounded with his fists till his hands stung. But he might as well have been pounding on sheet metal, for all the good it did. The professor slept on, and the firelight flickered over the red carpet, and the pendulum on the mantel clock wagged. Johnny stumbled back, eyes goggling. Then blind panic seized him, and he turned and ran. He was at the bottom of the hill before he knew it, shoving his way through the creaking turnstile. On over the dark, rainy field he ran, limping badly. He never knew, afterward, how he managed to make it down to the shore. But he did, and only when he had stopped running did he gasp, because of the unbelievably fiery stinging. Madly Johnny looked around. There was the boat. Rain pelted down on the tarpaulin that had been thrown over the food and the other things. Nearby, under a tree that grew close to the shore, lay Father Higgins. As Johnny moved nearer, flashlight dangling from his limp hand, he saw a heavy tree limb that lay near the priest's inert body. Father Higgins didn't move a muscle. Was he dead?
Johnny stumbled closer and dropped to his knees. He played the beam of his flashlight on Father Higgins's head, and he saw a clotted sticky mass of blood in his hair. Oh, please no! Johnny prayed desperately. Please no, not this, not this.... Father Higgins g
roaned. He opened his eyes and stared blearily up at Johnny. "We're surrounded," he mumbled thickly. "Pinned down... rifle fire... can't get out. Gotta take out those mortars! Got any grenades left? Here... lemme try."
If Johnny had been able to break down and cry, he would have. But as it was, he just felt numb. Father Higgins's mind was wandering back to the island of Guam, during the Second World War. Johnny put his hands over his face. "What do I do now?" he muttered through his fingers. They were all going to be killed, here on this little hunk of rock and sand. People would find their bodies weeks from now and wonder what had happened. Johnny wanted to give up. He wanted to throw his body down on the sand beside Father Higgins and just wait for the end. But with a violent effort he shook off despair. He was still alive, and he was not going to give up! Johnny dragged himself to his feet. He tried to force his weary brain to think calmly. Where was Fergie? He had come down to find Father Higgins, but apparently he had never made it. What could... A twig snapped. Bushes rustled. Turning suddenly, Johnny peered off into the dark mass of bushes that loomed nearby, right at the edge of the beach. By straining his eyes he could just make out a shadowy human shape.
"Fergie?" Johnny called in a faltering voice. "Hey, Fergie, is... is that you?"
More crackling and snapping. The shape shuffled closer. Johnny felt a deathly chill, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He had a sudden vision of the scarecrow thing that he had seen on the ferryboat. In a flash Johnny plunged his hand in under his shirt and gripped the silver crucifix. The shape halted. It hovered menacingly for a second or two, and then it melted back into the dark bushes. The chill passed away, and Johnny somehow knew that the thing was gone... for the time being.
And now what was he going to do? Johnny didn't know. He lifted the crucifix's chain off his neck and played the flashlight's pallid beam over this odd, magical object. At the place where the arms of the crucifix crossed was a tiny dome of glass, and under it were the two holy splinters. This blessed talisman could ward off evil, but it couldn't help him to rescue the professor. No, something else was needed for that. But what? Johnny wished that he was a sorcerer, with reams of powerful curses and incantations rolling around in his head. A great wizard like Albertus Magnus or Count Cagliostro would be able to fight magic with magic. But he was just John Michael Dixon, of 23 Fillmore Street, in Duston Heights, Massachusetts. What could... And then a very odd, unlikely thought came floating into his mind. Father Higgins had told him once that some of the Latin phrases in the Mass were thought to have magical powers. Johnny was an altar boy, and he knew a lot of church Latin by heart. But there was a better source than his poor befogged brain—he would use Father Higgins's breviary, the little prayer book that he carried in his coat pocket. The breviary was full of prayers—some in English and some in Latin—and one of them just might do the trick for him. Once again Johnny knelt down. He took off his rain-soaked jacket and folded it up to make a pillow for Father Higgins's head. Then he fumbled in the right-hand pocket of the priest's clerical jacket. Nothing there but loose change. With a sinking heart Johnny tried the other pocket... and his hand closed over a small book. This was it! He had found it!
Johnny stood up and—limping badly—he began to make his way back toward the graveyard. But he had only taken a few steps when he stopped. An awful thought had come to him. What if the scarecrow thing—or whatever it was that had been hovering nearby—what if it came to get Father Higgins? Maybe it had been about to pounce on him when Johnny arrived. What if the blessed book, the breviary, had been the only thing that kept Father Higgins safe? He couldn't just leave him here with no protection at all. Reluctantly Johnny turned back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crucifix and chain. Kneeling, he gently slid the chain over the priest's neck. Once again Johnny shone his flashlight beam at Father Higgins's face. His eyes were closed, and he was mumbling something that Johnny couldn't make out. Johnny didn't want to leave him, but he had to. Muttering a prayer, he pulled himself to his feet and set out again.
The rain was stopping, and the clouds, driven by a strong wind, were breaking up. Johnny saw a vague silvery glow overhead, which meant the moon was trying to break through. It was easier to see now, and he forced himself to plod on over the bumpy field and up the little hill to the cemetery. He felt very jittery without the crucifix hanging around his neck. It was true that the breviary had been blessed—at least, Johnny hoped that it had. Father Higgins had told him once that all the sacred implements used by a priest—his Mass vestments, the chalice, and so on—had been blessed by a bishop. But would a blessed book save him? Johnny was in tears now. He was feeling sorry for the professor, for Father Higgins, for Fergie, for himself. Through the creaking turnstile and up the cemetery road he stomped. Wearily he looked up and he saw the dark, unreal house still looming against the sky. Sniffling, Johnny came to a halt and put the flashlight under his armpit. Holding the book rigidly in both hands, he began to chant loudly:
Judica me, Deus et discerne causam meam de gente non sancta; ab homo iniquo et doloso erue me.
If he expected the house to disappear, he was disappointed—it was still there. This is crazy, thought Johnny, absolutely crazy! He flipped a page and read more:
Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium de manibus suis, ad laudam et gloriam nominis tuae...
Johnny stopped reading. He stopped because a small cold glowing object had appeared on the page that he held before him. The skull. Grinning with malice, eyes lit by tiny red dots of fire, it hovered in the flashlight's pale beam. And a harsh, pitiless voice burst inside Johnny's brain: No one will cheat me of my vengeance, which will be visited upon all, even the seventh son of the seventh son! Come, foolish child, and see what I have prepared, for the way of the transgressor is hard, and the lamp of the iniquitous shall be put out!
Johnny's arms dropped to his sides. The book fell into the mud at his feet, and the flashlight rolled away down the hill. Jerked forward by an irresistible force, Johnny tottered up toward the phantom mansion. He was being led to the lighted window, and he was forced to stop. Invisible hands seized his shoulders and shoved him rudely forward until his face was almost touching the glass. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't—he had to watch. The professor slept on, sunk into the deep leather armchair. And—as Johnny had feared—the scene that now began to unfold was just like the one he had seen in the dark, cold room in the Fitzwilliam Inn. The yellow flame in the oil lamp's chimney dwindled to a sputtering blue point. The flames in the fireplace wavered, shrank, died out. And as the door at the back of the room began to open, the shadowy form moved into the room. No! No! Johnny screamed, but the scream burst in his head. He couldn't yell or twitch his nose or move a muscle of his body. The thing was hovering over the professor, bending horribly close to him. The shadowy hand was creeping toward the professor's face....
"Aaaaaaaah!"
The air was split by a loud, violent, bull-like bellowing. Up the road charged Father Higgins. In his hand he gripped the silver crucifix. He held it high over his head like a banner, and the chain clinked and shimmered in the air. The big priest's arm was around Johnny's shoulder now, and he felt the cold metal being pressed to his forehead. Suddenly he could move. Reeling backward, he turned and watched as Father Higgins dashed madly to the front door of the mansion, dropped to his knees, and laid the crucifix down on the stone doorstep. In a loud, angry, challenging voice he started chanting:
I bind unto myself today
The strong name of the Trinity
With invocations of the same
The Three in One, and One in Three!
The bursting from the spiced tomb
The riding up the heavenly way
The coming at the Day of Doom
I bind unto myself today!
As soon as the last word of this incantation was out of Father Higgins's mouth, the solid-looking mansion began to waver and shimmer. It looked like something seen through the windshield of a car in the rain. And
then it was gone, and in its place stood the dumpy boarded-up chapel. Silence. The moon slid out from behind a cloud, and a pale ray lit the front door of the chapel. Father Higgins knelt motionless, the silver cross clenched tight in his hand. Johnny could hear his heavy, labored breathing. There came a scuttering, crunching sound, and the chapel door was yanked inward. Professor Childermass stepped out over the doorsill. He looked dazed, and he glanced this way and that. Suddenly he saw Father Higgins kneeling in the mud in front of him, and he let out a joyful croaking yell.
"Higgy!" he screeched, rushing forward and throwing his arms around his friend. "Higgy! What on earth are you doing here? For that matter, what am I doing here? Eh? What's going on? And is that John over there? It is! John, you're all wet! Your grandmother will have a fit!"
The professor paused and looked down at the priest, who still knelt motionless before him. Father Higgins was crying now. Tears were streaming down his grizzly cheeks. But the professor was not feeling weepy—he was looking more and more annoyed by the second.
"For the love of Pete!" he roared. "Will somebody please tell me what the devil is going on?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Somehow the three of them made it back down to the shore. Johnny limped on his sprained ankle, and the professor helped Father Higgins, who was still feeling dizzy from the blow that he had taken on the head. When they got to the boat, they found Fergie sitting on the bow, looking dejected and confused. When he saw his three friends coming toward him, he really went wild— he gave football cheers and jumped and danced around. And finally, when he had calmed down a bit, he explained that he had been led into a thicket by somebody who looked like Father Higgins. Then whoever-it-was had disappeared, and Fergie had gotten totally lost. He had wandered out to the other end of the island, and by the time he got back to the boat, there was no one there at all. At this point, he'd felt so completely mixed up that he just sat down and decided to wait till somebody came to him for a change.
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