Wrath of the Grinning Ghost

by John Bellairs

  Professor Childermass took his wallet out and pulled a five-dollar bill from it. "This will more than cover the postage, and you may keep the rest for your trouble. Bring that package back, and we'll see if there is another way of understanding exactly what happened to you in Florida."

  It wasn't a long ride to the post office. Johnny stood in line at the barred window and asked for the professor's package. After paying the C.O.D. charges, he pocketed the change and lifted the package from the counter. It was a rectangular box perhaps a foot long by six inches wide and six inches deep. It had been wrapped in brown paper and tied with green cord, and it was fairly heavy, a couple of pounds at least. A red-bordered address label had the professor's name and address on it, with the return address listed as "P. Shellmacher, 1291 Stuyvesant Circle, New York."

  Wondering what could be inside the package, Johnny climbed aboard his bike and zoomed across town to Fillmore Street. He found Professor Childermass and Dr. Coote still in the study, Dr. Coote sitting with his knees drawn up so his thin legs looked like an elderly, angular cricket's, and the professor pacing impatiently back and forth. "Aha!" exclaimed Professor Childermass as Johnny entered with the package. "Now let's see if this helps."

  With an air of deliberate mystification, Professor Childermass took the box from Johnny, placed it on the desk, and used his penknife to cut the cords. He tore the brown paper away, revealing a cardboard box, its lid Scotch-taped shut: Grunting in irritation, the professor sliced through the tape and opened the box. He took out something wrapped in layer after layer of white tissue.

  "For heaven's sake, Roderick," said Dr. Coote. "Is this like one of those Russian dolls, with another doll inside it, and another inside that one? Does the wrapping go on forever?"

  "No, Charley," returned Professor Childermass tartly. "It ends right here!" He ripped away the tissue paper, revealing a shiny black statuette of a falcon.

  Dr. Coote's shaggy eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "What in the world is that supposed to be?" he demanded. "The Maltese Falcon?"

  "This happens to be a statue of Horus, a god of Upper and Lower Egypt," responded the professor haughtily.

  Leaning close to the figure, Dr. Coote peered at it for a moment. Then he straightened and said querulously, "It isn't authentic."

  Professor Childermass blushed. "Well, no. This is only a replica, made of Bakelite. A company in New Jersey turned 'em out by the carload back in the twenties, when there was a big fad of Egyptian art and decorations. My friend in New York City scoured the antique stores before she found this."

  Dr. Coote blinked at the professor. "I don't see what it—wait a minute. She? Roderick, you old rascal, who is this woman of mystery?"

  "None of your beeswax," said Professor Childermass. "She is an old and trusted friend, and that is all you need to know."

  Johnny was itching to know why the professor had ordered the statuette. He asked, "Professor, is this about Brewster?"

  Professor Childermass caught himself, smiled, and said, "Indeed it is, John. As you see, this is about a half- size reproduction of the Horus statuette I found in Egypt—"

  "When were you in Egypt?" asked Dr. Coote suspiciously.

  "For two hours in the late afternoon of March fifteenth, 14 B.C.," retorted the professor. "The weather, in case you are wondering, was dry. We went to Egypt in the Time Trolley, which you know about. I'll tell you the story one day. However, now I want to try a little experiment."

  With a smug, confident expression, the professor picked up the nine-inch-tall figurine. He held it by the base and lifted it to his mouth as if it were a microphone. Slowly and distinctly, he said, "Roderick Childermass calling Horus! Roderick Childermass to Horus! Come in, Horus! Over!"

  Dr. Coote's jaw dropped almost all the way down to his chest. He stared at the professor, then at Johnny. He asked, "Is Roderick playing some practical joke, or should we wrestle him to the floor and call for a straitjacket?"

  "Charley, please!" said the professor. "I have to concentrate!" To the statuette, he said, "Horus! Brewster! If you have something to say to us, confound your feathery hide, do it now! This is Roderick Random Childermass calling Horus, also known as Brewster the Rooster! If you're there, talk to me!"

  "Really, Roderick, what you're holding is not a sacred relic, but just a cheap—" began Dr. Coote.

  He never finished. With a sudden, enormous crack! a bolt of lightning sizzled just outside the study window, turning everything to a dazzling white. Spots danced in front of Johnny's eyes. An instant later, thunder shook the whole house, and then rain began to pour in torrents.

  Johnny had yelped in alarm at the lightning bolt. His ears rang from the thunder. Dr. Coote leaped from his chair, his eyes wild. "The day was perfectly clear!" he shouted. "Where did this storm come from?"

  Professor Childermass grimaced. "Not so loud, Charley!" He turned and glared out the window at a world that had suddenly turned gray with rain. "I hope my calling Horus didn't have anything to do with—"

  "Look!" said Johnny with a gasp. He pointed his shaking finger at the windowsill.

  Streaky red liquid crawled over it. It looked horribly like blood.

  "A rain of blood!" roared Dr. Coote. "Like one of the plagues of Egypt!"

  Johnny's teeth chattered. The strange rain somehow was creating a picture. It was much sharper and clearer than a TV picture, and it seemed three-dimensional. A craggy-faced man smiled at him, seeming almost real. "That's Dad!" Johnny exclaimed.

  Then a terrible thing happened. The major's eyes grew wide and frightened. He opened his mouth and screamed, though Johnny heard no sound. And his face tore apart. His body burst open, like a cocoon splitting. From inside it emerged a creature whose flesh was dark green, like an insect's. It had huge faceted eyes and a human mouth set in a look of hateful triumph. It pushed the body of the major away, and it stood swaying like a gigantic praying mantis, its pincer claws ending in humanlike fingers with sharp, long nails clenching and unclenching.

  Suddenly, hard rain drummed on the window, normal rain. The terrifying vision blurred, melted, and ran. In an instant it had dissolved.

  "What in the name of heaven?" whispered the professor. "The rain is stopping. It's over!"

  Johnny swallowed. The rain had ended with unnatural swiftness, as if someone had turned off a gigantic shower in the sky.

  Again the telephone downstairs rang, and again the professor hurried to answer it, leaving Johnny and Dr. Coote in the study. Dr. Coote mopped his face with a handkerchief. Then he reached out a shaking hand, picked up the falcon figurine, and studied it. He looked on the bottom of the base, adjusted his spectacles, and read, "Made in Grover's Mill, New Jersey." He sniffed and set the statuette down. "You wouldn't think a little thing like this would—"

  He broke off as the professor's voice came from downstairs, its pitch and volume rising at the same time. "Now, Henry!" he bellowed. "Be calm. You have to be calm! Let's all be VERY CALM!"

  Johnny said, "He's talking to Grampa!" He jumped out of his chair and hurried downstairs, with Dr. Coote clattering close behind him. He saw Professor Childermass hang up the phone and then slump against the hallway wall. "Professor!" Johnny said, alarmed. "What did Grampa want? What's wrong?"

  The professor turned slowly, his face pale. In a low voice, he said, "John, I am very sorry. It's bad news."

  "What?" Johnny asked, feeling cold all over. "What is it?"

  The professor took a deep breath. Reluctantly, he said, "I'm afraid—well, John, I—" he gulped, squared his shoulders, and finished, "I'm afraid it's about your father."

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Gravely ill."

  The haunting words kept repeating themselves over and over in Johnny's brain as the airliner descended above a mountainous landscape. When the airplane's tires hit the runway with a bump-bump bump! the rhythm seemed to echo "gravely ill." It was like a tune he couldn't get out of his mind. A frightening, threatening tune.

  For those two wo
rds were the message that Gramma and Grampa Dixon had received from the Air Force. Major Harrison Dixon was gravely ill. It was hard for Johnny to believe that the long-distance telephone call had happened only a day ago. Professor Childermass had taken charge at once, arranging for airline tickets for himself and Johnny. He pointed out that there was nothing that Kate and Henry Dixon could do, that the trip might be an exhausting one, and that he would try his best to arrange for Major Dixon to come home. They agreed at last, after the professor promised to stay in touch by phone every day.

  The professor haggled with an auto-rental clerk, then he and Johnny climbed into a new-smelling Ford for the long drive. Johnny had never seen the Rocky Mountains before, but he was so worried that the high, snow-covered peaks meant nothing to him. The professor hunched over the steering wheel, occasionally swearing under his breath at a hairpin curve or another motorist. "John," he said at last, "maybe you had better get out the map and help me navigate. I've stapled the directions to the hospital to the map. Look sharp! We don't want to miss this forsaken little town!"

  Johnny unfolded the road map of Colorado that Professor Childermass had bought before they left Massachusetts. They were driving to a small town named Talus, where Major Dixon was in the hospital. The Air Force doctors didn't know how to treat him, so they had moved him to a civilian hospital. "Just as well," the professor had said when he first heard that news. "The base where your father works is a top-secret site, so we probably couldn't have visited him there."

  Leaning over the map, tracing their route with his finger, Johnny said, "We're still about fifteen miles away. We'll cross a river, and then we have to turn left."

  Grimly clutching the wheel, the professor nodded.

  "Very well. Are you hungry, John? If you are, we can stop and grab a bite in town. I'm sure these westerners at least know how to fry a hamburger!"

  Johnny sighed. The fear he had felt when he saw the terrible vision of his father in the rain of blood still lingered. "No, thanks, Professor. I don't really feel like eating right now."

  "I understand," said Professor Childermass gently. For a few minutes he drove without speaking. Then he whistled and said, "Whoops! When you said we'd cross a bridge, you weren't kidding! Look up ahead."

  Johnny lifted his gaze from the map. The bridge was a long, green metal suspension structure. It was no different from many other bridges Johnny had seen. But it spanned an enormously deep chasm.

  The Ford rumbled onto the bridge, and Johnny looked out the side window. He and the professor were in bright sunlight, but the gorge beneath them lay in deep, purplish shadow. Far down—so far that it looked at least a mile away—a pale silvery-blue river snaked in great loops among red and orange rocks. Johnny swallowed hard. Flying didn't really bother him. At least, flying in an airplane didn't. However, the thought of the professor at the wheel and the view of how far the drop would be if the car careened off the bridge combined to make Johnny's stomach feel a little fluttery.

  But they got across without any problem, and before long they rolled into Talus, which Johnny thought looked like a town in a western movie. A broad, dusty main street ran between blocks of wood, stone, and brick buildings. Many of them had high false fronts, and some had arches like the ones Johnny had seen in pictures of the Alamo. Lots of the men on the sidewalks wore jeans, boots, and cowboy hats. Johnny noticed them, but he was feeling more and more nervous and worried, so he paid little attention to his surroundings. "The hospital should be right ahead," he told the professor. "According to these directions, it's supposed to be on the main street."

  "And there it is, just to our right," related Professor Childermass. He slowed in front of a three-story brick building with a big black-and-white sign reading "St. Catherine's Hospital" on its lawn. He parked the car, and after he got out, he put a gentle hand on Johnny's shoulder. "Now, don't worry. I'm sure your father's condition probably sounded worse than it actually is. Doctors love to make people's flesh creep!"

  But when they got to see Major Dixon, his condition was very, very bad. He lay unconscious, with an IV bottle dripping a yellowish fluid into a needle stuck into his arm. Johnny thought his father looked withered and gray, with dark circles under the major's closed eyes. His breathing was alarmingly slow.

  The doctor, a heavyset, gray-haired man with thick glasses and a soft voice, said, "We simply don't understand what has happened to him. His vital signs are not that bad. And the major is in good physical shape. We know that he hasn't had a heart attack or a stroke, and X rays don't show any tumor or other problem. He simply did not wake up yesterday morning, and the Air Force doctors were as baffled as we are."

  Johnny held his dad's hand. It lay limp in his grasp. Tears stung Johnny's eyes. He had lost his mother years before, and now he was terrified that he might lose his father too. He felt hopelessly fearful of what the future might bring.

  The professor asked, "Could Major Dixon be moved to Massachusetts? That's where his family is."

  "I don't see why not," said the doctor. "We can't really do anything for him here, and possibly specialists from Boston might think of something we haven't. Of course, moving him could be very expensive, but perhaps the Air Force would help out. I'd have to insist that he be flown there. I wouldn't want an unconscious patient making a long trip by ambulance. And in order to move him, you would have to have the Air Force's permission."

  "Don't worry about all that," said the professor decisively. "I can take care of the expense, if necessary. As for the Air Force, well, I'm an old military man myself. I'm sure I can persuade the powers that be to allow Major Dixon to recuperate at home."

  The doctor smiled. "I am sure you can, sir," he said. "You strike me as a very forceful personality."

  The professor solemnly shook hands with the doctor. "You are a rare specimen indeed, Doctor," he said. "A physician who recognizes that not all intelligent people have 'M.D.' tacked on after their names!"

  During the two days that Johnny and the professor stayed in Colorado, the major's condition did not improve. Professor Childermass persuaded the Air Force to fly Major Dixon to Boston, where an ambulance would transfer him to the Duston Heights hospital. Other than that, nothing happened to ease Johnny's worries or his deep sense of gloom.

  The professor and Johnny were staying at a hotel in Talus. It had small rooms with tiny, cramped bathrooms. Professor Childermass stayed in room 221, and Johnny was right across the hall in 222. The beds were comfortable enough, but the rooms certainly were not fancy. The hotel did have a few good points, though. All the windows looked out on incredible mountain views, with bare peaks marching off into the distance. The clear air made them all sharp and vivid, purple, gray, and black rock and glistening white snowcaps. If Johnny had felt better, he would have enjoyed the experience.

  The hotel also had a restaurant and gift shop. As they sat down to breakfast in the restaurant on their last morning in Colorado, the professor looked at Johnny over the rims of his spectacles and said, "Well, John Michael, neither of us has mentioned it. But we have both been thinking it, so we might as well drag everything into the open. Your father isn't really ill, not as the doctors understand illness. He must be under some sort of horrible curse."

  Johnny nodded. "That's what I think," he confessed. "And, Professor, it's even worse. It's my fault."

  The professor blinked in surprise. "What? How can you possibly believe that? "

  Johnny began to sob. He wasn't exactly crying, but his chest heaved and made it hard for him to get his words out. "B-because I-I w-went into the t-tent and Madam Lumiere r-raised that ghost! That's where it all s-started!"

  "Easy, easy," said Professor Childermass in a comforting tone. "Why, John, you didn't cause anything. Sometimes events just happen. But rest assured, my friend, we will not leave your father in the lurch. The first thing to do is to get him safely home, so that Henry and Kate don't worry themselves sick over not being able to see him. And just as soon as we do that, you and I�
�and Byron too, because we may need his brains and muscles—will return to Florida and find this mystical medium. If anyone can help us to understand how all this ties in with the ghostly figure you saw and the strange book you found, she's the one." The professor stopped speaking as a waiter came to take their orders.

  When the waiter had left them, Johnny said, "I don't know if she can help us. She seemed kind of thrown when her crystal ball went haywire."

  "She can give us knowledge," pronounced the professor decisively. "And knowledge is power."

  As soon as the two of them had been served, he dug into his breakfast, a big western omelet oozing with tomatoes, peppers, cheese, and onions. "Never say die, John!" he declared as he munched. "We have been in dire straits before this, and we've come through with flying colors! Now, eat your buckwheat pancakes, or I may reach over to your side of the table and devour them. This mountain air gives me the appetite of a starving cougar!"

  Johnny nodded and poured syrup over his pancakes, though he still didn't feel very hungry. The two of them ate silently until they finished their breakfast. The professor paid, and they started over to the elevator, planning to go to their rooms and pick up their bags. Johnny paused in front of the gift shop. He pointed at something in the window. It was a tiny bird, carved from some kind of black wood and hanging as a pendant on a rawhide thong. "Could I buy that?" he asked.

  "What on earth for?" asked the professor. "It's only a tourist trinket. Probably made in Japan!"

  Johnny took the silver coin from his pocket. "I was thinking that I could put this on the cord and hang it around Dad's neck," he explained. He gave the professor a weak smile. "It's supposed to be good luck, after all."

  The professor nodded. "Very well, John," he said. "But if it costs more than fifty cents, I think it would be smarter just to find a leather shop and buy a plain old shoelace. They cost only a dime!"

  They bought the small carving. The bird it represented, the professor said, was probably a thunderbird. "That was an imaginary creature that was so huge, its wings blotted out the sky," he declared. "The thunderbird is part of the mythology belonging to many of the original native peoples of the West, from the Great Plains to the Pacific Northwest. This is a pretty handsome piece of carving for a gimcrack touristy bangle. After you take it off the rawhide, hang on to it."