The Whistle, the Grave, and the Ghost

by Brad Strickland

  “Hold on,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “Yes, I see him! Here he is. Now let me see where here is . . .”

  A walking figure had appeared in the crystal. The picture zoomed out, and suddenly the boy was just a speck trudging along beside a highway. Behind him was a bridge, and ahead of him was a white frame church.

  “That’s Willow Creek Road,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “He’s a few miles outside of town, and he hasn’t reached the old Methodist church yet.”

  “Let’s go,” said Jonathan. “Prunella, grab your crystal ball and your wand. I’ve got mine!” He brandished a walking stick with a crystal knob. “Father Foley, get your book. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  “I’m coming too,” announced Rose Rita.

  They all piled into Jonathan’s Muggins Simoon, and they roared away from the curb, heading east of town. Willow Creek Road was a country byway, and they whizzed past fields of corn and isolated farmhouses. “There he is!” yelled Rose Rita, who was squished between Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann in the front seat of the car.

  Ahead was the boy Mrs. Zimmermann had spotted in the crystal. It was Stan, all right, and he limped along like some kind of zombie. His short-sleeved plaid shirt hung from his shoulders in loose flapping folds, and the sneakers on his feet were torn and stained. He lurched along blindly, his arms dangling, his eyes staring, his face thin and red and sweating.

  Jonathan yanked the car onto the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust, and they spilled out. He jogged ahead to Stan and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Stanley! Where do you think you’re going?”

  The exhausted Stan tried to jerk free of his hold, but he could not. Father Foley said, “Let me.” With surprising strength, he lifted Stan like a rag doll and carried him back to the car. He laid the boy down and murmured a prayer before turning to Jonathan. “Give me the bottle of holy water,” he ordered.

  From his vest pocket, Jonathan produced a small bottle that held perhaps two ounces of holy water. The priest took it, moistened his fingers, and made the sign of the cross on Stan, touching his forehead, his chest, and each shoulder.

  Stan grew rigid. His eyes flew open wide, and he screamed a high-pitched, terrifying scream. Rose Rita blanched, clapping her hands over her ears. Mrs. Zimmermann started forward, but Father Foley held up a hand to stop her. In a stern voice, he recited a ritual of exorcism, commanding the evil spirit to free Stan.

  And it seemed to work. With a gasp, Stan fell silent. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he struggled to sit up. “What? Who are you?” he gasped, staring at the priest. “Where am I? What’s goin’ on?”

  “You know me, don’t you?” asked Jonathan in a comforting tone.

  Stan blinked. “Yeah. You’re Lard—uh, I mean, you’re Lewis’s uncle. Wh-where am I?” His face jerked into a mask of fear. “N-not in New Zebedee? Did you bring me back to New Zebedee? I can’t go there! She’s there!”

  “Who’s there?” asked Mrs. Zimmermann.

  Stan’s eyes were wild. “The snake-lady! Her teeth—she bit me!” he wailed.

  “Into the car, everyone,” ordered Jonathan. “No time to waste!”

  Stan stammered out an incredible story. He remembered very little of his weeks in the hospital, but he had a terrifying memory of being chased by something like a huge snake in a rainstorm. He had crouched beneath a bush to hide, and someone had called him out—a beautiful woman who promised to take him home. But—

  “She bit me!” he moaned. “I felt her drinking my b-blood!”

  “Where were you going?” asked Mrs. Zimmermann.

  As though he were dreaming, Stan said, “Richard-son’s . . . Woods. I was . . . going . . . there.”

  “I could have figured that much,” said Jonathan from behind the wheel. “Hmm. All right, here’s what we will do.” He drove them back to New Zebedee and parked at the curb in front of the police station. “Stan, you march right inside there and have them call your parents. And stay put until they come for you! They’ll take you back to the hospital, but you’ll be safe there. Understand?”

  Stan was so frightened, he could barely clamber out of the car, and then he ran to the police station on wobbling legs. Through the glass front door they saw him talking to a policeman, and then Jonathan drove off. “He should be safe enough,” he said. “Now let’s go to Richardson’s Woods. I’ve got an itchy feeling that we’ll find Lewis there. Father Foley, you say we’re safe until tomorrow?”

  “I hope so,” replied the priest. “The lamia’s powers are strongest at certain times and seasons of the year. She will be at her most powerful from midnight to dawn tonight. But I believe Lewis is in great danger now. She will need blood to take on enough form to fight us, and you’ve taken away her supply.”

  Rose Rita gulped hard. “You mean she might attack Lewis?”

  “I believe she will,” agreed the priest. His face took on an expression of anguish.

  Jonathan Barnavelt floored the accelerator, and the old car sped through lengthening afternoon shadows.

  They are coming.

  Lewis’s head spun. His vision began to clear. He still lay on the stone, with the whistle so cold on his chest that it almost burned. He raised his head with difficulty. At the foot of the stone stood the creature. She had the form of a woman, but still she was only a sheet—the sheet from his bed, Lewis dimly realized—stretched tight over a shifting figure. The eye sockets glowed red. When the thing moved, its arms and legs were wrong, as if they had no bones in them. Or as if they had the many joints of a snake.

  They stopped the boy.

  “S-Stan?” Lewis could speak, though his voice was a dry croak. “They s-stopped him?” He felt a little leap of hope in his heart.

  No matter. You have the whistle.

  Lewis shivered. The simple word sounded baleful and threatening. “I d-don’t understand.”

  If blood cannot give me a body, the whistle can. When you blow it for the last time, my spirit can enter your body. You will not die, but you will no longer be in control of yourself. I will. They will think I am you, and I will have form and strength enough to do what must be done.

  “I won’t do it!” said Lewis. “You can’t make me!”

  You will wish to do it, returned the insinuating voice. You will have to do it. But your earthly shell will have to perish. My spirit inside you will consume your body to ash and dust, though your spirit will live forever and will be a part of me, sharing the bodies I take, watching helplessly as I grow and grow in strength and power. But the one beneath the stone must have a body as well as a spirit, so one of the others must go there, to be imprisoned and helpless for eternity. The foolish uncle, perhaps, though I could use his magical powers . . . No, better, it will be the girl.

  It took every ounce of strength and every drop of courage in Lewis to do what he did next. He rolled sideways. The creature at his feet hissed and leaped forward, but not before Lewis was falling from the stone. He fell to the ground, and the moment he touched the earth he felt suddenly released from the thing’s hold. He had landed facedown, but he sprang to his feet like a runner starting a race. Half running and half stumbling, he fled from the clearing, out into the meadow.

  But the lamia reared from the tall grass ahead of him. The face formed from the sheet was wrinkled and furious, and the gaping mouth showed two curving fangs. The creature hissed at him. The grass whipped, streamers of it tearing loose and flying to the monstrous form.

  Lewis backed away. The grass clung to the lamia’s shape, changed it. Now it had no legs, but the trunk and tail of a monstrous serpent. It writhed forward, forcing him back. The stone touched the back of his legs, and he felt himself being forced to climb onto it. The lamia wanted him to lie down, but with all his might Lewis forced himself to stand atop the stone. He felt the monster in his mind, willing him to raise the silver whistle to his lips.

  “I won’t do it!” he yelled desperately. With a sudden yank, he broke the chain and flung the
whistle away from him. It gleamed in the sunlight and vanished.

  And he felt its weight in his pocket again.

  You must.

  Lewis almost sobbed. He couldn’t get rid of the whistle! And the thing would force him to blow it. Then—what then? Would his mind go when the creature’s spirit took over his body? Or would he be left aware but helpless?

  Would he see the thing destroy his friends?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I wish I’d dressed for this,” grumbled Mrs. Zimmermann as she, Father Foley, Jonathan Barnavelt, and Rose Rita made their way through the meadows toward Richardson’s Woods. Despite their speed, it was late afternoon by the time they came within sight of the place.

  Rose Rita shuddered. The trees were dark and strange, moving and thrashing even though the wind wasn’t blowing very hard. “What do we do?” she asked. “Go charging in like gangbusters? Or is there some spell or something?”

  “Here,” said Jonathan, handing her a small bottle. “This is holy water, and it may protect you. We all have some. Now, this creature will be tricky and sneaky, so don’t let her come up on your blind side! Stick together and let’s see if we can find Lewis.”

  Slowly, huddling together, they descended the hillside. Rose Rita looked ahead with dread. Every movement of a branch or clump of grass startled her and made her think something was about to leap out at her. She clutched the bottle hard, not sure what to do with it. Through her head ran memories of every vampire movie she had ever seen. Didn’t it require a stake through the heart to kill a vampire? Or sunlight?

  But the sunlight was going fast. They were in twilight by the time they got to the foot of the hill.

  Jonathan shouted, “Lewis! Are you here?” in a booming voice, making Rose Rita jump a mile.

  No one answered. In fact, despite the rustling of the leaves overhead, everything seemed too quiet. “Maybe he’s not here,” she said.

  “He’s here, all right,” retorted Mrs. Zimmermann. “And I sense something really nasty in here with him. Come on!”

  Beneath the trees it was darker still, a greenish gloom that brooded over everything. The ground underfoot turned rocky, and suddenly they emerged in the clearing.

  And there was Lewis, the silver whistle raised to his lips.

  Behind him was something that Rose Rita would see again and again.

  In her nightmares.

  Lewis stood on the stone. He was locked into place, as if his legs had become stone themselves, as if they had petrified. He held his breath. Sweat poured from his face. He clenched his teeth together, telling himself, “I won’t! I won’t! I won’t blow this whistle!”

  But as if it came up through the stone itself, the will of the lamia forced him to raise it to his lips. He felt his chest expanding. Dimly he could see his friends. Rose Rita was staring in horror at the snaky thing that coiled around the stone and reared its ghostly head behind him. Mrs. Zimmermann had raised her staff, and a brilliant purple starburst erupted from the crystal at the tip of it. Jonathan was pointing his cane and shouting magical words. And there was someone else, someone pushing past the others—Father Foley!

  Blood roared in Lewis’s ears. He felt cold hatred rolling from the lamia. You! My ancient enemy!

  Desperately, Lewis pulled the tube a half inch from his lips. His breath puffed out. His arm trembled as the lamia’s fierce magic forced the whistle back.

  Lewis could feel the lamia’s rage and its desire to destroy the old priest. He could not understand it, but it was strong, a lash of fury. And he knew that as soon as he sounded the whistle for a third time, her evil spirit would flow into his body, would make him a puppet for her to act on her hatred. He had a brief vision in his mind of his body blazing into fire, of himself leaping from the stone, destroying the magicians, swelling with their power, leaving the old man for last. He felt the silver cold on his lips and sobbed with the effort to wrench it away.

  Father Foley crossed himself. “Lewis! Listen to me! You do not have to do this!”

  But he did, he did.

  Lewis inhaled. He would blow the whistle. He had to blow it.

  In a voice of thunder, Father Foley shouted at him: “You lazy, wretched boy! How much Latin do you know? Translate! Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit meteriari? Translate!”

  Lewis’s head spun. The Latin words whirled in his mind. The lamia’s mind turned away from him, and toward the priest. It was as if a giant hand gripping him had loosened a little. Lewis held his breath, then under Father Foley’s burning gaze he pulled the whistle away from his lips. The words. He had to translate the words. “H-hah,” he stammered. “Ho-how—”

  Father Foley pointed a bony finger and shouted a spell. The whistle jerked from Lewis’s grasp and flew through the air. “I reclaim it!” shouted the priest. He reached out a hand to catch the silvery tube, but too late!

  The lamia descended on him, a pouring horror. Lewis stared in disbelief. The sheet, the grass, all streamed against the priest, making him stagger back. The whistle tumbled.

  And a hand closed on it in midair. “I’ve got it!” shrieked Rose Rita. She turned and ran.

  As if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut, Lewis fell. He struck the stone, rolled down it again, and crashed to the ground. But now he had control of his body. He pushed himself up. Rose Rita was flying between the trees, rushing out of the grove. The priest lay crumpled, and from him flowed the form of a gigantic snake, hissing and coiling. Both Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann were pointing their wands at the creature and shouting magical words. Power pulsed in purple waves from Mrs. Zimmermann’s staff, and white light streamed from Uncle Jonathan’s cane, but neither had any effect. They dashed after the lamia as it twisted through the trees, hot on Rose Rita’s heels.

  The priest groaned. Lewis staggered to his side. “Father Foley—”

  The old man smiled. “I have it,” he said in a harsh whisper. “They cannot destroy the creature. They must destroy—” He coughed. “They must destroy the link! Tell them! Go!”

  Lewis left him and ran out into the meadow. Rose Rita had reached the crown of the grassy hill, but the serpent, now an impossible thirty or forty feet long, had surrounded her with a huge coil. It rose above her, swaying. Rose Rita’s eyes were wide and terrified.

  Lewis ran to Mrs. Zimmermann, who was still pumping magical power against the creature. “That won’t work!” he screamed. “Father Foley said to destroy the link!”

  “The link?” asked Mrs. Zimmermann, not taking her eyes off the swaying monster. “What is that?”

  “Lewis!” shrieked Rose Rita. “Here!” She wound up and threw.

  The whistle, trailing its chain, flew toward him. The lamia struck at Rose Rita, and she fell to the earth. The forepart of the monster was no longer human. The head bore a long, blunted snout, like the head of a gigantic snake. The arms had become mere claws. But the baleful eyes still glowed red.

  “The link!” shouted Lewis. He lunged forward, reaching, stretching.

  The snake reared back, then struck forward.

  Falling onto his stomach, Lewis caught the whistle. “This is it! This is the link!”

  “Drop it!” shouted Mrs. Zimmermann. “Jonathan, gain me two seconds!”

  Jonathan Barnavelt threw himself into the path of the serpent. “Oh, no you don’t, Fang Face! I’ve got a score to settle with you. This is for my nephew! And this is specially from me!”

  White fire roared from Jonathan’s cane, enveloping the creature’s head. It reared back, hissing, the crumpled sheet burning to black flakes. Somehow the monster kept its shape, now made up of the ashes and smoke. With a vicious swipe, it knocked Jonathan aside. Another blow of its tail sent him tumbling.

  But now Mrs. Zimmermann had turned her staff to point it at the whistle. She yelled a long, complicated phrase that seemed to have words from many languages tied up into it. A thin purple stream hit the whistle.

  The lamia sn
atched at the silver tube, but its withered little claw drew back as the whistle glowed white-hot.

  Lewis winced as he heard the thing’s voice in his head: No! You cannot! I forbid you!

  As if she had heard the words too, Mrs. Zimmermann snarled, “Watch me, you scaly spirit!” And with a blast that made her arms shake, she sent a spear of brilliant purple light lancing to the ground. The whistle melted, then vaporized. A jet of silver steam shot into the air and puffed away on the breeze.

  The lamia reared high over Mrs. Zimmermann, bellowing in outrage. It fell forward, and Lewis raised his arm against its deadly strike.

  But it dissolved. Spears of grass showered down against his face. Flakes of burned fabric blew away on the breeze. The screams of outrage wailed away to a dying whine, like that of a mosquito.

  Mrs. Zimmermann staggered, leaning on her staff. Her blue eyes were faded with exhaustion. But she extended her arm, and Lewis rushed into her embrace.

  They stood there a moment, leaning on each other. Then, fearfully, they turned to discover what had happened to the others.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Hey, Lewis.”

  Lewis froze in mid-step just outside of Heemsoth’s Rexall Drug Store. Ahead of him stood Stan Peters, looking thin and haggard. “What do you want?”

  Stan stared at him. “Whatcha got in the bag?”

  “Some medicine and stuff,” muttered Lewis. “My uncle’s sick.”

  “Yeah.” Stan took a deep breath. “Look, I know how it is to be sick. I’ve been pretty sick myself. So—good luck, huh?”

  Lewis was on the verge of telling him to buzz off, but something in Stan’s eyes pleaded with him. “Thanks,” Lewis heard himself say. He walked past Stan.

  “Hey, Lewis,” called Stan again.

  Lewis turned around. Stan had not moved. “What is it?”