Theater of horrors.
Lewis and Rose Rita found themselves in the auditorium, which looked rich and elegant in the warm glow of a sparkling glass chandelier. Mournful music rose from the orchestra pit. A man sat in front of an organ, his long, spidery fingers flying over the keys as he played the mysterious music. Slowly his head turned. He grinned at them. “Check your heads at the hatcheck counter!” As he laughed at his own words, a cloud of black flying things whirled out of his opened mouth. They grew larger and larger until they were hats, and they came flapping and squeaking right at Lewis! He and Rose Rita turned and ran up the aisle, but it was full of people now. They were all headless!
“A great addition to the mystery shelf.”
—School Library Journal
PUFFIN CHILLERS BY JOHN BELLAIRS
Lewis Barnavelt Books
The House With a Clock in Its Walls
The Figure in the Shadows
The Letter, the Witch, and the Ring
The Ghost in the Mirror
The Vengeance of the Witch-Finder
The Doom of the Haunted Opera
Professor Childermass and Johnny Dixon Books
The Curse of the Blue Figurine
The Mummy, the Will, and the Crypt
The Secret of the Underground Room
The Spell of the Sorcerer’s Skull
The Drum, the Doll, and the Zombie
The Revenge of the Wizard’s Ghost
Anthony Monday Books
The Dark Secret of Weatherend
The Treasure of Alpheus Winterborn
The Mansion in the Mist
THE DOOM
OF THE
HAUNTED OPERA
JOHN BELLAIRS
Completed by Brad Strickland
Frontispiece
by Edward Gorey
PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road. Auckland 10, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers.
a division of Penguin Books USA Inc., 1995
Published in Puffin Books, 1997
Text copyright © the Estate of John Bellairs, 1995
Frontispiece copyright © Edward Gorey, 1995
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Bellairs, John. The doom of the haunted opera / John Bellairs completed by Brad
Strickland. Frontispiece by Edward Gorey.—1st ed. p. cm.
Summary: Lewis Barnavelt and Rose Rita Pottinger are faced with a dilemma when their discovery of an unpublished opera score unleashes a wicked sorcerer who plans to rule the world by bringing back the dead.
[1. Wizards—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction.]
I. Strickland, Brad. II. Title.
PZ7.B413DO 1995 [Fic]—dc20 94-45798 CIP AC
ISBN: 978-1-101-65968-7
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Thanks to Jeanne Sharp.
reader and advisor.
—B.S.
For Ann and Tony LaPietra,
who helped me explore the haunted opera!
B.S.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
“Thank you for coming, Florence. Kids, you may as well stay and hear this too,” said Jonathan Barnavelt. It was a cold late-winter Saturday morning in the early 1950s. Jonathan looked unusually solemn, although nothing else about him had changed. His red beard was as bushy as ever, and he wore his usual outfit of tan wash pants, blue work shirt, and red vest. He stood behind the desk in his study holding a letter, and it was this letter that had brought them all together in the big old Barnavelt home on High Street in New Zebedee, Michigan.
Gathered in the Barnavelt study were Jonathan’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Florence Zimmermann, his nephew Lewis, and Lewis’s best friend, Rose Rita Pottinger. Mrs. Zimmermann was a trim, elderly woman with a disorderly mop of white hair and a friendly, wrinkly-faced smile. She wore a purple sweater, a purple woolen skirt, and purple galoshes. She happened to be a witch, but she was a good magician and not the evil kind.
Mrs. Zimmermann was also a fabulous cook, and she had been making a blueberry pie when Lewis ran over to ask her to join them. Now she sat in a straight chair, with a puzzled expression on her face and a white smudge of flour beside her nose. Lewis, a stocky, blond boy of about thirteen, stood behind her. Beside him was Rose Rita, who was almost a year older than Lewis but in the same class at school. Outside the study a blustery March wind rattled the bare black trees and swept dustings of snow off the rooftops. A dark gray sky threatened more snow or sleet, but so far today there had just been stormy gusts of wind. “All right, Weird Beard,” Mrs. Zimmermann said in a teasing voice. “Stop being so formal. Tell us about this mysterious message you’ve received.”
Uncle Jonathan sighed. He unfolded the letter, a sheet of thick, official-looking paper the buttery color of cream, and said, “I suppose you remember Lucius Mickleberry.”
Lewis and Rose Rita just looked at each other blankly. The odd name meant nothing to them. Mrs. Zimmermann chuckled. “Of course I remember him—probably better than you do,” she said. Mrs. Zimmermann explained to Lewis and Rose Rita. “Lucius was New Zebedee’s leading sorcerer, at least until he retired just after the war.”
“He moved to Florida in 1947,” said Jonathan.
With a smile Mrs. Zimmermann asked, “How is the dear old coot?”
Jonathan gave her a sorrowful look. “Maybe I’d better read the letter to you,” he said. He sat down and turned on the old-fashioned lamp with its pewter base and milk-glass dome. Soft light spilled across the top of the desk, making the room somehow feel a little warmer. Jonathan put on his brown tortoise-shell reading glasses, coughed to clear his throat, and began to read aloud:
Dear Jonathan,
If you have received this letter, then I am dead. Before you read one more line, go and get Florence Zimmermann, because she should be in on this too.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Zimmermann, looking upset. “Lucius is dead? I had no idea he was even ailing. What else does it say?”
Jonathan looked up, irritation showing in his face. “How should I know, Frizzy Wig?” he asked impatiently. “I did just what the letter said and sent for you before I read one more line.”
“Well, read it all, Brush Mush. Time’s a-wasting,” sa
id Mrs. Zimmermann. Although her words were as sharp as ever, Lewis noticed that her voice sounded a little tearful. She took a tissue out of her sweater pocket and wiped her eyes as she sniffled.
Jonathan himself looked weepy-eyed. Clearing his throat again, he read aloud:
Now, please don’t feel sorry for me, you two. I have lived a good long time and have had a full life. In fact, the last few years have been dreary. Age has slowed me down and has made me weak and shaky. To tell the truth, I am looking forward to the Other Side. I have a clear conscience, so I hope it will be to my liking.
On to business. You may know that I have a granddaughter down here in St. Petersburg. She has married a respectable, perfectly ordinary man, and she has no idea that her old granddad is a wizard. That’s where you come in. I have named you, Jonathan, the executor of my estate. Your job is to distribute my property after my death. I am willing all my magical books to you, because you’ll know what to do with them. You’ll have to travel down here to St. Petersburg to do your job, but my estate will pay for the trip, so look on it as a free vacation.
There is one other job to do: I have a collection of amulets and talismans. Some of them are pretty powerful stuff, and some are so evil that they must remain for safekeeping in the hands of a good magician. Since Florence Zimmermann (Hi, Florence. Do you still love purple?) is the best judge I know of such trinkets, please persuade her to come along. The estate will take care of her traveling expenses too, and there is also a small bequest for both of you. I’ve enclosed my lawyer’s card. He will see that you get this letter when I am gone, and he will have further instructions for you. Please give him a telephone call, and he will work out all the details.
That is about all. If I miss anything in the Other World, it will be the friendship of people like you. Think of me now and then and always remember me as your friend.
Lucius Mickleberry
Uncle Jonathan finished reading the letter, folded it, and laid it on his desk. Then he fished a red bandanna from his pocket and blew his nose with a loud honk. “That’s it,” he said. “I have the lawyer’s card. Should we call?”
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. She sighed. “Well, God rest Lucius’s soul. He was a good friend, and I will really miss him.”
“Who was he?” asked Rose Rita.
Jonathan smiled in a sad, reminiscent way. “For one thing, he was the president of the Capharnaum County Magicians Society for about thirty years,” he said. “He was a wizard who could do lots of magic, mostly with the weather. And above all else, he was a good man. When I was still a youngster, Lucius dealt with some pretty nasty sorcery right here in New Zebedee. No one ever found out what he had done—no one except his fellow magicians, that is. It was typical of Lucius that he never claimed any reward or glory for saving the whole town from an awful fate. But that’s a long story, and I’ll tell you about it some other time.”
“Uncle Jonathan,” said Lewis suddenly, “are there witches and warlocks and sorcerers everywhere?”
Mrs. Zimmermann and Jonathan Barnavelt exchanged an amused look. Then Jonathan said, “Well, more in some places than in others. Haggy Face, do you want to explain? You’re the real McCoy here. I’m just a parlor magician.”
Mrs. Zimmermann wiped her eyes one last time. Then she touched her chin with her finger and said, “Well, you see, Lewis, magic is a bit like gold or silver. It doesn’t exist just anywhere. There are places that have veins of magic running through them, just as you find some locations with veins of gold or silver ore. In the United States, there are, oh, maybe a dozen or so places where magic flows more strongly than elsewhere. It just so happens that one of the strongest magic lodes of all is right here in New Zebedee, Michigan, believe it or not.”
“That sounds a little funny, Mrs. Zimmermann. I mean, you don’t really mine magic,” objected Rose Rita. She looked very serious in her long black hair and heavy black-rimmed glasses, and she was a levelheaded, logical girl.
“No,” agreed Mrs. Zimmermann, with a laugh. “You don’t exactly go after it with picks and shovels, but the magical power is here, in the air, so to speak. Oh, don’t get me wrong. A true magician can work his enchantment just about anywhere, but he will do much better when there is a strong current of magic flowing all around to call upon. Then the spells are a lot more powerful and a lot more effective. Of course, some people are more naturally talented at magic than others—”
“Hey, watch it, Pruny Face,” growled Jonathan in mock anger. “Just because you can do real magic and I’m pretty much stuck with creating illusions—”
“Present company excepted, Brush Mush,” replied Mrs. Zimmermann before continuing. “Anyway, some people, like Lucius, could become very powerful magicians here in New Zebedee, while others, like poor old Mildred Jaeger, could never get a spell right to save their lives. Still, in a focus of power like New Zebedee even Mildred could work a little magic, even if it didn’t do exactly what she intended. That is why so many wizards and sorcerers and thaumaturgists gravitate to this town. And that is why people like Lucius Mickleberry’s father began the Capharnaum County Magicians Society more than a hundred years ago. You see, if good magicians can draw on the power, then so can evil ones. So we members of the society are sort of an honor guard. We keep the mystical operations safe and on the level, and we prevent any evil sorcerer from taking advantage of New Zebedee’s magical currents.”
“And in the meantime,” put in Jonathan, “we have meetings and play cards and swap lies about how great we are. So it works out quite well all around. We can protect the earth from evil wizardry, and at the same time we can get in a few games of penny-ante poker and munch on Haggy’s delicious fudge brownies.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Frazzle Face,” said Mrs. Zimmermann with a smile. Then in a quieter voice she asked, “When are you going to call the lawyer?”
“Well, it’s Saturday, but this card has the lawyer’s home telephone number. No time like the present,” Jonathan said as he reached for the phone. After several minutes Jonathan hung up and heaved a great sigh. “Well, Haggy,” he said, “the lawyers acted really fast in mailing me that letter. There will be a memorial service for Lucius the day after tomorrow, and I’d like to attend, if possible.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “So would I.”
“In that case, we’ll have to fly down,” Jonathan said.
Mrs. Zimmermann made a face. Even though she was a witch, she hated the idea of flying. “All right,” she said in a resigned voice. “Make the arrangements. I’ll drive us to the airport, though. I don’t trust that antique clunker of yours to get us there—or your driving either, for that matter.”
“What about me?” Lewis asked in a small voice. “Am I going too?”
His uncle smiled sympathetically. “I think not, Lewis. This job may take a couple of weeks, and you can’t miss that much school.”
“He can stay at my house,” Rose Rita volunteered at once.
“That’s very generous of you, Rose Rita,” Jonathan replied. “However, your mother and dad might not feel very comfortable with that arrangement. I don’t like uninvited guests myself, and I wouldn’t palm one off on your folks. Actually, there shouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Holtz will probably be glad to stay here in the house and keep an eye on everything.” Hannah Holtz was a short, apple-cheeked woman who came in twice a week to help with the housework. She was cheerful, chirpy, and she let Lewis do pretty much anything that didn’t threaten to destroy the house. Like many others in New Zebedee, Mrs. Holtz knew that Jonathan was some kind of magician, although she would have been astonished to learn that he did his tricks with real magic and not with mirrors or with gimmicks concealed in his sleeves. She had stayed with Lewis once before, when Jonathan had business in the Upper Peninsula for a few days. “I’ll call her,” Jonathan said, “if that’s all right, Lewis.”
Lewis smiled. That was one of the many reasons he liked living with his uncle. Jonathan never t
reated him as if he were a child. “Sure,” he said. “That will be fine. Now Rose Rita won’t have to find a new partner for our project.”
Mrs. Zimmermann raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Are you two working on some mysterious experiment? What are you doing, building a rocket to the moon?”
Rose Rita grimaced. “Not really. We have this boring assignment to write a report on some local historical place, person, or event. And the other teams have already taken all the good stuff.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled. “You mean like the Civil War heroes, and New Zebedee’s World War One flying ace Jimmy Margate, and the bombsight factory that was here during World War Two?” He knew Rose Rita’s favorite subjects quite well.
“And even the time that New Zebedee almost became the state capital,” she added. “So we’re trying to find something that’s halfway interesting to work on.”
“Well,” said Jonathan, “I wish I could help, but I’ve got to get busy making arrangements.”
“That’s okay,” said Rose Rita with a smile. “We’ll think of something.”
Mrs. Zimmermann got out of her chair. “I’ll be running along. My pie is not about to bake itself. Good luck, you two. We’ll think about you down in sunny Florida.”
The wind howled outside, and a spatter of sleet clattered against the French windows. It sounded so cold and threatening that Lewis shivered. “Don’t rub it in,” he said.
CHAPTER TWO
Jonathan made the arrangements, and that same afternoon he and Mrs. Zimmermann set off in Mrs. Zimmermann’s bright purple 1950 Plymouth Cranbrook named Bessie. Mrs. Holtz moved into the guest room in the Barnavelt house on High Street, clucking and tutting about poor Mr. Mickleberry, whom she did not even know. Lewis supposed that Mrs. Holtz sympathized just on general principles.
By Monday afternoon Lewis and Rose Rita had yet to come up with something that might be worth researching. As they sat on the sofa with their notebooks on their laps, Lewis remembered that his uncle had once mentioned a forgotten theater right in the heart of New Zebedee. All the shops on Main Street were old and elaborately decorated, and most of them were two-storied. A few had small businesses like a photographer’s studio, an insurance broker, or an employment agency on the second floor. However, the building that housed the five-and-dime and the Farmers’ Feed & Seed Company was different. It was taller than all the other establishments on Main Street and took up half a block. And on the top two floors, Jonathan had once remarked, was the New Zebedee Opera House, which had been closed for ages. Lewis suggested this to Rose Rita as a topic they could research.
The Doom of the Haunted Opera Page 1