The Doom of the Haunted Opera

by John Bellairs

  Somehow Lewis and Rose Rita found themselves in the auditorium, which looked rich and elegant in the warm glow of a sparkling glass chandelier. A red velvet curtain with gold fringe hid the stage, and mournful music rose from the orchestra pit. This music summoned Lewis, and he plodded forward like a sleepwalker until he could look down into the pit.

  The light gleamed off brass horns, dark woodwinds, and satiny violins that were lying on chairs or leaning against them. The grand piano was gone, and in its place stood an imposing organ. A man sat in front of it, his long, spidery fingers flying over the keys as he played the mysterious music. Slowly his head turned. For a moment Lewis was afraid he would see the dead face of the ghost again, but this was a different person, although he was as cadaverous as the ghost had been. He grinned at them. “Check your heads at the hatcheck counter!” he called pleasantly. “We’ll have no whistling cats here. This is Art!”

  As he laughed at his own words, a cloud of black flying things whirled out of his opened mouth. At first Lewis thought they were flies, but they grew larger and larger until they were bats, and they came flapping and squeaking right at him!

  He and Rose Rita turned and ran up the aisle, but it was full of people now, who were shambling forward blindly. Lewis blinked hard. They were all headless! The men’s collars ended with nothing above them. The bejeweled necks of the women were cut off above the pearls and diamonds. Rose Rita screamed.

  The music grew louder and louder behind them. “If you want a tune, you have to pay the piper!” screeched the voice of the organist, and the black cloud of squeaking bats descended on Lewis, driving him to the floor. He lost sight of Rose Rita as he crawled frantically between the legs of the lurching, headless crowd. He had almost made it to the doorway leading to the vestibule when two balls came bouncing toward him.

  Only they weren’t balls. They were the heads of Jonathan Barnavelt and Mrs. Zimmermann, and their faces grimaced in terror. They rolled toward Lewis, their teeth snapping and clicking as if they were going to bite him.

  Lewis scrambled back. Fingers clutched at his hair, and he heard the organist shriek, “Check this for you, sir?” Powerful hands tugged at his head. For a moment his neck seemed to stretch like taffy, and then he heard a sharp pop as everything went black.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  All the rest of that week Lewis had similar horrifying dreams. Rose Rita had a few herself, but she blamed Lewis for them. “If you wouldn’t go on and on about all this creepy stuff, I wouldn’t think about it all the time,” she complained. That made Lewis angry, and the two didn’t speak to each other much until after school on Friday. That was when Miss White planned to play a few selections from the opera score for five or six specially invited guests, as well as for the two friends. When school ended, Lewis hung around, miserable, drained, and tired from the nightmares that kept him awake at night. Jonathan had called again on Thursday afternoon to say that he and Mrs. Zimmermann would need about ten more days to catalog everything and arrange to have it shipped to New Zebedee. Again Lewis kept himself from mentioning his fears. After all, nothing awful had happened, except for his bad dreams.

  And Rose Rita’s. She looked as exhausted as Lewis felt. “Have another one?” he asked cautiously. They liked each other too much to keep the silent treatment up for very long. She sighed.

  The two of them were sitting at the back of the music room, a light and airy place with rows of chairs instead of desks. Music stands stood here and there, and a permanent border around the top of the blackboard showed the music staves and the various markings that went on them. The bass and treble clefs were drawn in yellow and white chalk, along with the musical notations from a full note to an eighth. An upright piano sat in front of the blackboard. The whole room smelled of chalk dust and disinfectant. Rose Rita finally admitted, “I had a bad one last night. I dreamed I was being chased by all these whistling cats that wanted me to teach them the score of The Day of Doom. They chased me right into a long dark tunnel. And then they somehow sealed off both the exits—ugh!”

  Lewis nodded sympathetically. Rose Rita was a lot braver then he was, but a few things terrified her. One was any closed-in space. Rose Rita couldn’t stand being in dark closets or tunnels, and she looked distressed just telling the dream to Lewis. He sighed and said, “Mine wasn’t that bad, I guess. I thought I was in the theater again, watching Harry Houdini and Enrico Caruso do magic tricks while they sang ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’ Then I noticed that everyone around me was a ghost. Mr. Finster, the theater manager, was there, and lots and lots of others too. None of them were looking at the stage. They were all staring at me, and their eyes were round and empty, like Little Orphan Annie’s in the funny papers. Then they all started to whisper to me.”

  “What were they saying?” asked Rose Rita. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she could not keep from yawning.

  “It was hard to tell at first,” said Lewis. “But it kept getting louder until it sounded like the wind on a stormy day. They were all saying, ‘Stop the voices! Stop the voices!’ over and over again. I tried to get up to leave, but I couldn’t move. When I looked down at my body, I had turned into a ghost myself, and I was doomed to sit there in the theater forever.”

  They heard voices in the hall, and a moment later Miss White came in with a group of people. Lewis gulped in surprise. He recognized the portly, white-haired Mr. Davis, the mayor of New Zebedee, and Mr. and Mrs. Paulson, who published the New Zebedee Chronicle. They were a tubby middle-aged couple who looked a lot alike, both with graying black hair and double chins. Fussy Principal Potter was talking to them. There were also two women and two men whom Lewis did not recognize, but Miss White was chatting away to them all. “And,” she said as they stood at the front of the room, “here are our heroes, the ones who made this marvelous discovery. Stand up, Rose Rita and Lewis.”

  Both of them rose, although Lewis, at least, felt foolish doing so. The grown-ups smiled and nodded at them and murmured polite greetings. Then Miss White asked everyone to find a seat. “Feels just like we’re in school again, eh, Letty?” Mr. Paulson asked his wife. She sniffed and did not bother to reply.

  Miss White stood beside the piano. She was tall and thin and wore a tailored gray tweed skirt with a white blouse and a fussy little black bow at the neck. Her hair was a curly reddish-brown, and the teardrop-shaped lenses of her eyeglasses made her look like a cat. “I’ve asked you all here,” she said, “to listen to a few selections from this masterpiece. I believe this magnum opus should be given to the world, and after you have heard a bit of it, I feel sure you will agree with me.”

  She sat at the keyboard, bowed her head for a moment, and then looked up. “This is an aria from Act One of The Day of Doom,” she said.

  Mrs. Paulson sniffed again. “Not a very promising title, Ophelia,” she observed.

  “Oh, but it’s very symbolic,” replied Miss White in an eager voice. “It is all about the passing away of the old rimes of strife and war and hatred and the dawning of a new era of peace and cooperation.”

  “Well, well, let’s hear it, Miss White,” said the mayor. “I am a very busy man, you know, and I’m sure everyone else has other things to do too.”

  “This is the aria. It is called simply ‘The Summoning,’” said Miss White, and she began to play.

  The music started out very delicately, a plaintive, rather monotonous melody. Lewis gave Rose Rita a look that said, What is the big deal? Rose Rita just shrugged in response, raising her eyebrows to show that she didn’t get it either. Gradually the music became stronger and more insistent. Lewis listened to it, but he did not particularly care for it. He was not much of a fan of any kind of music, not even bebop. Occasionally his uncle would tune their big Atwater-Kent radio to musical programs such as “The WLS Barn Dance” or “The Grand Ole Opry,” which played country tunes, cowboy music, and square-dance melodies. They were nothing like the aria that Miss White now performed. Lewis wrinkled up his nos
e. He was bored, and itching to go home.

  He noticed, though, that the adults appeared to like the music a lot. They nodded and even swayed a little in time to the hypnotic beat, and they leaned forward in their chairs as Miss White brought the tune to a crescendo. When she stopped playing, they all applauded heartily. “By golly, Miss White,” said Mayor Davis, “I’ll confess that I didn’t half believe you when you told us how good this thing was, but you were right. This Immanuel Vanderhelm must have been a genius.”

  “Indeed,” said Mrs. Paulson, beaming. “I have seldom heard a more satisfying, yet simple composition. It has all the grace and charm of Mozart, with the esprit of Vivaldi and the élan of Beethoven.”

  “You played good too,” observed her husband.

  “Why, thank you.”

  They all started discussing the best way to make the music public. Mr. Paulson thought that Miss White should just have a recital, but Mr. Davis shook his head at that. “This can be big,” he said, “really big. We might get people in to hear this thing from Osee Five Hills, Kalamazoo, and Ann Arbor if we play our cards right. Why, we could make New Zebedee a tourist attraction.”

  “How?” someone else asked, sounding puzzled.

  “Why, we could put on the show right here in town,” said the mayor. “The Eleemosynary and Cultural League had a lease on the opera house. The League stopped meeting years ago, but there must be three or four of the members still in town. We just get them together, let them vote to reopen the theater, and there you are.”

  “Take a lot of work to get that place back into operating order,” one of the other men said. “And where’s the money comin’ from, Hugo? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  They all started to wrangle then, and Rose Rita tugged Lewis’s arm. The two of them slipped out of the room. “Whew!” said Lewis. “I’ll bet they stay there all night arguing about that stupid opera.”

  “I don’t know,” replied Rose Rita thoughtfully. “The music was kind of pretty.”

  “Ugh,” said Lewis. “Deedle, deedle, doopty-doo! I’d rather hear Jailbird whistling.”

  They went downstairs and opened the side door. The junior high was a black stone building next to the high school, and this door opened out into a narrow alley. The day was cool, but the weather had moderated a little, and the ice and snow that had accumulated in February and early March were melting. The air smelled sharp and a little muddy—the smell of spring coming, Jonathan always said of it. Lewis and Rose Rita walked around to the back of the school to get their bikes.

  “Who’s that?” Rose Rita asked as they rode out of the alley. A man in a long black overcoat stood in front of the school. He wore a black homburg and black leather gloves, and his overcoat had a collar and lapels of some spotted white fur. The man had a neatly trimmed black beard, and he carried a newspaper. Lewis did not recognize him, but he thought the man looked foreign.

  “Children!” the stranger said as he caught sight of them. His voice was hearty and strong. “Maybe you can give me a little help. Is this the school where the students found an old opera score last week?”

  “Sure is,” Rose Rita said. “In fact, we’re the ones who found it. I’m Rose Rita Pottinger, and this is Lewis Barnavelt.”

  “Really?” the man asked with a delighted smile. “How fortunate I met you, then. I understand you were exploring some theater when you made the discovery.”

  “That’s right,” said Rose Rita. “The New Zebedee Opera House. Only it’s been closed for years and years, because Harry Houdini came through once and made a daring escape while handcuffed underwater, and then two boys from town tried it and drowned. Everyone loved those boys, and the town was so sad that they just boarded the old place up.”

  Lewis stared at Rose Rita in shock. He liked her a lot, but she always preferred stories that were dramatic and interesting, and she didn’t mind embroidering them a little to make them sound better. He almost told Rose Rita to knock it off, but he was timid in front of the tall, bearded stranger.

  But the man appeared to take Rose Rita’s story seriously. “My, my, that is dreadful. However, I am very happy that you two bright children discovered that old score. You see, my name is Henry Vanderhelm, and my grandfather wrote the piece.”

  “Immanuel Vanderhelm,” Lewis said. “That was the name on the cover sheet.”

  “Indeed, as you say, Immanuel Vanderhelm, a multi-talented gentleman of considerable renown,” replied the man. “He was, as I am, a singer. Alas, I inherited only a fraction of his great abilities, and my success has been moderate. Still, my father told me many stories of my illustrious ancestor’s wonderful career, and I would dearly love to hear his work.”

  “Well, gee,” Rose Rita said, “you’re in luck. Miss White is inside, and she has the whole score on her piano.”

  “Ah. Perhaps you two would be good enough to take me there?” When the two hesitated, Vanderhelm added coaxingly, “You see, a gentleman cannot simply strike up a conversation with a lady without a proper introduction. I would be grateful if you would introduce us.”

  Lewis swallowed. For some reason he did not much care for the idea of going back into the school. But he could not put his finger on the problem, and so he just nodded.

  “Splendid,” said Vanderhelm. “Lead on! And I hope it doesn’t call for a bicycle, because I left mine at the National House Hotel.” He smiled to show he was joking.

  They went back in the side door and upstairs. As they walked down the hall toward the room, Lewis could hear the adults squabbling. The door was open. Mr. Vanderhelm did not wait for his introduction, but stepped swiftly ahead of Lewis and Rose Rita and entered the room.

  Mr. Paulson was saying, “Hang it, it may be a good idea, but where are we s’posed to get the talent to perform an opera around here?”

  He broke off and fell silent as Mr. Vanderhelm came into the room, his overcoat swirling like a cape. “Perform the opera?” he boomed in his rich voice. “You wish to perform my grandfather’s opera?”

  Miss White rose from her seat at the piano, pressing her hand against her chest and looking as if she were about to faint. Mr. Davis asked, “Your grandfather’s opera? You mean you’re—”

  Vanderhelm bowed with a grand sweep. “I am Henry Vanderhelm, baritone, sir. And I have the honor to be the grandson of the world-famous tenor, musician, and composer Immanuel Vanderhelm. I believe you were discussing my grandfather’s work as I came in?”

  “Uh-oh,” said Mr. Paulson. “There goes our bright idea. I suppose you own the rights to the opera now?”

  Vanderhelm waved a black-gloved hand. “The world owns the right to hear it, sir. Oh, please have no worry on my account. Your enthusiasm for my grandfather’s work fills me with an indescribable pleasure. You wish to perform The Day of Doom in New Zebedee? Wonderful! In fact, I—if you will have one so humble—I myself am prepared to stage, direct, and appear in the work, all at my own expense.”

  Mr. Paulson immediately began to applaud, and everyone joined in. Even Rose Rita clapped. Only Lewis did not join in. He did not clap because something had startled and perplexed him. Lewis was quite sure that Mr. Vanderhelm had been holding a copy of the New Zebedee Chronicle when he and Rose Rita first saw the man. The black overcoat had no pockets. Vanderhelm had not tossed the newspaper into a wastebasket or laid it down anywhere in the room, and yet both his hands were empty.

  Where had the paper gone? It had simply vanished.

  Like a ghost, Lewis thought, and goosebumps rose on his arms.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Mr. Vanderhelm then sang a powerful tune called ‘The Sealing’ from the opera, to general approbation,” read Rose Rita aloud. It was Sunday afternoon, and she and Lewis were sitting at the dining-room table in the Barnavelt house. Mr. Paulson had run a prominent story in the Sunday paper about Henry Vanderhelm and the opera, complete with a large photo of the man himself, looking confident and happy as Miss White and Letty Paulson gazed adoringly at him from ei
ther side.

  “You don’t have to read that,” growled Lewis, who was trying to concentrate on “Dick Tracy” and “Li’l Abner” in the comics. “I was there, remember?”

  Rose Rita rattled the paper and looked over the top of the page at Lewis. Her expression was grim. “So was I—remember? But this is interesting. According to this story, there were a few other developments yesterday, when the city fathers and the school board met with Mr. Vanderhelm. But I guess you’re not interested in news, Mr. Know-It-All.”

  “Rose Rita, I don’t like all this,” muttered Lewis. “I wish we’d never gone into the opera house in the first place. Everything that’s happened since then feels sort of funny. I mean funny weird, not funny ha-ha. I wish Uncle Jonathan was back. He’d know what to do.” He sighed. “I guess we’d better get our math assignment done.”

  “I’m not doing it,” returned Rose Rita smugly.

  “Oh, come on,” said Lewis. “Look, I know you’re mad at me, but let bygones be bygones, okay? Anyway, we have to start on the math now, because Mrs. Holtz insists on going to evening Mass, and I’ll have to tag along for that.”

  “Why do math?” Rose Rita asked sweetly. “There’s no point in it.”

  Lewis glowered at her. “Okay, smarty,” he said. “I’ll do my math homework, and if you have trouble with it, don’t come crying to me.”

  “There’s no point in your doing math either,” Rose Rita informed him with an annoying smile.

  “What are you talking about? Come on, I’m in no mood for all this,” complained Lewis.