The Curse of the Blue Figurine

by John Bellairs

  Have you seen the ghost of John?

  Long white bones and the flesh all gone?

  Oh, ooooh-ohhhhh!

  Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?

  Johnny was not in such a jolly mood. He would have liked to be, but he couldn't manage it. He was staring intently at the great mass of shadow on the right side of the Unitarian church. Mr. Beard had walked out of that darkness last Saturday night. Try as he might, Johnny just couldn't persuade himself that Mr. Beard was imaginary. Yet the professor had told him that Mr. Beard didn't exist. Dr. Melkonian had told him this too. And now, here in the park, the professor was singing silly songs and making fun of ghostly fears. Johnny asked himself why he couldn't let go of his lingering fear and be cheerful too.

  The rain kept pouring down. Now the wind began to blow, and Johnny felt rain slashing across his legs. A hard gust hit them, and the professor staggered sideways.

  "Drat!" growled the professor as he pulled the umbrella back over their heads. He turned and looked at Johnny, who was still peering anxiously this way and that. "Look, John," he said in a more gentle tone, "we ought to be getting on home. Nothing is going to happen here, believe me. Nothing except that we might go to sleep on our feet. I'm an old geezer, and these late hours are not for the likes of me." He yawned hugely and flapped his hand against his mouth. "Let's head for home. How about it? Eh? Are you with me?"

  Johnny nodded. They trotted off down the long sidewalk that ran diagonally across the little park. They paused at the curb, and a car whooshed past. Its taillights stained the pavement red. As they started across the street Johnny glanced back, one more time, over his shoulder. Nobody there. Why couldn't he be calm? Why couldn't he heave a deep sigh of relief? Well, he couldn't. Johnny felt nothing but foreboding, the fear of someone who is waiting for something to happen.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On a bright but chilly day in June, Johnny was sitting in the front seat of the professor's mud-spattered maroon Pontiac. They were zooming along on U.S. 3, which winds north into the White Mountains. Johnny felt happy. He was eating Planters peanuts out of a can, and he was gaping this way and that. They were in the mountains, in the mountains at last. For some time they had driven through rather blah, ordinary, slightly hilly country. Then in the distance Johnny began to see rumpled blue shapes. Now they were among those shapes. Great humped masses rose above the road. Trees marched up the sides of the mountains or bristled on their ridges—pines and maples for the most part, with here and there the startling white fork of a birch tree.

  Crags and horns of stone topped some of the mountains or jutted from their sides. Here and there the masses of trees would part, and dizzyingly high on the side of a mountain, Johnny would see a slanting green pasture and wonder if animals or people could ever get to such a place.

  Johnny was entranced. Growing up on Long Island, he had never seen mountains, except in pictures and in movies. Now here he was.

  The professor darted a quick glance at his companion. "Well, are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.

  Johnny nodded. He was sublimely happy. The sense of foreboding that had hung over him for days had finally passed away.

  He had had three more sessions with Dr. Melkonian, and finally, after a lot of thought, he had become convinced—well, more or less convinced—that Mr. Beard was a product of his imagination. "Insufficient grievement" was the phrase Dr. Melkonian had used when he was explaining Johnny's problem. It was a pretty highfalutin term, but what it meant in plain English was that Johnny had not cried enough over the death of his mother. This, together With the other changes that had taken place in his life, had caused Johnny to see and hear things that weren't there. All these horrors and hallucinations were behind him now. The "magic" ring was in his desk drawer. The blue figurine was over at the professor's house. And right now the only question in Johnny's mind was, when do we eat?

  He asked it aloud: "Hey, Professor! When are we gonna eat?"

  The professor smiled secretively. "When we get there. And if you want to know where 'there' is, I won't tell you. So shut up and look at the scenery and munch your peanuts."

  Johnny sighed. They had been driving since eight in the morning, and now it was one thirty. Even with the peanuts his stomach was rumbling. But he knew the professor well enough to know that pestering wouldn't help. He would just have to wait.

  They drove on, through Franconia Notch, a gap in the mountains, and into the little village of Franconia. Then they came to the Gale River, a cheerful, sparkly little stream that ran noisily over a bed of smooth white stones. They crossed a green iron bridge that had flower boxes hanging on it, and they crawled up and down some steep hills. At last they came to a place high up in the mountains where a sprawly white farmhouse stood. Next to it was a building that looked like a large shed. It was covered with shaggy bark, and tacked to the front of the building were crooked letters that spelled POLLY'S PANCAKE PARLOR. Johnny and the professor went in, and they gorged themselves. They ordered the All You Can Eat Waffle Special, which meant that the waitress kept bringing you buckwheat or corn-meal waffles until you couldn't stuff in one more single delicious syrup-soaked crumb. Then they stumbled outside to stare at the Presidential Range, Mount Washington, Mount Jefferson, and the others. They sat on a green bench for a while and talked while an enormous elm tree rustled overhead. And then they climbed back into the car and drove on to do more sight-seeing.

  At the end of the day, tired and sunburned and happy, the two travelers found themselves standing outside a motel called Hag View Cottages. It was really a rather nice motel, in spite of its sinister name. Each cottage was a miniature house, with a steep green shingled roof and a little brick fireplace and a teeny-tiny screened porch. The name of the place came from the big tourist attraction in the area: the Hag. The Hag was a curious rock formation high up on the side of Hellbent Mountain. If you looked at the mass of shelving rock from the correct angle, you saw the face of an old witch. People came from all over the country to gape at the Hag and take pictures of it and buy souvenirs in the various gift shops in the area. Everything for miles around was named for the Hag: there were the Hag Kumfy Kabins, there was the Haggis Baggis Bar and Grill, there was Hag Lake, and there was Hagtooth Harry's Bear Ranch, featuring trained bears that did all sorts of fascinating tricks. Johnny and the professor had visited all the attractions and had seen the bears and had prowled through gift shops. They had slogged along wilderness trails and had sipped water from mountain streams. Now they were tired, just incredibly tired, and all they wanted to do— for the time being—was rest.

  "Nice evening, eh?" said the professor. He gazed placidly off across the road at Hellbent Mountain, which towered above them, a massive, dark presence. The late sunlight touched the horn of rock at the top with reddish fire. Birds rustled in a nearby tree, settling themselves for the night. In the deep blue of the evening sky a black bar of cloud hung.

  Johnny was about to say something by way of response when the professor let out a loud exclamation.

  "Drat! Double drat with cream and sugar! I'm out of cigarettes!" He held up the black Balkan Sobranie box and flapped the lid. "Now, where am I going to get cigarettes at this time of night? Hmmm? Tell me that!"

  "How about the gift shop across the road?" Johnny suggested. "I thought I saw some cigarettes in there. Up in front, behind the cash register."

  The professor was amused. He had almost gotten thrown out of the gift shop across the road. He had been criticizing the souvenirs, laughing at them and calling them "trash" and "rubbish." And he had done his criticizing in a rather loud voice. The lady who ran the shop, a persnickety sort of woman with chains on her glasses and a permanent frown on her face, had glowered at him a lot; finally she had told him that if he didn't like her stuff, he could keep his opinions to himself.

  "Hmh!" snorted the professor. He squinted across the road. "My eyes are not good for distance, John. Tell me, does it look like the place is still open?"


  Johnny nodded. "I think so. I mean, the light in the window is still on."

  The professor heaved a deep pull-yourself-together-and-prepare-for-the-worst sigh. "Very well," he said resignedly. "If I must, I must. If you hear a loud crash, that will be the lady breaking one of her cheap souvenir lamps over my noggin. I'll be back in a minute." And he set out for the road with quick, purposeful strides.

  Johnny watched him go. He felt a sudden pang of fear, fear of being left alone. Then he laughed. Imaginary ghosts, Father Baart, hallucinations—all that was in the past. He was okay now. Nothing could hurt him. He turned and started walking back toward the cottage, whistling softly to himself. As he went his footsteps crunched on the gravel path. Some of the cottages were lit; others were not. Out in front of one a car was parked, and a man was lifting luggage out of the trunk. Johnny walked on. Even though all the cottages looked alike, the one he and the professor were staying in was not hard to find. It was the one on the very end. Ah. Here he was. The yellow insect light burned over the door. And the professor had left one of the lamps burning, so the place had a homey look. Johnny looked up at the darkening sky, took a deep breath, and went inside.

  But he had barely stepped through the door when he had the sudden, creepy, alarming feeling that something was wrong. What was it? He looked nervously this way and that. His suitcase lay open on his bed, just as he had left it. The professor's shirts were draped over the back of the armchair, but there was nothing frightening about that. What could it be? What had upset him?

  And then he noticed. There was a small black book lying open on the bureau.

  Johnny stared. He knew what the book was: It was a Gideon Bible. There is a society called the Gideons, and they put Bibles in hotel and motel rooms all over America. The professor had explained all this to Johnny when they found the Bible in the top drawer of the bureau. But then the professor had put the Bible back in the drawer. Johnny remembered seeing him do this. So what was the book doing out where it was?

  Johnny drew closer to the bureau. The book was propped open with one of the professor's silver-backed hairbrushes. Johnny saw that the Bible was open to the twelfth chapter of Saint Paul's Epistle to the Romans. And he saw that part of the nineteenth verse had been underlined in red ink:

  Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  Johnny stared. The words seemed to squirm and writhe before his eyes. He felt cold all over. Those words were well known to him: They were part of the warning note that Father Baart had put into the black book. Johnny felt creepy, cold panic growing in his mind. Everything had been so peaceful, so happy all day. He had been having so much fun, and now... well, these words were like a lump of ice that had been placed suddenly in his hand. He was frightened and startled. And he felt very alone.

  When the professor got back to the cottage, he was smoking a Murad, which was like a Balkan Sobranie only smellier. Slam went the screen door. The professor looked vaguely around, and he was brought up short by the sight of Johnny. Johnny was sitting, rigid and deathly silent, on the edge of his bed. It didn't take too many smarts to tell that Johnny was scared out of his wits.

  "My God!" exclaimed the professor, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. "What on earth is the matter with you?"

  Johnny didn't answer. He raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the bureau. The professor gaped at Johnny uncomprehendingly. Then he stepped quickly to the bureau and examined the book. Still, the professor was mystified.

  "I don't get it," he said, turning to Johnny again. "I mean, is this some kind of game, or what? Did you underline these words?"

  With an effort Johnny managed to speak. "I... I didn't do... it. The... the ghost must've."

  "Oh, ghost my foot!" exclaimed the professor angrily. "I thought we were through with ghosts!" Immediately the professor was sorry that he had exploded at Johnny. He saw the hangdog, miserable look on Johnny's face, and he cursed himself for having such a rotten temper.

  "I'm sorry, John," he said gently. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I can see that you're upset—very upset. But all I see here are some words underlined in red. Now, they're certainly threatening words, but..."

  The professor's voice trailed away. Suddenly he had remembered. "Oh, I see! And you think... no, no, it's just not true! These words here, about vengeance, they're really rather famous words. And people are always underlining passages in Bibles. Especially Gideon Bibles. They're kind of... well, they're common property, like the soap and the towels in the bathroom. This is nothing to get upset about, really it isn't!"

  Again Johnny tried to speak. He was so upset that it was hard for him, but he managed it. "But... Professor! The... the book was propped open there when I came in. It wasn't like that before!"

  The professor frowned. He bit his lip and thought. "Hmm. Well then, if what you say is true, this is a serious matter. But it doesn't have anything to do with spooks and specters. No. There's some fruitcake on the loose, some nut who runs into motel rooms and leaves threatening notes. Don't you see? That's what's happened."

  Johnny tried hard to convince himself that the professor's explanation was the right one. While he was struggling with his thoughts the professor went over to the door and peered out into the night.

  "I should've locked this door when we went out," he muttered. "But I didn't think there'd be anything to worry about way up here. Well, I'll lock the door tonight, and put the chain on too. Will that make you feel better?"

  Johnny nodded. He was calmer now. The panic he had felt before was draining away. "Are you sure it's just some nutty guy?" he said at last.

  The professor chuckled. "No. No, I'm not sure. It might be some nutty woman. But whoever it is, it's a flesh-and-blood kook, and not a ghostly one. Get Father Baart out of your mind, please, and let's settle down to a game of chess before we hit the sack. How about it? Eh?"

  Johnny smiled and nodded. The professor went to his suitcase and got out his peg chess set. He set the game up on a little low table and moved the lamp on the bureau over so they could see to play. Johnny got a stool to sit on, and the professor perched on the edge of his bed. The professor lit another Murad, and Johnny ate some of the maple-flavored chocolate creams that he had bought earlier in the day. They started moving pieces, and the game got under way.

  The first game went to the professor. He used the Nimzo-Indian Defense, which Johnny had not yet learned to overcome. But Johnny came roaring back in the second game, and halfway through he was up by two pawns, a bishop, and a knight. Then fatigue set in. It had been a long, tiring day, and now Johnny was feeling the effects. His eyelids kept closing, and his head began to sag forward. The professor was sleepy too. He started to yawn, and he yawned and he yawned. Finally he burst out laughing.

  Johnny blinked. "What's so funny?" he asked sluggishly.

  "Us!" said the professor, grinning. "We're both so socked that we can hardly stay awake, and yet we keep hacking away at each other in this game as if we were Nimzovich and Alekhine. Let's call it a day, eh? I'll put the set up on the bureau, and we can finish the slaughter tomorrow. What d'you say? Hmm?"

  Johnny thought this was a great idea. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas. The sheets felt icy cold on his feet when he climbed into bed, but they soon felt warmer. He stretched his weary legs out, and the feeling of relaxation was delicious. Johnny sighed happily. The little window over his head was open, and through it he could hear the pines hissing in the wind. Across the room he could see a tiny red dot of fire as the professor smoked his last cigarette of the day. Soon he too would be in bed asleep. Johnny felt himself sinking down, down, down into warm furry darkness. His eyes closed, and he was asleep.

  Night lay over the little cluster of green-roofed cottages. Now dark clouds came rushing in to cover the stars, and it rained. Wet drops pattered on the slanted roofs and on the gravel path. It rained for half an hour, a heavy pelting downpour. Then the clouds, driven by a strong wind,
blew on past over the ragged top of Hellbent Mountain, and the stars shone down once more. Inside the cabin Johnny and the professor slept on. The chain lock and the sliding steel bolt held the door fast. But what was this? A tiny tinkling sound, and the chain fell from its groove. Now the bolt moved slowly, silently back. And the door of the cabin opened. A dark hunched shape stepped inside. Its body was a mass of shadows, but its face was lit by a pale, trembling light. The face was that of an old man with a heavy, overhanging forehead, a jutting chin, a hawkish nose, and deep-set, burning eyes. Long sheaves of whitish hair hung down from the balding dome of the head. And the smile on the man's curled lips was evil and unearthly.

  The shape paused just inside the door. It turned this way and that, as if doubtful about what to do next. Then it raised a shadowy hand, and suddenly, on Johnny's pillow, there appeared a yellow dot of light. It was the ring, the ring made from the bent nail. It had been locked up, safe and sound, in Johnny's bureau. But it was here now. Johnny slept on, but his hand crawled up onto the pillow, inching slowly forward, till the third finger of his left hand was thrust through the hollow circle of the ring. And now Johnny sat up. His face was lit by a pale light, and though his eyes were open, he did not seem to be awake. Slowly, moving stiffly and mechanically like a robot, he stood up, and began walking across the floor toward the door. The dark hunched form moved away, out through the open doorway, and Johnny followed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The professor slept on, but his sleep was uneasy. He was tossing and turning and moaning, and muttering words aloud from time to time. The professor was dreaming, and in his dream he was a boy again, and he was back in the little white schoolhouse where he had learned his lessons long, long ago. Up in the front of the room was his old teacher, Miss Vary. She was wearing her usual floor-length dress and stiff starched blouse with ruffles at the cuffs. On her head was a bun of gray hair, and on her face was a frown. She was frowning because young Roddy Childermass could not answer the question she had asked him. To make things easier, she had even written the answer on the blackboard. But he couldn't read the answer. It was all blurry and out of focus. Now Miss Vary, her lips barely moving, asked the question again: How could... Johnny... Dixon...