Wrath of the Grinning Ghost

by John Bellairs

  Professor Childermass swung the sword. It passed through the space where the creature had stood not a second before. Now it was just empty air. The sword struck sparks from the wall—

  And the professor found himself all alone in the dark. Or had he been struck blind? The darkness was so complete, he could not tell.

  * * *

  Fergie saw them coming for him—a legion of boys bigger and stronger than he was, sneering at him. They wore leather jackets and were pounding their fists into the palms of their hands. "Hey, sissy!" one of them yelled. "Yeah, you! We're gonna pound you good! We're gonna smash you right into th' ground! An' then we're gonna go to your house an' beat up your old man and your mama. How ya like that, baby?"

  "You leave them alone!" screamed Fergie in fear and outrage. "You think you're strong enough to fight me? Just come on, you cheap hoods! But leave my folks alone!"

  "His dad's a failure," another one said with an evil snicker. "He worked for th' same comp'ny twenny years an' only got one promotion! An' his mom's a real slob. She—"

  "Shut up!" Fergie yelled. "Shut up, you!"

  They all laughed at him. The laughter hit him like a million tiny daggers, plunging into him, piercing his defenses, and letting all his courage pour out. He sank to his knees, sobbing.

  "Crybaby!" the hoods began to chant as they encircled him. "Crybaby, crybaby!"

  Fergie groaned. They were right. He had always tried to act tough, but he was soft inside. And he had been ashamed of his family. When he was little, they had been so poor. And his father was such a meek man, and his mother was so thin and worried all the time—

  "It was just a front, huh, tough guy?" asked a snarling voice. Fergie looked up. A skeleton stood in front of him, a skeleton wearing a studded leather jacket. Its face was like that of a mummy, bone beneath a drum-tight layer of withered yellow skin. Its grin was sardonic and evil, and red hatred smoldered in the depths of its hollow eye sockets. "All that athletic ability and all that tough talk. You're nothin' but a sissy, Ferguson! In fact, you're nothin' at all!"

  Fergie felt like sinking into the ground. But then, deep inside himself, he found a hot red spark of anger. He concentrated on it, and it burst into flames.

  With a wordless roar, Fergie sprang to his feet. "Come on!" he bellowed. "Yah, you talk big, but come on! Let's see whatcha got, you bag o' bones! You think you can take me? Give it a try, baby! Just give it a try!"

  With a shout, the hoods leaped at him. Fergie fought back with fists and feet, punching and kicking wildly. None of his blows connected. They went right through his enemies, and they popped like soap bubbles until only the skeleton was left standing. Fergie stood exhausted and panting.

  "You are mine," said the skeleton, its mesmerizing, evil smile becoming wider. "I think I shall take away your mind and leave you a thrashing, babbling hulk! Come in, fool! Come into the Palace of Dreadful Night!"

  And immediately, Fergie found himself in utter darkness. "Johnny?" he shouted, absolutely terrified. "Professor?"

  The endless night swallowed up his words. It swallowed him.

  * * *

  Johnny fled from everything he had ever been afraid of. Enormous insects pursued him, hopping, flopping, moaning, buzzing, their terrible scratchy legs scrabbling the ground. People with their jaws locked open ran bawling after him, trying to infect him with tetanus. Formless things screeched and gibbered, their blobby bodies blossoming with eyes, with gaping mouths, with clutching claws that dissolved immediately.

  He was among the endless pillars, towers, and turrets of the castle. He screamed as he ran, feeling ashamed of his own cowardice. But he could not, he could not stand and face those frightful things. Somehow he saw a doorway right in front of him, a high, sharply arched opening. He barreled through it, into the dark.

  And there was light.

  It was dim, it was pale, and it came from far ahead, but it was blessed, welcome light. Johnny staggered toward it on legs that almost refused to carry him. He could not stop gulping and panting.

  He blundered into his father's hospital room.

  "Dad!" yelled Johnny.

  His father opened his eyes. They were horrible. They were black pools, just like the vision he had seen.

  "You let me die," his father said.

  Johnny sank to the floor, unable to stand up. "No," he said weakly.

  "Yes!" said Major Dixon. "And because you are such a sniveling coward, your grandmother and grandfather will die! And Father Higgins! And Sarah, your friend! And it's all your fault! All yours!"

  Johnny could not stand it. He screamed in agony. And then he heard the monstrous, evil laughter.

  The figure in the bed stood, and it became the grinning ghost of Damon Boudron. "Fool!" it shouted in triumph. "Pitiful fool! Don't you even realize what has happened? I have your father's soul captive here, in my palace. But he would not surrender to me! So I lured you here—you and those meddling friends of yours! Now they will die, and you will watch as they do. And then I will give your wretched father a simple choice: Bow to me, or watch me torture you to madness, death, and even worse. Which choice will he take, do you think? Will the brave Major Dixon sacrifice himself for his only son? Of course he will! You have given the universe to me, John Dixon! I have won!"

  The frightful fiend strode closer and closer. It reached out a bony hand to grasp Johnny's arm. He could stand it no longer. Johnny fainted dead away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Johnny?"

  Johnny opened his eyes. It was his father's voice. But he could see only darkness. "D-Dad?"

  The major's voice was unbearably weary: "He told me you were here."

  "I c-came to help you, Dad. I'm so s-sorry."

  For a long time Johnny was afraid that his father was gone. Then, his tired, tortured voice once more broke the silence: "That's all right, Old Scout."

  Johnny lay on a cold stone floor. He pushed himself up and groped with his hands. He had a terror now of tumbling into a deep hole, like the one in Edgar Allan Poe's story "The Pit and the Pendulum." And there were rats in that story too, and red-hot walls. Johnny groaned. Was there nothing that he wasn't afraid of?

  "Johnny?"

  Another voice, from far away. "P-Professor?"

  "Hang on," said the professor's voice. "I've given up cigarettes, but I still have my faithful Nimrod lighter."

  A glimmer of light! "I see you!" Johnny yelled. "Dad? Where are you?"

  "I don't know," said his father. "I can't move, anyway. You go, Johnny. Get away from this terrible place."

  "Not without you," replied Johnny. He struck out for the little spark of light. "I'm coming, Professor," he shouted.

  From a long way off, Fergie yelled, "Me too, Prof!"

  "Hurry!" called Professor Childermass. "This thing burns fuel like crazy!"

  Fergie and Johnny reached the professor at almost the same instant. The old man let his lighter go out, but in the dark he threw an arm around each boy's shoulders. "I thought we were all goners," he said. "Now where are we? And what's the next step?"

  "Prof, where's Brewster?" asked Fergie. "Seems to me we need light right now, an' one of his tricks is to shed light on any situation."

  "Brewster!" called Professor Childermass. "Did you hear that?"

  A moment later a pink glow surrounded them. Brewster himself was invisible, but his raspy voice said sullenly, "I'm in the soup with you now. Here's your light. Not that I think it will help much!"

  Johnny looked around. They seemed to be in a vast

  cavern, so big that neither walls nor ceiling was visible. The floor they stood on was a dead flat black. Really, all they could see was each other.

  "Any suggestions, Brewster?" asked the professor.

  "Just one," returned Brewster's voice. "Remember, Nyarlat-Hotep has taken on material form from your world. What is material can be destroyed. But watch out! He will try to terrify you by throwing your worst fears right back at you!"

  "Tell me ab
out that," groused Fergie. "So what do we do about it?"

  Slowly, Johnny said, "I think we have to get rid of all our fear. We have to concentrate on things that will keep that out of our mind. Things like, well, our friendship. And our families."

  "Right you are," said the professor. "Well, kiddies, it's time to find our playmate. Let's go!"

  They walked carefully through the darkness, surrounded by a moving pool of pink light provided by Brewster. Before long they came to a double row of pillars, each one about fifteen feet high. They were thin, with Corinthian crowns, and atop each one perched a human skull. The professor counted them. "Twelve," he declared fiercely. "It's plain that this is Boudron's trophy room. These are the remains of his first twelve sacrifices. Let's see what we can do about this." He shoved at one of the pillars. "Give me—umph!—a little help here, please!"

  Johnny and Fergie put their shoulders to the pillar. It was made of what felt like corroded iron. After two hard shoves it fell over, crashing into the next pillar. That one hit the next in line, like a row of dominoes, until six had collapsed with an unholy clatter. Then they overthrew the columns on the right. "Okay," panted Fergie. "What did that do?"

  "It made me feel better!" roared the professor. "Now, let's see what is at the top of that stairway!"

  "What stairway?" asked Johnny, but then he saw it. Just past the place where the last pillars had toppled, a huge staircase began. The stairs had to be a hundred feet broad, and they climbed up into empty darkness. The three began to ascend.

  It seemed to take forever. Johnny's legs felt dead. Finally he stumbled against the professor and realized they were no longer climbing. "Oh, saints of mercy!" muttered the professor. "Don't look, Johnny!"

  But it was too late. With a cry of horror, Johnny saw what lay ahead. In a lurid wash of red light, he could see a wall. A wall made up of black stone, with the bones and skulls of human beings embedded in it. And in the center of the red light, like a performer on some gruesome stage, was Johnny's father.

  He had become part of that wall. His anguished face showed, and one of his arms. Part of one leg and one foot. His face was cheek by jowl beside a bare skull. Slimy slugs crept over his forehead and his bare arm. His face was seamed with marks of suffering.

  "Johnny," he said with a groan. "Go away! Go home!"

  Johnny ran forward. He swatted at the loathsome creeping things. "We've come to save you, Dad!" he said.

  Evil laughter echoed. The professor and Fergie clustered close to Johnny. They looked all around. Then the professor said, "There you are, you fiend!" He drew his sword and charged.

  Johnny whirled. He saw the skeletal form of Damon Boudron standing at the edge of the red light. The professor took a terrific swashing blow with his Knights of Columbus sword. The ghost held up a bony hand and struck at the swishing blade. With a crack and a clang, the sword broke to pieces.

  Professor Childermass staggered, staring at the hilt and its four inches of remaining blade. "Drat!" he said. "That is the second one of these things I have broken!"

  The grinning ghost stepped closer, and the old man fell back. "I will reduce you to madness," purred the spook. "I will strike you blind and deaf! I will cause all the indignities and weaknesses of old age to descend on you in one second! And then your body shall die, and your soul shall become my servant!"

  Johnny felt electricity in the air. His hair moved as if it were floating. Blue sparks crackled all around him. The ghost was raising its arms, as if about to cast some dire spell.

  Then Johnny noticed that Fergie had dropped to all fours. Like a scuttling crab, he hustled to a position behind the walking skeleton. Johnny realized what Fergie was doing. It was an ancient school yard trick!

  The professor realized it too. He cowered back, shielding his face with his hands. "No! No! Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?" he screeched. "Take the children! Oh, I am so frightened!"

  The grisly creature paused, as if puzzled. Its hands, with sparks boiling off them like flashes from a Roman candle, hesitated. "I do not feel your fear," the monster said.

  "Feel this!" bellowed the professor, and he gave the walking skeleton a huge shove right in the center of its chest.

  With an outraged scream of surprise, the monster stumbled back—and tripped over the crouching Fergie! It clattered to the floor, then leaped up with surprising speed.

  "Rolling block, Dixon!" hollered Fergie.

  Johnny threw himself to the floor and did a barrel roll into the skeletal legs. For a second time the horrible specter staggered back, snarling. But this time it was at the head of the huge stair. It fell down into darkness.

  "Pursue him!" called the voice of Brewster.

  He did not need to encourage the three. Yelling like maniacs, they clattered down the stairway, just in time to see the skeleton crash to the floor. In a flash of blue light, the skull rolled off.

  "We did it!" shouted Fergie. "We knocked his block off!"

  "Look out!" Johnny screamed.

  The skeleton had somehow re-formed itself. Except this time it was not a skeleton at all. It was a snarling tiger, crouching to spring!

  "Transmigration!" the voice of Brewster screeched. "He must drink the water of Lethe!"

  The professor fumbled in his pocket, and Johnny reached for his own corked vial. But the tiger was springing! It struck the professor and bore him down on the stairway, its great jaws open to clamp on the old man's neck!

  "No!" cried Johnny. Then he saw the professor's hands jerk convulsively. A flame leaped forward. The old man had pulled not the bottle of water, but his lighter, from his pocket.

  The tiger howled as the jet of fire struck its open mouth. It turned its head from the searing heat. With a stench of burning hair, its fur began to blaze, and it leaped away from the professor, clawing at its face.

  Fergie danced around the creature, holding his bottle of water. The tiger's fur seemed to catch fire like tinder. Leaping, billowing flames enveloped it. Fergie darted forward, but a sudden vicious swipe of a burning paw hit him, sending him sprawling. His bottle of water shattered off into the darkness.

  The tiger threw its head back and howled. Then it collapsed, with a surge of fire and black smoke!

  "Not yet!" said Brewster. "It isn't dead! It's changing form!"

  The charred body of the tiger burst apart, and from it crawled a horror. Johnny's mind whirled. He felt faint.

  A scorpion scuttled toward him—a scorpion at least two feet long, its curved, deadly tail glistening in the light from the still-burning remains of the tiger. A drop of poison hung on the tip of that sting. With fatal purpose, the monstrous creature headed straight for Johnny. Its lobsterlike pincers snapped furiously. Johnny backed away, tripped, and fell on his back. He felt the legs of the scorpion gripping his jeans, felt the weight of the thing clambering up his chest, saw the quivering sting rise to strike—

  Slash! The professor swung the sword hilt, with its few remaining inches of blade! The steel snicked through the tail, and the poisonous sting spun away, cut clean off! Johnny cried out in disgust as the bleeding stump of the tail stabbed with impotent fury against his cheek and throat.

  Fergie had crawled to help. He stuck his hand beneath the nasty body and flipped it off Johnny's chest. "You're nothin' but a bug now!" he bellowed. "An' Byron Q. Ferguson steps on bugs!"

  The scorpion's thrashing body landed—splat!—on the stone, and true to his word, Fergie staggered up, leaped, and landed with both feet right in the center of the thing's back. With a sickening crack and splurt, the enormous arachnid body burst apart.

  "The water!" screeched Brewster from somewhere in the darkness. "You must use the water!"

  "On what?" asked Fergie, looking at the runny, burst ruin of the scorpion.

  "There!" yelled Professor Childermass. "I see something dark—it's scuttling away!"

  A black shape swooped down from the air, a beak stabbed downward, and suddenly the form of Brewster stood before them, clutch
ing something in the tip of his beak. "The water!" he bawled.

  A high, insectlike voice shrieked, "You dare not! You cannot! I command you! I, Nyarlat-Hotep, call my minions!"

  With shaking hands Johnny pulled his own vial of Lethe water from his pocket. He popped out the cork. In the darkness all around, he heard snarls, growls, and howls. Awful creatures were coming! He could smell their foul breath, could hear the scrape of misshapen hooves and claws on the stone—

  "For Dad!" he shouted. "The water of Lethe!"

  Brewster took a birdlike hop toward him and held out his beak. "Here! Hold it still!"

  The insect voice screamed, "No! Nooooo!"

  Brewster opened his beak, and something small dropped into the bottle. "Cork!"

  Johnny jammed the cork in. Pandemonium howled all around.

  Fergie grabbed the vial. "Shake well!" he said, and he shook the vial so vigorously that Johnny couldn't even see it. It was just a blur.

  The sounds grew to an unbearable pitch. The professor sank to his knees, his hands pressed over his ears. Johnny ground his teeth together. Fergie staggered—

  Then an awful hush fell.

  And the world began to melt.

  "Dad!" shouted Johnny.

  "He's not here!" Brewster said. "Follow me!"

  Light ahead. They ran, crawled, stumbled toward it! And then somehow they were on the gray plain, and they had the impression of vast forms fleeing on all sides, sinking into the ground, soaring into the heavens, their wails fading, fading.

  The Palace of Dreadful Night flowed, twisted, shrieked as it collapsed. As its great form toppled toward them, Johnny began to scream out an Our Father. He was sure he would die in the next second.

  But then the falling mass faded to vapor. The vapor trailed away.

  "And leave not a wrack behind," said the professor, his voice shaky. "Did the water work?"