Wrath of the Grinning Ghost

by John Bellairs

  "Pour it out," suggested Brewster.

  Fergie uncorked the vial and emptied the water on the ground. A small black shape lay curled in a ball for a moment. Then it straightened and painfully crawled away.

  "An ant?" asked Fergie.

  "Just an ant," said Brewster. "An ant with no memory of having been Damon Boudron or a grinning ghost or Nyarlat-Hotep. An ant that starts now to work its way back up to something that might one day, in a million years or so, have a dim kind of thought in its head." After a moment Brewster coughed. "I'll try to watch over him from now on and keep him out of mischief. He is my brother."

  "Where's Dad?" asked Johnny.

  Brewster bowed his head. "His spirit was released at the same time you heard the others go," he said. "It has returned to earth, to his body. But it is not whole. The things Nyarlat-Hotep did to him here will have broken your father's mind. Unless help comes, he will be insane for the rest of his life."

  Johnny began to cry. He could not help it.

  "I'm sorry," said Brewster. "I am so sorry."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dr. Coote and Father Higgins were frantic. Their friends had vanished, along with the book that was their gateway to the strange world of the spirits. How could they get them back?

  Biting his lip, Dr. Coote said, "Father Higgins, you say the most powerful prayers you know. I will recite an ancient magic ritual that is supposed to call spirits from the vasty deep."

  "But will they come when you do call them?" asked Father Higgins with a grimace. "Very well. I have no idea of anything else that might help, so let's try it."

  For fifteen minutes, they did. And then something happened: The air shimmered with a lovely, pearly radiance. A fog formed. And when it dissolved, there stood Johnny, Fergie, and the professor, looking much the worse for wear. They were exhausted, muddy, weeping, scratched, and bruised, but they were all alive.

  "We have to get to the hospital!" said Professor Childermass. "And on the double!"

  They all piled into Father Higgins's big Oldsmobile, and he drove them to the hospital, running every stoplight along the way. Father Higgins pulled the car up on the sidewalk right in front of the doors, and they climbed out and rushed inside.

  Johnny skidded to a halt. He saw his grandfather ahead of him, and he looked terrible, his face a mask of anguish. "Grampa!" yelled Johnny. "Grampa, is Dad—"

  His grandfather hugged him. "Oh, Johnny, it's awful! He came to, but he's screamin' and screamin' like a crazy person! He doesn't recognize us, an' he thinks horrible monsters are after him!"

  The professor and the others looked at each other with helpless frustration. "Can I see him?" asked Johnny.

  His grandfather burst into tears. "No, Johnny, he wouldn't want you to see him like this. It's better if y' don't. The doctors gave Kate a shot to calm her down, an' they're tryin' to get some sedatives into Harrison too, but—"

  Professor Childermass put his hand on Grampa's shoulder. "Henry," he said, "let's at least go up to the waiting room."

  They did. Praying, comforting each other, or just sitting quietly, they waited for hours. From the room down the hall, they could hear horrible sounds, the sounds of Major Dixon's shrieks and screams and pleas for mercy. At last the professor went down the hall, peeked in the room, and then walked into a stairwell. He put his hand to his face. "Brewster," he said. "Brewster, are you there?"

  "Here," came the raspy voice.

  "For God's sake, do something," pleaded the professor. "We saved your world. You can at least help us now."

  "I can't," said Brewster, sounding as if he too were on the verge of tears. "I would if I could, but I simply cannot. What you ask is beyond human help, and beyond mine. I am so sorry."

  The professor stood there, feeling angrier and angrier. It wasn't fair! Johnny had risked his life—had risked more than his life. It just wasn't fair at all!

  He heard slow footsteps climbing toward him. With his blood pressure and his anger rising, he drew himself up. He would tell off whoever this was, but good! It might not help, but it would make him feel better.

  But then an old woman climbed into view. The professor's jaw dropped. "Madam Lumiere?" he asked.

  She gave him a weak, tired smile. "We have all been busy," she said. She came to his level and stood a few steps away from him. "One drop," she said. "One drop in a thousand drops. And then one drop of that. To forget is to heal. To heal is to forget."

  "Wh-what?" asked the professor.

  "One drop of one drop in a thousand drops," whispered the old woman. And then she began to glow.

  The professor almost dropped to his knees in astonishment. The old woman stood straight. Pure light streamed out of her. The years fell away, and she became an unearthly creature, womanlike, but not like any living woman. She had a proud, disdainful face, a face that was ageless. She was cold and bright and beautiful. And her beauty was terrible. She gave him a smile—and he could not tell whether it was a smile of cruelty or of compassion. She seemed far beyond such human feelings.

  Trembling in every limb, the professor watched the form of light drift upward, to the ceiling, through the ceiling. And the light faded, and he stood alone. "What the devil?" he asked himself. And then he shook his head. "No," he said aloud. "I should not have mentioned the devil. Hmm. A thousand drops. One drop. I wonder—"

  He took out his vial of Lethe water. He went back into the hospital and into a patient's room. The patient, a young man, was fast asleep. The professor picked up a water glass, filled it to the brim from a pitcher of ice water, and then, very carefully, allowed one tiny drop of the Lethe water to fall into it.

  Then he found an eyedropper and used it first to stir the water and then to take one drop from the glass. "If this doesn't work," he muttered, dumping the rest of the water down the drain, "I am going to swallow the drops of Lethe water in that vial myself! I'd rather know nothing at all than spend the rest of my life knowing I'd failed my friends!"

  He pushed into the major's room. The doctors had strapped Major Dixon to the bed, but he still strained and jerked at his bindings. A physician looked up. "You can't come in here," he said. "The sedatives haven't worked, and—"

  The professor winced. The major's head was thrown back, and from his open mouth issued a horrible animal scream. With one step the professor was beside the bed. In a quick movement he let the drop of water fall into the major's open mouth. "Let me know if there's any change," he said, hurrying out into the hall.

  But the doctor didn't need to come after him. The major's terrible scream died away. Through the closed door, the professor could hear the major saying, "Johnny? Where's my son?"

  He ran down the hallway to the waiting room. Like an elderly shepherd, he moved them down the hall, all of them: Dr. Coote, Father Higgins, Fergie, Henry Dixon, and Johnny.

  A smiling doctor opened the major's room door. Johnny plunged past him. "Dad!"

  "Johnny!" said Major Dixon, his voice weak but full of joy. "Old Scout! I've been having such nightmares—but I can't even remember them now!"

  Everyone clustered around the bed, laughing joyfully. The professor, who hated to let anyone see him cry, quietly left. He walked downstairs. He stepped outside and stood there harrumphing and polishing his spectacles.

  To his surprise, the eastern sky was growing pale. He looked at his pocket watch. The night had been longer than he thought. Sunrise was on its way. He chuckled to himself. Tomorrow was the first of July. Sarah would be back, and what a story Johnny would have to tell her. And now maybe Harrison Dixon would get it through his thick head that it was time to retire from the Air Force. Why, he could buy that nice little cottage just down the street from Henry and Kate. He and Johnny could be father and son full-time, not just when the major was on leave.

  A dark shape swooped from the sky. "Whatcha doin', Whiskers?"

  The professor laughed. "Daydreaming, you flying turkey. We humans do it sometimes."

  "Yeah? So do we gods of U
pper and Lower Egypt," said Brewster. And he shot straight upward, his falcon's wings spread wide to welcome the brilliant light of a beautiful new day.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1999 by The Estate of John Bellairs

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4976-1433-8

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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