The Whistle, the Grave, and the Ghost

by Brad Strickland

  “Could you tell if someone had tripped one of the spells?” Rose Rita wanted to know.

  Jonathan stroked his beard. “I certainly could, though not by checking a gauge or reading a dial, if that’s what you mean. It’s more like something I could feel. And just in case you’re wondering, I don’t feel anything of the sort. What’s up, you two?”

  Lewis coughed. “I thought some of the stuff in my room had been moved. But I might have been mistaken.”

  “Stuff in your room?” Jonathan stared hard at his nephew. “Anything dangerous? Anything valuable?”

  Lewis felt his eyes widen in surprise. “Gosh, no! I mean, I don’t have anything dangerous up there. And nothing very valuable. Nothing a burglar would want, anyway. It was just that, well, my bed was messed up, like someone was looking under the mattress for something.”

  At that, Jonathan insisted that they all go up to Lewis’s room. Just like Lewis and Rose Rita, he could find nothing out of the ordinary. “Well,” he concluded, “maybe you just forgot to make up the bed for once. But let me know if something like this happens again. I’m pretty sure there’s no evil magic going on. Florence is a wiz at detecting things like that, and if she says it isn’t here, it isn’t here. Still, there’s magic and then there’s deep magic. Just to be on the safe side, stay on the alert. Tell me if anything else strange happens.”

  “Deep magic?” Rose Rita’s tone was curious. “What’s that?”

  Lewis thought his uncle looked a little uncomfortable as he hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. Jonathan said, “Deep magic is old magic, Rose Rita. Ancient magic, from ages and ages ago. As a normal rule, any spell a magician casts doesn’t last past that magician’s death. Oh, there are some exceptions in the case of extremely powerful wizards, or in cases where the spell is magic shared by more than one sorcerer. But no matter how powerful it might seem, that’s human magic. Deep magic is, well, wild magic, magic from outside.”

  “Outside?” asked Lewis.

  Jonathan smiled ruefully. “Outside the world we know, I mean. Outside our universe, for that matter. It comes from some other dimension, or some other time, or some other space. Deep magic is not created or controlled by humans at all. There isn’t much of it around, thank goodness. In fact, deep magic is so rare that I’m not even sure that Florence would recognize it right off the bat. Now and then some unlucky magician, usually one up to no good, tries to conjure some deep magic up and tame it, but it always ends with the deep magic winning and the poor magician being devoured by it.”

  Lewis must have looked stricken, because Jonathan immediately added, “Now, I’m not suggesting there’s anything like that going on here! In fact, I suspect that the chances against it are better than the chances against my winning the Irish Sweepstakes. My advice is not to worry about it. Just keep a weather eye out for anything odd. As the Scouts say, be prepared, that’s all.”

  Lewis nodded, but he was thinking that while it might not hurt, staying on the alert and trying to be prepared certainly wouldn’t help him feel any less apprehensive.

  In fact, he had the queasy feeling that it could only make him more jumpy, jittery, and miserable than ever.

  However, for a few days nothing uncanny happened. Slowly Lewis began to believe that his uncle had been right, and that he had simply forgotten to make up the bed that morning. Sunday came, and he and his uncle went to Mass. Father Foley had a way of delivering Mass in a low, monotonous voice, and it was a warm day. The priest’s droning delivery had a strange lilt to it, just a hint of a foreign accent, but it worked like a lullaby. Lewis fidgeted for a little while, and then he closed his eyes. Until his uncle nudged him sharply, Lewis did not realize that he had been dozing off, but when his eyes flew open, the first thing he saw was Father Foley glaring at him. Lewis sank down in the pew. He knew he was in for it.

  Sure enough, at the end of the service, Father Foley made a beeline straight to Jonathan and Lewis. In a grim voice, he said, “Young man, I don’t come over to preach in your bedroom. I don’t think you should sleep in my church!”

  “I—I’m sorry,” said Lewis, his voice timid.

  Father Foley grunted. “Mr. Barnavelt, I think Lewis’s penance after his next confession might be a little lighter if he comes to the church this afternoon to help me out with a few little things,” he said. “I leave it up to you, of course.”

  “And I’ll leave it up to Lewis,” Jonathan replied in a civil tone. “What do you think, Lewis?”

  Lewis gave his uncle a weak smile. One of the good things about living with Uncle Jonathan, Lewis always thought, was that he treated Lewis more like a grown-up than like a kid. Now, knowing that he would probably only make it worse on himself if he said anything, Lewis only nodded.

  Uncle Jonathan said, “Very well, Father Foley. He’ll be here.”

  And so at two, Lewis reported back to the church. The priest sat him down at the desk in the study and placed a huge leather-bound book before him. “This is the Confessions of St. Augustine of Hippo, young man. A very important work by one of the fathers of the church. When you have read one hundred and fifty pages, you may go. I will ask you some questions about the text next week.”

  Lewis should have brightened up at that, because he loved to read. But St. Augustine’s Latin was difficult to follow, and in the study, just as in the church, the air was warm, making Lewis feel drowsy again. The hours crawled by, and outside the windows the day grew dark as clouds began to build. At about five o’clock, Lewis began to hear rumbles of thunder. When he finally finished his reading, it was close to six, and the thunder was louder and closer.

  Father Foley asked him a few quick questions about his reading. “Very well. You may expect a list of twenty-five written questions next week. I expect you to be able to answer at least twenty of them!” Then the priest dismissed him. Lewis pushed open the heavy church door and stepped out into a stormy afternoon. Rain was not yet falling, but boiling dark gray clouds looked as if they were about to burst open and spill out a flood. A bolt of lightning sizzled overhead, and instantly a boom of thunder made the ground shake. Lewis set off for home at a trot, hoping he would get there before the rain soaked him.

  Halfway down Main Street, Lewis thought fleetingly of ducking into Heemsoth’s Rexall Drug Store and calling Uncle Jonathan to drive into town to pick him up. But he was close to High Street, and then he just had to climb up the hill and he would be home. Lewis thought that the storm might not break at all. After that first startling blast, the thunder had not been quite as loud, and the wind wasn’t really strong yet, just gusty. So he ducked his head and hurried on. The darkening sky made everything look weird and coppery. Lewis drove himself to walk faster, though he was beginning to gasp for breath.

  He turned onto High Street, and with his head still lowered, he watched the toes of his sneakers as they bit away at the distance. Lewis made up a nonsensical little rhyme, just to take his mind off the thunder: “Pick up a foot and put it down, that’s the way to walk around.” He began to count his steps, again trying to distract himself from the threat of lightning and rain. At the foot of the hill, he looked up.

  By then the wind was moaning in the trees, branches overhead were whipping furiously, and the first drops of rain were plopping hard onto the pavement. Lewis was just passing a yard belonging to a family that must have been away on vacation. Five or six newspapers lay scattered on the walk to the front porch. An untrimmed hedge surrounded the yard, and the driveway was on the far side of the hedge. Just as he reached the drive, Lewis saw movement from the corner of his eye.

  Two boys stepped out, blocking his way. One was tall and lean, with a spray of orange freckles across his cheeks: Stan Peters. And the shorter, heavier one was, of course, Billy Fox.

  “We been waitin’ to catch ya outside,” Billy said with a sneer. “Stan saw ya go into the church. We knew you’d come around this way. This time we got ya, Barnavelt. No cops’re gonna hear you yell for help out here, not
with the wind kickin’ up like this.”

  Stan grinned, an unpleasant expression on his freckled face. “An’ the garage at this place is nice an’ private.”

  “You leave me alone!” yelled Lewis, feeling fear rising in his stomach. “I didn’t do anything to you!” He looked anxiously up and down High Street, but with the storm about to break, everyone was inside. A sudden blast of wind ripped some green leaves from the oak and maple trees, and they whirled away through the sky like frightened birds.

  Billy balled up his fists and took a step forward. “You’re a troublemaker, Barnavelt. You’re a fat tub of guts, an’ you’re a crybaby, an’ we’re gonna make you pay.”

  Lewis had backed away, but the two bullies were closing in on him. They weren’t hurrying. Stan was pounding his right fist into his left hand. Billy was grinning and cracking his knuckles. They’re enjoying this, thought Lewis bitterly. If only he had the whistle—

  With a sudden inspiration, Lewis felt in his jeans pockets. Sure enough, his fingers closed on a smooth tube. He pulled it out and held it up. “I’ll blow this again!”

  Stan laughed. “Who’s gonna hear it with all this wind? Go ahead, Fatty. Blow your brains out!”

  Lewis did not hesitate. He put the whistle between his lips and blew as hard as he could. Again the cold, dark sound shrilled out. The world seemed to go black for just a second, and Lewis felt as if something had ripped the breath from his lungs. The sound stopped Stan and Billy in their tracks, at least for a moment. Then Billy made an animal-like growl of disgust. “Get him!”

  Both of the bullies lunged forward, and Lewis jumped away. He was in the yard of the empty house, and he ran blindly up the walk and clambered onto the porch. But there he was cornered. He pounded on the door.

  “Nobody’s home, you dumb fat punk,” taunted Billy. He and Stan were almost up to the porch. The wind had risen and the sound now was a shriek. Billy yelled to make himself heard over it: “They’re off in Florida or someplace. Why do you think we picked this house?”

  Something began to happen. The long, dark green grass in the yard began to whip around in tight circles, as if a whirlwind were springing up. The scream of the wind became a deep echo of the whistle, a piercing high-pitched note that went on and on. The rolled-up newspapers spun around and around. The weathered rubber bands holding them snapped, and they flopped open, lying flat just for an instant.

  Then the swirling wind caught them, and they rose up in a spinning column. At first it was a flurry of white, but then it seemed to find a form. “Look!” Lewis yelped, pointing a shaking finger at what was taking shape. “It’s coming for you!”

  Billy looked over his shoulder and shouted in alarm. That made Stan spin around too.

  The whirling newspapers were forming themselves into an eerie figure. It had a body, and arms of a sort, and a head, but no legs. Instead, the body tapered to a thrashing tail like a snake’s. The whole thing gave out a dry, hissing, rustling sound. Lewis stared, transfixed, as the thing seemed to grow solid. He felt like screaming, but he was too paralyzed by fear to utter even a squeak. He knew the face—the horrible, eyeless face—with its blank expression and its wide mouth. He had seen it in nightmares, and he had glimpsed it in the window of his room. Now he saw it swinging back and forth on a long neck, as if questing for a victim.

  Like a serpent, the creature slithered forward. It had a flickering quality, as if it were only half real, but it was solid enough to make a scraping sound on the walk. Some flying leaves hit it and did not go straight through, but lay plastered on its white surface. Both Stan and Billy backed away from it. “You can’t run away,” Lewis heard himself croak. “It’s a ghost! It can get you no matter where you are!”

  Billy screamed, taking strange, mincing steps backward until he hit the porch steps. He lost his footing and sat down hard, shouting, “No! No! No!”

  Frantically, Stan yelled, “Shut up, shut up!”

  The thing’s terrible blind face swiveled, homing in on the sounds. As fast as a stroke of lightning, it swept forward until it was right in front of Stan. Lewis could not tear his gaze away. The thing reared back, towering over Stan by more than a foot. Lewis gasped. He felt rather than heard a kind of unearthly voice: Mine!

  Then, as fast and deadly as a cobra, the shape struck. Lewis saw it hit Stan about chest high. Still shrieking at the top of his lungs, Billy jumped up from the porch step. He bounded past the monstrous thing and abandoned his friend, running madly for the street. The creature instantly turned and sped in pursuit, leaving Stan.

  Stan dropped to his knees in the grass, clutching his chest and moaning. Lewis jumped off the porch and ran to him. “Are you okay?”

  Stan turned a face pale with fear toward Lewis. He was blubbering and gibbering. The sounds he was making weren’t even words, just gobbling, idiotic moans and mumbles. To Lewis they were like noises a maniac might make.

  Lashes of cold rain whipped into them. The whole world dimmed in a torrent that hit the pavement so hard, it leaped up again in a knee-high spray. Stan staggered to his feet, his hands still clutched to his chest, and then he ran too, pounding away to the street and then down the hill. Lewis hurried to the street himself. Through curtains of rain, he saw Stan turn at the bottom, but Billy and the ghost—if that snakelike thing was really a ghost—were nowhere in sight.

  Lewis opened his clenched hand. The whistle was no longer there, just a red streak where he had clutched the silver tube so tightly. He stood there for a moment, chilly rain pounding on his head and shoulders, soaking him. He hardly felt a thing. Thunder boomed again, making him jump.

  And then Lewis began to laugh. It was a savage kind of laugh, almost like a snarl of triumph. Lewis had beaten them both! All alone, he had defeated two bullies, each of them stronger than himself. He had really taught them a lesson! Why, he had a power that neither of them could stand up against. That neither of them could even begin to understand! He felt as if he had suddenly grown taller and stronger. Thunder roared at him, and he raised his dripping head and roared back! Lewis shook both fists at the stormy sky. No one could ever pick on him again. Or if they did, he would make them sorry—

  But then Lewis remembered his own horror at seeing the creature that the whistle had summoned. The stinging rain made him begin to shiver. He felt torn between fear and an evil sort of happiness that Billy and Stan were at last getting a taste of their own medicine.

  And he felt something else, something that Father Foley was good at making him feel.

  An overwhelming sense of guilt.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lewis got home just as Jonathan was about to pull out of the driveway in his car, an antique black Muggins Simoon. Jonathan waved at him as Lewis ran up the hill and into the yard, and he backed the boxy auto up to the garage. A moment later, Jonathan came into the house through the kitchen. He was wearing a dripping yellow slicker, and he sent Lewis straight upstairs to towel off and change his sopping wet clothes.

  Lewis did, shivering uncontrollably. In the bathroom he hurriedly peeled off his wet T-shirt and jeans. His teeth chattered as he grabbed a towel and began to dry himself. He tossed the wet towel onto the floor and grabbed another dry one from the shelf. He wrapped this around himself and hurried into his room to put on warm, dry underwear, jeans, and shirt.

  When Lewis went back down again, he found Uncle Jonathan mopping up a puddle of water in the front hall. “Are you all right?” asked Jonathan with a worried glance.

  Lewis nodded. “I think so. Uh, the, uh, rain caught me at the bottom of the hill.”

  Jonathan wrung out his mop into a galvanized steel pail. He looked almost angry. “I am going to have a word or three with Father Foley. It’s one thing to be strict with really bad kids. It’s another to keep you so late that you come home looking like a drowned rat just because you got a little sleepy during Mass!”

  “Please don’t talk to him,” said Lewis. “It was kind of my own fault.” He explained about havi
ng to read the book in the stuffy church study and about how long it had taken him. He said nothing about Stan and Billy. “So,” he finished, “if I hadn’t been so sleepy, I would’ve finished sooner and would’ve been home before the storm hit.”

  “All right,” agreed Jonathan with evident reluctance, putting his mop on his shoulder as if he were a soldier and it were a rifle. “I don’t want to make things worse for you than they already are. Do me a favor and dump out this water.”

  That night they had dinner alone. Jonathan was not a very good cook, and the meal he put together wasn’t terribly tasty. They had chicken noodle soup and roast beef sandwiches, but the canned soup was very salty and the roast beef was dry and stringy. Dessert was half of a rhubarb pie that Mrs. Zimmermann had made earlier, and Jonathan had two big pieces. Lewis had just a little slice, because he wasn’t particularly fond of the sweet-sour taste. The storm had blown over by the time they finished doing the dishes. Jonathan suggested playing some card games, but Lewis was too exhausted. He went to bed early, and before long he fell asleep.

  If he had any dreams, he did not remember them. But at midnight, he awoke suddenly. He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the glowing dial of his bedside alarm clock, the green hands pointing straight up. For a moment he lay in bed wondering what had happened. Then he heard a strangled cry! Then another, and another! Leaping up, Lewis ran out into the hall. The noises were coming from his uncle’s room. Lewis banged on the door. “Uncle Jonathan! Are you okay?”