Mummy, the Will, and the Crypt

by John Bellairs

  On roared the professor's car. He was a terror on wheels, even when he wasn't on a life-or-death mission. He jammed the accelerator down, and the needle flicked past ninety. Fergie sat rigidly, gripping the edge of the seat with his hands. Once he had ridden with Father Higgins, the parish priest at St. Michael's. He had been bad, but he hadn't been anything like this.

  "Professor?" said Fergie in a tight, strained voice. "How . . . how far do we have to go?"

  "Oh, not so far now. That town we just passed through is Center Ossipee. It's only about twelve miles to Kancamagus Center. We'll get there soon—don't worry."

  Now the tires squeeched loudly as the car rounded a difficult S-curve. Fergie was thrown first against the door, then back the other way.

  "Where do you think he'd go?" the professor barked out suddenly without taking his eyes off the road.

  Fergie thought hard. "Gee. I dunno. Did you say he bought a ticket at the train station?"

  "Yes. I checked there because it was the only possible way for Johnny to get up to that idiotic estate. The ticket was to Kancamagus Center. Could he walk out to the Glomus place from there?"

  Fergie thought some more. "Maybe, only I don't think he would want to, unless he's really flipped his lid. I bet he'll just sack out somewhere for the night, and then bomb on out to the old estate in the morning."

  The professor considered Fergie's suggestion. He grimaced, as he often did when he was thinking, and the cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth. "Hmm. I think, Byron, that you are most probably right. After all, John doesn't know that anyone is following him, and he can certainly afford to pay for a room. Did I tell you that he swiped about a hundred dollars from his grandparents before he lit out?"

  "Yeah, you did. That's not so great."

  The professor opened his mouth to sigh, but as he did the cigarette fell out. "Blast!" he snapped. Then he shook his head, and his face tensed up. "I certainly hope he's all right," he said softly, and he pushed the accelerator pedal down harder.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A short time later the professor's car came rolling into Kancamagus Center, where houses, trees, steeples, the wide grassy common, all were still and dreamlike on this frosty November night. The sky was clear, and you would never have guessed that a snowstorm was on its way. But snow was what the weatherman on the radio had said. The professor had heard the report more than once today, and it had filled his mind with fear for Johnny's safety. Now he pulled over to the curb next to the deserted common, turned the motor off, and heaved a small sigh. After some fumbling in the glove compartment, he found his pack of Balkan Sobranie cigarettes and lit one.

  "So, Byron," he said, turning to Fergie. "I wonder what our next move ought to be. If we are right, Johnny is holed up somewhere here in town. This Squam House —the one whose letter paper Johnny had—is probably our best bet, don't you agree?"

  Fergie nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. We could ask the lady that runs the place if he's there. Only it's really late, an' Johnny told me that she's an unbelievable witch. I think she'd raise hell if we was just to go up an' hammer on her door now."

  The professor turned on the dome light in his car. He peered at his watch, which said ten after twelve, and then flipped the light off. "Ye-es," he said slowly, considering, "I imagine she would get into a bit of a snit if we woke her up now. Unfortunately, however, I am a very impatient sort, and I am not going to sit here smoking cigarettes and fidgeting until the dawn's early light. So Mrs. Whosis will just have to get herself into a Grade-A snit. We are going over there now!"

  And with that the professor turned the ignition kev. The car sprang to life. But then, abruptly, the professor turned the motor off.

  "What's wrong?" Fergie asked anxiously.

  "Nothing much. I just realized I don't know where that idiotic inn is." Suddenly an idea struck him. He turned the dome light on, again reached over and dug into the glove compartment, and came out with a wrinkled piece of letter paper. He uncrumpled it, and Fergie saw that it was a piece of the Squam House's stationery. At the top was a picture of the inn in green ink, and down below was the motto The friendly white inn on the common.

  The professor's mouth curled into a sarcastic grin. "Friendly, eh? Well, we shall see."

  The professor started up his car again. Slowly the battered old Ford crawled along the dark street, which was getting darker by the minute as black clouds rushed in to cover the moon. The professor peered out the car window owlishly as he examined one blank staring house front, then crept on to the next one and the next one. Finally, with a look of triumph on his face, he put on the brakes. There was the inn, identical to its picture on the letterhead. Although a carriage lamp on a post was shining out in front, the windows were dark.

  The professor turned off the motor and sat with arms folded. Looking out at the inn, he shook his head slowly. "She's going to be in a rare mood when we wake her up," he said. "But I'm afraid there's no help for it. Come on, Byron—unless, of course, you'd rather stay in the car."

  "Naw, I'll come," said Fergie, grinning maliciously. He thought it might be fun to see a nasty old woman after she had been awakened out of a sound sleep.

  Two car doors slammed. Walking side by side, Fergie and the professor strode up the walk, up the steps, and onto the wide porch. The professor harrumphed in a nervous way and jabbed at the bell with his index finger. It was a loud bell, and they could hear it ringing deep inside the inn. At first nothing happened. Fergie rubbed his mittened hands and the professor puffed his cigarette and sang "Cadet Roussel" a French nonsense song that he liked. But soon lights began to come on. There was the sound of chains rattling, and then the door swung open. Mrs. Woodley stood before them, wearing a blue quilted dressing gown with a little ruffled collar and holding a small black flashlight. Cold cream covered her face, and she looked very, very angry.

  "Well?" she said. Her voice trembled with indignation as she eyed the two of them. "You've gotten me up in the middle of the night—I congratulate you. What do you want?"

  Normally the professor was able to hold his own against even the crankiest and most forbidding people. But there was a strange aura about Mrs. Woodley that suggested . . . well, something more than ordinary nastiness. The professor took a step backward, and there was genuine fear in his eyes. But then he pulled himself together and put on his most brusque and businesslike manner.

  "Madam," he said crisply, "I deeply apologize for waking you out of a sound sleep on such a cold night and at such a late hour. But the fact is, this is somewhat of an emergency. We are looking for a young man named John Dixon. He's about twelve, and he's pale, blond, and wears glasses. We have reason to believe that he came up here by train and intended to spend the night at your, uh, establishment. Is he here?"

  Mrs. Woodley's mind was racing. If she told this man that the boy was here, then he'd take the boy away, and she'd be rid of him, wouldn't she? But he might come back. No, it would be better to be rid of him once and for all.

  "There's nobody staying here tonight but me," she said in her grimmest, most final tone. "I don't get much business at this time of year. Now, if that is all you have to say to me . . ."

  Mrs. Woodley stepped back and took hold of the edge of the door, getting ready to shut the two intruders out. But the professor had been watching her like a hawk, and he thought he saw something in her eyes that suggested she might be lying. With a sudden spring he leapt forward and planted both feet on the doorsill.

  Mrs. Woodley's mouth dropped open. "I beg your pardon!" she began, her voice rising an octave or two.

  "Thank you, I accept your invitation," snapped the professor, and with that he shoved rudely past Mrs. Woodley and dashed into the lighted lobby of the inn. This was a desperate gamble on the professor's part. He wanted to get inside to see if he could find something, anything that would prove that Johnny had been there. Wildly the professor looked this way and that. He took in the couches, the easy chairs, the fussy mahogany tables with oil
lamps and bric-a-brac on them. But meanwhile Mrs. Woodley was advancing on him, bubbling over with rage.

  "Now, see here, you!" she yelled. "What do you think gives you the right to come barging in here and—"

  "Ah-hah!" screeched the professor. He leaped toward the reception desk and swept up something in his right hand. He held it up triumphantly between his thumb and index finger. It was Johnny's waterproof matchbox. "So he was here after all! And you were lying to me, you foul-tempered old bat! Lying!"

  The professor waved his accusing finger in Mrs. Woodley's face. But now she had grown dangerously calm. She folded her arms and glowered at him. "That matchbox is mine," she said grimly. "And you are trespassing. I'll thank you to give it back to me, take that ugly little snot over there, and leave right now, before I call the police!"

  As Fergie watched the professor and Mrs. Woodley facing each other down in the middle of the room, the air between them seemed to shimmer with tension. The professor held the matchbox up and waved it back and forth before Mrs. Woodley's eyes.

  "You deny that this is Johnny's?" he shouted, in a voice that was rising in pitch with every instant. "You actually deny it?"

  Mrs. Woodley glared stonily, saying nothing. A sudden evil inspiration darted into the professor's head. He turned on his heel and strode to the long polished table that stood between the two rows of armchairs. On it was a group of carefully arranged objects: Staffordshire china dogs and cats, glass paperweights, a blue glass medicine bottle, and a Dresden figurine of a minstrel playing a mandolin. The professor remembered now the story Johnny had told him about the fussy old lady who was afraid he would break the vase on her phone table. With a sudden swoop he reached out and picked up a small china dog, wheeled around, and threw it into the fireplace. The dog shattered into thousands of tiny white pieces.

  "There!" said the professor with a snort of satisfaction. He turned back to Mrs. Woodley. "Now, then! If you don't want something like that to happen again, you malignant old hag, I suggest that you tell me what you have done with Johnny!"

  Mrs. Woodley's face was a mask of cold hatred, and a vein in her neck was throbbing. Suddenly she nicked out her left hand, and as she did this the professor felt a sharp stab of numbing pain. His right hand—which he had used to throw the dog—felt as if an enormous bee had stung it. Clutching the throbbing hand to his chest, the professor reeled back. His eyes were wide with fear.

  "That's what you get," crooned the old woman maliciously, "for willfully destroying private property!" Now her tone became harder, angrier. She advanced on the professor, and he retreated, still clutching his wounded hand. "Get out of here!" she snarled. "Get out of here, and don't come back!"

  The professor and Fergie did not need any more encouragement. Fergie went first, and the professor dashed after him, slamming the door as he went. Together they stumbled down the stairs, and they were halfway down the walk before Mrs. Woodley emerged on the porch. Her face was purple with rage, and little white flecks of foam appeared at the corners of her mouth.

  "If you ever find him, you may not like what you see!" she screeched in a voice that was scarcely human. "And if you try to meddle in things that don't concern you, you'll wish you hadn't!" With that she stepped back and slammed the door loudly. The thunderous sound seemed to reverberate in the still, frosty night air. Then there was silence, and the lights inside the inn went out.

  The professor and Fergie stood by the car, staring in wide-eyed horror at the darkened building. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

  Finally the professor spoke. "My God! I never imagined . . . I mean, who could possibly have guessed . . . ?"

  Fergie glanced nervously back at the inn. He tugged at the professor's arm. "Come on. Let's get outa here before she comes back and really takes care of us."

  The professor nodded. They ran around the car and jumped in.

  "I'm going to have to do this one-handed for a bit," said the professor, gasping with pain. "It'll be awkward, but I'll manage." He turned the key and the motor started. Then, bracing his left arm against the wheel and shifting gears with his right, he got the car going. It moved in a wobbly, uncertain way, and he nosed it around to the other side of the common. Then he pulled over to the curb, turned off the motor, and just sat staring blankly at the windshield.

  Fergie was worried. Maybe the professor was sick, or dying. "Are . . . are you okay, sir?" he asked falteringly.

  "No," intoned the professor. Then he laughed and smiled reassuringly. "In my mind I am blowing up the Squam House with sticks of dynamite. But except for that, I am as well as can be expected, as my sickly aunt Sally always used to say. But what do we do now? That is what I want to know!"

  Fergie also tried hard to think. "Is she a witch?" he asked at last.

  The professor groaned. "Oh, God! Let's not go into that! She's a . . . a something, that's for bloody sure!" And with his good hand he pounded on the steering wheel.

  "Do you suppose she's holdin' Johnny prisoner?" Fergie asked. "I mean, bound and gagged in a cellar or . . . or somethin' like that?"

  The professor shook his head. "No. No, I don't think so. That last thing she shrieked, about 'if you ever find him' . . . that says to me that he's out there in the dark somewhere. No, he must have escaped from her—for now, anyway. That may be why she's so incredibly angry. We can't be sure of anything, of course. But first of all I guess we'd better head out to that awful estate . . . Tooting Stanton, or whatever its name is. If Johnny is anywhere, he's out there. And I hope, I very much hope that we can get in by way of that secret passage that you told me about. Do you think you can direct me to the estate?" Fergie nodded. "I . . . I guess so, Professor Childermass. It's dark, but once we get to the road that goes out to the camp, I think it'll look kinda familiar."

  The professor flipped on the headlights and started the motor. "I hope so," he said. Then he put the car in gear and roared away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

  Meanwhile, up in her bedroom, Mrs. Woodley was dragging a strange, bulky object from her closet. It was like a small square chest covered with cracked, goose-pimply leather. Muttering unpleasantly to herself, the old woman folded the top back and part of the front down. Now the box resembled a small stage on which miniature actors might move about. It was dark inside but. . . No! Mrs. Woodley said a word, and it started to glow with a quivering blue light. Strange signs and a picture of a comet with a long flaring tail slowly became visible on the wood. In a row on the tiny stage stood several glass bottles. One was tall and thin, one was pear-shaped, one was very small, and another was all bulbs with a long spout projecting from it. A hissing blue flame shot from the spout, making all the bottles glow. Twisted strands and loops of fire burned inside each one—purple, red, orange, yellow. From a drawer in the front of the box Mrs. Woodley took a small metal holy-water sprinkler. She shook drops over the glowing bottles, and they began to shiver and send up a high-pitched wailing music, like the sound of a glass harmonica. Suddenly a formless patch of golden light appeared on the wall behind the box. In the center of the patch of light was a pyramid with an eye in its center. And over the pyramid were some Hebrew letters glowing with red fire. The mingled colored lights flitted about Mrs. Woodley's face as she stared at them intently. Her lips formed strange phrases, and an incantation rose to mingle with the bottles' eerie wail.

  Johnny walked quickly along a dark, gravelly road that cut through great masses of trees. It led from Camp Chocorua to the old estate, and it was a road that he remembered well. Passing through the deserted picnic grounds by dark, still Lake Chocorua had been strange. Although he had not been able to see the mountain itself, he had felt its looming presence. Johnny was surprised to find out what a good hiker he was. Maybe the week in October had done him some good. Whatever the reason, he had covered the three miles in a relatively short time.

  His head cold was still a problem, of course. Every now and then he had to set down his crowbar and fish his handkerchief out of his pock
et so he could blow his nose. But he wasn't collapsing or anything. He felt strong and brave and purposeful, even though the fear of Mrs. Woodley hovered in the back of his mind.

  Johnny slowed down. He played the flashlight's pale beam along the left-hand side of the road as he searched for the little stone that marked the path to the lodge. Had he come too far? No! There it was, half-buried in leaves. He felt a triumphant surge in his chest. He was doing it! He was on his way!

  Johnny turned onto the path and walked on, peering into the darkness as he went. It was easier to see through the trees now that they were bare. In the distance he could make out the quaint steep-gabled cottage with its gothic doodads and carvings. Rushing toward it now, Johnny felt something cold hit his cheek. Snow! Oh, well, it wasn't coming down very hard. As Johnny tramped on, swinging the crowbar jauntily, the lodge drew closer and closer until finally he was standing before it.