“No, no,” murmured Mrs. Jaeger. “It did help. Now we know when Mr. Vanderhelm will make his move. Maybe we can stop him, or at least slow him down.”
“Slow him down,” repeated Lewis. “Maybe we can at that. I wonder if we could do something to the theater?”
“Like what?” asked Rose Rita, struggling to take off her inside-out jacket. “Burn it down?”
“Not exactly,” answered Lewis. “But what if the fire sprinklers came on? Or what if all the musical instruments got sabotaged? That might give us some time.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Rose Rita slowly. “But when can we do it?”
“It will have to be tonight,” Mrs. Jaeger said. “After the rehearsal is over.”
Lewis trembled with fear. He had not really thought his plan through before speaking. Now that he thought of going into that spooky theater in the dark, he felt ill and dizzy. It was the last thing he wanted to do.
But he knew he had to try.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jonathan Barnavelt had just finished brushing his teeth when he heard Mrs. Zimmermann call him from her room. He went down the hall and found the door open. Mrs. Zimmermann was sitting at the window, knitting a purple scarf and listening to the national news on the radio. Outside, the sunny Florida sky was blue and cloudless, but Mrs. Zimmermann was frowning. “What is it, Hag-Face?” asked Jonathan in a teasing voice. “Has—”
With a frown, Mrs. Zimmermann shushed him. “Listen,” she said. “Just before the commercial, the announcer said a news story about New Zebedee was coming up.”
The radio was playing the last few bars of an Ipana toothpaste commercial. When it was over, the newscast continued.
A genial and good-natured voice said, “Has anyone found a small Michigan town? Because the United States Post Office and some other people are looking for one. According to the post office, its delivery trucks have not been able to find a town called New Zebedee for days now. Local farmers also report difficulty in getting to New Zebedee, and they blame their problems on an unseasonable fog. Better watch out—if the post office can manage to lose a whole town, just think what it could do with those tax-refund checks!”
The announcer went on to another news story. Mrs. Zimmermann put down her knitting and switched off the radio. “I think,” she said, “it is time for us to go home.”
For once Jonathan did not tease her. He nodded and said, “I’ll go call the airport. Get packed. We’ll fly to Detroit on the first available flight.”
“Jonathan?” asked Mrs. Zimmermann.
“Yes, Florence?”
“Do you think the children are all right?”
“I was just going to call.” Jonathan hurried away. He and Mrs. Zimmermann had already settled Lucius Mickleberry’s estate, and they had planned to leave for home in two days. Three wooden crates held Mr. Mickleberry’s books of magic and collection of amulets, and these were ready to be shipped back to New Zebedee. Jonathan tried long distance, only to be told that the lines to New Zebedee had not been open for days. He called the airport, and after that a freight company. Then he hurried back to Mrs. Zimmermann’s room.
She had pulled the window shade down and had closed the drapes. Her black umbrella was clasped in front of her, and the golf-ball-sized crystal orb that formed part of the handle glowed purple. The light shifted and pulsed, casting weird patterns that flowed and fluttered over the walls and over Mrs. Zimmermann’s face. It looked like the flickering light seen underwater through a diving mask. Mrs. Zimmermann sighed and the glimmer faded.
“Anything?” asked Jonathan as Mrs. Zimmermann stood up and opened the curtains and the window shade.
“Nothing,” she said. “Now I’m really worried. I don’t often use the crystal as a scrying ball, but when I do, it never fails. If it can’t show me New Zebedee, there must be some kind of magical barrier around the town.” She opened the closet and took out her big suitcase, which she tossed on the bed. She opened it and began to take articles of clothing from drawers and pack them. “What did you find out?”
“Not much,” Jonathan told her, and he explained that the phones were out.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “Did you call the airport?”
“We’ve just missed the last flight today. There’s a plane at eight o’clock tomorrow morning that stops in Atlanta, Louisville, and Detroit,” replied Jonathan. “It will get us to Detroit by four in the afternoon. We should be able to get to New Zebedee late tomorrow.”
Mrs. Zimmermann had been folding a purple sweater. She put it in the suitcase and looked at Jonathan with haunted eyes. “I wish I knew what we will find there.”
All Jonathan could do was shiver.
* * *
That very night, Rose Rita and Lewis crouched uncomfortably inside the doorway of the Farmers’ Seed & Feed. Mrs. Jaeger was at her house, trying to come up with a magic spell that might help them thwart or delay Vanderhelm’s plan. Lewis and Rose Rita were going to try to throw a monkey wrench into the works at the theater. Huddling in the cold doorway, they heard the distant sounds of music and many voices joined together in song, often interrupted by long periods of silence. During one of these pauses, Rose Rita whispered, “I guess old Vanderhelm is giving them directions.” Lewis did not reply.
Finally, about ten o’clock, people left in groups of three and four, some humming, some chatting together, a few silent. They saw Mrs. Holtz and Rose Rita’s mother go by. When no one else came out, the two friends slipped out from their hiding place. Rose Rita tried the doorknob. “It’s unlocked,” she said. “Come on.”
A dim light burned at the head of the stairs. Lewis followed Rose Rita, his pulse drumming wildly. The smell of fresh paint filled the air, and when they stepped out into the vestibule of the theater, Lewis gasped at the change that had taken place. The overhead lights burned, showing that the walls had been freshly painted, the thick red carpet thoroughly cleaned, and the whole place tidied up. It wasn’t nearly as dilapidated and forbidding as it had been on their first visit. Rose Rita hurried to the auditorium. “It’s dark in here,” she announced. “Let’s see if we can find the lights.”
They searched for quite awhile before Lewis had the idea of going into the coat-check alcove. A doorway there led into a small booth with a window that looked out into the darkened auditorium. A single dim bulb burned here, illuminating a control panel covered with switches. “This must be the light booth,” said Lewis. “But which of these do we throw?”
“Try them all,” Rose Rita replied. She reached for the nearest switch and pulled it down. Immediately a rose-colored light bathed the right part of the stage.
Lewis threw some switches, and more stage lights came on. Finally he noticed one large switch off to the left. A label below it said HOUSE in capital letters. When he tried that switch, a chandelier high over the auditorium came on, and in its light Lewis could see the rows of seats, newly cleaned and mended. “Okay,” said Rose Rita. “Let’s see what we can do.”
They went into the cavernous auditorium. Lewis’s flesh crawled with distaste and fear. The place looked clean and neat, but it had a sinister atmosphere, as if someone were watching their every move. Suddenly something occurred to Lewis. “Hey,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “did you see him?”
“See who?” asked Rose Rita in a irritable voice. They had reached the stage, on which a series of backdrops depicted a small town. In the orchestra pit below, the brass instruments gleamed. Surprisingly, a scattering of sheet music lay all over the floor of the pit, as if the musicians had just carelessly tossed down their music when they had finished rehearsing. “See who?” asked Rose Rita again, glancing around. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“Vanderhelm,” returned Lewis. “We saw about half the town come out of the building, but I didn’t notice Vanderhelm. Did you?”
“He was probably in one of the groups,” said Rose Rita with a shrug. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s get
all this music together and burn it. I’d like to see them try to do the opera with no music!”
Lewis hesitated. He remembered only too well the last time he had gone down into the orchestra pit. But Rose Rita was already descending the steps, so Lewis gritted his teeth and followed. “I don’t like this place,” he whispered.
Rose Rita put her hands on her hips. “Well, we won’t be here long. What a mess! Here, help me.” Stooping, she reached for a handful of the music, and Lewis bent to do the same.
Whoosh! A wind sprang up from nowhere, making Rose Rita shriek in alarm and Lewis leap backward. He stumbled against the steps and sat down hard on the second one from the bottom. Rose Rita backed toward him, the wind whipping her long hair all around her face. The sheet music rose up in the air, the cloud of papers billowing up, then spinning into a whirlwind. It rustled and fluttered as it settled into a cone of madly swirling paper as tall as a man. “Let’s go,” said Rose Rita, yanking Lewis to his feet.
She ran up the stairs, pulling Lewis, who stumbled up backward, unable to tear his gaze away from the amazing sight. The gusting sheet music grew more compact and took on the shape of a man. Then it was a man, a man made of paper, with a paper cloak billowing behind him, long paper arms reaching out toward Lewis, and a blank paper face turned blindly toward him. Its paper legs rustled as the incredible apparition took a step, and then the ink that made up the music notes flowed together into patterns of black and white. The paper man became a sketch of Vanderhelm. The black eyes glared, the black lips sneered, and at the ends of the tubular arms the ink flowed into long, grasping fingers. Another step, and the creature took on the colors of life, and the lips moved as Vanderhelm’s voice boomed out: “Foolish children! I warned you once, and you get no second warning!”
The creature’s strong hand closed on Lewis’s flailing wrist. From the top of the stairs, Rose Rita tugged Lewis’s shoulder, trying to drag him out into the auditorium. Vanderhelm, or the thing that looked like him, yanked harder. Lewis felt himself being pulled downward. “Run, Rose Rita!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs. Powerful hands clamped onto him, and he almost fainted. He heard Rose Rita’s voice as if from a long way off: “I’ll get help, Lewis!”
The hands lifted Lewis clear off the ground. The creature that had taken Vanderhelm’s form was incredibly strong. Lewis dangled in its grasp like a rag doll. He thought he would die from sheer terror.
The cruel eyes looked into his. “I must not shed blood before the ritual is complete,” muttered Vanderhelm. “So you may live for a little while. What to do with you in the meantime?” He paused, a crafty expression on his face. “Well, why not?” he muttered at last. “They never found the other one, the one my master hid away all those years ago, the one who caused trouble like you. Yes, I think that would be most fitting.”
Lewis gasped as Vanderhelm tucked him under one arm and strode up the steps into the auditorium. They went backstage, where only a little light seeped through and everything was dark and gloomy. “You may be interested, my fine young friend, to know that this theater has a special trapdoor right here at the back of the stage. It leads down into a small pit that is quite soundproof, so you will be unable to hear the performance tomorrow night. A pity. But then no one in the audience will be able to hear your screams!” The creature stooped and slipped a finger into what looked like a knothole in the wood. Then with a tug it lifted the trapdoor. “Enjoy your brief stay!” cried Vanderhelm’s voice, and Lewis yelped as he tumbled down.
He hit hard, with a jolt that left him breathless. His chest heaving, he scrambled to his feet. Two feet overhead, the oblong of dim light narrowed as the trapdoor swung downward. Lewis gasped a long breath and frantically tore at his muffler. He threw one end of it up just as the door was about to shut. Lewis tugged. The muffler was caught. Part of it must be sticking out of the trapdoor—would Vanderhelm see it?
After a long minute, Lewis concluded that he hadn’t. But what good would it do him, unless someone came looking? Someone like Rose Rita or Mrs. Jaeger. That was exactly what Lewis was hoping for. It was the kind of wish that Mrs. Zimmermann always called a forlorn hope. Now he knew what she meant by that.
The air was close and musty, the darkness complete. Lewis felt around. He seemed to be in a kind of well with rough brick walls. It was about four feet square and maybe seven feet deep. He shuffled around and caught his foot in something that made a dull clatter.
Lewis stooped carefully and fumbled in the corner, feeling for whatever had snagged his foot. Something rattled under his touch, like fragments of broken porcelain. His fingers ran over curved shapes, smooth and cool to the touch, and something that was like a hard round ball. Then he felt the teeth.
Lewis screamed in terror. Now he knew where the ghost had come from. He had found the final resting place of poor Mordecai Finster.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Rose Rita gasped out the story of what had happened at the theater, Mrs. Jaeger looked as if she were going to faint. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “This is terrible!”
“What can we do?” asked Rose Rita. They were sitting in Mrs. Jaeger’s kitchen, drinking mugs of hot cocoa. It was almost eleven o’clock on a dark night with no moon but lots of stars. It was well past her bedtime, but Rose Rita was afraid to go home. Afraid because her mother, under the evil spell of that dreadful man, might accidentally lead Mr. Vanderhelm to her. The wicked musician surely realized that Rose Rita had been the other person in the theater with Lewis, and heaven knew what he would do if he got his hands on her. Heaven knew what he might already have done to Lewis, for that matter. “Help me think, Mrs. Jaeger. We’ve got to do something,” pleaded Rose Rita.
“Of course we do,” replied Mrs. Jaeger with a nervous frown. “Let me see. First, we can’t call the police, because we know some of the policemen are actually in that opera and under Vanderhelm’s spell. Second, we can’t go to the theater tonight, because Mr. Vanderhelm, or whoever that horror is, would be on his guard. It’s almost the witching hour too, when evil things are strongest, and you already know how weak I am at magic. Well, since Mr. Vanderhelm never detected my presence, I suppose we’re safe enough here. At least he hasn’t tried to make me and my house vanish, and my feeling is that he simply doesn’t know about me. However, it won’t do just to sit here and be idle. I know what I wish we could do—”
Rose Rita grunted in irritation. She was used to Mrs. Zimmermann, who made up her mind quickly and acted right away. Mrs. Jaeger’s methodical plodding irritated Rose Rita, who preferred quick action. “What is that?” she asked.
Mrs. Jaeger gave her an apologetic smile. “Well, I wish we could go to Jonathan Barnavelt’s house. You see, since Vanderhelm did not cast his spell over Jonathan’s house, he will be unable to touch it.”
“Why?” asked Rose Rita. By now she had talked with Mrs. Jaeger enough to know that while the old woman could perform very little magic, she knew a great deal about the subject.
Mrs. Jaeger took a moment or two to consider before she responded. “It’s complicated, but think of a magic spell as a work of art. Like, oh, a sculpture that is carved from stone. Once the sculpture is complete, it is complete. You can’t take any more stone away without spoiling what you have. A spell is the same way. It is carved, so to speak, from the magic that exists inside and around the magician. Once it is complete, it can’t be changed, except to be removed entirely. So if Vanderhelm tried to cast a spell to make Jonathan Barnavelt’s house vanish, he might succeed, but then the houses of all the other magicians in New Zebedee would appear. Unless he did something very foolish, the magicians would return with the houses. I don’t think Mr. Vanderhelm would care to face them.”
“So we would be safe in Lewis’s house?” asked Rose Rita.
Mrs. Jaeger looked worried. “I’m not sure we’d be safe anyplace. But I would feel better there than anywhere else, and there is always the possibility that the mirror in the hall could let us communicate with Jon
athan or Florence. We’d have to be there for the spell to work, though.”
“I forgot about the mirror,” confessed Rose Rita. She wondered whether she should tell Mrs. Jaeger about the magic mirror that Mrs. Zimmermann had once owned. That one had caused Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita to travel into the past and face a terrible sorcerer. But the story seemed too long to tell, so Rose Rita merely said, “Well, if Mrs. Holtz leaves early tomorrow, we could get in then. Lewis told me that she always locks the door, but I know where his uncle hides a spare key. What can we do tonight?”
“Get some sleep,” replied Mrs. Jaeger. “We won’t be any good to Lewis or anyone else if we worry ourselves sick. You may stay in the guest room tonight. One of my granddaughters’ nightgowns will fit you, I think.”
So Rose Rita went to bed unwillingly in Mrs. Jaeger’s house, worrying about Lewis and wondering if anything they could do would stop the ghastly creature that called itself Vanderhelm.
* * *
As for Lewis, he had finally recovered control of himself. He had been terrified out of his wits for more than an hour. It was horrible to be locked in the dark with a skeleton, but there was nothing he could do to get away. Finally he calmed down a little. If only there were a gleam of light, he thought, it wouldn’t be so bad. Just a thin beam, a candle’s flame, would make him feel better. But he had no way of making a light, so standing in the dark, leaning against the rough brick wall, he tried to come up with something else.
An idea occurred to him. A terrible idea in a way, but it was all he could summon up. He tried two or three times to call a name out loud, but he lost his nerve each time. Finally, balling his trembling hands into fists and squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Lewis managed to squeak out a plaintive, “Mr. Finster?”
No answer. Lewis panted. His lungs wheezed as if there were no air in the little cubicle, but he could feel a faint breeze in the corner, where air came through the round holes in some of the bricks. What felt like suffocation was simply fear. He gathered all his nerve and said, “I call on the ghost of Mr. Mordecai Finster. I, uh, call upon it in the name of all that is good.”
The Doom of the Haunted Opera Page 9
