The Hand of the Necromancer

by John Bellairs

  He called it out to her. "How about yours?" he asked.

  "Don't have one yet. I'll call when we get a phone. Bye!" She put the bat over her shoulder and marched away. Johnny grinned. Maybe, he thought, this wasn't going to be such a terrible summer after all. He strolled back toward Fillmore Street whistling a jaunty tune, with thoughts of the horrible Mr. Mergal, the wizard Esdrias Blackleach, and the mysterious wooden hand very far from his mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next day was Sunday. Johnny and his grandparents attended Mass at St. Michael's Church, and there they saw Professor Childermass, whose church attendance was spotty. After the service Professor Childermass and the pastor, Father Thomas Higgins, walked back to the rectory together. Johnny decided to hang around for a while, and his grandparents went home without him.

  After a few minutes the priest and the professor came outside again. They made an odd pair. Father Higgins was tall and muscular, with iron-gray hair and a square, grizzled jaw. His dark, bushy eyebrows gave him a constant scowl, but in reality he was a kind, understanding man—and a brave one. He had served in the Army during World War II and had been in the Philippines, where fighting was heavy. And, as Johnny knew, the priest had also faced some wicked and dangerous supernatural foes, including ghosts, sorcerers, and zombies. Now he was deep in conversation with the professor. Johnny hesitated to interrupt, but Professor Childermass noticed him, gave a slight start, and beckoned him over. Johnny joined them at the corner of the church.

  "Hello, Johnny," Father Higgins said. "Roderick here was just telling me about your unpleasant visitor, Mr. Mergal."

  "And about Esdrias Blackleach," added the professor. "In fact, I was asking Higgy if he would bless that wretched relic of a hand. Ever since I showed it to you, I've been having nasty dreams about it." The professor gave a little shiver. "In my dreams I imagine that it's come to life and is dragging itself around by the fingers. It cree-ee-eeps up my bedclothes, cra-a-awls to my pillow, and clutches me by the throat!" Professor Childermass put a hand to his throat and coughed. "I wake up choking, jump out of bed, and discover that the sinister statuette is locked exactly where I left it."

  "I told him to use it for kindling," said Father Higgins.

  "Hang it, Higgy," returned the professor, "it's almost three hundred years old! I couldn't call myself a historian and run around burning up antiques like that."

  "Are you going to bless the hand, Father?" asked Johnny.

  Father Higgins shrugged. "I suppose. Although I'm tempted to let it remain unblessed, if it's really needling Roderick's conscience. At least it got him to Mass, which is more than I've managed to do for a month!"

  "Come over this afternoon, then," said Professor Childermass. "I'll expect you around three."

  "Can I come too, Professor?" asked Johnny. "After all, this whole thing started because of me."

  Professor Childermass smiled. He liked Johnny Dixon immensely, because he felt that the lonely, brainy, timid young man was a great deal like he himself had been as a boy. "I don't see why not," he said. "Come on over, and we'll deal with the wizard's handiwork together."

  Johnny walked home, enjoying the warm sunshine and the bright, clear sky. But when he turned onto Fillmore Street, his heart thudded suddenly. A black-and-white police car was parked in front of his house! What terrible thing had happened? Johnny broke into a frantic run. He pounded across the front porch, opened the door, and found Gramma, Grampa, and two policemen standing in the parlor. They looked up in surprise.

  "Uh—I saw the police car," Johnny gasped. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothin' here, Johnny," Gramma said. "Land sakes! You're white as a sheet. Don't worry—we're all right."

  Grampa Dixon, a tall, stoop-shouldered old man with a wrinkled face and a bald, freckled head, made a tutting noise with his tongue. "Burglars, Johnny! Right here on Fillmore Street! Did you ever hear the likes of that in your life? Right in broad daylight, an' on Sunday too!"

  Johnny had interrupted the story. He stood and listened to the rest of it, piecing together what must have happened. Gramma and Grampa had strolled home from Mass. As they neared their house, Gramma noticed something odd across the street. The professor was not back, because his garage door was open and his maroon Pontiac was not inside, yet a light burned in his study, on the second floor of his house. As she watched, that light went out—but then a light came on in the room next door. Grampa had wanted to go over and see who was in there, but Gramma had insisted that they call the police.

  A few minutes before the police car arrived, a man wearing a long black raincoat and a black hat pulled low over his face had come out of the professor's house and had hurried away. Grampa tried to follow him, but his arthritis kept him from walking very fast, and the man disappeared around the corner of the next street. By the time Grampa got back, the police had arrived, and then Johnny showed up.

  Johnny looked out the bay window just then and saw the professor driving up. The two policemen hurried across the street as the old man was putting his car away, and then the three went inside the professor's house. Gramma put a protective hand on Johnny's shoulder. "Folks are gettin' awfully low," she said in a hurt voice. "Imagine! Hardly anybody in Duston Heights ever locks their door at night, but from now on I guess we better start checkin' to make sure ours is locked."

  "What did the man look like, Grampa?" Johnny asked.

  His grandfather sighed. "Like a big black ghost," he said. "With his raincoat collar turned up an' that big, floppy-brimmed hat, like th' Shadow used to wear on the covers of his books, he didn't give me a good look at his face. But he moved mighty fast, that's for sure."

  The Dixons had a troubled lunch. Gramma made tomato-vegetable soup, and Grampa made tall roast beef sandwiches, piling slices of homemade sourdough bread with beef, tomatoes, onions, and lettuce. The food was hearty, but no one talked much, and after they had finished, Johnny was glad to see the police pulling away from the curb. "I'm going over to see the professor," he called, and ran out the door.

  Professor Childermass, his face as dark as a thundercloud, was standing in his front doorway. "Hello," he growled as Johnny hurried over. "Welcome to Castle Childermass, the victim of a human earthquake!"

  Once inside, Johnny saw what the professor meant. Everything was turned upside down. The sofa in the living room had been cut to shreds, with wads of stuffing erupting through long slashes. Books had been tumbled off shelves; the hall closet had been ransacked, with overcoats and fedoras and galoshes strewn everywhere. The kitchen was a wreck. Plates had been strewn around and broken, the oven was open, the refrigerator emptied. Bottles of Tabasco sauce, ketchup, and milk had been thrown carelessly down, breaking and spilling. Lettuce and tomatoes lay squashed and trodden on the floor. Part of a baked chicken had been tossed into a corner, and other food lay here and there. Johnny swallowed. "Professor, did—did he get the—"

  "No," Professor Childermass said shortly. "The precious Mr. Mergal did not find the hand."

  Johnny blinked. "Gosh, Professor, do you think it was really him?"

  "Who else?" The professor lit one of his Balkan Sobranie cigarettes. "Of course, I will bet you dollars to doughnuts that the man has a perfect alibi. And no one except your grandparents seems to have noticed the villain. Oh, I wish I had been at home when he came calling! I—I—" the professor spluttered as words failed him. He grabbed a plate from a heap jumbled on the white enameled table and smashed it on the floor. Then he hurled a saucer. He offered one to Johnny. "Care to try your luck?"

  Johnny shook his head. "N-no, sir."

  "It doesn't help, anyway." He placed the saucer on the table. "I am going to have to refurnish my house from scratch! Oh, that misbegotten miscreant will pay for this, mark my words!"

  The doorbell rang, making them both jump. It was Father Higgins. When he came into the house, he stared around with wide, wondering eyes. Brusquely, Professor Childermass explained what had happened. He told Johnny and the priest to go u
p to his study. "The hound did less damage there than elsewhere," the professor observed. "I'll join you in a couple of shakes."

  When he and Father Higgins entered the study, Johnny saw what the professor meant. True, all the books had been tumbled out of the shelves and the shelves themselves, made of bricks and boards, had been knocked apart. The stuffed owl had even been thrown off its round stand, and every drawer in the professor's desk had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Still, since the study was never very tidy anyway, it didn't look all that bad.

  The professor came in, shaking his head and gripping the wooden hand. "Here's the Cracker Jack prize that caused all this, Higgy. Take a whack at it, and see what holy water and holy words can do!"

  Father Higgins set the carved hand on the desk, sprinkled it with holy water, and recited a prayer of blessing. Nothing happened. "There," said the priest with a sigh. "I don't know if we've accomplished anything, Rod, but maybe that will keep this nasty little creepy-crawler out of your nightmares. Now, I don't have anything much to do until evening Mass, so if you want, I'll help pick up this place a little."

  Johnny joined in, and after a couple of hours, they had the downstairs rooms in fairly decent condition. The professor sighed over his kitchen. Baking was his favorite hobby, and although his cake pans, saucepans, and other cooking utensils were intact, he had hardly a cup, saucer, or plate to his name. They piled broken crockery into a big, battered old ash can. "The police told me to give them a list of anything that is missing," he growled. "I can't see that anything has been stolen, but I'm missing all of my dishes, my easy chair and sofa, and about half of my self-respect! I plan to be prepared if my visitor comes calling again."

  "You take it easy," warned Father Higgins. "You're no longer the spry boy who charged a machine-gun nest single-handedly at the battle of the Argonne Forest."

  The professor's eyes glittered behind his spectacles. "No, but by heaven, I'm man enough to make a midnight marauder know he's been in a fight if he tangles with me! I think tomorrow I'll shop for furniture, then drive up to Durham, New Hampshire. My old friend Charley Coote may have some advice on how to deal with that dratted wooden carving." Dr. Charles Coote was a specialist in the folklore of magic and sorcery, and he taught at the University of New Hampshire. Johnny knew and liked the old man, and he almost asked if he could go along—but then he remembered he would have to report to the museum. Having a summer job had some drawbacks.

  That evening Professor Childermass had dinner with the Dixons. Over pot roast and mashed potatoes, the professor pretended to shrug off the burglary. He said it was probably just some homeless tramp looking for money kept in a sock or stuffed under a mattress. He kept telling Henry and Kate Dixon not to worry. "I've been thinking of redecorating for some time," he finished with a chuckle. "This just hurries me along a little, that's all."

  Johnny saw Grampa and Gramma exchange a worried look. They knew their bristly, foul-tempered neighbor very well, and they knew he was not acting like himself. But when Grampa suggested that he might want to stay in the guest bedroom that night, the professor just shook his head. "Thank you, Henry, but I prefer my own little bed, rumpled and tossed though it may be. I shall be quite safe. My doors will be firmly locked, and I plan to have Brown Bess standing guard right at the head of my bed!"

  Later, when the professor had returned home, Johnny asked Grampa Dixon who Brown Bess was. The old man shook his head. "Well, Johnny, that's a kind o' nickname. Years ago th' professor used to do some huntin', before he decided that killing animals was cruel if you weren't gonna eat the meat. But he still has his huntin' rifle, a nifty World War I surplus Enfield. It's the same weapon he used t' carry in th' Army. Because it was made in England, he used t' call it Brown Bess, the same name the British gave to their muskets durin' the American Revolution."

  Johnny swallowed. He did not know what kind of shot his old friend was, but he hoped there would be no opportunity for the professor to have to fire Brown Bess.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday morning passed with no news from Professor Childermass. Johnny finished his work at one o'clock, as usual, and as he left the museum, he was surprised to see Sarah Channing on the sidewalk outside. "Hi," she said with a grin. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a vastly oversized University of Minnesota football jersey. "So can I tour the museum, or what?"

  "Sure," said Johnny. "Only we'll have to do it right now, because the museum closes at two on Mondays and Wednesdays. Is that why you're here?"

  "Nope," returned Sarah. "Been helping my dad move books into his new office. He's shelving them now, so my job's done. I'm just the pack animal."

  A few other people milled about in the museum, but not many. Johnny showed Sarah the Sophonsoba Peabody Room, the Colonial Life Room, and the other exhibits on the first and second floors. Last of all they went upstairs to the Curiosities Room. Sarah didn't seem very impressed by the displays there. They went downstairs together. "Oh, by the way," said Sarah, "we're getting our phone today. The phone man was there when Dad and I packed the station wagon this morning. I'll call you tonight, okay?"

  "Sure," Johnny replied. Sarah said she had to go see if her dad had finished, and she waved good-bye as she crossed the street. Johnny got on his bike, but before he pushed off from the curb, Miss Ferrington's sharp voice called his name. He got off his bike, surprised. "Yes, Miss Ferrington?"

  The stern-faced curator sniffed. "I have a small job for you, if you want to earn a little overtime pay."

  "Sure. I mean, yes, I would. I'll put this away." Johnny rolled his bike around to the bike stand beside the building. Then he returned to the front of the museum, where Miss Ferrington waited for him. "What is it?" he asked, going back up the steps.

  Miss Ferrington glanced at her wristwatch. "The delivery service is dropping off a carton of cleaning supplies. They will have to be unpacked and stored. I must go to a meeting of the Duston Heights Historical Society, so I cannot remain here. I'll want you to open the loading door, sign for the carton, and then put the supplies away. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, Miss Ferrington," replied Johnny.

  Miss Ferrington gave him a small key ring with just three keys on it. "This one unlocks the loading door. This one unlocks my office. After you finish, put the keys on my desk. I'll leave my office door and the front door set to lock when you close them. Put a note on my desk telling me how late you have to stay, and I'll add that much to your pay on Friday."

  It didn't sound hard. Miss Ferrington left, and at first the empty museum seemed spooky. Johnny kept hearing creaks and faint groans, but they were just the sounds of the old house settling. He wished he had a radio to keep him company, but the best he could do was to round up a few old copies of Yankee magazine. He leafed through these, growing more and more nervous.

  Finally, at about two-fifty, he heard the buzzer that was connected to the rear loading door. He hurried to unlock it. A man waited there with a clipboard and a big cardboard carton. "Hi, Captain," said the man, who wore the khaki uniform of a delivery company. "You want to sign for this stuff?"

  Johnny signed the receipt and carried the carton inside. He unpacked all the items it contained—sweeping compound, toilet paper, furniture polish, window cleaner, and other supplies. He put most of the supplies on the shelves of the janitor's closet on the first floor, but he took a gallon jug of liquid soap around to fill up all the dispensers in the rest rooms. He checked his watch. It was four minutes after three. He left a note on Miss Ferrington's desk, placed the key ring on top of it, and carefully closed both her office door and the front door as he left.

  He rode his bike home and had a sandwich. Then he crossed the street to see if the professor was home, but the old man had not returned from his trip to Durham. Later that afternoon the professor reappeared, but a furniture van pulled up just as he drove into his garage, and the professor had to supervise the unloading. He didn't have time to talk to Johnny. Not long after the van departed, the profes
sor drove away again, and he had not returned by the time Sarah called at eight that evening.

  At the museum the next day the time seemed to crawl. When Johnny returned home from work, the professor was still away. Feeling lonely and tired, Johnny raided the refrigerator, picked up Ben-Hur, a book about ancient Rome that he was reading, and went to sit on the front porch glider. He read and munched Ritz crackers spread with pimiento-flavored cream cheese. The copy of Ben-Hur was old, and its spotted pages smelled a little musty, but that helped pull Johnny back into the days of harsh slavery and exciting chariot races. The day was hot and still, and before long, Johnny nodded. He fell asleep sitting there, hunched over and breathing softly. As he dozed, he dreamed of men in black robes and terrified women who stood before them to be judged for witchcraft.

  A hateful face loomed over it all. A thin, gaunt, evil face. It looked almost like someone Johnny knew, but not quite. It reminded him of Mr. Mergal, but there was something different too—

  In his dream Johnny saw the pale lips of the face move. "John Michael Dixon!" a gravelly voice rumbled. "Thou hast been accused of the vile and ungodly crime of witchcraft! How dost thou plead?"

  Johnny woke with a start—and yelped in alarm! From just outside the screen door, a face was staring right at him!

  "For heaven's sake," grumbled Professor Childermass in his crabbiest voice as he opened the door and stepped onto the porch. "Have I turned blue and red and purple, like a mandrill? What's wrong with you, John?"

  Johnny sat up, feeling dizzy. "Sorry, Professor," he gasped. "I guess I was having a bad dream, and then you showed up, and when I saw you watching me, I thought it was part of the dream."