The Hand of the Necromancer

by John Bellairs

  Sarah frowned at him for a few moments. Then she grinned, her eyes crinkling. She chuckled, in the way that people do when they think something funny is about to happen. "What's the joke, Dixon?" she asked.

  Johnny scowled at her. "I knew you wouldn't believe me," he muttered.

  "Well, who in the world would?" demanded Sarah, irritation flashing in her eyes. "You are kidding, aren't you? I mean, about magic."

  How could he tell her about the things he had seen, about zombies and ghosts and trolleys that could go back in time? Sarah had never encountered the sort of bizarre people who seemed to be attracted to Duston Heights like iron to a magnet. "Just forget it," said Johnny wearily.

  Sarah moved her knight. It was a bad move, opening up her queen to a bishop attack. She glanced back at him and seemed surprised at his bitter expression. "Oh, come on, Dixon. Nobody believes in wizards and witches and that kinda stuff." She sounded like a big sister talking to a six-year-old brat of a little brother. "Is this Mergal guy just plain nuts?"

  Johnny ignored the chance to take Sarah's queen. "I guess he is. He thinks Blackleach was a real magician, and he wants to be a magician too. We know there's no such thing as magic, so let's just forget about him, okay?"

  Sarah gave him a quizzical glance. "This really bothers you. Okay, Dixon, convince me. Why do you think Blackleach's snow globe and the other little toys have spooky power? What makes you think Mergal has malicious magic on his mind?"

  "I told you I saw him at the park," insisted Johnny. His voice had risen and it almost squeaked. He made an effort to speak more softly. "He was holdin' some kind of long staff, and he raised it up to point at the sky, and then he struck the ground with it. And right after that, those weird clouds came boiling up out of nowhere and the lightning began."

  "But thunderstorms happen in the summer," Sarah objected. "That one could've just been a coincidence."

  "Witches are supposed to be able to raise storms," insisted Johnny.

  "Oh, Dixon, I don't believe in witches. And I didn't see Mergal do any funny business with a staff. Maybe you just imagined you saw him—"

  Johnny glared at her. "I'm sorry I told you anything. Just forget it."

  "But—"

  With a quick, spiteful movement Johnny swept his bishop diagonally across the board and took Sarah's queen. "There! You didn't watch what you were doing, and I captured your most important piece. Are you going to concentrate now?"

  "That was mean!"

  Johnny gave her a crabby look. "I think you're pretty mean to say I'm crazy 'cause I think that Mergal is trying to do witchcraft. Maybe it doesn't really work, maybe he's off his rocker, but that doesn't mean I am."

  Sarah looked angry. "If you're gonna be that way, Johnny Dixon, I don't want to play this stupid game anymore."

  Johnny felt like yelling, but he kept his voice quiet. "It's not a stupid game just because you're too dumb to learn how to play it!"

  Sarah glowered at him. Then she got up and stalked out of the Conversation Room. Angry at himself, Johnny folded the board and packed it and the chess pieces back in the box. He trudged back to Fillmore Street with the dejected sense that he had just lost a friend. He spent the rest of the day in his room, trying to read and listening to his old Motorola radio. That night he thought long and hard about everything that had happened. If only there was some way of catching Mr. Mergal in the act, or finding some of the loot from the museum in his possession!

  But he had no idea of how to do that. If Fergie were here, he thought, he'd know what to do. Even if he didn't believe Mergal was an evil magician, Fergie would come up with some plan to discover exactly what mischief he was trying to pull. Unfortunately, Fergie was still hundreds of miles away, and Johnny didn't have his friend's willingness to take chances. He wished he were braver and older. He wished he could live up to Professor Childermass' idea of him—the professor always treated Johnny like a sensible adult, not a child. But surrounded by a troublesome cloud of doubts and regrets, Johnny felt very childlike indeed.

  Professor Childermass sympathized with Johnny, but he couldn't offer much help. "After all," he said, "you wouldn't want to involve Sarah in anything dangerous, would you? And if jolly old Mr. Mergal really is trying to gain control of evil magical powers, he could be pretty dangerous." The two of them sat in the professor's kitchen, waiting for a pan of dark-chocolate walnut fudge to harden. It was the day after Sarah and Johnny had quarrelled in the public library. Although he hadn't said a word about the fight to Gramma or Grampa, Johnny had told the professor everything. The old man was his good friend, and sometimes it's easier to talk about certain things to friends.

  Johnny was sipping a tall, cool glass of milk, and the professor was drinking a steaming cup of coffee. His eyes glittered shrewdly behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he said, "You know, John, maybe it's better that you and Sarah stay away from each other for a few days. I expect that if you give it time, she'll decide that you both were a little too hasty."

  "I didn't want to hurt her feelings," admitted Johnny. "But I don't think she'll be my friend again. She thinks I'm cranky and maybe crazy too."

  "She does, does she?" asked Professor Childermass, looking concerned. "You might have a problem there. Of course, I don't mind the good citizens of Duston Heights thinking I'm cranky. In fact, I rather enjoy it, because it keeps a lot of irritating, obnoxious people away. But at your age you shouldn't have that kind of reputation. John, I'll tell you what: When this is over, I'll invite Sarah and you to another picnic and we'll smooth things over. After all, they say time heals all wounds."

  "I hope it does," replied Johnny. "Sarah was kind of a special friend."

  "Your first girlfriend?" asked the professor.

  "No!" Johnny frowned. "I mean, she's a girl and she's my friend, but that's all."

  "I hope all this will be over in a week or two," said the professor. He got up and took the fudge from the pan. "Here, sample this."

  The candy was creamy and delicious, and Johnny nodded to show that it was a success. He swallowed and said, "What do you mean, you hope it's gonna be over in a week or two? What are you planning, Professor?"

  But Professor Childermass just winked. "Don't fret about it. There are wheels within wheels, as the saying goes, and if all the wheels roll along as they should, I'll prove to the authorities that Mr. Mattheus Mergal of Boston, Massachusetts, is the villain who's committed two burglaries. And if that doesn't settle the fellow's hash, I don't know what will!"

  Johnny was still far from satisfied, but he made up his mind to wait and see. He simply didn't know what other choice he had.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Days went by. Johnny moped around the house, did chores for his grandparents, spent hours in his room, and daydreamed that he was Sergeant John M. Dixon of Gangbusters, and that he and a carload of tough cops would come roaring up with sirens blasting to arrest Mr. Mattheus Mergal. They would catch him in the act of robbing a bank. He would snarl, "You'll never take me alive, coppers!"

  Then, in a hail of tommy-gun fire, Johnny would dash into the building, yelling, "Cover me, boys!" After crashing through the door, he would get into a wild fistfight with Mergal, thrashing him until the coward broke down and confessed that he was to blame for everything. The bank would be full of hostages, and Miss Ferrington would be one of them. She would weep and beg Johnny to forgive her. He wasn't quite sure if he would or not.

  But when the daydream was over, Johnny had to admit that it was a fantasy. He began to be afraid that maybe Sarah was right. Maybe he had lost his marbles. He wished he could come up with some way to prove that his worries were about real things and not just in his mind.

  One morning Johnny came downstairs and heard voices in the parlor. He recognized the professor's querulous voice and Grampa Dixon's mild tones. Johnny knew eavesdropping was wrong, but something made him stop and listen.

  "Rod, if it was just that he was feelin' a little down, I could understand," Grampa Dixon was
saying. "I guess everybody feels that way now an' again. But he's been draggin' around for days. Kate wants me to take him to Doc Schermerhorn for a checkup, because she's afraid he might be comin' down with infantile paralysis or somethin'. What do you think?"

  The professor replied, "Henry, John is just growing up, that's all. When you were his age, didn't you have bleak days when the whole world seemed against you? Didn't you ever get into silly quarrels with your friends?"

  "I s'pose I did," replied Johnny's grandfather slowly. "Only Johnny's always been such a loner. Y' know, I think he really misses Fergie. For a while we thought that maybe he an' that nice Sarah Channing girl were gonna become good friends, but he hasn't talked about her much lately."

  "Give him a little time," the professor said.

  "Then y' don't think we should take him to Doc Schermerhorn?"

  Johnny heard Professor Childermass snort. "Henry, I wouldn't take a sick cat to that quack. I haven't trusted him since he told my cousin Bea she was having headaches because her teeth were bad, and then a couple of months later she died of a brain tumor. Besides, his jokes are so terrible they give patients nervous stomachs, hives, and the blind staggers. I'm busy now, but in a week or two, certainly by August, I'll take Johnny down to Boston for a few Red Sox games. That will take his mind off his miseries, and before long Fergie will be back, and everything will return to normal."

  "Y' think so, Rod?"

  "I'm positive, Henry."

  Johnny coughed, and the two men fell silent as he walked into the parlor. Grampa Dixon looked a little embarrassed, the way he sometimes looked if he and the professor were sitting at the kitchen table sipping whiskey and Gramma walked in. Gramma did not approve of alcohol. "Hi, Johnny," mumbled Grampa Dixon. "Say, Rod here was just wonderin' if you'd wanta go to see the Red Sox play sometime."

  "That'd be swell," said Johnny, but he could not put much enthusiasm into his reply.

  "How are you feeling, John?" asked Professor Childermass.

  Johnny shrugged. "Okay, I guess. I thought I'd cut the grass today, before it gets hot."

  "Good idea," said the professor. "In fact, if you want, you can mow my lawn. I'll pay you two dollars. And if you uncover any chests of Spanish gold, you may keep them." The professor grinned.

  Johnny smiled too, but his heart wasn't in it. He kept busy that day and the next morning with the yard work. The professor was being very mysterious, hopping in his car, driving away, and coming back at odd hours. He would not discuss what he was up to, and this made Johnny feel more left out than ever.

  One afternoon Johnny walked downtown toward Peter's Sweet Shop. He saw Eddie Tompke and a bunch of his friends go into the shop, though, and he turned around to go back home. He didn't want to mix it up with them, not after the disturbing nightmares he had been having about Eddie.

  But Sarah had just come around the corner, and she stopped, staring at him. "Hi," she said, and then she bit her lip.

  "Hi," muttered Johnny. He walked past her, but she fell in beside him.

  "Look, I've got something to tell you," she said. "I don't know if it's important or not, but I think you ought to know."

  Johnny didn't reply or look at her. He felt a dull burning inside. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? "What?" he asked in a cranky voice.

  "Your Mr. Mergal has moved to Duston Heights," she said.

  Stopping dead in his tracks, Johnny stared at her. "Are you sure?"

  Sarah nodded. "I know Mikey Bonner. He delivers the Gazette, and he said Mr. Mergal moved into an old empty house on Saltonstall Street last Friday or Saturday. On Monday Mike tried to get him to subscribe to the newspaper, and Mergal chased him away. Mikey was still complaining about it when we played flies an' grounders."

  Johnny frowned. Saltonstall Street was closer to the Merrimack River than Fillmore Street, but it was in the same section of town. He tried to remember any empty houses. "Is that the one close to the old church?"

  "Which church?"

  Johnny rolled his eyes. "The old Congregational Church. It caught fire and the roof burned back in 1943, Grampa says. They never fixed it 'cause they built the new church on the other side of town."

  "I don't know anything about the church," Sarah reminded him. "I'm new in town, remember?"

  "Yeah." Johnny thought hard. "There's the old Bradstreet house. All the kids call it the haunted house, because it's big and creepy, all weathered gray, and it has this strange tower in the front—"

  "That's it," said Sarah. "Mike said Mergal moved into a haunted house."

  Johnny shivered. He and Fergie had often strolled past the old Victorian house. It was about a quarter mile past the ruined church, behind a forbidding fence of black wrought-iron. The overgrown yard sprouted chest-high weeds, and the bleak, dirty windows gazed out blearily, like evil eyes. A wooden sign hung drunkenly from the wrought-iron gate:

  No Trespassing

  Violators Will Be Prosecuted

  Fergie had often dared Johnny to spend a night in the place. Kids around town told all sorts of stories about it. In the 1890s a crazy killer had hacked a man to pieces there, and they said that every night at midnight a puddle of blood formed in the front hall where the victim had fallen. People said that a spiral staircase led up into the tower, and if you walked up when the full moon was shining, you would see a shadowy form leap from the top and plummet down, only to be jerked short by a rope around its neck. That was the ghost of a woman who had committed suicide by hanging herself in the tower. Sometimes through the windows you could glimpse a ghostly coffin, drifting eerily from room to room. It would chase you, people said, and if it caught you, it snapped you up and sank into the earth, burying you alive.

  Johnny had never been tempted to take Fergie's dare. He swallowed hard and said, "I know the house."

  "Wanna go there?"

  "No!" Johnny yelped the word out so loudly that it made Sarah jump.

  "Take it easy, Dixon! If you're still mad at me—"

  "I'm not," said Johnny miserably. "It's just that—well, I've seen Mr. Mergal. He's weird, Sarah. Something about him isn't right. I don't think we should go rushing over to his house. Maybe we could talk to the professor, and he might have some idea of what we should do."

  "Hey, it's a free country," returned Sarah. "I mean, Mr. Mergal can move to Duston Heights if he wants to, right? And we can walk down Saltonstall Street if we want to. I'm not saying we should try to run Mr. Mergal down with our bikes or bop him on the bean with slingshots or anything. All I wanted to do was take a look at that house. It's supposed to be pretty weird itself, from what I hear. And maybe we could get a glimpse of Mr. Mergal. After all, we just have Mikey's word for it. We don't really know that it's the same guy who spooked you in the museum."

  "It would just about have to be," muttered Johnny. Mergal was an odd name. Two Mergals showing up in a small town like Duston Heights was too big a coincidence to swallow.

  Sarah sniffed. "Dixon, I'll make you a deal. Go along with me and take a look at the house, and we can be friends again. But don't try to tell me this Mergal guy is gonna start howling at the moon or anything, okay?"

  Taking a deep breath, Johnny nodded. He hadn't wanted to talk about magic and witchcraft anyway, but it would do no good to remind Sarah of that. The two of them walked across town, then turned onto Saltonstall Street.

  The houses here were big and run-down. Many had been built back in the 1880s, when lots of people in Duston Heights were getting rich in the leather and shoe businesses. These were Victorian houses, with complex gables, porches, and gingerbread decorations, but most needed paint and repairs. A porch rail was broken here, a loose shutter hung crookedly there, and the yards were seedy and overgrown.

  Bradstreet Hill was at the end of the street. The hill was a good place for sledding in a winter snowfall. At its crown was the silhouette of the old burned-out church. Johnny and Sarah plodded up the hill and paused to look at the ruin.

  All the brick walls of
the church still stood. The roof over the sanctuary had burned and collapsed onto the pews, and through the gaping hole where the front doors had been they could see charred timbers and piles of ashes with weeds sprouting from them. The church had been T-shaped, and the sanctuary was the vertical stroke of the T. The crossbar, containing the choir and the Sunday-school rooms, still looked intact. Of course, everything was far gone with decay and neglect, because the building had stood open to all kinds of weather for about ten years.

  A long way past the church on the right was the last house on Saltonstall Street before it turned into a county highway and wound past cornfields and scattered farms. It was the Bradstreet house, and it huddled behind its black wrought-iron fence, looking forbidding and evil.

  All around the brooding house grew a heavy thatch of unmowed grass. A thick layer of grime blinded all the windows. The place looked as if no one had lived there for fifty years.

  Weathered to a dull gray, the house had been built in two big blocks. Facing the street was a long porch supported by thin Corinthian columns, with scalloped decorations running between them. The porch rail had rotted away, and now only a few broken banisters jutted this way and that, like decayed, snaggly teeth. Above the porch were two more stories, with narrow, tall windows framed by moldering shutters. At the steep roof peak, ornate lightning rods, iron spears with purple and red glass globes along their lengths, thrust up to the sky.

  A second porch was over on the right side, where another three-storied section of the house projected into the yard. Between the two big blocks nestled a tower. Up to the roof line it was square, but then its top story became an octagonal cupola. An unusual lightning rod was on the steepled crown of the tower, with three red glass balls at the base and a large blue one at the top, supporting the spire. It looked like this:

  "Are you sure he's there?" asked Johnny.