The Hand of the Necromancer

by John Bellairs

  "Mikey said he was." But Sarah sounded uncertain, as if she couldn't believe anyone would live in a terrible place like that.

  A crow swooped over their heads and sailed up to perch on a windowsill. It was a narrow ledge, and the big bird had to flap and scrabble with its claws to hold on. It pecked at the window hard, three times—tap! tap! tap!—then screeched a raucous caw! and flew away.

  "Let's go knock on the door," said Sarah.

  "Are you nuts?" returned Johnny.

  "What harm can it do? Look, if he gets mad and blows his top, we can always say we're selling candy or something. Come on!" She pushed at the gate, and the metal hinges groaned as it swung inward.

  "Sarah," pleaded Johnny. Too late. She was already halfway to the porch. Johnny hurried after her, staring anxiously at the weathered old house. It waited with a patient, sinister air, like a tiger watching its prey approach. The wooden porch steps creaked as Sarah stepped on them. "I don't like this," Johnny muttered, joining her on the porch. The rotten old boards underfoot sagged as if they were about to break, and a choking, nasty-smelling dust rose from them.

  "Okay, we're selling candy for St. Michael's," muttered Sarah. "We'll knock and see if he's home and ask to take his order. Ready?"

  Whether Johnny was ready or not, Sarah pounded on the door. Her fist made a dismal, echoing boom! boom! boom! The sound almost made Johnny jump out of his skin.

  Then he felt the hairs on his neck bristle. The door opened. Slowly, with a protest of ancient, rusty hinges, it swung inward, into darkness. But no one was there.

  "Want to explore?" asked Sarah. She put her foot on the threshold.

  Johnny grabbed her arm. "No! There is something wrong about this—"

  Sarah screamed. Johnny's jaw fell open as he stared into the darkness. From the deep gloom someone was coming toward them—someone or something. It was as tall as a man, but it moved with a shambling, loose step, as if it were about to fall apart.

  And then it stumbled close enough for the light from the open door to fall on it.

  It was a walking skeleton, dressed in the flaking scraps of a Pilgrim suit, with a tall, conical hat atop its pale, grinning skull. Ancient, dried shreds of moldy green flesh stuck to its cheeks, and cobwebs busy with spiders filled its eye sockets. The long, tattered coat that it wore hung open, and inside the skeleton's rib cage gray shapes moved, huge, red-eyed rats that gnawed the bones with their yellow teeth. The skeleton thrust its arms out as if it were blind in the light, and Johnny saw that its left hand was missing. The shape lurched forward, its jaws gaping, a hollow groan coming from its bony mouth—

  Johnny pulled Sarah away, and they leaped off the porch. Behind them they heard an angry snarl, and as they ran through the tall grass, things writhed at their feet.

  Snakes! Hundreds of snakes reared, hissed, coiled, and struck at them. Sarah shrieked at the top of her lungs, and Johnny thought he was going to faint. He stepped on a muscular body that bulged and twisted underfoot, and with a yelp he rushed forward. He and Sarah reached the iron gate, but a huge, scaly green serpent coiled itself in and out of the bars, its evil triangular head raised, its slitted blood-red eyes glaring at them. It struck as Johnny pushed Sarah through the open gate, its fangs barely missing them. An instant later they were outside.

  When Johnny looked behind him, all the snakes had vanished. "They weren't real!" he gasped. "It was some kinda trick—look!"

  Sarah was breathing hard and shaking so badly, she could hardly stand. The two of them were shoulder to shoulder, staring back through the iron gate at the gray old house, its door peacefully closed. "That—that thing in the house. Do you think that was real?"

  "I don't know," Johnny confessed. "But I'm never going back in there as long as I live!"

  From behind them a grating voice said, "Oh, you didn't enjoy your visit, hmm? Come back any time—I never lock my gate!"

  Johnny and Sarah wheeled around. Not three steps away stood the tall, gaunt, black-suited figure of Mattheus Mergal. His stained, uneven teeth showed in a fierce grin. From overhead, the crow screamed again, an evil, nails-on-a-blackboard sound.

  "Well, if you really must go, there is the way," Mergal said, stepping aside and gesturing down the hill.

  Sarah and Johnny began to run at the same instant. They ran as if the devil himself were at their heels.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They stopped at the intersection of Saltonstall and Main streets, gasping for breath. "H-h-he's not f-following us, is he?" panted Johnny. His lungs felt as if they were on fire.

  Sarah shook her head. Her face was red from exertion, making her freckles appear pale. She gasped, "Dixon, I see what you mean about Mergal. Ugh—he looks like somethin' out of a Boris Karloff horror movie!"

  A harsh cackling made both of them start. It came from over their heads. A crow had landed high in a nearby maple, its shoulders hunched and its beaky head bobbing. It made a chattery ka-ka-ka sound, as if it were laughing scornfully. Goosebumps prickled Johnny's arms.

  Was it the same bird that had perched on old Mergal's window? It very well might be.

  "Get out of here!" Sarah stooped, picked up a pebble, and with a quick sidearm throw sent it whooshing through the foliage. Five or six leaves came whirling lazily down, but Sarah had missed her target by inches. As she stooped for more ammunition, the crow flapped its wings and took off, and in a moment it was a black speck in the sky above the hilltop. "I think we'd better move along," said Sarah.

  They lost no time heading for Fillmore Street. Johnny and Sarah went straight to Professor Childermass' house. Johnny rang the doorbell, but no one answered. That was strange, because the maroon Pontiac was in the garage.

  Johnny turned the knob and found the front door was not locked. "I'm going to check this out," he said. He pushed the door open and went inside. "Professor?" he yelled. "Hey, Professor Childermass?"

  No one was home. After the warm sun the inside of the old stucco house was cool and dim. They looked in the kitchen. "That's strange," Sarah said. On the kitchen table was a cup half fall of black coffee and a plate that held part of a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.

  Johnny touched the cup. "It's cold. What happened to him?"

  "This is like that mystery ship. You know, the Mary Celeste," Sarah said. Johnny had read the haunting true story of the abandoned ship once, so he knew what she meant. The Mary Celeste was a sailing vessel that someone found drifting and deserted back in the nineteenth century. According to the legend, the salvagers who boarded the Mary Celeste discovered a half-eaten meal in the galley, but not a living soul was aboard. They towed the ship to port, but no one ever learned what became of the ship's officers and crew. They had all vanished into thin air.

  Johnny and Sarah searched the house. Professor Childermass was not home, but they saw no evidence that the burglar had returned. "I don't like this," Johnny said. The two of them went back downstairs. They closed the door behind them and hurried across to Johnny's house.

  Gramma Dixon made tomato soup and egg salad sandwiches for lunch, but as she served them, she said she had no idea of where the professor was. "He mighta gone t' visit Dr. Coote," she offered. "I saw Dr. Coote over there a coupla days ago."

  After lunch Johnny tried to telephone Dr. Coote, but no one answered. Then he put in a call to the University of New Hampshire, where Dr. Coote taught. A receptionist told him that Dr. Coote was away for a couple of weeks, first to take care of some final details about the publication of his voodoo book and then to fly to England to do some research on medieval magic. Johnny thanked her and hung up.

  "Come on," he told Sarah grimly. "I don't like the professor just disappearing like this, and I know someone who can help us." They went to St. Michael's Church, and Johnny rang the rectory doorbell. At first no one answered, and from inside the house Johnny could hear the sound of a guitar and a strong voice singing the old Irish rebellion song, "The Rising of the Moon." He knocked on the door and the music stopped. A
moment later Father Higgins answered the door. He was not in his priestly vestments, but wore green Army fatigue pants and a plaid cotton shirt.

  "Well, well," he said. "What brings you two here? You're Sarah Channing, aren't you? I'm glad to welcome your family to the parish."

  Sarah grinned self-consciously. "Thank you," she murmured.

  Johnny had held in the story as long as he could. He gasped it out in one breath, concluding, "—and now the professor's gone, but his house is unlocked an' there's a cuppa coffee and a sandwich he didn't even finish—"

  With a smile, Father Higgins held up his hand. "Easy, easy, John. Maybe this Mr. Mergal is not a very nice man, and maybe he rigged something to scare people away from his house, but he hasn't kidnapped Roderick. It so happens I know Professor Childermass isn't home and I know why. Come in and relax for a moment and I'll tell you."

  Father Higgins led them into the stuffy, old-fashioned parlor of the rectory. Curved iron fixtures projected from the walls. They had once been gaslights, but now they were wired for electricity and held small tulip-shaped bulbs under tiny green shades. Religious pictures and a crucifix hung on the walls, and on the mantel was a big black-and-white framed photograph of a much younger Father Higgins and his mother. The air smelled faintly of incense. Beside Father Higgins' armchair rested his battered old guitar.

  The priest made Johnny and Sarah sit on the saggy old sofa while he rummaged through some papers on an end table. "Here we are," he said. "This came in the afternoon mail." He passed the paper to Johnny. "You should read it."

  It was a badly typed letter done on a faded black ribbon, with lots of strikeovers:

  July 25

  Dear Father Higgins,

  I am taking a short trip, adn and I wanted to let you kon know so you could tell all my friends tht that I am all right. This business about the burglary and the magic hand has upset me, so I am going tot to take the train up to Vermont, get in some fishing and some reflection, and see if I can't calm down. I will see you in a week or so.

  The letter was signed "Roderick Childermass" in blue fountain-pen ink. Below that, also in blue ink, was a PS: "I may not return by Friday, so please make sure the card is delivered."

  Johnny looked up from the letter. "This doesn't look like Professor Childermass' way of writing a letter," he objected.

  "It looks like his banged-up old Royal typewriter to me," said Father Higgins. "And you know how he tries to type so fast with two fingers that he's always jamming the keys and having to cross out misspellings. Anyway, that's certainly his signature."

  Johnny had to admit that was true. Then he asked, "What does this mean about the card?"

  Father Higgins took the letter. "That has to do with you, actually. Last Saturday Rod came to see me because he said a very irritating man had moved into town, and he was afraid he would have to do something about it."

  Sarah and Johnny exchanged a glance.

  Father Higgins must have misunderstood their look. "I don't think the professor was considering lynching anyone or burning down someone's house. Probably he was thinking about having his phone unlisted or something like that. Or maybe he just planned to get out of town to let his famous temper simmer down. Anyway, he left an envelope and asked me to see that you got it before Friday. It's in my study. I'll be right back." He left them alone.

  Sarah sighed. "Well, there goes the Mary Celeste theory. I had it figured that supernatural forces had kidnapped the professor."

  "Maybe not supernatural forces," whispered Johnny.

  Frowning, Sarah said, "Oh, come on, Dixon. The prof says that he's off fishing. My dad's like that. Give him half a chance, and he grabs his rods and reels and heads for the nearest damp spot."

  Johnny shook his head. "No! Professor Childermass doesn't fish much because he doesn't have the patience. And he wouldn't just take off without letting me know or cleaning up his kitchen. He can be a pretty sloppy housekeeper, but he'd never leave food out to attract bugs."

  Father Higgins returned and handed Johnny a square envelope. "Here you are," he said.

  Johnny opened the envelope. It held a dime-store birthday card, with a cartoon cake on the front. The colorful cake looked about nine feet tall, and huge red and blue and yellow candles stuck out of it, dripping wax all over.

  Inside, the message read: "Here is a BIG CAKE to go with your BIG DAY. Happy birthday!" Beneath that, Professor Childermass had scrawled,

  Dear Johnny,

  I take this occasion to wish you many happy returns. To make the day fun, I have hidden your present. Here is your clue:

  Way up high,

  An ear in the sky,

  A line nearby,

  The package lies

  Where billows rise.

  I certainly hope I've given you a hand! Happy birthday!

  Always your friend,

  Roderick Childermass

  Johnny's heart sank. He looked up at the priest.

  Father Higgins stared at him. "Why, John! What's wrong?"

  In a trembling voice Johnny said, "The professor almost never calls me Johnny. And it isn't my birthday. My birthday's not for months. Oh, Father Higgins, don't you see? The professor's in trouble—terrible, terrible trouble!"

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They talked to Father Higgins for an hour. The priest knew Johnny was really a level-headed kid, even though he liked to daydream. And he knew that Johnny was serious in his concern for Professor Childermass. However, Father Higgins pointed out, there really was no reason to worry. "He may have been pulling your leg with that card," the priest said. "Or it's even possible there's a secret message in it somehow. But anyway, the professor clearly told me he might not return before Friday. Now, don't you think we should give our friend at least that long? Today's Tuesday. You'll only have to wait three more days. And then, if Rod hasn't called or returned, I promise we'll see if we can get to the bottom of whatever mystery you think you've found."

  Johnny wasn't really satisfied with that, but he had to accept it. For a change, Sarah was quiet and shy. In the Catholic school that she had attended before, priests were mysterious and rather ominous characters. They came around to catechize you and to listen to you confess all the bad things you had thought or done.

  Johnny and Sarah left the rectory and went their separate ways, but Sarah promised to call him that night. She did, right after dinner. "Listen," she told Johnny, "I've been puzzling over all this. I really don't think we should wait until Friday. Do you?"

  "No. By Friday something awful might have happened to the professor. But what can we do?"

  "We can keep an eye on old Freak-Face Mergal's house."

  "What! After that—that walking skeleton, and the snakes, and—"

  "They didn't hurt us, did they? Father Higgins is right. They're something old Mergal fixed up to scare people away. Only we won't be scared! Listen." And Sarah spun out a plan. A plan almost as daredevil and chancy as one of Fergie's. Johnny listened with a strange mixture of dread and excitement. He didn't really want to agree to it, but he was sick and tired of doing nothing. "Okay," he said at last. "Come over early tomorrow, and I'll see you then." He hung up the phone and wondered if he had made a wise decision.

  That night as he lay in bed, Johnny studied the birthday card. What did it mean? Was it a cry for help? A warning of danger? Johnny counted the candles. There were twenty-one, seven of each color. The cake had pink, green, and yellow frosting, and the candle flames were yellow with orange centers. Did the candles have a concealed meaning, or the cake? Or did the picture mean anything at all? And what about the puzzling message scrawled inside the card? Johnny read it again. He wondered if the professor's mentioning the word hand had any significance. Of course, to say that you'd give someone a hand didn't mean an actual hand—or even a wooden one. And what in the world was an ear high in the sky? Nothing made sense.

  Worn out, Johnny laid the card aside, took off his glasses, and clicked off the lamp. Everything that had ha
ppened began to whirl around in his head: Miss Ferrington, his job, the delivery man on the loading dock, the snow globe with its frightened little figure, the bizarre wooden hand, and brooding over everything, the terrifying Mr. Mergal. Johnny drifted into a troubled sleep still fretting about all his problems.

  Much later he heard a fluttery sound, a stealthy tapping sound. Frowning, he opened his eyes. It was still dark, and the luminous hands of his clock showed the time was five minutes past one. Johnny turned on his side. A pale moon made the window show up as a vague rectangle, a little lighter than the darkness. A shadow flitted over it, and for an instant there was a scratching noise. Johnny slowly reached for his glasses, his heart thumping. He found his spectacles and put them on.

  The air had a strange, dusty scent that he could not name. He squinted, staring hard at the window, but nothing moved there.

  Johnny eased out of bed and looked outside. A thin mist hung over everything, pale blue with the moonlight. Again Johnny heard a quick, light tapping. Puzzled, he went to the window and pressed his nose against the cool glass, trying to see if some moth or night-flying bird was responsible for the noise. He had a clear view and yet could see nothing. The window was open about six inches. He cautiously raised the sash all the way, feeling the cool rush of night air. Although the tapping sounded again, nothing was visible out there. Still, he leaned over the windowsill to make sure.

  With a sudden shock, Johnny saw that the screen was gone. He and Grampa had taken down the storm windows and put up the screens last March. The window was wide open now, with nothing between it and the night—

  Invisible hands seized Johnny's shoulders.

  Johnny screeched in terror as the hands yanked him out the opening. He clawed desperately for a handhold. "You're comin' with me!" shrieked the voice of Eddie Tompke. "Let's see how far ya can fly!"

  Johnny fell headfirst toward the ground twenty feet below—