Lewis felt cold. “No,” he uttered. “I haven’t seen her since about two thirty, when the Hardwicks dropped her off at her house. What’s happened?”
“She’s disappeared,” said Jonathan gravely. “Go get dressed, Lewis. I’m going to call Florence. This doesn’t sound very good at all.”
Lewis hurried back upstairs and got into a fresh pair of corduroy pants, a shirt, socks, and sneakers. By the time he got down to the study, Mrs. Zimmermann was already there. “I was afraid something like this might happen,” she was saying. She looked up as he came in and gave him a sad kind of smile. “Hello, Lewis! I was just telling your uncle that Rose Rita may be in real trouble.”
“I bet it has something to do with that Belle Frisson,” said Lewis. “Rose Rita acted really weird at the cemetery. It was like the monument fascinated her.”
“Jonathan and I have checked all our books on magic,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “Belle Frisson, whoever she was, doesn’t show up in any of them. If she was a real sorceress, she was not one who associated with any other true magicians.”
“To tell you the truth,” revealed Jonathan, “both Florence and I think that Belle Frisson was just a stage magician—a conjuror, like your friends at the magic museum. I found a mention or two of her name in books on spiritualism and mediums, but that was all. I figured she was like the ‘trance mediums’ whom Houdini used to expose. He was sort of a detective, you know, specializing in unmasking fakes who claimed to have real powers.”
“I didn’t know that,” replied Lewis.
“Well, be that as it may,” said Mrs. Zimmermann firmly, “it doesn’t help us with our problem. Louise Pottinger is asking the police to find Rose Rita, but if magic is tied up in this, they won’t be able to help. It seems to be sorcery of a special kind too—Egyptian magic. If only Dr. Walsh were in town, we could consult him.”
Dr. David Walsh was a great local celebrity. He was an archaeologist who specialized in the history and lore of ancient Egypt, and he had been on many expeditions. In fact, at that moment he was away, excavating a tomb somewhere on the banks of the Nile River in Egypt.
Lewis said, “His son, Chris, goes to the elementary school. I know him.”
“That might help,” said Jonathan. “Lewis, tomorrow I’d like you to ask Chris if we might take a look at some of his father’s books. Dr. Walsh has a huge collection dealing with Egypt, and maybe something will be of help.”
“Tomorrow? Can’t we do anything tonight?” Lewis pleaded.
“Like what?” asked Mrs. Zimmermann. “Lewis, we all like Rose Rita a great deal, and we’d do anything to help her. When you’re up against the unknown, though, it doesn’t do to go charging in. You have to arm yourself so that you can fight if necessary. Besides, Rose Rita will be all right, at least for a while. Jonathan and I have learned something about fetches. If one has summoned Rose Rita away, that’s all it can do for the time being. She will be safe until the next phase of the moon.”
“When is that?” asked Lewis, dreading to hear.
“Friday night,” said Jonathan. “That’s when the moon goes into its last quarter.”
“The night before Halloween,” whispered Lewis.
“Yes,” replied Jonathan in a solemn voice. “The night before Halloween.”
If Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann had guessed right, that meant they had only five days to rescue Rose Rita. Lewis hoped it would be enough.
* * *
The next day school dragged on forever. Rose Rita was absent, and everyone knew she was missing. Many people thought she had run away, and others thought she might have been kidnapped. Some of the kids in Lewis’s classes asked him about Rose Rita, but he didn’t want to speak about her.
After school Lewis headed over to the Walshes’ house. They lived on Michigan Street, several blocks west of High Street. As he walked along, Lewis had the uncanny sense that he was being watched. He turned and looked behind him, but he saw no one. Then he stuck his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, hunched his shoulders, and crunched over dry leaves. He turned a corner suddenly and jumped behind a tree. He waited there, holding his breath.
Half a minute later a hurrying figure came around the corner. Lewis let his breath out and relaxed. He stepped out from behind the tree. “Hey, Chad,” he said. “Are you following me?”
Chad Britton, a blond, brown-eyed kid wearing a tan trench coat buttoned up tight, stopped and grinned. “Well, I was,” he said ruefully. “I’m practicing.”
Lewis sighed. Chad wanted to be a detective when he grew up, and he liked to practice by following people around. He was getting pretty good at it. Sometimes he gave older people the willies when they realized he had been silently observing them for an hour or more. “Well, stop it,” said Lewis. “I’m not doing anything.”
“But you’re one of Rose Rita Pottinger’s friends,” replied Chad reasonably. “Everyone says she’s been kidnapped and crooks are holding her for ransom. That’s why I was following you.”
“I wouldn’t kidnap Rose Rita,” said Lewis angrily.
“I know you wouldn’t. But your uncle is rich, so I figured they might kidnap you too and ask him for a lot of ransom money. Then I could get the crooks’ license number and report it to the police.” Chad smiled as if that were the most logical thing in the world.
“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Lewis. “Anyway, I’m busy right now. Tomorrow I’ll tell you everything I know about the case, okay?”
“Great!” Chad consented. “Keep me posted!”
Shaking his head, Lewis walked on to the Walsh house. Chris Walsh, a ten-year-old boy with short, brown hair, was standing in front of the big stone house tossing a football up and catching it. He grinned when he saw Lewis and threw the ball to him. Lewis flinched, missed the ball, and picked it up. Laughing, Chris said, “Hi, Lewis.”
“Hi yourself,” Lewis replied, tossing him the football. Chris caught it expertly.
“Want to play?” Chris asked.
“I can’t right now,” Lewis said. “Is your mom home?”
Chris said, “Yes,” and Lewis explained what he needed. “My uncle is interested in Egypt,” he finished, “and he’d like to borrow a book or two. Especially books on Egyptian magic.”
“Oh, sure,” said Chris right away. “Dad has lots of those. Come on in.”
The house was big, with high ceilings, wainscotted walls, and many Egyptian artifacts. There were urns and statuettes, and on the walls were pieces of ancient bronze armor, funeral masks, and framed sheets of papyrus covered with hieroglyphs. Chris’s mother said that Lewis could borrow as many books as he wanted, so they went to the study. Chris walked over to a bookcase and said, “Here’s some of the real stuff. This is The Book of Going Forth by Day, which most people call the Book of the Dead. And this one is about animal magic. Here’s another one . . . .”
By the time they had finished, Lewis had a stack of six books, two of them large and heavy. He thanked Chris and his mother and headed back across town. Before he had gotten even halfway home, Chad Britton started to shadow him again. Lewis ignored him and hurried on to High Street.
Mrs. Zimmermann returned, and she and Jonathan pored over the books, taking time only for another hurried dinner of sandwiches. At last Mrs. Zimmermann looked up from her book. “Here’s something,” she said. “Listen to this.” She cleared her throat and began to read:
In predynastic times the curious cult of Neith began in ancient Sais. The followers of the goddess Neith were caught up in the study of the mysteries of life and death. Neith was the Weaver of the World, the terrible Opener of the Way between life and death, and her representative creature, the spider, was a symbolic connection between the two states, with her web the bridge between the here and now and the hereafter. Some worshippers believed that the web of the Great Spider, like the skein of Ariadne, could thread the maze between this world and the dark world of death. They judged that, by following the strand backward, it
might be possible for a departed soul to return to life.
Such a passage would be costly, however. To begin, it would demand the spilling of blood and the creation of the spectral Death Spider. At the termination of the process a human sacrifice would have to be made, blood for blood and life for life. Only by sending a victim into death could the soul anxious to return be granted a passage back to life.
Jonathan Barnavelt whistled. “That sounds pretty ominous. Is there more?”
Mrs. Zimmermann read silently for several minutes. Then she looked up. “Yes. This Death Spider is a creature half spirit, half real—a kind of specter. Just as we guessed, it behaves like a fetch, and its power is tied to the phases of the moon. Rose Rita will be safe until the turning of the moon—or at least she won’t be sacrificed until then. That doesn’t give us much time. But there’s more, I’m afraid.”
In a harsh voice, Jonathan said, “Let’s have it.”
“The spider has magical powers,” Mrs. Zimmermann said slowly. “Physically, it is very weak, but it can create illusions, it can mislead and trick us, and if it bites us, it could very well kill us. We’ll have to be on our guard.”
“When do we go?” asked Lewis.
Jonathan shook his head. “Lewis, I can’t ask you to help in this. It’s too dangerous.” In a kindly voice, he added, “It might be very frightening.”
Lewis said quietly, “I know. I’m terrified already. Only, Rose Rita is my friend. Back when that evil spirit nearly lured me into a well, she showed up to help. She needs me now.”
Mrs. Zimmermann agreed briskly. “I think Lewis is right, Jonathan. The powers of evil have dreadful tricks up their sleeves, but they don’t always count on simple things that might foul them up. One of the simplest and most powerful is friendship. All for one and one for all, I say.”
Jonathan Barnavelt tugged at his red beard. “All for one and one for all it is, then,” he said. “Lewis, go get our flashlights. Florence, maybe you’d better go home and pick up some especially powerful amulets and talismans. If we’re going up against this Death Spider, we’ll need every bit of help we can get!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Rose Rita stepped into the dark hollow of the tomb, she had a moment of pure panic. She had the feeling that the walls were slowly coming together to crush her. The air turned dead and stale, and it was hard to breathe. Her lungs throbbed, and her heart felt squeezed, as if it were about to burst in her chest. The world began to spin around and around, and she staggered, dazed and dizzy.
Then some force pulled her along. The passageway slanted downward, like a ramp, and then became a kind of tunnel, To her astonishment, Rose Rita could see. No light from the surface could come through the earth and stone around her, but some strange, dim, greenish illumination let her glimpse walls made of crumbling gray tiles, with roots and earth bulging through here and there. The floor underfoot was unpleasantly soft and spongy, and things squelched under her feet, popping in a horrible liquid way. A bad smell filled her nostrils, earthy, damp, and moldy, reminding her of mildew, of rot and decay. Ahead of her the passage turned, but the muted green light—it was almost like a faintly glowing haze in the air—let her see only dimly. Rose Rita took step after unwilling step, her path turning left, then right, then left again, and always leading down, down, down.
She walked for what seemed like hours. At last the light began to grow stronger. She had the sense of tons of earth above her, cutting her off from the surface and from life. As the light increased, Rose Rita could see dark, slimy streaks where water had oozed down the tiled walls of the passage. She could see, too, that she was walking on a leathery carpet of fungi—bloated, pale toadstools that were an ugly, fleshy color and that released a sickening stench when she stepped on them and made them pop.
The passageway widened to at least ten feet and led to an arch. A filmy curtain swayed softly and gently in the air. As she came closer, Rose Rita held her breath. The swagging silk was not a curtain. It was an enormous spiderweb. Small bones were stuck throughout, perhaps the bones of bats, rats, or snakes that had come down here. The arch was far above her head, but even so, Rose Rita cringed as she passed under it.
She stepped out into a strange, round room. The arched ceiling soared high overhead, its hollow center lost in darkness. In the middle of the room was a round marble platform, with steps leading up to it from all sides. A tall white pillar was centered on the platform, and a broad, white marble bowl rested on top of it. In this marble cauldron something burned with a slow, green flame. Glowing green smoke rose, spread lazily, and drifted through the air. The flame and the vapor were the sources of the bizarre dim light.
“Come!”
Rose Rita gasped. She could not tell if the voice was in her head or if the word had been spoken aloud. The deadly force that gripped her made her move around the edge of the platform. Against the wall on the far side stood two thrones. They gleamed dully, like gold. Both thrones had high backs, and crowning each was an odd bust. It looked like a creature with a man’s shoulders but the head of some fox-faced animal with enormous ears. Rose Rita had seen pictures of such a being in books. It was Anubis, an ancient Egyptian god, she thought as she moved slowly forward. She vaguely recalled that Anubis guarded the passageway from life to death . . . .
“Welcome,” said the harsh, whispering voice, and Rose Rita jerked her attention back to the two thrones. The one on the right was empty. A spectral figure, as erect and proud as a queen, sat in the other.
“Stop.”
Rose Rita halted. She stared at the seated figure. From this close she could tell the figure was a woman, slim and regal looking. She wore a flowing white robe. Her arms rested on the arms of the throne, each hand on top of a golden globe. The skin on her hands and fingers looked unhealthy, gray and strangely pebbly in texture. Her face was in shadow, and she remained motionless.
“Welcome.”
Rose Rita swayed and collapsed to her hands and knees. She felt as though a string had been supporting her and had suddenly been cut. She shuddered as her hands touched the squelchy toadstools, plunging down into their cold slime up to her wrists. Crying out, she scrambled backward, up onto the steps of the platform. “Who—who are you?” Rose Rita screamed.
Laughter came from the figure—hissing, cold laughter. “You know who I am.”
Rose Rita’s teeth chattered. Her hands felt cold. She frantically scrubbed them against her jeans legs, trying to remove the awful fluids of the fungi. The air in the cavernous room was freezing, and she could not stop shaking. “Belle Frisson,” said Rose Rita in a low growl. “What are you doing to me?”
“Nothing that you have not cheerfully done to yourself,” the voice said callously. “Did you not want revenge? Did you not hate those who mocked you? Did you not wish to loose the Death Spider?”
“N-no,” stammered Rose Rita. “Maybe I day-dreamed—”
“You will have all eternity to dream now,” responded the whispery voice. “This, though, I promise you: When I go forth once more into the waking world, my first task will be to destroy those who mistreated you. You may reflect on that as you rest here forever.”
Rose Rita reeled. Visions flashed before her eyes. Visions of the other girls in her class screaming in terror. Visions of the whole school flaring into flame, burning though it was made of stone. Visions of New Zebedee itself laid waste, everything broken, shattered, ruined, with spiders creeping over the rubble. Then it all cleared away. “You can’t do that!” shouted Rose Rita, angry and terrified at the same time.
“I have waited too long,” replied the still figure. “I will live again, oh, I will live! But first I will destroy!”
“W-why?” wailed Rose Rita.
The voice was cruel, remorseless. “When I lived the life of flesh, I spoke to spirits! Had I had time to refine my studies, I might have become most powerful, the ruler of the universe—but I had to perform for fools to earn my bread. Ancient spirits taught me, nurtured me
, showed me a way of perhaps holding off death. I—arranged for certain procedures to be done in the event of my death. My apparent death. For the vessel was broken, yet the spirit continued.”
“I don’t understand,” complained Rose Rita. Her arms and legs were beginning to feel numb from the terrible cold.
“Of course not!” The voice was a whiplash that made Rose Rita flinch. “Foolish girl, how could you understand the thread of the spider? How could you appreciate how it may hold and bind a spirit, saving it from the final journey to the realms of the dead? I understood! I prepared! And now here you are, to take my place, that I may again don flesh and walk forth among the living! Do you know how a spider lives? How she traps prey and then drinks the blood from it? A small fly’s life might last a few weeks, but trapped and wrapped by a spider, the fly lives many times that span! So shall you live, here, seated on the Throne of Anubis, and your long, long life shall be mine, for I am as the spider, drinking from your strength and life!”
Something chittered behind Rose Rita. She turned, dreading what she might see.
A huge spider, the size of a horse, had climbed up onto the platform behind her. Its enormous dark-gray body pulsed in a hideous way. Its five bulging black eyes glittered in the unearthly light. Its jaws quivered and clenched, revealing sharp, scarlet-tipped fangs that glistened with venom. The hairy beast moved toward Rose Rita.
Rose Rita backed away, her heart thundering. The spider crept forward. Rose Rita’s lungs were paralysed. She wanted to scream, but she could not. She took another step back, off the platform, and another—
And a bony hand seized her arm!
Gasping, Rose Rita turned to fight.
The creature on the throne held her arm in her deadly grip. Rose Rita stared at the woman and felt as if she were going insane.
The Specter from the Magician's Museum Page 9
