The Dark Secret of Weatherend

by John Bellairs

  Mr. Borkman smiled coldly and held out a long, pale hand. "How do you do, young man," he said in a flat, toneless voice.

  Anthony hesitated a second, and then reached out to shake hands. Mr. Borkman's hand felt lifeless and surprisingly cold. But the man's stare was hard and hostile. It hit Anthony like a slap in the face, and in that instant he thought, He knows who we are. He knows us both, and he hates us.

  Mr. Borkman withdrew his hand from Anthony's grasp and thrust it into his overcoat pocket. He turned back to Miss Eells. "Now, then," he said in a crisp, businesslike tone, "do you have all the information you need?"

  Miss Eells looked at the white card on the desk in front of her. "Yes," she said, nodding. "I think this will be sufficient. There'll be some delay while we process this, but you ought to get your card by—"

  Mr. Borkman cut her off. "The delay is unimportant to me. But if we have finished with this I would like to talk to you and this young gentleman in the privacy of your office."

  Miss Eells had been writing something on the card, but now she laid down her pen and looked up. Her eyes were wide with fear. Normally she would have said "Sorry, some other time." But there was a command in Borkman's voice, and when Miss Eells's eyes met his, she felt a numbing shock. Suddenly she envisioned four rugged stones standing on a grassy hilltop. The grass was long and rank, and behind it was a dark, stormy sky. When the picture faded, Miss Eells found she had no will of her own. She had to do whatever Anders Borkman asked.

  "All right," she said dully, and she dragged herself to her feet. Anthony felt confused and frightened. Why didn't Miss Eells tell this creep off and make him go away? But as he was about to open his mouth to protest, Borkman turned his gaze upon him. Suddenly he felt the same sensation Miss Eells had. It was as if there were an invisible electrical field around this sinister-looking man that surged out and enveloped him. It numbed him and made him unable to resist. Moving woodenly, he followed Miss Eells and Borkman through the tiny reference room and down the long, narrow corridor that led to Miss Eells's office.

  Miss Eells paused to unlock the heavy paneled door, then the three of them filed in. The door closed softly, and Miss Eells and Anthony shuffled across the room like a couple of windup metal soldiers. Stiffly Miss Eells sat down behind her cluttered desk. Anthony sank into a slouchy leather armchair, and Borkman carried a tall stool that was standing against a wall out to the center of the room and sat down on it. He looked from one to the other with an air of haughty authority. He would be making all the big speeches while Miss Eells and Anthony would just sit, glassy-eyed, as if they had been drugged.

  Borkman folded his arms across his chest. He stared at a point on the wall above Miss Eells's head, and he began speaking in a calm, measured voice.

  "I have been observing you for some time. Trespassers need to be watched—you are dangerous, lawless types. But I have no wish to prosecute you." Borkman coughed.

  "You took a diary in a metal box from the carriage house of my estate. My father told me of its existence, but he neglected to mention where he had hidden it. Recently, when I was in the carriage house, I found a hole in the floor and saw a square indentation in the earth underneath. It occurred to me that the diary must have been removed from that spot—by you. Am I correct?"

  Miss Eells and Anthony sat as still as statues. Neither of them moved a muscle.

  Borkman glared coldly at the two of them. "I shall ask you both again," he said in a harsh, menacing voice. "But first I see that you need further persuasion."

  He raised a pale hand. Until then the October sunlight had been streaming in through the windows of Miss Eells's office; now the windows went dark. The two electric lamps in the room burned yellow and dim and then went out, and a sickly greenish light, like a halo, appeared. It hovered about the dark, menacing shape of Anders Borkman. Miss Eells and Anthony were still unable to move. They found that it was hard to breathe, and yet their minds were clear—horribly clear. They knew that they were helpless in the presence of someone or something that was unutterably evil. Evil, and not of this world.

  "I will not tell you now who I am," said Borkman in a voice that echoed oddly, "but there will be a time in the future when you will know me better. For the moment I will tell you only this: I need the book that you have stolen so that I may complete the great work that my father began. You find it hard to breathe, do you not? Well, I can make it harder. I can cause torments of the mind and body that you never believed possible. So I will ask you once more, and once only, before I show you a worse side of myself: Did you steal the book?"

  Miss Eells nodded. So did Anthony.

  Borkman. grinned evilly. "I thought so. Which of you has the book now?"

  Miss Eells remained silent and motionless. But in a slow, dreamy voice, as if he were talking in his sleep, Anthony spoke: "I have the book. It's in my room at home."

  Borkman turned toward him. His face was a scarcely human mask of grinning malice. "Is that where it is?" he crooned. "Well, then, my fine burglarious friend, I have a small request to make. Tomorrow night at midnight I want you to bring me the book. I'll be on the front steps of the Hoosac City Hall. And you'd better do as I say, or else you and this old woman here will suffer. And I mean suffer. Do I make myself clear?"

  Anthony answered haltingly. "I'll bring... the book to you. Don't... don't hurt Miss Eells. Please don't."

  Borkman's evil smile broadened. "Oh, don't worry. Your friend will remain unharmed if you fulfill your part of the bargain. And now I must go. But I command you both, and I order you by the Sign of the Four and the God of Storms! Neither of you will remember this conversation or anything that has just transpired in this room. You, Anthony, will do what you have promised, but you will not know why you are doing it. So be it, so be it. Amen."

  Borkman clapped his hands. The darkness drained away. The lamps came on, and sunlight streamed into the room. And there they were, the three of them sitting in their places and looking as if they had just finished a very pleasant conversation.

  Nimbly Borkman sprang down off the stool. He shook hands quickly—first with Anthony, then with Miss Eells. "It's been very pleasant to make your acquaintance," he said smoothly. "And now I must be going. I can expect that library card in a week or so, can I? Good. Have a pleasant afternoon." And with that, Anders Borkman swept out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  For a few seconds neither Anthony nor Miss Eells moved. Then Anthony shook himself and blinked. He felt a bit confused but generally cheerful.

  "Gee, Miss Eells," he said, smiling vaguely, "that Anders Borkman is kind of a nice guy after all, isn't he?"

  Miss Eells leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk. She folded and unfolded her hands and stared hard at the green marble penholder. "I guess so," she said in a faraway, abstracted voice. She looked troubled and seemed to be on the point of saying something. But instead she shook her head, sighed, and got to her feet.

  "I've got work to do," she muttered as she headed for the door. "There are eight zillion things that have to be done before the big wingding tonight. And you had better get back to work too. I'll see you later."

  Anthony went out into the library stacks, and for the next hour he trundled the book cart up and down the aisles putting books back in place. Every now and then, though, he would stop in the middle of what he was doing and try to figure out what was wrong inside his head. Something was out of whack, that was for sure. It was as if there was a blank space, something he couldn't account for. But then he would laugh and tell himself that he was being silly and go on shelving books.

  The party that evening in the Genealogy Room went very well. Miss Eells was there in a stunning blue silk dress and a pearl necklace. The dress was a bit on the dramatic side, but Miss Eells felt good in it, and needed the boost to help her through the whole stupid affair. Anthony was there in a busboy outfit, handing out cups of punch to people and carrying around trays of hors d'oeuvres and cookies. Sometimes he would
run into Miss Eells and they would both smile and make little jokes. And then—for no reason—they would both frown in a puzzled way. They knew something was wrong, but they didn't know what.

  The next day, Saturday, was sunny and unusually warm. Anthony played a game of touch football with friends in the afternoon, and later he saw a movie. When he went to bed that night, he felt the very odd sensation that he had something to do. This was idiotic, and he knew it. Tomorrow was Sunday, another free day. Oh, well, thought Anthony, Miss Eells always says that people get funny ideas at bedtime because the human machine is worn down then and needs rest. Feeling slightly relieved, he yawned, turned out the light, and went to bed.

  At half past eleven the Monday house was dark and silent. A full moon threw pale silvery streaks across the floor of Anthony's bedroom. Anthony stirred and got up, padding across the room to his desk. He took something out of the desk drawer and went to the chair where his clothes were laid out. Soon he was dressed. He picked up the diary, tucked it under his arm, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  A short while later Anthony was standing on the steps of City Hall. The huge old building, a fortress of black stone, cast its shadow over him and hid him from sight. Across the street the illuminated clock in the tower of the Methodist church said it was one minute to twelve. A cold night wind sent leaves scuttering across the street. Anthony stood dead still, waiting. And as the clock began to toll midnight a car came crawling around the corner. With a soft purring sound it crept along the curb and stopped in front of City Hall. One of the car's doors opened, and Anthony walked slowly and stiffly down the steps, heading for the car. He paused by the opened door as a hand reached out and took the diary from him. The door closed, and with a sudden accelerating roar the car sped away. Anthony stood staring after it for a full minute, and then he turned and walked down the street back into the silent darkness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Anthony woke up the next morning, he felt as if he had been hit on the head with a hammer. Woozily he turned his head and looked at the clock on his bedside table. It was five minutes after ten! Luckily it was Sunday, and there wasn't anything crucial that he had to do that morning. Anthony sat up and peeled back the covers. He swung his legs out of bed and looked down, and then he got a shock. He was wearing his socks! How in the heck had that happened? Anthony never wore his socks to bed. Curious, he turned and looked at the chair that stood at the foot of his bed. He always draped his shirt and pants neatly over the chair if he was going to wear them the next day, and laid out tomorrow's underwear and socks on top of the pants. But the chair was bare, and his clothes lay scattered over the bedroom floor. Anthony was frightened. He thought about the blank feeling he had had yesterday, and he became even more upset. What was going on?

  Anthony went down the hall to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth. As he was rinsing his mouth he thought about the book full of J. K. Borkman's mad ravings and about meeting his son Anders. Maybe there was a curse on the book. Maybe that was why his mind had been playing tricks on him lately. Well, if that was the case, he ought to just take the book out and burn it in the incinerator in the backyard. Anthony walked back to his bedroom. Carefully he began to open the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk. Inch by inch he slid it out, as if he expected the book to spew flames in his face. A little more...

  And then he got his third shock of the morning. The book was gone!

  Anthony stepped back. His mouth dropped open, and he could feel the palms of his hands getting sweaty. Then all of a sudden he got angry. His mother! Had she been messing around in his desk and swiped the book? Anthony's mother was a bit on the nosy side. She found it hard to keep out of his business, and once or twice she had even opened mail that had been sent to him. For the time being all worries about these mysterious goings-on were swept out of Anthony's mind. His mother had no right to go poking around in his desk, and Anthony would go downstairs and tell her so.

  Mrs. Monday was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting up carrots for the big Sunday dinner. She was not a pleasant-looking person. Her mouth was always set in a thin-lipped, suspicious frown. She could be kind, but she had a sour attitude toward the world in general.

  Anthony burst into the room, filled with righteous anger. "Mom!" he said in a loud, accusing voice. "Did you take a book out of my desk?"

  Mrs. Monday laid down the paring knife. At first she looked utterly stunned, but then she got angry. "No!" she said in a voice that was just as loud as his. "No, I did not take anything from your desk, and I'll thank you not to go around making wild accusations. I try hard to respect your privacy, and I wouldn't dream of prying into your personal affairs." Mrs. Monday paused. "What sort of a book was it?" she asked.

  Anthony was about to answer, but he hesitated. He didn't want his mom to find out about their expedition to the Weatherend estate. He shrugged carelessly. "Oh, uh, it ... it was just a crummy old book with a leather cover. It was somebody's diary, I guess. I, uh, found it in a barn."

  "I see. Well, as I said, I have not been muxing about in your desk, and I haven't seen any book of that description anywhere in this house. And now, I'd like to go back to fixing dinner!"

  Anthony stared gloomily at his mother. He knew from her tone that she didn't have the diary. If she did, she would have been evasive, but there was only anger in her voice now. So then what had happened to the blasted book? Had he been walking in his sleep last night? Had he taken the diary away himself while he was in a trance? But he had never walked in his sleep before. It was all very, very strange.

  "I'm sorry, Mom," he said at last. "I shouldn't've flown off the handle like that." Anthony smiled weakly at his mother. He wanted to smooth things over a bit so she wouldn't be mad at him about his "accusation." "Is... is there anything I can do to help?" he asked timidly.

  Mrs. Monday smiled up at her son. "You bet your life there is," she said. "You can help me peel some potatoes!"

  One sunny morning later that week Miss Eells was up in the tower room of the library, sorting magazines. She was wearing a blue denim apron, and an old-fashioned turk's-head feather duster lay at her side. Miss Eells was kneeling down, and she was reading a thrilling story in the June 1951 issue of Cosmopolitan. That was the trouble with sorting magazines. You just had to stop every now and then to look at something fascinating. Oh, well, it was better to do this than to think about what was going on at four o'clock that afternoon. Miss Eells groaned. Mrs. Oxenstern was throwing yet another sweet little tea party up in the new Genealogy Room. It was enough to make you sick. First the grand opening party, and now a tea for the Minnesota Genealogical Society. And who was expected to be there, all dressed up and looking sweet and saying nice, polite, boring things? Why, Miss Eells, the head librarian, of course.

  Miss Eells ground her teeth and sighed. Then she got up, brushed dust off her apron, and looked around in dismay at the tall, tottering piles of old, dog-eared magazines and journals. I have to get organized, she said to herself. At that moment a blast of wind hit the tower, making the loose glass in the windows rattle. Gazing wistfully out at the park far below, she thought how badly she wanted to be out there, flying a kite...

  Brr-rrr-rrring!

  Miss Eells jumped a little and looked up at a small white plastic box mounted over the tower room's only door. Set in one end of the box was a small red warning light. It was blinking on and off, and the box vibrated as the alarm bell rang again. It meant that someone was at the main desk.

  Br-rring! The bell rang again. Whoever it was was getting impatient. Miss Eells threw down her feather duster and bustled off toward the stairs.

  When she got to the main desk, Miss Eells found none other than Anders Borkman glowering into space. He was holding a briefcase in one hand, and with his other hand he was jabbing the alarm button.

  "Good morning, Mr. Borkman," said Miss Eells, and she smiled politely as she seated herself. "I'm sorry there was no one here when
you came in."

  "So am I," said Borkman snappishly. "I'm rather busy at present. I have one book to return, and another to renew. And I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry."

  And with that Borkman raised the briefcase and deposited it on the desk. With a fussy flourish he undid the clasp and took out two books. One was a large blue tome called Weather Patterns of the Upper Mississippi Valley. The other was a small, battered volume with a black oilskin cover. There was no title that Miss Eells could see, but a Dewey decimal number had been printed on the spine in white ink. Borkman told Miss Eells that he wanted to renew the blue volume. The other was simply being returned.

  When the blue book had been stamped, Borkman took it and slid it into the briefcase. He nodded stiffly at Miss Eells and started to go.

  "Nice day, isn't it?" said Miss Eells pleasantly as she pulled the black book toward her.

  "Eh?" said Borkman, staring malevolently at her.

  Miss Eells met Borkman's gaze—for some reason she wasn't afraid of him this time. "I said, it's a nice day, isn't it?"

  Borkman sniffed contemptuously. "It may be, for some. But I prefer turbulent weather—storms and lashing rains and raging seas. I suppose my tastes are odd, but I feel that such weather rouses the spirit within one. It tests one's mettle."

  Miss Eells did not say what she thought about this rather pompous little speech. She merely shrugged and began flipping through her desk calendar. As Borkman went out she glanced up at him quickly, and then she shook her head. She had been uncertain about him before, but now her mind was made up. Test one's mettle, your grandmother! she muttered under her breath. She hated phony, pretentious people.

  Miss Eells pulled the black book toward her and opened the front cover. And then she did a double take; she had never seen this book before. The frontispiece was a dark old woodcut that showed bearded men seated around a large table. The title page was done in Old English type and said