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  THE GHOST IN THE MIRROR

  The man held the small round mirror high above his head, and again light flashed out of it. The light blinded Rose Rita for a moment. She leaped to her feet, pulled her glasses off, and rubbed her eyes. Suddenly she felt very cold. Tears ran from her eyes, and when she blinked them away, she saw to her astonishment that she was no longer standing in the hallway. She was outdoors, and under her bare feet was the cold, snowy ground. Rose Rita’s skin crawled. She was standing in a graveyard!

  “The novel has much that will appeal to pre–Stephen King fans: magic mirrors, spells, erupting graves, crystals, secret writing, buried treasure. The masterful and believable mix of the everyday and the bizarre, of comfort and terror that is the author’s signature, is evident in this newest offering. Bellairs’s sense of timing, creation of atmosphere, and development of wonderfully eccentric character make this story a sure success.”

  —School Library Journal

  THE GHOST

  IN THE MIRROR

  JOHN BELLAIRS

  Completed by Brad Strickland

  Frontispiece

  by Edward Gorey

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group Young Readers

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

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  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc., 1993

  Published in Puffin Books, 1994

  Text copyright © 1993 by The Estate of John Bellairs

  Frontispiece copyright © 1993 by Edward Gorey

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the Dial edition as follows:

  Bellairs, John

  The ghost in the mirror /John Bellairs; completed by Brad Strickland.——1st ed.

  p, cm.

  Summary: Rose Rita Pottinger and Mrs. Zimmermann are transported back to 1828 to save the Weiss family from being destroyed by a wicked wizard.

  [l. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction.] I. Strickland, Brad. II. Title.

  PZ7.B413Gh 1993 [Fic]—dc20 92-18369 CIP AC

  ISBN: 978-1-101-65970-0

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  For seven nights in a row Mrs. Zimmermann had seen weird things in her front parlor. Each night, around twelve, she would wake up and go downstairs to watch the strange lights that played on her walls and ceiling. Sometimes she saw eerie pictures on the blank wall in the passageway outside the pantry. Once she saw a sad little girl who seemed to be beckoning to her. Other times she saw smiling faces and a graveyard at night. But each time, after she had stared hard for a while, the pictures would vanish.

  Mrs. Zimmermann hardly knew what to think of all this. Perhaps it was some leftover magic of her own, because, after all, she was a witch. Not an evil witch with a broomstick and a hoarse laugh, but a friendly, wrinkly-faced witch with a mop of disorderly gray hair. And she was a witch who loved the color purple instead of black, which was what witches were supposed to wear.

  A lot of the things in Mrs. Zimmermann’s house were purple: the china clock, the wallpaper, the rugs, the soap in the bathroom, and most of Mrs. Zimmermann’s dresses. Her witchery was the kindly and eccentric sort, which was why she really didn’t feel that the lights in the parlor and the pictures on the wall belonged to her—a few of them seemed sinister somehow, dark and threatening. Still, maybe they were a reflection of her present state of mind, which was not very cheerful.

  The year was 1951. Though Mrs. Zimmermann was only sixty-four, lately there were times when she felt a hundred and two. Being lonely didn’t help. Her best friend, Jonathan Barnavelt, who lived in a Victorian mansion next door, was away for the summer. He and his nephew Lewis were in Europe seeing the sights. Jonathan was also a wizard, so he and Mrs. Zimmermann had lots in common. Mrs. Zimmermann could have gone with them, but she had just not felt like it. Perhaps she would have if Rose Rita Pottinger, Lewis’s best friend, had taken the trip, as they had all planned. However, Rose Rita had broken her ankle in June, so she was forced to stay home. Mrs. Zimmermann knew how disappointed Rose Rita was about missing the trip, and she simply did not have the heart to go and leave Rose Rita behind in the town of New Zebedee, Michigan.

  Despite her injury, Rose Rita did show up at Mrs. Zimmermann’s house a lot: Her father drove her, and she would hobble in to play chess and backgammon and talk about this and that. Mrs. Zimmermann was grateful for the company, but still she felt depressed. Depressed and anxious, like someone who was waiting for something awful to happen. What was she waiting for? She would have given a lot to know.

  On the eighth evening after the visions began, Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita were sitting in Mrs. Zimmermann’s kitchen discussing the odd things that had been happening. Rose Rita was fourteen, and she was tall and gawky. She wore glasses, and her hair was black and stringy. Since she was staying the night, she was wearing her rose-pink pajamas and bathrobe, and every now and then she would reach down, trying to scratch an itch on the ankle with the cast on it.

  Mrs. Zimmermann was wrapped in her purple-flowered bathrobe, and she had just lit a cigar in the usual way—by snapping a match out of thin air. A long, leisurely trail of smoke drifted toward the open window. The lined curtains stirred in the night breeze, and moths and other night insects fluttered on the screen.

  “So what do you think it all means, Mrs. Zimmermann?” asked Rose Rita with a worried frown. “Is there a ghost loose in your house, or what?”

  Mrs. Zimmermann waited a long time before answering. “Not a ghost, exactly,” she said slowly. “But I do feel that someone is trying to contact me. And I think I know who that someone may be.”

  Rose Rita tried again to reach an itchy spot under the cast. It was really driving her crazy tonight. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “I think it may be Granny Wetherbee. This feels like her kind of magic.”

  Rose Rita looked puzzled. “Granny Wetherbee? Who’s she?”

  Mrs. Zimmermann sighed. “Well, I don’t mention her much, but she taught me most of what I know about magic. It’s true that I have a Doctor of Magic Arts degree from the University of Göttingen in Germany, but that was just the frosting on the cake. The real magic that I know, I learned from Granny. She was the one who showed me how to find my own powers and how to use them. She was not my real grandmother, but an old woman I met when I was about your age. Of course, Granny Wetherbee is long dead. But for some reason she seems to need to contact me.”

  “Why?” It seemed like a simplistic question to ask, but Rose Rita had learned that when magic was involved, sometimes the most obvious questions b
rought the most interesting answers, so she asked it anyway.

  “Why, indeed?” muttered Mrs. Zimmermann. “Maybe she wants to restore my magic powers.”

  Rose Rita made a wry face. “If only she could. Then you could do something about this itchy old cast!”

  Mrs. Zimmermann gave Rose Rita a sympathetic smile. “I wish I could help, but as you very well know, my powers were just about wiped out in that battle I had with the evil spirit eighteen months ago.”

  Rose Rita began to shiver a little. She remembered that battle, all right. Sometimes she still had nightmares about it. But she knew that even without her magic, Mrs. Zimmermann was probably the last person in the world to give in to despair or gloom. “Would you be happier if you could be a witch again?” Rose Rita asked. “I mean a real witch, and not just one who can pull lighted matches out of the air?”

  Mrs. Zimmermann said thoughtfully, “Maybe so. Oh, when I lost most of my magic, I thought it wouldn’t be so bad. For a while I even managed to convince myself that I was happy. But I have to admit that I haven’t been very happy for nearly a whole year now.”

  “But you do the things you always did. You play cards with Lewis and his uncle Jonathan and me, and you bake wonderful chocolate-chip cookies, and you’re one of my best friends.”

  With a smile, Mrs. Zimmermann said, “I know. I really have no right to complain. But I just have the feeling that something is wrong, somehow. Maybe my life would be better if I had those old powers back. Maybe I’d be more cheerful and optimistic. I had my magic for almost fifty years, which is most of my life. Now that it’s gone, somehow I don’t know how to live properly anymore. Anyway, if those lights and pictures really are from Granny, I’d like to know more about them.”

  Rose Rita had a troubled look. Since she had met Mrs. Zimmermann and Jonathan Barnavelt two years ago, she had seen lots of magic, and some of it was nasty and wicked. She traced patterns on the tabletop with her finger, and then finally she spoke. “I like you the way you are, Mrs. Zimmermann,” she said suddenly. “And I don’t think you should mess around with things that you don’t understand. What if it isn’t Granny Whosis trying to get in contact with you? What if it’s somebody evil? You’ve told me how hard it is sometimes to tell good magic from evil. You should be careful!”

  Mrs. Zimmermann stared for a second, and then she laughed. “Good heavens, Rose Rita!” she exclaimed. “You always say what’s on your mind, don’t you? But don’t you worry. I’m old enough to be your grandmother, and I’ve seen a lot of things in life that you haven’t. No, I can’t believe that the lights and pictures are evil. They may be, oh, spooky and gloomy and even scary, but they don’t seem to aim any evil my way. Anyway, I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that it’s Granny who is trying to contact me.”

  “But you say the images are scary,” Rose Rita said, stubbornly.

  “Well, I didn’t mean to call them scary, exactly. They don’t frighten me at all. Oh, it’s true that there’s something sad about those lights and pictures, but then Granny was a pretty sour old woman. Do not worry about me, Rose Rita. I just have to wait for her to show herself to me more fully—then I’ll know what it is that I’m supposed to do.”

  Rose Rita still looked doubtful, but she knew that there was not much point in trying to argue with Mrs. Zimmermann. She was a very stubborn person, and when she thought she was right, you couldn’t budge her. Mrs. Zimmermann talked on about Granny Wetherbee’s earth magic, her herbs and roots and divining rods. Meanwhile, Rose Rita stared at the reflection of the overhead lamp in the dark pool of cocoa in her cup. The reflection made her think of a fantastic lighted spaceship hurtling through a black void. Before she knew it, she was nodding and dreaming about outer space, flying saucers, and little green men.

  “Good heavens!” Mrs. Zimmermann’s exclamation brought Rose Rita awake again. “Just look at the time,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “We should have been in bed hours ago. I’ll clear the table. You go brush your teeth.”

  Still feeling very drowsy, Rose Rita hobbled into the bathroom, where everything was purple, from the medicine cabinet to the toilet paper. She heard Mrs. Zimmermann clattering about in the kitchen. As she brushed her teeth, Rose Rita studied her reflection in the purple-framed mirror. She was a skinny, homely girl, she thought. She still wore jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers most of the time, but sometimes now she felt like dressing up. There were times when she wished she were prettier, and there were other times when she was perfectly satisfied being just who she was. Tonight she could not quite make up her mind, but she did notice that her reflection looked just as sleepy as she felt.

  Since the cast on her ankle made climbing stairs difficult, Rose Rita was staying in a downstairs bedroom instead of the upstairs guest room. It was a cozy bedroom next door to the dining room, with a neat little single bed covered by a comforter embroidered with bouquets of violets. On the wall over the bed was a painting of purple water lilies, signed by the French painter Monet. He had given the painting to Mrs. Zimmermann during her visit to France in 1913. Rose Rita had just slipped into bed when Mrs. Zimmermann looked in to make sure she was all right. Rose Rita murmured a quiet “Good night,” and she heard Mrs. Zimmermann climb the stairs to her own bedroom. A second later Rose Rita was sound asleep.

  But upstairs in her bedroom Mrs. Zimmermann lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The luminous hands of the Westclox alarm clock beside the bed told her it was almost twelve. Mrs. Zimmermann glanced at them from time to time as she lay thinking. She waited until midnight, then swung herself out of bed. She put on her bathrobe and slippers and padded downstairs to the living room.

  What she saw made her catch her breath: The flashing lights had never been as bright as they were tonight, and this time they seemed to be coming from an old mirror that hung over a bookcase on one wall. The mirror had a mahogany frame and had never seemed magical—not until now. But it was shooting red and green and white flashes in all directions, and as Mrs. Zimmermann drew closer, she saw a shape floating under the shimmering surface of the glass. It might have been a pale moon or a huge egg or a pinkish plate, but it was none of these things. It was a face.

  Mrs. Zimmermann stared, wide-eyed. At first the face was vague and blurred, like something glimpsed at night through a rain-spattered window. The lights flickering over it made it hard to see. But then it got clearer, and Mrs. Zimmermann could tell that it was Granny Wetherbee’s face. Granny Wetherbee looked just the way Mrs. Zimmermann remembered from childhood: She had a little wrinkled apple of a face, all lines and hollows. Her cheeks were pink and her pale lips were turned down. Under wispy white eyebrows her black eyes shone brightly from deep sockets. And her mouth was moving.

  Inside her brain Mrs. Zimmermann heard Granny’s cracked, familiar voice. “Well, Florrie, it’s been a long time.” Granny Wetherbee was the only one who ever called Mrs. Zimmermann that. She was always “Florence” to her family, “Mrs. Zimmermann” to Rose Rita and Lewis, and “Frizzy Wig,” “Pruny Face,” and similar nicknames to Jonathan. But Granny Wetherbee had never called her anything but “Florrie.” The old voice went on: “Listen to me, Florrie dear. Listen very, very carefully.”

  The dead woman spoke for some time, telling her friend what she had to do to get her old magic powers back. Mrs. Zimmermann listened and smiled and nodded. Granny Wetherbee’s voice went on and on, and Mrs. Zimmermann heard it as it echoed in her mind. After some minutes had passed in this way, the mirror went dark and the flashing lights died.

  Mrs. Zimmermann trembled a little and blinked. She stood in the darkened living room and felt as if she had just come out of a dream. Without bothering to turn on the lights, she walked out of the room and began to climb the stairs. She yawned and felt half asleep, but a dreamy smile was on her face. At last she had the answer to her prayers—her life would be renewed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For a long time nothing happened. Weeks passed, and Rose Rita got postcards from Jonathan and L
ewis. They showed the usual scenes, like the Houses of Parliament in London, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and St. Peter’s in Rome. The travelers meant the cards to be cheerful, but they just made Rose Rita feel depressed. She was sorry she hadn’t been able to go with her friends. Worse, she secretly suspected that her broken ankle was the reason that Mrs. Zimmermann had passed up the European trip.

  As for Mrs. Zimmermann, she was acting stranger and stranger. Sometimes Rose Rita would get late-night calls from her friend, but Mrs. Zimmermann’s conversation was weird and disconnected. Rose Rita just couldn’t make much sense out of it. When Rose Rita asked about the nightly visions, Mrs. Zimmermann either fell silent or changed the subject.

  Since Mrs. Zimmermann was usually levelheaded and calm, the change alarmed Rose Rita. And whenever Rose Rita went over to Mrs. Zimmermann’s house for backgammon or chess or just for conversation, it was not much fun. Mrs. Zimmermann’s mind was not on games or on anything else that Rose Rita could understand. It was somewhere far, far away.

  In the middle of July Rose Rita’s cast came off, and she found that she could limp around pretty well. One evening when she was at Mrs. Zimmermann’s house, she saw her friend’s old battered leather suitcase sitting in the front hall. It was dusted and clean, ready to be packed.

  “Are . . . are you going somewhere, Mrs. Zimmermann?” asked Rose Rita in a faltering tone.

  Mrs. Zimmermann gave Rose Rita a startled sidelong glance. “Uh, well . . . yes, you might say so,” she muttered. “I, uh, have some business out in Pennsylvania.”

  Business? What on earth was Mrs. Zimmermann talking about? She had taught school at one time, but she had retired, and she lived on a small but comfortable income. Rose Rita knew that long ago Mrs. Zimmermann had occasionally visited an older sister in Pennsylvania, but the sister had died before the Second World War. Now Mrs. Zimmermann had no relatives left there. More than ever, Rose Rita worried that Mrs. Zimmermann was losing her mind.