The Doom of the Haunted Opera Page 10

  The temperature in the room suddenly dropped ten degrees. An icy chill ran down Lewis’s spine. Someone was with him now. Someone or some thing. His hair bristled and goosebumps crinkled the skin of his arms.

  “Stop him,” wailed a low, soft voice, sounding lonely and tormented.

  “I’m t-trying to,” gasped Lewis. “Only M-Mr. Vanderhelm isn’t r-real. He’s m-made up of sheet music.”

  “It is a phantasm,” the voice replied, its tone still eerie enough to freeze Lewis’s blood. “The living Vanderhelm created a ghostly double of himself by a vile magical spell. In life I hid the enchanted music away, but you found it and thereby released the evil double of Vanderhelm upon the world. Now it will try to do its dead master’s will and become the King of the Dead. Stop him, oh stop him!”

  “C-could you n-not talk like that?” asked Lewis. “It’s scaring me.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” said the voice in more companionable tones. “Didn’t mean to get on your nerves. One gets used to being a ghost, you know. My spirit has haunted this wretched theater ever since I died of cruel thirst and slow starvation after Vanderhelm locked me away in this dark hole.”

  Lewis found he could breathe again. Mr. Finster’s voice had completely changed. Now he sounded a bit absentminded, but friendly and encouraging. It helped a little. “Why did you haunt the theater?” Lewis asked.

  “To keep anyone from releasing the spell, of course,” answered the voice. “Only you found it so quickly. I hadn’t materialized in so long, I was a bit rusty. It took me too much time to become solid enough to be visible to mortal eyes or to make myself heard. I tried to warn you.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lewis.

  “Ah, well, it couldn’t be helped.” The voice took on a melancholy tone: “I was hoping you could somehow destroy the music and the spell, you see. Then I would be free at last.”

  Lewis blinked in the darkness. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am bound to earth by my determination to help rid the world of Vanderhelm’s foul enchantments,” explained the voice. “If the spell is broken, then I may depart. If the charm is fulfilled, however—” the voice dropped to a low, frightening whisper—“if it is fulfilled, then I will rise up and be enslaved by Vanderhelm’s cursed will. I hope that does not happen, boy, for your sake.”

  “You w-wouldn’t hurt me?” squeaked Lewis.

  “Of course not,” said the voice. “But when the opera is sung through, Vanderhelm’s spell will be complete, and the dead will arise to do his bidding. And once that happens, the ban will be lifted.”

  “What b-ban?” asked Lewis.

  “The ban against spilling blood,” returned the voice. “That is why the original Vanderhelm did not kill me outright. To do so would have ruined his chances of completing his horrible spell. You see, I stole the dreadful music score from his dressing room and was hurrying out with it when I heard Vanderhelm coming up the stairs. I remembered he was planning to replace the piano in the orchestra pit, so I thrust the music inside the old one, hoping it would be carried out the very next day. Unfortunately, Vanderhelm caught me and could tell I was up to something. He tried to make me talk, but I refused. Finally he threw me in this dismal hole, and early the next morning my friend Lucius Mickleberry sealed Vanderhelm’s fate, but alas! I was never found—never found!”

  Lewis started to shake again. “W-what can I do?” he asked with a groan.

  “Use whatever you can!” returned the ghost. “Use whatever I leave you! My time grows short. Farewell, Lewis Barnavelt! Who knocks may enter—or leave!”

  The darkness grew a little warmer. Lewis called out Mr. Finster’s name once or twice, but no one answered. Dazed and utterly confused by the ghost’s parting words, Lewis huddled in a corner, as far away from the pile of bones as possible. Sheer exhaustion overtook him, and at last he slept.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning dawned gray and chilly. Rose Rita and Mrs. Jaeger waited until ten o’clock, the time the rehearsals had always taken place. Then they drove over to the Barnavelt house in Mrs. Jaeger’s black 1939 Chevrolet. Rose Rita saw a light burning in the front upstairs bedroom that Mrs. Holtz used, and a moment later she saw Mrs. Holtz herself walk past the window. She and Mrs. Jaeger waited for a long time, but Mrs. Holtz did not come out. Finally, they drove back to Mrs. Jaeger’s house, where Rose Rita used the telephone to call home.

  “Rose Rita!” her mother said in a stern voice. “Where in the world have you been? I got home late last night and thought you were in your room, and then this morning I found your bed hadn’t even been slept in!”

  “Here, dear,” said Mrs. Jaeger. She took the receiver from a stricken Rose Rita and said sweetly into it, “Louise? Hello, this is Mildred Jaeger. Oh, fine, dear . . . yes, Rose Rita told me you were singing in the opera. Yes, I’m sure it’s very exciting. Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m the reason Rose Rita wasn’t home. She offered to help me with a few things around the house, and then last night we were playing Monopoly. I intended to drive her home when we finished the game, but we fell sound asleep. Yes, both of us. And we didn’t wake up until this morning, so of course I had her call. I’m terribly sorry if we worried you . . . yes, certainly. I’ll be delighted to bring her tonight. I hope it’s a good show.” She hung up and said, “Whew!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jaeger,” said Rose Rita in a small voice. She hated to deceive her mother, but what choice did she have? “What did Mom say about the show?”

  “Well, there’s no rehearsal today, because the performance will be tonight at seven. Everyone is supposed to report to the theater at four, she says, so I suppose we’ll just have to wait until then.”

  “What about Lewis?” wailed Rose Rita. “That awful Mr. Vanderhelm has him!”

  “I know, dear, and I’m sorry. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do until we have a chance at that mirror.”

  “B-but . . .” Rose Rita blinked. Behind her spectacles, her eyes felt hot and itchy. “But we h-have to do something.”

  With a sad smile, Mrs. Jaeger said, “Now, don’t give up hope, Rose Rita. Remember what I told you. Lewis is safe, at least until the detestable opera is performed. We’ll just have to make our move at the right time and do everything we can to help him.”

  “But it’s not fair!” insisted Rose Rita. “It wasn’t even Lewis’s idea that we go down into that orchestra pit last night. It was mine. If something happens to him, it’s all my f-fault—” she broke off with a choking sob.

  Mrs. Jaeger spread her arms wide. Rose Rita fell against her and cried hot tears of anger, frustration, and fear.

  The hours of the dead, dull day trickled by with agonizing slowness. Rose Rita would look at the clock, spend what seemed a long time doing something else, and look back, only to find that no more than five minutes had passed. All day long she worried and fretted about Lewis. Usually he was the worrywart. Lewis had a real talent for dreaming up horrible things that might happen but never did. Now Rose Rita was the one imagining all sorts of terrors and working herself up into a state over them.

  Mrs. Jaeger made grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch, but neither of them ate very much. The day grew darker and cloudier, and an unearthly hush settled over everything. New Zebedee appeared to be holding its breath, anticipating some great and terrible event. Finally, at ten minutes to four, neither Mrs. Jaeger nor Rose Rita could stand the wait any longer. They climbed into the old black Chevrolet and drove over to High Street. They arrived just in time to see Mrs. Holtz bustling away in her black coat, her heavy purse swinging by her side.

  At Rose Rita’s suggestion, Mrs. Jaeger parked her car around back, just outside the garage where Jonathan Barnavelt’s 1935 Muggins Simoon was housed. Rose Rita came around front, nervously looking left and right. No one was watching. The house number, 100, in red reflecting numerals, was bolted to the iron fence around the front yard. Rose Rita grasped the 1 and tugged. It pulled away from the fence, and she
twisted it to the right. The numeral, which was about a quarter of an inch deep, was hollow, and the spare key was inside. Rose Rita turned the numeral back to its normal position and pushed until it clicked into place. Then she unlocked the door and she and Mrs. Jaeger went into the front hall.

  “What time is it?” asked Rose Rita.

  Mrs. Jaeger looked at her watch. “Nearly four-fifteen.”

  Rose Rita groaned. They had less than three hours before the performance began. What could they do, even if they managed to reach Jonathan or Mrs. Zimmermann? The two of them were far away in Florida. They could never return to Michigan in time to fight the evil spell. Still, Rose Rita knew they had to try. They stood in front of the hat stand, and wielding her wooden spoon, Mrs. Jaeger said firmly, “I know I am not a very accomplished magician, but there is good magic here. I call upon it to help us! Show us Jonathan Barnavelt or Florence Zimmermann now!”

  Rose Rita bit her lip. The mirror reflected nothing but their two anxious faces. Then it shimmered again, filling with swirls of color. When it cleared, Rose Rita blinked in surprise. A chubby, red-bearded man in strange medieval garb was tinkering with what looked like a human head made of bronze or brass. He glanced toward them, jumped in his seat, and cried out, “By Saint Loy! What vision is this?”

  “Sorry, Friar Bacon,” called Mrs. Jaeger apologetically. “Carry on!” The vision faded. “I can never get these things right,” muttered Mrs. Jaeger. “Now I suppose Roger Bacon was distracted at a crucial moment, and that’s why his talking brass head would only chatter about the time. Let me try again.” She repeated her spell, and once again the mirror shimmered. This time Rose Rita shouted out in joy.

  She was looking into a familiar pair of kindly blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Eyes that were crinkly and friendly and knowing. “Mrs. Zimmermann!” she shouted.

  The eyes blinked. Then they looked away. A moment later Mrs. Zimmermann pulled her head back. Now Rose Rita could see her whole face. “Good heavens!” said Mrs. Zimmermann, in a perfectly clear though faint voice. “Rose Rita, you nearly frightened me into plowing Bessie right into a telephone pole!” She glanced to her right and said, “It’s Rose Rita, that’s who, Weird Beard. Can’t you hear her? Well, I can, and I can see her in the rearview mirror too!”

  Jonathan Barnavelt then leaned into view, his head close to Mrs. Zimmermann’s. “Sure enough,” he said, and this time Rose Rita could hear his voice. “Rose Rita, what in the world is going on in New Zebedee? We tried to drive in, but we couldn’t make it through the fog.”

  “You’re here in New Zebedee?” asked Rose Rita, her heart soaring.

  “Close to it,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “Actually, we are driving away from you, toward my cottage on Lyon Lake. Tell us what’s happened.”

  Rose Rita and Mrs. Jaeger hastily told all about Mr. Vanderhelm and the opera. When Rose Rita explained how Lewis had been captured by the specter that had come from the sheets of music, Jonathan looked so stricken that Rose Rita thought he was going to burst into tears. Mrs. Zimmermann’s face set into a hard mask of determination. When at last the story ended, she said very distinctly, “Rose Rita, you had better take Mrs. Jaeger next door to my house. The key is under the doormat. You know the spare room where I keep all my amulets and talismans. You will have to look for a very special one. Now, pay close attention.” She began to describe a magical amulet, a pearl with Hebrew letters scribed onto its surface. And then she told the two exactly what they had to do with it. “We’ll be at the city limits at seven sharp,” she finished. “If everything works, we have a chance. Go now, and hurry!”

  When Mrs. Jaeger and Rose Rita went outside, it was only five o’clock, but the sky was already as dark as night. Gloom brooded over the whole countryside. As they hurried next door, Rose Rita hoped she could find what Mrs. Zimmermann needed, and that they would not be too late to stop the evil spell and save Lewis’s life.

  * * *

  Lewis was cold, hungry, and frightened. Mostly frightened. But he had been afraid for so long that he was almost used to it by now. He had spent an uncomfortable day trying to think of some way to escape from this horrible trap, but nothing had occurred to him. Mr. Finster’s ghost had advised him to use what he had, but he didn’t have very much. He wore his wristwatch, jacket, shirt, jeans, underwear, socks, and Keds. He also had the muffler that hung from the closed trapdoor. In his shirt pocket was a comb and his mechanical pencil. He carried a wallet in his jeans, but all it held were pictures of his mother and father and Uncle Jonathan and a single limp dollar bill. He couldn’t see the use in any of these things.

  He wished his watch at least had luminous numbers so that he could tell the time. He thought it might be very late, perhaps even time for the opera to start, but he had no way of judging. Then he heard something. A squeak. It came from above him.

  “Hey!” he yelled, but his throat was so dry it came out as a croak. He heard the squeak again. Someone was walking on the trapdoor. He yelled again.

  Then he remembered that Vanderhelm had said the trap was soundproof. No noise he made would be heard outside, unless he could pound against the trapdoor itself. What had the ghost said? Who knocks may enter—or leave. That was it. But the trapdoor was far over his head. He could not reach it.

  And then a creepy thought came to Lewis. Use whatever you have, the ghost had advised, whatever I leave you. Well, nothing that Lewis had on him would help him. However, the ghost had left something else.

  His skeleton.

  Shivering and shaking, Lewis ran his hands over the hard, dry surface of the bones. He touched a long one, possibly an arm bone, and picked it up. He probed upward with it. Thunk! It was long enough to touch the trapdoor. He pounded with it, knocking so hard that the sound exploded in his tiny enclosed cell like gunshots. Wham! Wham! Wham!

  He shoved hard and felt a slight movement. The trapdoor edged open about an inch or so, and he saw a dim crack of light, but that was as far as he could shove it.

  “Oof!” Someone up above stumbled over the partly open door and grunted in surprise or pain. “What in the world—?”

  Lewis heard someone scrabbling at the door. “Help!” he called. “I’m stuck in here.”

  The door opened up, and dim light trickled in as Lewis dropped the bone. A dark silhouette peered down toward him. “Who’s there?” It was the voice of Mr. McGillis, one of the barbers in town. “It’s too blamed dark t’ see!”

  “My muffler’s stuck under the back edge of the door,” Lewis said. “Hold onto it while I climb out.”

  Mr. McGillis was a big, beefy man. He grabbed the muffler and held it, while Lewis scrambled up as if he were climbing a rope. He dragged himself over the edge and scooted away from the trapdoor on all fours. Mr. McGillis let the door slam back into place. “Lewis Barnavelt, ain’t it?” he said. “What in th’ Sam Hill you doin’ in there, Lewis?”

  “You’ve got to help me,” gasped Lewis. “I—”

  A blare of horns and a rattle of drums sounded suddenly. “Sorry, kiddo,” said Mr. McGillis. “Mr. Vanderhelm decided to begin the performance an hour early. Last act’s startin’, and I’m on. See ya later!” And he ducked between the curtains and was gone.

  Lewis looked at his watch. It was almost seven o’clock. If the opera lasted an hour and a half, then all the dead would rise in only thirty-two minutes.

  And the grisly creature that called itself Henry Vanderhelm would be the King of the Dead forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Fog clung to Rose Rita’s cheeks and arms and legs in a disgusting caress. She didn’t even want to breathe, because she hated the thought of drawing that nasty stuff into her lungs. She and Mrs. Jaeger had taken a few steps into the thick mist. They had just crossed the railroad tracks and now stood in choking darkness, with the grayness curling and swirling around them, making ugly shapes a little denser than the night. Rose Rita held the amulet before her.

  It was about the size of a marble, a smoo
th, white globe with a few markings on it that were the Hebrew letters placed there in ancient times by a great magician who understood the Cabala, a mystical doctrine of powerful lore. Mrs. Zimmermann had given Mrs. Jaeger the spell to pronounce at the right moment, and an anxious Mrs. Jaeger was going over and over the speech, whispering it just under her breath.

  “It’s time,” Rose Rita said. “Mrs. Zimmermann said they’d prepare at her cottage and be here at seven o’clock. It’s seven now, Mrs. Jaeger.”

  Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Jaeger began to recite a bizarre rhyme that included words from Basque, Finno-Ugric, and Tagalog as well as Hebrew, Latin, and Greek. It required her to cry out a short, sharp yah! at the end of every verse, which she did with gusto, only to murmur, “Oh, dear,” before resuming the rest of the spell. At the same time, she waved her magic wooden spoon as if she were stirring a pot of bubbling oatmeal. At last the incantation ended with the word lux repeated emphatically three times. Rose Rita thought it was odd that a magic spell should end with the name of a dish detergent, but then magic was not her field.

  When the last cry of lux! died away, something happened. Rose Rita noticed a tautening of the string on which the amulet dangled. She held on tightly.

  And then the amulet began to bounce merrily up and down, like a yo-yo. “Uh, Mrs. Jaeger?” muttered Rose Rita. “I think you did something wrong. Why not try again, without the ‘Oh-dears’ this time?”

  “I knew this would happen,” sniffled Mrs. Jaeger. But she started over, and as soon as she began the chant, the amulet stopped its silly behavior. Mrs. Jaeger went all the way through, and at the last word, the pearly globe suddenly began to quiver on its string.