Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull (2 page)

Next to the table was an old-fashioned easy chair, upholstered in black leather. On the left was a fireplace, with candlesticks and a mantel clock, and against the rear wall was a sideboard with two tiny wine decanters on it. Above the decanters hung an oil painting in a gilt frame. A fussy, curly backed, red velvet sofa stood against the right-hand wall, and near it a door stood ajar, showing a cloak and a top hat hanging on pegs in the hallway. The wall to the left of the fireplace had a built-in bookcase, and before it stood a doll that was made to look like an old man. It had a silky gray beard, a black suit, and a black string tie. The doll appeared to be studying the bookcase, and its hand was stretched out in the act of taking a book from a shelf.

Johnny and the professor squatted down, with their heads close together. They peered into the room, taking in all the odd, intricate details.

"Over there—look at that!" said the professor, pointing a long, tobacco-stained forefinger. "Those things on the shelves on the left side of the fireplace. Aren't they marvelous?"

Johnny looked at the row of built-in shelves. Instead of books, these shelves held objects: teeny baskets of fruit, a set of scales, a wine bottle, and a skull.

"That skull has always kind of fascinated me," said the professor, reaching farther into the room. "It was brought back from California by my granduncle, and I suppose that it is ivory, or maybe it's bone. At any rate, it's a very curious little doojigger, and cleverly made, but I cannot for the life of me figure out why my father decided to put it into this room. After all, the room is supposed to be an exact replica of the study of our old family home up in Vermont, but there was never any—ah!"

With a sudden indrawn hiss, the professor jerked his hand back. The tip of his finger had accidentally touched the miniature skull.

Johnny was alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The professor examined his fingertip curiously. "Hmm... Well, there's nothing wrong, actually. I just got the oddest sensation from touching that skull. But I suppose it's all my imagination—there seems to be no harm done."

"Cut yourself, did you?" asked Mr. Spofford, stepping forward.

"No, no—nothing of the sort!" said the professor, waving him away. "I'm just an old man, and my nerves are on edge after the trouble we've had today."

Mr. Spofford glanced quickly at the professor, and he seemed to be about to say something. But he changed his mind and turned instead to the clock.

"It's really somethin', ain't it?" he said, patting the side of the heavy wooden case. "By the way, professor. You said you knew the guy who made this thing. Would you mind tellin' me about this M. Childermass? I'd kinda like t'know."

The professor straightened up and turned to face Mr. Spofford. "Very well," he said dryly. "If you're dying to know, I'll tell you. The clock was made by my father, Marcus Childermass, and it took him five years to do it. He began work on it shortly after my granduncle, Lucius J. Childermass, died. The doll is supposed to represent Uncle Lucius, who died in a very strange manner, and very suddenly, in this room—or rather, in the room of which this is a replica."

Johnny turned and stared in wonder at the professor. "You never told me anything about that," he said in a half-accusing tone.

The professor grimaced. "It's not a thing that I like to think about, or talk about. Uncle Lucius was found dead one snowy evening, on the day after Christmas. He was sitting in that black leather chair there, by the oval table. His head was thrown back and on his face was the most awful look of terror. Also—and this is the strangest part —those who examined the body found bits of foul-smelling earth in his mouth and on the front of his coat. Make something of
that,
if you can!"

"Boy, that is strange!" said Mr. Spofford, scratching his head. "Did they ever find out what the old—er, I mean, your granduncle—died of ?"

The professor shook his head. "No, they did not. There was an inquest, and the coroner's verdict was 'Death by unknown causes.' It was what they used to call 'Death by the visitation of God.' And indeed, that is what a lot of people thought—that God had reached out and robbed Uncle Lucius of his life." The professor sighed. "I will add that that explanation was as good as any that people were able to come up with. No one was ever able to find any evidence of foul play."

Mr. Spofford looked thoughtful. He folded his arms on his chest and scowled, and then he threw a quick look at the clock. "And so your dad started to work on that clock there right after your uncle died? Did he mean it to be... like a memorial? "

"I suppose you might say that," muttered the professor. "Whatever the clock was supposed to be, it became an obsession with my father. He worked on it every chance he could get—but since he was a busy man, it took him a long time to finish the thing." The professor turned suddenly to Mr. Spofford and stared at him hard. "But tell me," he said, "what's all this business about the clock being haunted?"

Mr. Spofford acted startled, and then he looked a bit frightened. He laughed, but it was an unconvincing laugh—it sounded forced, and a bit hoarse. "Oh,
that!
Well, uh... well, that was just a
story!
You know how things get started. My wife, she had a funny dream about the clock an'... well, that's where that idea came from. Just one o' my wife's dumb notions, that's all!"

Mr. Spofford
heh-heh'ed
a bit and tried to act nonchalant, but he was not fooling the professor. He hated it when people tried to get evasive with him, and now his stare became fierce and hostile.

"Look!" he said angrily, jabbing his finger at Mr. Spofford. "You told me a few minutes ago that there were rumors of the clock being haunted. You seemed quite serious at the time, but now you're trying to make it all into a big fat joke. Would you mind leveling with me? I'm not three years old, you know, and I'd really like to find out the truth in this matter."

But Mr. Spofford would not say anything more, and so there was nothing left for the professor to do but say good night. Johnny shook Mr. Spofford's hand and thanked him, and then he and his elderly friend went upstairs to their nice warm beds.

Later that night Johnny was awakened from a deep sleep by a rattling sound. He sat up and shook his head groggily. What was making that noise? He glanced to his left and saw a window whitened by frost. Outside, the wind was blowing, and a bare branch was clattering and clawing against the window. The end of the branch was shaped a bit like a hand, and so it was easy for Johnny to imagine that it was some awful creature out there trying to get in. Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head. He tried to get rid of the unpleasant pictures that were forming in his mind. Then he opened his eyes again and stared out into the dark room. The professor was asleep in a bed over against the far wall. Johnny could hear the regular snortling sounds he was making. Noiselessly Johnny slipped out of bed and put on his slippers and bathrobe. He padded to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. The hall was chilly and drafty. A dim night-light burned at the top of the stairs. With an odd, dreamy look on his face, Johnny gripped the railing and started down.

The downstairs hall was dark, and it was even colder than upstairs. Icy air slithered in through the crack at the bottom of the front door, and it stung Johnny's bare ankles. But he moved on, like a sleepwalker, to the door that led to the workroom where the Childermass clock was kept. He paused outside the dark door and put his hands on the wood paneling, listening. He heard sounds, voices. It was as if people were muttering excitedly inside the room. What were they saying? It was impossible to make it out. Johnny's hand moved toward the white china knob. He twisted it and pushed the door inward. Then he gasped.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Johnny was surrounded by darkness, not the darkness of a small room, but an immense well of blackness. It was as if he were standing in a great hall or a cathedral. Before him, like a window in the night, was a lighted room. It was small and seemed very far away, yet somehow he could see every detail. It was like the dollhouse room in the old clock, but it was a real room in a real house. It was night, and Johnny could see snow falling outside the window at the back of the room. The oil lamp on the table was lit, and a fire burned in the white marble fireplace.

The figure in the room was like the doll, but it was a living man, an old, distinguished-looking gentleman with a gray beard and rimless spectacles. He was pacing back and forth before the fire, and he looked worried. As Johnny watched, he sat down in the leather chair by the table, picked up the Bible, and began to leaf through it. Eventually he found a part that interested him, and he settled down to read. From far away Johnny heard the ghostly ticking of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire. The old man read for a while and soon grew tired. He took off his glasses and slid them into the case on the table. After stifling a yawn, he rubbed his hands over his face. Then he leaned his head back, folded his hands in his lap, and dozed off. Johnny watched, wide-eyed. Blood roared in his ears, and his fists were clenched, but he stayed rooted to the spot: what would happen next?

He didn't have long to wait. As the old man slept, a subtle change came over the room. The flame of the oil lamp grew dim and dwindled to a blue point. The fire in the fireplace died, as if some unseen force were smothering it. And then a door in the rear wall of the room began to open. The light that fell through the doorway was cold, pale, and wavering. At first Johnny saw only the open door and the watery, shimmering light. Then he saw a tall, gaunt shadow that moved with dragging steps through the doorway and into the room. The light was poor, and so Johnny could not tell much about the shape, except that it was fearfully thin and appeared to be wearing ragged clothes. As he watched, the shape moved toward the sleeping man and hovered over him. The old man opened his eyes and looked up, and Johnny heard him scream. It was a thin wailing sound that seemed to come from far away, and it chilled Johnny to the bone. The old man shrank back in his chair as the gaunt, menacing figure bent over him. It stretched out a long thin hand and covered the old man's face, and then the old man began to struggle and writhe. Frantically he tried to push the hand away, but his struggles got weaker and weaker, and finally he lay still, slumped back in the chair. A pause. Then the figure took its hand away from the old man's face, bent over, and peered horribly close, as if it were trying to make sure that the man was really dead. Finally the shadowy form straightened up, shuffled toward the door, and went out. Immediately the scene went black. And Johnny was left alone in the dark cold workroom, listening to the wind that keened and moaned around the corners of the ancient inn.

 

For a long time Johnny cowered in the dark, wide-eyed and wondering. He was awed and frightened by what he had seen. But what was it that he had witnessed? It looked like the murder of Professor Childermass's granduncle. If that was it, then who had the murderer been? Was it a ghost who had snuffed out the life of the old man? And finally Johnny asked himself this question: Why had he, John Dixon, been brought down here to see this strange, ghostly drama? Was he supposed to warn the professor about something? And if so, what? Johnny had no answers for any of these questions. As he peered nervously around in the dark, he saw the faint outline of the old clock looming on the table next to the workbench. Shuddering, he turned and felt his way to the door. But the room was very dark, and as Johnny groped along, he caught his toe on the end of a loose floorboard and lurched up against the table that held the Childermass clock. From inside the clock came a jangling of chimes and a rattle of machinery, and then—to his horror—Johnny heard something roll out across the tabletop and drop onto the floor. It sounded like something small, maybe one of the delicate pieces of furniture from the dollhouse room.

Filled with guilt and worry, and already making up apologies in his mind, Johnny dropped to his knees and began scrabbling around on the floor with his hands. His fingers closed over something small and round, like a marble. Pulling himself to his feet, Johnny took a step toward the dark clock. But shouldn't he switch the light on so he could see what he was doing? Turning, Johnny took a few stumbling steps toward the door. Then—strangely—instead of trying to find the light switch, he grasped the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall.

With the door closed behind him, Johnny leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, and opened his hand. The light out here in the hall was dim, but he could see what he had—the skull! With an odd, fascinated expression on his face, Johnny turned the grotesque little object over in his hand. Then, with a sudden motion, he shoved the skull into his bathrobe pocket and padded on down the hall.

Johnny did not get any more sleep that night. He went back up to bed, but he tossed and turned and kept glancing nervously at the door of his bedroom. If it had suddenly begun to open, he was sure that he would have gone out of his mind with fear. But the door stayed shut, and Johnny lay there fretting and listening to the wind. He thought about what he had seen and about the tiny, toylike skull that he had stolen. It was in the pocket of his corduroy pants now, where he had stuffed it for safekeeping. Why didn't he want to give it back? Johnny couldn't say, but he did know one thing: when dawn came, he was very glad to see it.

Later that morning Johnny and the professor were down in the dining room of the inn having a wonderful wintertime breakfast, pancakes and sausage and hot coffee, but Johnny was not eating much of it. He felt totally socked. There were dark circles around his eyes, and his face felt prickly.

"John," the professor said anxiously, "you really look
terrible
this morning! What on earth is the matter? Did my snoring keep you awake?"

Johnny put down the piece of sausage that he was toying with and glanced warily at the professor. He realized that he ought to tell his friend what had happened last night. It was a strange and unlikely tale, but he was sure the professor would believe him. And it would get an incredible load off his chest. Nervously Johnny stuck his right hand into his pants pocket. His fingers twiddled with the ivory skull, and he opened his mouth to speak—but something unexpected happened. He found that he couldn't talk! His jaw shuddered, and he struggled, but nothing came out. There was a pain in his chest, as if a band of steel were wrapped around his body, and someone were twisting it tighter. Finally Johnny stopped trying. He slumped back in his chair, exhausted. Sweat was streaming down his face, and he was scared half out of his mind.