The Tower at the End of the World

On the first night home from the trip, Lewis slept much better than he had in days. By Monday morning he was beginning to think that maybe the worst was over. Mrs. Zimmermann came over to fix breakfast, as she often did. She hated eating alone, and she knew very well that Jonathan Barnavelt could hardly boil water, let alone make a delicious breakfast of hash browns, scrambled eggs with cheese, and tasty sausage. The three of them enjoyed the meal, and Mrs. Zimmermann seemed extra kind as she talked to Lewis. He knew she would research the strange picture and the parchment covered in ancient runes. If something was truly wrong, she would find a way to put it right.

For the first time in a long time, Lewis decided not to worry. He had read none of the books he had planned to read on vacation. He selected one of them, a detective story by a writer named Ellery Queen, and settled down under the chestnut tree in the front yard to read it. It was a real puzzler, and it occupied him for most of the day.

Rose Rita came over after dinner that evening. Lewis and Jonathan were in the front parlor watching a western on TV when she arrived. “Hi,” she said. “I thought I’d go and see the Fourth of July fireworks at the athletic field. Want to come?”

Uncle Jonathan smiled wearily. “I’m pooped after our vacation and driving halfway back home. But you and Lewis go if you want. Grab a couple of sparklers for Florence and me!”

Rose Rita pulled a long face. “No can do. I banged over the curb just before we left and warped my front wheel. Dad still hasn’t gotten around to fixing it.”

Usually Lewis liked walking the streets of his home-town. New Zebedee was stuffed with interesting old houses. Some were like Victorian layer cakes with so much decoration that the houses seemed more like excuses for pilasters and fancy cornices and gingerbread than places for living. Others were built in different styles, from elegant stone Georgian to wood and plaster Tudor. One was even an imitation of a South Seas mansion. It had been built back in the 1800’s by a New Zebedee native who had been a representative of the United States to the Sandwich Islands.

On that Monday evening, though, Lewis hardly noticed his surroundings. He was beginning to feel a little jumpy again, but he didn’t know why. Rose Rita respected his silence. They spoke very little as they joined a crowd that was strolling over to the athletic field on the edge of town. People covered the bleachers already, and the new-comers spread out blankets and towels on the grass. The town’s brass band was tootling away, led by the mayor, Mr. Hugo Davis. Lewis had to grin at the sight of the portly Mr. Davis stuffed into his red and white band-leader’s costume. His collar was so tight that his eyes were bugging out, and his scarlet face contrasted with his snowy white hair. But he was waving his baton with enthusiasm, directing the band as they played “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Lewis and Rose Rita spoke to a few kids they knew from school. On the far side of the field Lewis recognized Tarby Corrigan, one of New Zebedee’s top athletes. Tarby and Lewis once had struck up a friendship, but that had ended when Tarby began to tease Lewis about being fat. As Rose Rita and Lewis looked around for a place to sit, Lewis noticed Tarby looking at them. He didn’t wave, and Lewis knew that Tarby was pretending he did not exist, as usual.

Rose Rita said, “I don’t want to go down onto the field. Let’s look over here.” They found a grassy spot on the hillside where they would have a good view, and listened as the band played and the sky grew darker. Finally, mop-ping his face with a red bandanna, Mr. Davis held up his hands and said, “And now the high point of the evening. Let the fireworks begin!”

Far across the athletic field, in a roped-off area, the shadowy forms of five men hustled about. One of them stooped down, a glowing red stick in his hand. He touched a fuse, and with a whizz, a rocket shot up into the air, trailing a skirt of golden sparks. It whistled as it rose, then exploded into a sphere of brilliant yellow stars. A moment later the boom! rolled into the crowd as everyone said, “Ooh!”

More rockets and fireworks followed. Some were vivid green, some blue, some dazzling white, some red. Some were fired into the air from stubby mortars. Others zipped up under their own power, leaving straight or wavy trails of light. Catherine wheels spun and fizzed, and Roman candles shot globes of fire high into the air. At the big finish dozens of rockets went up at once, making Lewis’s ears throb with their bangs and blasts. The explosions dazzled him, and he joined in the applause at the end. Then everyone got up and started to drift out of the athletic field, all talking at once about what a good show it had been.

Lewis and Rose Rita walked downtown with a crowd of other people, past the Farmers Seed and Feed on the corner of Main and Eagle. They crossed Main Street near the drugstore and walked toward the Pottinger house on Mansion Street. Suddenly they were alone. “I liked the starburst ones best,” said Rose Rita, continuing a discussion they had begun in front of Heemsoth’s Rexall Drug Store. “I’ll bet they were the kind of rocket that Francis Scott Key saw when he got the idea for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”

Rose Rita snorted. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s ask your uncle if he’ll conjure up the bombardment of Fort McHenry some time. I think it’d be kind of fun to see Francis Key on board the British ship Tonnant, looking to see if the American flag was flying.”

Suddenly Lewis had a feeling as if a million ants were running up his spine. Military illusions were one of Uncle Jonathan’s magical specialties. He had showed them scenes of Napoleon, Lord Nelson, and General Ulysses S. Grant. Lewis had enjoyed watching the spectacle of the Spanish Armada and others, but now . . . He took a deep, shaky breath. “Maybe. Not right away, though. Somehow I think this summer is a bad time for magic, even if it is only illusions.”

Mansion Street was quite dark, with yellow pools of light under the street lamps. Lewis could see Rose Rita only as a silhouette. She turned toward him and said, “You’re thinking about that oddball picture.”

They came to Rose Rita’s house. “Well, count me in if you need help,” she said. “But if I were you, I’d let Mrs. Zimmermann handle it. She knows all about this stuff, remember. Want to play some flies and grounders tomorrow?”

“I guess,” said Lewis. Rose Rita went inside, and Lewis plodded on, sticking his hands into his jeans pockets and walking fast, with his head down. Now that he was alone in the dark, he could imagine danger all around. Lewis felt he should whistle to ward off the danger, like someone whistling past a graveyard. But he was too timid. The sound might attract the attention of something bad. He wanted to be home again, safe in his own house.

At the corner he thought he heard a soft rustling behind him. He turned and looked back, peering into the darkness and hearing the blood pound in his ears. But nothing seemed to be there.

As he climbed the hill, Lewis saw someone standing beneath a streetlight halfway up the slope. It looked like a woman. At first he thought it might be Mrs. Zimmermann. But then he noticed that the figure wore a long black dress and a black veil. Lewis had never seen Mrs. Zimmermann in anything but her favorite color, purple. He slowed down, wondering who this stranger could be.

She must have heard his footsteps, because she looked toward him and took a step back. Lewis breathed a sigh of relief. She looked as timid as he felt. He decided to hurry on past her.

Lewis edged away. He had always heard you weren’t supposed to talk to strangers, but it seemed impolite just to run past her. Besides, her voice sounded a little worried. Probably she just needed directions. “Y-yes?” he said.

Lewis felt rooted to the spot. The woman’s eyes were burning. But her mouth—her mouth! It was a red gash straight across her face, from ear to ear. It split open, revealing dozens of sharp, curving, yellow teeth. They grinned at Lewis in a horrible leer!

Lewis bolted, running for his life. He heard the woman laugh, and he cast a terrified glance back over his shoulder. She had not moved. She stood beneath the streetlight, her terrible mouth gaping as she laughed and laughed. Then, somehow, she seemed to shimmer, the way the island had just before it vanished. Her figure shrank in on itself until there was nothing there but skin and bone. And the black dress became matted black hair. The creature from the engraving stood there for a second, then leaped forward, becoming part of the night!

Lewis ran with more speed than he thought he had. He banged through the gate at 100 High Street, dashed across the porch, and slammed the front door behind him. He bolted it and leaned back, his chest heaving. “Uncle Jonathan!” he yelled. “Uncle Jonathan, come quick!”

There was no answer. In the darkened foyer Lewis reached for the light switch. His hand hit something that swayed away from him and crashed to the floor with a muffled thud. Lewis found the switch. Weak yellow light flooded the little room. He blinked down at a fallen coat rack.

His uncle didn’t have a coat rack. Lewis looked around wildly. The hat stand was gone. The ivory wallpaper with the faint green stripes had vanished. In its place was a deep maroon wallpaper with an intricate pattern of curving vines that wove around white shields. On each shield, in ornate letters, were the initials “II,” like the Roman numeral for 2.

Facing him, its twisted body bent so that its wicked face was on a level with his own, was the nightmare from the engraving. It snarled, its yellow eyes blazing. With a wordless shriek, Lewis fled, running up the stairs. He heard a hiss of breath and a shuffle of claws on the wood floor behind him. At the top of the stairs he ran into his own bedroom.

His bed and other furniture were nowhere in sight. Instead there was an ancient mahogany table with legs carved to look like a lion’s. Piled all over it were books that were dusty and crumbling. An old-fashioned reading lamp was burning, casting feeble yellow light across the room.

A tarnished brass telescope stood at one window, and an empty chair was in front of that. Lewis realized the thing behind him was probably halfway up the stairs. He would be trapped here!

He dashed out into the darkened hall. The door that should have led to his uncle’s room was locked. Lewis thought he heard something behind him. He rushed to the south wing and the second staircase. He ran onto the landing and slammed the door behind him.

This was different too. Halfway down the stairs was an oval window. Lewis knew it as an enchanted one, because his uncle had cast a spell on it to make it show different scenes. Now, though, it was just a clear window through which a little light leaked. Lewis could not find the light switch. He blundered up the stairs in the dark, with some notion of hiding up in the disused rooms.

Lewis sobbed. This wasn’t fair! He knew that sound. It was the ticking of the Doomsday Clock hidden in the very walls of 100 High Street by the devilish Isaac Izard. But Lewis had smashed the clock. He had thrown it to the floor seconds before the ghost of Selenna Izard could get her hands on it!

He ran down the hall. Ahead of him, on his right, was a door into a room that Jonathan Barnavelt had locked a long time ago. It was the room beneath the tower of the mansion. Jonathan had said it was Isaac Izard’s observatory room. From here the old wizard had studied cloud formations and had plotted the coming of doomsday.

Lewis stumbled to a stop, one hand on the wall to keep himself from collapsing. A bent old man leered at him. He stood with one hand high on the doorjamb, the other on the doorknob. “You’re too late!” cackled the man in a hateful, sneering voice. “I call time! Time’s run out! Time and punishment! Time and a grin! Time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme! Look at the clock! Where’s the big hand, the little hand, and the hand of fate? Too late, too late! Time to strike! Time to kill! The world will know the wrath of the Izards!” His voice rose to a terrible, high-pitched shriek that made water come to Lewis’s eyes. He could not understand half of what he heard, but the words seemed to swirl in his mind like a menacing whirlwind.

The stairwell door behind Lewis banged open. Cold air washed over him, smelling horribly of decay and rot. Lewis wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go. He felt something hairy brush the back of his neck—