The Whistle, the Grave, and the Ghost

It was past two o’clock. Mrs. Zimmermann sat in Jonathan Barnavelt’s chair in his study, bending forward over a crystal ball she had brought over from her house.

Father Foley was pacing back and forth behind Jonathan. “That is the lamia,” he said in a thin voice. “She is strong enough to interfere with your magic.”

“Mrs. Zimmermann is the best there is,” said Rose Rita. She was sitting in the armchair in the corner, her arms crossed and a stubborn look on her face. “She can do it!”

Mrs. Zimmermann glanced up with a tired smile. “Thanks for your high opinion, Rose Rita, but so far, so bad. But I have an idea. I may not be able to zoom in on Lewis, but I’ll bet my purple nightie I can spot Stanley Peters. And he’s in on this too!” She bent forward again, peering into the depths of the crystal. It shimmered a pale purple, as if it had trapped a little bit of summer heat lightning.

A walking figure had appeared in the crystal. The picture zoomed out, and suddenly the boy was just a speck trudging along beside a highway. Behind him was a bridge, and ahead of him was a white frame church.

“That’s Willow Creek Road,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “He’s a few miles outside of town, and he hasn’t reached the old Methodist church yet.”

“Let’s go,” said Jonathan. “Prunella, grab your crystal ball and your wand. I’ve got mine!” He brandished a walking stick with a crystal knob. “Father Foley, get your book. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

They all piled into Jonathan’s Muggins Simoon, and they roared away from the curb, heading east of town. Willow Creek Road was a country byway, and they whizzed past fields of corn and isolated farmhouses. “There he is!” yelled Rose Rita, who was squished between Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann in the front seat of the car.

Ahead was the boy Mrs. Zimmermann had spotted in the crystal. It was Stan, all right, and he limped along like some kind of zombie. His short-sleeved plaid shirt hung from his shoulders in loose flapping folds, and the sneakers on his feet were torn and stained. He lurched along blindly, his arms dangling, his eyes staring, his face thin and red and sweating.

Jonathan yanked the car onto the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust, and they spilled out. He jogged ahead to Stan and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Stanley! Where do you think you’re going?”

The exhausted Stan tried to jerk free of his hold, but he could not. Father Foley said, “Let me.” With surprising strength, he lifted Stan like a rag doll and carried him back to the car. He laid the boy down and murmured a prayer before turning to Jonathan. “Give me the bottle of holy water,” he ordered.

From his vest pocket, Jonathan produced a small bottle that held perhaps two ounces of holy water. The priest took it, moistened his fingers, and made the sign of the cross on Stan, touching his forehead, his chest, and each shoulder.

Stan grew rigid. His eyes flew open wide, and he screamed a high-pitched, terrifying scream. Rose Rita blanched, clapping her hands over her ears. Mrs. Zimmermann started forward, but Father Foley held up a hand to stop her. In a stern voice, he recited a ritual of exorcism, commanding the evil spirit to free Stan.

And it seemed to work. With a gasp, Stan fell silent. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he struggled to sit up. “What? Who are you?” he gasped, staring at the priest. “Where am I? What’s goin’ on?”

Stan blinked. “Yeah. You’re Lard—uh, I mean, you’re Lewis’s uncle. Wh-where am I?” His face jerked into a mask of fear. “N-not in New Zebedee? Did you bring me back to New Zebedee? I can’t go there! She’s there!”

Stan stammered out an incredible story. He remembered very little of his weeks in the hospital, but he had a terrifying memory of being chased by something like a huge snake in a rainstorm. He had crouched beneath a bush to hide, and someone had called him out—a beautiful woman who promised to take him home. But—

“I could have figured that much,” said Jonathan from behind the wheel. “Hmm. All right, here’s what we will do.” He drove them back to New Zebedee and parked at the curb in front of the police station. “Stan, you march right inside there and have them call your parents. And stay put until they come for you! They’ll take you back to the hospital, but you’ll be safe there. Understand?”

Stan was so frightened, he could barely clamber out of the car, and then he ran to the police station on wobbling legs. Through the glass front door they saw him talking to a policeman, and then Jonathan drove off. “He should be safe enough,” he said. “Now let’s go to Richardson’s Woods. I’ve got an itchy feeling that we’ll find Lewis there. Father Foley, you say we’re safe until tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” replied the priest. “The lamia’s powers are strongest at certain times and seasons of the year. She will be at her most powerful from midnight to dawn tonight. But I believe Lewis is in great danger now. She will need blood to take on enough form to fight us, and you’ve taken away her supply.”

Lewis’s head spun. His vision began to clear. He still lay on the stone, with the whistle so cold on his chest that it almost burned. He raised his head with difficulty. At the foot of the stone stood the creature. She had the form of a woman, but still she was only a sheet—the sheet from his bed, Lewis dimly realized—stretched tight over a shifting figure. The eye sockets glowed red. When the thing moved, its arms and legs were wrong, as if they had no bones in them. Or as if they had the many joints of a snake.

“S-Stan?” Lewis could speak, though his voice was a dry croak. “They s-stopped him?” He felt a little leap of hope in his heart.

If blood cannot give me a body, the whistle can. When you blow it for the last time, my spirit can enter your body. You will not die, but you will no longer be in control of yourself. I will. They will think I am you, and I will have form and strength enough to do what must be done.

You will wish to do it, returned the insinuating voice. You will have to do it. But your earthly shell will have to perish. My spirit inside you will consume your body to ash and dust, though your spirit will live forever and will be a part of me, sharing the bodies I take, watching helplessly as I grow and grow in strength and power. But the one beneath the stone must have a body as well as a spirit, so one of the others must go there, to be imprisoned and helpless for eternity. The foolish uncle, perhaps, though I could use his magical powers . . . No, better, it will be the girl.

It took every ounce of strength and every drop of courage in Lewis to do what he did next. He rolled sideways. The creature at his feet hissed and leaped forward, but not before Lewis was falling from the stone. He fell to the ground, and the moment he touched the earth he felt suddenly released from the thing’s hold. He had landed facedown, but he sprang to his feet like a runner starting a race. Half running and half stumbling, he fled from the clearing, out into the meadow.

But the lamia reared from the tall grass ahead of him. The face formed from the sheet was wrinkled and furious, and the gaping mouth showed two curving fangs. The creature hissed at him. The grass whipped, streamers of it tearing loose and flying to the monstrous form.

Lewis backed away. The grass clung to the lamia’s shape, changed it. Now it had no legs, but the trunk and tail of a monstrous serpent. It writhed forward, forcing him back. The stone touched the back of his legs, and he felt himself being forced to climb onto it. The lamia wanted him to lie down, but with all his might Lewis forced himself to stand atop the stone. He felt the monster in his mind, willing him to raise the silver whistle to his lips.

“I won’t do it!” he yelled desperately. With a sudden yank, he broke the chain and flung the whistle away from him. It gleamed in the sunlight and vanished.

Lewis almost sobbed. He couldn’t get rid of the whistle! And the thing would force him to blow it. Then—what then? Would his mind go when the creature’s spirit took over his body? Or would he be left aware but helpless?