Authors: P. B. Kerr
F
ounded in 1638 by five hundred Puritans who promptly murdered the tribe of Quinnipiac Native Americans who were already living there, New Haven is on the northern shore of Long Island Sound and best known as the home of Yale University. Philippa knew that seven U.S. presidents and vice presidents had gone to Yale (not to mention one Turkish prime minister, and her own father) and, one day, she intended to go there herself. Other than Mr. Gaunt, the only Yale alumnus known to John was Charles Montgomery Burns, the owner of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant in the hit cartoon television series,
The Simpsons,
which was his favorite show on TV. For John, the idea that Mr. Burns had gone to Yale told him all he thought he needed to know about the place.
Mr. Vodyannoy, who also owned an apartment in the creepy Dakota building on New York’s Central Park, welcomed the twins, Uncle Nimrod, and Mr. Groanin to a
giant-sized house on the seashore that looked more like a medieval castle with proper turrets and arrow windows. John was impressed. Mr. Vodyannoy’s house was even creepier than the Dakota.
“This is one heck of a house, Mr. Vodyannoy,” he said. “Have you lived here long?”
“I assume you know that heck means hell,” commented Mr. Vodyannoy. “This is truer of Nightshakes than perhaps you know. When I bought it, around seventy years ago, the house came with a curse, which, among several other things, required me never to stop building, and curses are something one takes very seriously in this part of the world. The house had just thirteen rooms when I acquired it. Since then I have added another seventy rooms, mostly to the east wing which I advise you never ever to enter.”
“Is that the haunted part?” John asked.
“Worse than haunted,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “The east wing is the ill-favored, unfortunate part of the house. And it has amused me to reflect this in the way all of the building work has been undertaken. For example, there are thirteen cupolas and thirteen passages. All of the windows have thirteen panes, all of the floors have thirteen boards, and all of the staircases have thirteen steps. In the east wing of Nightshakes, there are corridors that lead nowhere and doors that open into the open air, and the house is now too huge to navigate without getting lost. So, I advise you to remain in the west wing at all times. Or face the consequences, which might be terrible. Even for a djinn. Should you be unfortunate
enough to find yourself lost there, I advise you to scream as loud as you can and for as long as you can and then, perhaps, some intrepid soul will dare to come and find you. Unless it is after dark, of course, in which case you will have to take your chances until morning.”
Mr. Groanin shivered and said, “Catch me creeping around this place after dark and you can send me to the local loony bin.”
“That is certainly a possibility,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “You see, before I bought the place, it
was
the local loony bin.”
Given his somewhat eccentric appearance, anyone would have been wise to take Frank Vodyannoy’s warning seriously: He was tall — taller than Nimrod — with a red beard and an eagle’s beak of a nose, and on his finger he wore a large ring with a moonstone that was the size and color of an alligator’s eyeball. Mr. Vodyannoy had lived in New York for seventy-five years but occasionally some traces of his real Russian origins appeared in his conversation. “But enough of this talk. The Djinnverso tournament will begin this afternoon in the library, at three. Until then, if there’s anything you need, ring for my butler, Bo, who will show you to your rooms. Bo?”
A large, misshapen man came forward and, taking hold of all the luggage at once — which amounted to more than a dozen bags — lifted it like so much shopping. Leaving Mr. Vodyannoy to greet Zadie Eloko, a new guest, Bo led them to their respective rooms in silence, which was Philippa’s
opportunity to quiz her uncle about her host’s comments regarding the east wing.
“After our last adventure,” she said, “it was my impression that the spirit world had been more or less cleared out. That there are no more ghosts. That Iblis had destroyed nearly all of them.”
“That is true,” said Nimrod. “Of course, new ghosts are being created all the time. People die and sometimes they become ghosts. But it is certain that things are not what they were. It will take many centuries for there to be as many ghosts as once there were. However, you must allow a man with a house like Nightshakes a little poetic license. Besides, there are more things in heaven and earth besides ghosts than perhaps you can yet imagine, Philippa. At least I hope so.”
“Now there’s a comforting thought,” mumbled Groanin. He went into the room that Bo had indicated, closed the door behind him and looked around, nodding appreciatively as his eyes took in the enormous bed, the wide-screen TV, and the many marble acres of the bathroom. He had just dropped his bag and spread himself out on the bed when there was a knock at the door. It was John.
Groanin smiled as best he was able. “What do you want, young man?” he asked the boy. “I say, what do you want?”
“I assume you have no real interest in the Djinnverso tournament,” said John.
“You assume correctly. I dislike all games except soccer and darts.”
“In which case I was wondering if you might like to accompany me to the Peabody Museum.”
Mr. Groanin thought about John’s invitation for a moment. In truth the idea was not an attractive one to him. Groanin had disliked museums ever since the time he had been attacked by a tiger while working in the library of the British Museum. But he was fond of John and decided to go with him if only to keep him from getting into mischief, because boys will be boys even when they are also djinn.
The Peabody is a large redbrick building that looks more like a church than a museum. But there can be few if any churches that are possessed of the type of outside statuary that blesses the Peabody. For, mounted on a granite plinth in front is a life-sized and reasonably lifelike bronze of a
Torosaurus,
which is a species of dinosaur that most resembles a
Triceratops.
Mr. Groanin was not impressed.
“Now, why would anyone want to make a statue of an ugly-looking beast like that?” he grumbled. “I’ve never understood the fascination people have with these daft creatures. Big, nasty things with sharp teeth and clumsy feet.” He shuddered. “Horrible.”
John did not agree. “I think it’s amazing,” he said. “Just imagine what would happen if it came alive. The damage it could cause. Awesome.”
“If I was lucky enough to have a wish from a djinn right now,” Groanin said pointedly, “it would be that this big
horrible monstrosity could stay exactly where it is, forever. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said John. “I was just imagining, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t. When you imagine something, most normal folk feel obliged to reach for a tin hat.”
They went inside and spent a meandering couple of hours looking at collections of historical scientific instruments, meteorites, Egyptian antiquities, and various items of South American gold and pottery. John would have been bored except for the curious sensation they were being watched. A couple of times he even turned around suddenly, hoping to catch sight of someone spying on him, but spotted nothing out of the ordinary and his behavior only earned him some strange looks from Groanin.
“What’s wrong with you, lad? You’re as jumpy as a sack full of cats.”
“Nothing,” said John. He glanced out of the window, where a wind was strengthening. “I expect it was just the wind.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, let’s go back to the house. This place is boring.”
“Never a truer word spoken,” said Groanin. “I’ve seen the contents of handkerchiefs that were more interesting than this.”
At Nightshakes, the Djinnverso tournament was in full swing and nobody paid any attention to John, which, for once, suited him very well, and after dinner, he sought out Bo, Mr. Vodyannoy’s weird butler, to ask him a question. He found Bo in the butler’s pantry in the basement reading a
magazine about boxing, which was a sport in which Bo, who was the size of a mountain gorilla and almost as hairy, had once excelled.
“Excuse me, Bo,” John said nervously. “But I was wondering if you could direct me to Mr. Vodyannoy’s collection of talking boards. I’d like to take a look at them, see. On account of how they’re supposed to be valuable antiques ‘n’ all.”
Bo growled quietly, stood up, fetched his improbable jacket, and from a pocket, produced a map of the house that he then spread on the pantry table. He spoke in a voice that was a strong combination of coffee, many sleepless nights, cigarettes, an old punch in the throat, and Hungary.
“We’re here,” he said, pointing a forefinger as thick as a tree sapling to a small square on the map. “You go along this corridor and up these stairs to the hall of mirrors. Exiting the hall by the east door, you head quietly through the portrait gallery and then the music room, to the summer drawing room. Exit the summer drawing room by the tall door and walk through the conservatory to the spiral staircase. At the top of the spiral staircase, with fortune you will find yourself in an observatory, easily recognizable by the presence of a large reflector telescope. Counting your blessings as you leave the observatory by the green malachite corridor, you will then pass through a trophy room to the hall of shadows. There, in thirteen large drawers labeled
BEWARE
, you will find what you are looking for, sir.” Bo folded the map and handed it to John. “Here. Take it. In case you get lost.”
“Thanks,” said John. “Incidentally, why are those thirteen drawers labeled
BEWARE
? Is it because the talking boards are so valuable?”
“It’s not that they’re so valuable, sir,” Bo said stiffly. “Just that they are quite hazardous and should on no account be handled by anyone who has no knowledge of how they work. Let alone a boy of about twelve or thirteen years old. Of course, you, sir, being a djinn, will doubtless know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Yes,” said John, who, despite the faith Bo placed in him, had almost no idea of what a talking board could do. “You’re right. I do know what I’m doing. Of course.” He pocketed the map and moved toward the door. “Thanks for all your help.”
“Not that way, sir,” said Bo, pointing in the opposite direction to the one John was moving in. “This way. By the way, sir, the hall of drawers is on the very edge of the west wing. This means that it is on the very border of the east wing, which is not a place to go after dark. Not even for a djinn such as yourself. Eight months ago, my own sister, Grace, went missing in the east wing.”
“How long was she missing for?” John asked brightly.
“I regret to say she is still missing,” said Bo. “Occasionally we hear her weeping in some faraway corner of the house, but although we have often looked, we have never been able to find her. We leave food out for the poor creature, of course. And the food disappears. So we presume that she is still alive.”
“But surely Mr. Vodyannoy could find her, with djinn power.”
“Didn’t Mr. Vodyannoy explain about that?” said Bo.
“Explain what?”
“There is a djinn binding on this house that stops djinn power being used in it. That is the Nightshakes curse, sir. Before it was a loony bin, sir, the house was previously owned by a member of the Ifrit tribe. A very nasty lot. In fact, sir, if you will pardon my language, they are an absolute shower.”
“Yes, I’ve met them.”
“You will be careful, won’t you, sir?” said Bo in a voice as deep and rough as an alligator’s. “We should hate to lose two persons. Once has been unfortunate. Twice would look like actionable negligence on my part.”
“Yes. I’ll be all right.”
For an instant, the wind and rain rubbed against the windowpane like a hungry dog and, momentarily, a flash of lightning illuminated the butler’s pantry like someone playing with an electric switch.
“A storm is getting up,” observed Bo.
“I’d say it has gotten up, had breakfast, and is already at work,” replied John.
Bo did not smile at John’s joke.
“I mention it, sir,” he said, “because the power in that part of the house is always uncertain. Especially during an electrical storm. I would advise you to take this flashlight.”
Bo handed John a flashlight and then sat down to finish reading his magazine. Somewhat unnerved by the butler’s
remarks but not quite deterred, for he was a stubborn, often courageous boy, John set out for the hall of shadows.
It was another half hour before John reached the hall of shadows, by which time he was talking to himself almost constantly to keep from being frightened. The portrait gallery had been full of pictures of Mr. Vodyannoy’s ancestors, several of whom seemed to belong in a carnival freak show. Especially the great aunt with the red beard. The summer drawing room had been as cold as a crypt, which was hardly surprising since the several stone gargoyles there had been taken from the Vodyannoy family burial vault in Vienna. Exiting the so-called summer drawing room by a door as tall as a basketball hoop, John had passed through a cobwebby conservatory and climbed up a wobbly spiral staircase, at the top of which there had been an observatory where a human skeleton sat in a red leather armchair apparently staring through the telescope at the moon. Then, leaving the observatory by the green malachite corridor, he had entered a trophy room. These were not silver trophies but some very lifelike animals which had been shot and expertly stuffed and arranged around the room like so many pieces of fierce-looking furniture: a Kodiak bear, a lion, a tiger, a jackal, a hyena, a wolf, a jaguar, a rhinoceros, and an elephant with a homicidal glint in its amber eye.
“Forget the Peabody, dude,” he said to himself. “You should have looked around this museum. Place gives me the creeps.”
But he remained firm of purpose, determined to use one of the talking boards to make contact with some sort of spirit and discover the fate of poor Mr. Rakshasas. A month or two before, Mr. Rakshasas’s spirit had disappeared from the Metropolitan Museum in New York, apparently absorbed by a ghostly Chinese terra-cotta warrior. His body, which had been left for safekeeping at the Gaunt family home on East 77th Street, had subsequently vanished. John missed the old djinn, and his peculiar, wise Irish sayings, dreadfully.