The Bell, the Book, and the Spellbinder by John Bellairs & Brad Strickland

Author:John Bellairs & Brad Strickland [Bellairs, John & Strickland, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories
ISBN: 9780141303628
Google: 45lbbLOo7HsC
Amazon: B00J84L436
Barnesnoble: B00J84L436
Publisher: Dial
Published: 1997-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

THE FERGUSON

BOY IS MINE

CHAPTER EIGHT

If Johnny, Sarah, and the professor had seen Fergie late that night, they would have been shocked at his appearance. Over the preceding month, Fergie had become very thin and pale, and his eyes had a shifty, haunted look. At half past eleven that night, he slipped out of his house—something he had been doing several times a week for the last three or four weeks. He glanced at his father's pride and joy, a brand-new battleship-gray Studebaker that had taken the place of the old Ford. Fergie swallowed hard. His dad did not really like his new job. Mr. Baxter was a fast talker and a wheeler-dealer who didn't care if he cheated his customers now and again. But Mr. Ferguson was a great salesman, and he was earning good money for the first time in his life.

Miserably, Fergie hunched down into his black leather jacket and trotted along the street. Only a few blocks away was a small park, between the river and the Baptist church that he and his parents sometimes attended. At night the park was always deserted. It was just a grassy rectangle, with a circle of thirteen ancient oak trees running around a central stone walk that in turn surrounded a fountain. Fergie went and stood beside the fountain, hearing the trickle of water. Stars winked in the dark sky overhead, and a waxing moon gave a ghostly light. Fergie felt himself cringing inside as he waited.

The tolling of the bells began. Church bells and clock bells throughout Duston Heights pealed midnight. But above them all, drowning out all the rest, Fergie heard the terrible deep booming of the bell only he could hear, the same bell that he heard anytime he used or even thought about the book.

In the darkness ahead, something glimmered. Fergie was breathing hard now, trying to control his panic. He knew what the white shape was—only too well.

"Good evening, my boy," said the voice with its faint British accent. It was the one Fergie had first heard in the library, back when he had sought out the book. The short, slight old man stepped forward. He was wearing a black overcoat, but his long fringe of white hair gleamed even in the dead of midnight. "Have you been practicing your lessons?" asked the man.

"Y-yeah," stammered Fergie. "Only it—it's not workin' out. Not the way you said it would."

"Oh?" In the darkness, the man smiled. Fergie could barely make out his white teeth. "What trouble are you having, pray?"

Fergie squirmed. "Well—Dad has a new job an' he's doin' great at it, but he can't stand his boss. And Mom is worried 'cause Dad bought a new car an' a stove and refrigerator for the house, an' he's in debt. And they've been fighting about money." Fergie drew a long, miserable breath. "At least they never useta do that."

"Perhaps," said the man, "you merely haven't been specific enough in your wishes. Wishes are tricky, you know; you must manage them and show them who is boss.

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