The House With a Clock in Its Walls

by John Bellairs

“Oh, by the way,” he said, “you might bring Lewis a glass of iced tea, and get me a refill. No sugar. And bring out another plate of chocolate-chip cookies.” Mrs. Zimmermann stood up and clasped her hands subserviently in front of her. “How would you like your cookies, sir? Stuffed down your throat one by one, or crumbled up and sifted into your shirt collar?”

The last clock to strike was the grandfather clock in the study. It made a noise like a steamer trunk full of tin plates falling slowly and solemnly down a flight of stairs.

Uncle Jonathan walked over to the tulip bed, put his ear to the ground, and listened. He motioned for the others to join him. Lewis put his ear to the damp earth, and he heard strange things. He heard the noise that earthworms make as they slowly inch along, breaking hard black clods with their blunt heads. He heard the secret inwound conversations of bulbs and roots, and the breathing of flowers. And Lewis knew strange things, without knowing how he came to know them.

Most people do not like to be proven wrong, even when they enjoy themselves in the process.

“It’s best not to think about the thing,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “Not until you have to, at any rate. You can’t prepare for all the disasters that might occur in this frightening world of ours. If the devil appears or if we find that the End of the World is at hand, we’ll do something.” “Mm-hmmm. We’ll hide in the cellar. Come on. Let’s wash the dishes.”

“It’s all over, Lewis. Relax. Witches and other evil things can’t cross running water. It’s an old rule, but it still applies.” “You might throw in the fact,” said Mrs. Zimmermann in her most pedantic tone, “that Elihu Clabbernong built that iron bridge in 1892. He was supposed to be doing it for the county, but he was really trying to make sure that the ghost of his dead uncle, Jedediah, didn’t cross the stream to get him. Now Elihu was a part-time war-lock, and what he put into the iron of the bridge …” “Oh, good heavens!” cried Jonathan, covering his ears. “Are you going to go through the whole history of Capharnaum County at four a.m.?”

The next day was Saturday, and Lewis woke up in a state of panic. He was like a pressure cooker with the lid clamped on tight and the steam hole clogged up with chewing gum. Thoughts kept bubbling and seething to the surface of his mind, but none of them seemed to make sense.

Jonathan went upstairs. He stayed up there a long time, so long that the parlor organ broke into “Stars and Stripes Forever” out of pure boredom.

Lewis was silent. He had always thought that courage had something to do with riding your bicycle through bonfires and hanging by your knees from the limbs of trees.

Jonathan wrinkled up his eyebrows so that they looked like two mating auburn caterpillars.