The House with a Clock in Its Walls (Lewis Barnavelt, #1)

by John Bellairs

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. When it stopped striking, Jonathan looked up.

He loved to eat candy while he read, and lots of his favorite books at home had brown smudges on the corners of the pages.

He would have to find out why Jonathan prowled the house every night with a flashlight in his hand.

It was a chilly, clear October night. All the stars were out, and a large full moon was rising over the four elm trees at the far end of Jonathan’s yard. The screen door slammed, and everyone looked up. The magician had arrived.

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

Halloween was a windy dark day. Lewis sat in the window of his bedroom and watched the wind strip the trees of the few ragged brown leaves that remained. He felt sad and scared. He was sad because he had disobeyed his uncle, who was always kind to him. And he felt scared because he had promised Tarby that he would meet him in the graveyard at twelve o’clock on Halloween night, so that the two of them could raise up the spirit of a dead person. Or try to. Lewis didn’t think it would work, and he was kind of hoping that it wouldn’t.