The Stone, the Cipher, and the Shadows: John Bellairs's Johnny Dixon in a Mystery

By Brad Strickland and John Bellairs

A flu epidemic ushers in a plague of dark magic in this spooktastic mystery featuring teenage sleuth Johnny Dixon from The Wrath of the Grinning Ghost.
 
Though forty miles away, Duston Heights is not safe from the flu that’s raging through Boston. When Johnny Dixon’s grandmother falls ill, he’s sent to live with his neighbor to avoid infection. So many locals are getting sick that school is canceled for a week, and the reclusive Dr. Abram Ashburn comes out of retirement to make house calls.
 
After seeing a scary vision of his bedridden grandmother outside of a window, Johnny starts to feel on edge. Then he and his best friend find what looks to be a weird map of a cemetery in Dr. Ashburn’s house. One specific grave is marked with an “X,” the burial place of a woman who practiced witchcraft in the seventeenth century.
 
The townspeople recover from the flu, but they can’t escape the terrifying illusions and shadow people that now haunt them, unless Johnny and his friends find the key to unlock the secrets of the graveyard before a dreadful prophecy comes to pass . . .
 
Praise for The Wrath of the Grinning Ghost
 
“Fans of the series will enjoy this new supernatural adventure, which reads so much like Bellairs’s books that they won’t believe he didn’t write it.” —School Library Journal
 
“Strickland’s story is eerie, suspenseful, and true to the personalities and writing style of Bellairs, who began the Johnny Dixon series . . . This is good reading for adventure enthusiasts as well as for series fans.” —Booklist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504081627

Brad Strickland

Brad Strickland is also the author of Aladdin's Pirate Hunter trilogy as well as many middle-grade novels based on licensed properties, including Are You Afraid of the Dark? and Star Trek.

Book preview

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The Stone, the cipher, and the shadows

Brad Strickland

With great love and respect, this book is for

Priscilla Bellairs, who keeps the flame alive,

Brigid Burke, who cherishes the series,

And Alex de Luca, who is a generous friend.

Chapter One

On a bright but cloudy Saturday morning in early February, Johnny Dixon and his best friend Fergie Ferguson planned to meet at the public library to do some school work. Both in their early teens, the boys had term reports to research, though on different subjects. Johnny, a short, pale boy with blond hair, spectacles, and freckles, was writing a history paper about early British colonies in Massachusetts. Fergie, tall and gangly with a droopy face, a long, blunt-tipped nose, jug ears, black hair, and big feet, planned an English essay about Henry David Thoreau and Transcendentalism.

Fergie attended the public high school and Johnny St. Michael’s Catholic School. Both boys were in the same grade and seemed to be assigned almost the same subjects. Luckily, school rivalries did not affect them. They enjoyed working together, so things usually turned out well.

The mid-1950s winter had brought a deep chill. Huddled in his brown winter jacket, with blue, red, and white Boston Red Sox knitted cap pulled low to cover his ears, Johnny walked from his grandparents’ house on Fillmore Street, hurrying because walking fast made him feel warmer and puffing clouds of silvery vapor.

That morning Duston Heights, Massachusetts, was even less crowded than usual. Weeks before, a severe influenza epidemic had broken out in Boston. According to the radio, it had spread rapidly and was already striking people in Johnny’s home town. Because of the cold weather or fear of the flu, few cars rolled along the streets and fewer pedestrians were about.

However, his research paper was due in two weeks, flu or no flu, so Johnny hurried, his nose tingling from the cold. As soon as he entered the vestibule of the library, his glasses fogged, temporarily blinding him, and as he pushed through the inner door—oof!—he ran smack into someone so hard that he knocked his spectacles right off his nose and the world became a blur.

Sorry, sorry! Johnny said quickly, stepping back. I didn’t see—

Stop right there! Johnny recognized the stern voice of Mrs. Merriwether, the Reference Librarian. "Doctor Ashburn, shame on you! I saw you sneak that book into your satchel! It does not circulate!"

Squinting, Johnny pushed his glasses back in place and saw Mrs. Merriwether, her hair a faded rust color, wearing an old-fashioned blue dress with white lace at the collar. She had stopped an elderly man with a white Van Dyke beard and wearing a black Homburg hat and black suit. He clutched a scuffed brown leather satchel against his chest and said in a creaky voice, I didn’t mean any harm. I need to take this book home temporarily to—

You can’t take it anywhere! Mrs. Merriwether snapped. Come with me.

Johnny followed them to the reference room. Inside, Mrs. Merriwether had the man lay his satchel on a table and open it to remove a thick, ancient-looking book bound in dull black leather. She delicately opened it to the flyleaf and said, "See this label right here—DO NOT REMOVE FROM REFERENCE ROOM. Really, Dr. Ashburn, you should know better."

I am sorry, Dr. Ashburn murmured. I shan’t make the same mistake again. May I use the book in this room, please?

Yes, Mrs. Merriwether said. But not today! She sniffed. I really should ban you, but since you’ve come out of retirement to help fight this flu epidemic, I’ll be lenient. You can return next week, provided you never take this or any other non-circulating volume out of this room again.

Thank you, the elderly Ashburn said quietly.

I’m sorry I bumped into you, Johnny told the man, who seemed timid. He stood a foot taller than Johnny and looked thin and frail.

Dr. Ashburn’s eyebrows rose. What? Ah. No-no harm done. Thank you, Madam, for the second chance. I’m forgetful in my old age. He made an awkward sort of half-bow, fastened his satchel, and hastened out.

Johnny asked Miss Meriwether, Is it all right if I sit at the table? A friend of mine is meeting me here in the reference room so we can work on our school reports.

As long as you don’t talk, laugh, or squeak your chairs, Mrs. Merriwether said. Johnny thought she was still irritable. I must insist—

Catrina? asked a hushed voice at the doorway. It was Mrs. Dobbs, the head librarian. Your husband is on the phone. He’s not feeling very well.

Mrs. Merriwether gasped. I hope he isn’t coming down with this awful flu! She and Mrs. Dobbs hurried out of the room, probably heading to the circulation desk and the telephone.

Johnny sat at the table. He liked the library and its dusty, spicy smell of books. In her rush, Mrs. Merriwether had left the old volume on the table where Johnny sat, and, curious, he reached for it.

The pebbled leather cover felt old and stiff and crumbly, so he handled it carefully. It was an octavo-sized book, which meant it was about six inches wide and nine inches tall. The cover and spine had once held embossed, gilded letters with the title and author. Over time, except for some tiny specks the gold color had flaked off, and the embossing had worn so flat he couldn’t read a single letter.

Johnny carefully opened the book to the title page. The print was in an old-fashioned type face, faded to a dark coppery brown. The paper itself had not yellowed because it was not made from wood pulp, but linen, and rag paper lasts much longer than any other kind. He read the information on the page:

Curiosities of New-England:

A Gathering of Tales, Legends, and Beliefs

Of the Natives and Settlers of That Region,

With the Prophecies of Dame Brigid Bishop,

Reputed a Witch but Spared Death When the Persecution Ended.

Gathered and Edited by

Samuel Saunders, M.A.

Printed by Graybil and Sons,

Boston, Massachusetts,

MDCCXII

Johnny had learned Roman numerals, but had to puzzle out the date: 1712. The book was nearly 250 years old. It felt so fragile that he was afraid to read further, and he closed it. Books like that sometimes cracked along the spine, or—

John baby! boomed a voice at his elbow, startling him so much that he dropped the book. Whoops! Fergie had approached without Johnny’s hearing or seeing him, but with his quick reflexes, he stooped and grabbed the old book before it could hit the floor and perhaps burst its spine. Gotcha!

Whew! said Johnny.

Ferguson in for the save! The crowd cheers! Fergie handed the book back to Johnny. Gettin’ a jump on me, huh? Despite the chilly day, Fergie was wearing no cap and only his cherished black-leather motorcycle jacket adorned with chromium studs and on the back a white skull, much scuffed, with red reflectors for eyes. Above the skull stood the script label SNAKE EYES.

A sudden exclamation startled both Johnny and Fergie: Boys!

They looked around. Mrs. Dobbs stood in the doorway, beckoning them, her expression strained. Johnny set the book back on the table while Fergie leaned over to pick up something from the floor, and then they went over. Mrs. Dobbs shook her head. I’m sorry, but Mrs. Merriwether’s been called home. Her husband’s ill. We’re short of staff, so the library will close early.

Aw, said Fergie. We were gonna research our school reports. Even the Conversation Room?

The whole library, said Mrs. Dobbs with an apologetic smile.

Do we have time to check out a few books? Johnny asked.

Mrs. Dobbs looked thoughtful. Well—you can have half an hour. Of course, none of the books in this room circulate.

That’s okay, said Fergie cheerfully. We’ll just have a quick look upstairs and find some that do.

They hurried to the third floor, where the library shelved biographies and histories, and started a rather frantic search. Even so, within the time limit Fergie had selected Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, another book called The Transcendental Spirit in America, and a third, a biography of Thoreau. Johnny had picked out A Colonial Reader, a collection of excerpts from diaries and other works by people like William Bradford, Anne Bradstreet, and Cotton Mather, along with two different histories of Colonial America.

They checked out their books at the circulation desk by showing their library cards and signing their names on lined blue patron cards taken from cardboard pockets glued to the inside back cover of the books. Mrs. Dobbs stamped the DATE DUE form on the opposite flyleaf. Six times in a row the date stamp made a pleasant ka-chunk! Two weeks, the librarian said, smiling.

Fergie scooped the six books off the counter and carried one stack under each arm. Thanks, he said. You may have saved my life!

Mrs. Dobbs accompanied them to the front door, unlocked it, and let the two friends out. Take care and stay well!

Outside, Fergie handed Johnny three books and the boys split up, but after he got home, Johnny discovered he had one of Fergie’s books, The Life of Thoreau, and one of his, Pilgrims and Puritans: New England 1620-1750, was missing. Grunting with annoyance, Johnny went downstairs and telephoned Fergie. You mixed up two books, he said.

Yeah, I noticed. I was about to call you. Wanna meet at the Sweet Shop and swap volumes of forgotten lore?

So Johnny took Fergie’s book, and Fergie took Johnny’s book, and they met at the ice-cream parlor and had hot chocolates. I think the flu is gettin’ worse, John baby, confided Fergie. Just as I got home, my Mom told me there’s already a few dozen cases in Cranbrook.

Cranbrook was the richer section of Duston Heights, north of the Merrimack River. The Fergusons lived in a modest two-story brown house on the very edge of the well-to-do area, but their neighborhood was also on the fringe of an old industrial section. Houses there were respectable, but far from mansions.

When they had finished their drinks, Johnny said he should get back home, but before he did, Fergie said, Hey, by the way, Dixon, I stuck that paper you dropped in your book there. It didn’t look important.

Okay. Johnny couldn’t recall dropping anything, but the matter went out of his mind as he walked fast to his grandparents’ home. The weather had turned even colder, stinging his cheeks as an icy breeze sprang up and some light snow flew, white swirling flakes against the bare trees and the darkening gray sky. Johnny got home, went up to his room, and added Pilgrims and Puritans to his other two books. And for several days, that was the end of it.

Early on Tuesday morning, Gramma Dixon developed a headache and had chills, and her forehead was hot to the touch. Grampa called Dr. Schermerhorn, the family physician, to make an appointment for her. Sounding exhausted, the doctor’s receptionist told Grampa that she was sorry, but the sick people had overwhelmed the clinic and it had no appointments available.

Johnny took an ice pack up to his grandmother, and Grampa came right behind him to report the news. Kate, said Grampa, guess what? The clinic’s arrangin’ for old Doc Ashburn to come round to see you in an hour or two.

Oh, land sakes, grumbled Gramma, her face flushed and red. Just a touch of grippe, that’s all. I can’t let anybody come in with the house in a mess!

You can and you will, said Grampa firmly. This flu is nothin’ to fool with. Johnny, go downstairs. I’ll sit with Kate. Listen for the doorbell and let the doctor in. Then you can walk on to school.

Johnny fretted in the living room. He couldn’t help worrying. Johnny was a born fretter and worrier, and he imagined Gramma being rushed off to the hospital and put in an oxygen tent. He had seen film on the TV news about that—people in hard-hit areas like Boston stretched out and gasping with a transparent tent over their chest and shoulders. A tank pumped oxygen in, because the flu made people’s lungs get congested and the patients struggled to breathe.

The doorbell rang, and Johnny leaped up. A man stood on the porch—an elderly man with a white, pointed beard, thick spectacles, and a wrinkled, blotchy face. He wore a black overcoat and Homburg hat, a dark-blue scarf, and he carried a battered doctor’s satchel. The Dixon residence? he asked in a high-pitched old voice. I’m Dr. Ashburn.

Johnny recognized the man he had collided with in the library. Now, taking a better look, he realized he had to be somewhere in his eighties—older even than Professor Roderick Childermass, Johnny’s elderly friend, who lived across the street. Johnny stepped back. Come in. Uh—my gramma is the patient. I’ll take you to her room. He led the doctor upstairs, where his grandparents’ bedroom door stood open. In here, Johnny said.

As they stepped in, Gramma murmured, My stars! It’s been an age since I last seen you, Doctor.

I’ve kept to myself, the old man said with a smile. Well, well, let’s see what’s ailing you, young lady.

Johnny felt relieved. Dr. Ashburn didn’t seem to recall Johnny’s bumping into him at all. He had feared that the old man might scold him.

He would have to leave for school in a few minutes. He gathered his textbooks and thought he could use the study-hall period to make a start on his term report. He picked up the history of New England Pilgrims—the group of English settlers who had founded Plymouth Colony—and the Puritans, the sterner and more strait-laced people who, among other things, had conducted the witchcraft trials of Salem Village in the 1690s.

From the book a folded paper fell out. What could it be? Oh, right, Fergie had said something about