Free Chessmen of Doom by John Bellairs Page B

boys and the professor looked warily around. The chapel was empty. Rows of varnished pews stretched toward the communion rail, and on the altar six tall candles burned. Before the rail three coffins stood on sawhorses. A black woollen pall with a white cross was draped over each. A faint smell of incense and candle wax hung in the air.
    Silently the professor began walking down the aisle, and the boys followed him. They paused briefly by the coffins and then went up three broad steps and through the gate in the railing. They stood in the sanctuary, glancing about nervously. The bell had stopped clanging, and the silence seemed deafening. Johnny felt a chill creeping over his body. He looked at the other two, and from their pale, tense faces he knew that they felt the way he did. At last, after what seemed like forever, the professor spoke.
    "All this is very odd indeed," he muttered in a voice that trembled a bit. "Here we have everything ready for a funeral—a multiple funeral, it seems—and yet there are no mourners, no priests or ministers, no. . ."
    His voice died. A small door on the right side of the sanctuary had opened noiselessly, and a man in a long black cassock walked into the room. His hands were pale and bony, and his face reminded Johnny of a skull. His red-rimmed eyes burned in deep-set sockets. As they watched, this strange-looking man crossed the polished floor, nodded quickly toward the crucifix on the altar, and walked over to where they were standing.
    "Good evening," he said in an odd, high-pitched voice. "Can I be of any assistance to you?"
    The professor waited about half a minute before speaking. A lot of weird thoughts were running through his mind, and none of them were very pleasant.
    "I was wondering," he said at last, "if there is a funeral that is going to take place here."
    The man grinned unpleasantly. "You are very perceptive," he said in a mocking tone. "Very perceptive indeed. We are here to mourn the passing of three vacationers—two boys and an old man—who died tragically in a boating accident. If you wish to stay for the funeral service, you may."
    The words of this strange man struck terror into the hearts of the boys and the professor. Panic rose inside them, and they began to wonder if they had gotten trapped inside a nightmare. After a wild look around, the professor dashed to the three coffins. With a quick twist of his hand he flicked the pall away from one, and peered at the brass plate that was bolted to the mahogany lid. The engraved letters seemed to squirm before his eyes:
    Â 
    In memory of
    RODERICK CHILDERMASS
    tragically drowned
    in
    Lake Umbagog
    R.I.P.
    Â 
    With a wild, frightened yell the professor whirled around. The man was gone. Johnny and Fergie stood staring at the coffins, their eyes wide with fear.
    "Where is he?" barked the professor. "Where the devil has he gone to?"
    "He . . . just disappeared," said Johnny in a small, throaty voice. "Professor, what's going on?"
    Frightened, the professor grabbed Johnny's arm. "Come on, you two!" he yelled. "We've got to get out of here!"
    The boys didn't need to be persuaded. Madly they pounded down the aisle after the professor, and before they knew it they were on the path, with the wind blowing rain in their faces. They tripped over logs and roots in their haste to escape. Gasping for breath, they finally arrived at the shore, where the rented boat waited. It had been raining so hard that there was a lot of water in the bottom of the boat, but that did not matter. Johnny and Fergie threw their weight against the bow, and the boat slid into the choppy, rain-swept lake. Splashing through the surf, the professor clambered into the boat and tried to start the engine. On the first three tries nothing happened. He tore open the engine's hood and took out the spark plugs. After drying them hastily with his handkerchief he put them back and once more pulled at the starting cord. The Evinrude engine roared into