Free The Mansion in the Mist by John Bellairs Page B

Myra," he said calmly, "you can do what you like. I am going to sit all night on the front porch with an ax handle in my hands. I think our friend will show up, and I want to be there to greet him."
    Miss Eells was really beginning to worry about her brother's sanity now. "Emerson!" she exclaimed. "If there's someone from that otherworld coming to get the coin, do you really think you can defend yourself with an ax handle? Use your brain, for heaven's sake."
    "I am using my brain," snapped Emerson. "And I have a little theory about how much power that old coot might have. But see here, it's almost eleven o'clock. Why don't the two of you go to bed, and I'll stand guard. You're not going to help by pacing back and forth and chewing your lips."
    Miss Eells stared helplessly at Emerson for a few seconds. Then she went around the room and turned off all the oil lamps except one. Meanwhile Anthony lit a couple of candles so the two of them could find their way up to bed. Emerson went around to the back of the house and opened the rattly door of the toolshed. With flashlight in hand, he poked around till he found a stout smooth ax handle. Then he made his way back around to the front of the house again. After putting out the last oil lamp, he went out to the front porch, turned off his flashlight, and sat down to wait.
    Minutes dragged past. A quarter of an hour, then a half hour went by. The parlor windows were open, so Emerson could hear the ticking of the shelf clock and its loud, hoarse croaking when it struck the half hours and hours. Outside it was totally dark. Emerson heard the crickets in the tall grass, and now and then he saw a streak of moonlight on the rippled waters of the lake. This light broke through when the clouds parted briefly. But then they would rush in to close up the gap, and the darkness would continue. Humming softly, Emerson gripped the ax handle in his right hand and tapped it calmly on his knee. Midnight passed, and so did twelve-thirty in the morning. By now Emerson's eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and he could make out the narrow, oblong shape of the dock and their boat, bumping gently against the pilings. Suddenly Emerson heard the dip and splash of oars. A rowboat was gliding in past the dock to the shore, and Emerson could see a shadowy figure inside it. The bow of the rowboat ground into the soft sand, and the figure leapt out to pull it up farther. Even in the dark Emerson could tell that the person coming toward him was not the old fisherman. It was someone tall and lean, someone who wore a long cape or robe. Gripping the ax handle tightly, Emerson sat up in his chair. He felt the blood singing in his ears.
    "Who is it?" he called out.
    No answer. The figure strode swiftly forward, and soon it was on the path that led to the porch. Crunch, crunch went the gravel as the menacing shape stepped forward. At the foot of the cracked wooden steps it halted.
    "I am the Grand Autarch," the deep voice intoned. "And I have come to take back the object that you stole from my domain. Give it to me."
    The Grand Autarch! Emerson realized that he must be speaking to the tall, hunched figure with the golden chain around his neck, the one who had been sitting at the head of the table in the Council Chamber of the mansion. Because he had seen the Autarch only through the peephole in the wall, Emerson had not gotten a really good look at this man. Probably he would get a better look in a minute.
    "The Grand Autarch!" said Emerson, and then he laughed mockingly. "How about that! Is that anything like a Grand Dragon? Are you with the Ku Klux Klan, or what?"
    The Grand Autarch seemed disconcerted by this mockery, but he wrapped his cloak about him and spoke again in a menacing tone. "Little man, you do not understand your peril. I could shrivel you to a cinder with a single gesture of my hand. But I will be merciful if you give that golden trinket to me. Now!"
    "I don't think I've ever been shriveled to a