I just finished The Face in =
the Frost, John Bellairs’s third book, though (from what I can =
gather) his first full-fledged novel, a blend of fantasy, whimsy, and =
horror, in which two wizards gather that a third wizard is up to no =
good, and go off to confront him. It was also his last book to be =
published for the adult market, before The House with a Clock in its =
Walls was asked to be re-written for young readers, launching the =
career writing juvenile horror novels for which he is better =
known.
I want to say it’s unlike anything I’ve ever =
read – but it isn’t. It’s very much like two things I’ve read: in =
it’s crotchety, whimsical use of the fantasy setting for the pleasurable =
unwinding of a long yarn, it reminds me very much of the Terry Pratchett =
“Discworld” novels I’ve read, the earliest of which it precedes by some =
dozen years. And in its eerie flow of haunting and horrifying =
scenarios and images, some of which are going to return to me with a =
shiver on some autumn night, it reminds me of the John Bellairs juvenile =
horror novels I read in 4th and 5th grade, which had the the power =
to scare the crap out of me all night long back =
then.
If you liked reading those books back =
then (and I know you did) you might like reading this book right now – =
or better yet, in October, when you start looking for ghost stories to =
blog about. It’s a little like catching up with a funny, scary old =
friend.
“At that point I woke up. =
The room was bright with moonlight, but of course there were no =
words on the window and, as far as I could tell, there was no one in the =
room. So I went back to sleep again, and I’m not sure how long I =
slept, but I was awakened by the sound of someone tapping on my window. =
It was a sharp, metallic sound, not like someone rapping with his =
knuckles, and I sat up with a start. When I looked out the window, =
which is not very far from my bed, I saw that there was a large bird =
outside on the sill. And a second later I saw that it was not an =
ordinary bird. It was skeletal. The gray light was shining =
through its rib cage and its eyeholes; it was pecking at the pane and =
clattering its horrible black wings against my window, I was =
suddenly seized with the fear that it would break through the glass at =
any minute and get in, and I jumped out on the opposite side of the bed. =
I got hold of my staff, and I muttered some kind of charm, I =
forget what. It didn’t work, but a minute or two later, the bird =
gave an awful scraping cry and fell over backward, off the =
sill.”
=
Roger opened his mouth to say something, but Prospero =
raised his hand.
“I know what you’re going to say. =
But the bird was not in a dream.”
-John =
Bellairs, The Face in the Frost (1969, Macmillan =
Co.)
=
