Battle of the Beasts

The heartbeat got faster, like the heart of someone who had just run a marathon. And it wasn’t stopping. It galloped ahead, quicker and quicker, as the light from the candles began to change.

“Diablo tan-TUN-ka!” “Diablo tan-TUN-ka!”

The candles were blood-red. The mist became red too, looking as if it had soaked up the spray of a battlefield. Eleanor heard a scratching sound and turned – that stuffed falcon she had noticed? It was alive! Scraping its talons against the glass that trapped it, twitching its eyes—

Eleanor screamed, but Brendan covered her mouth. Will elbowed Brendan and Eleanor, pointing to the wall behind them. Two swords mounted there were twisting back and forth, like scissors. Drops of blood beaded up on the metal to plop fatly on the floor.

“Spirits of our brothers!” called Hayes. “We summon you!”

“Diablo tan-TUN-ka!” Kristoff said. “Diablo tan-TUN-ka!”

“We wish to speak to one departed! We seek … Dahlia Kristoff!”

A great groan came from the ceiling, and when Brendan, Eleanor and Will looked up, they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

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The Bohemian Club portraits were coming alive. Teddy Roosevelt, Richard Nixon and several other stern-looking men were moving, moaning and rolling their jaws, as if to test that their mouths still worked.

“Brothers, help us!” Hayes implored from the table below. The red candles flickered around him. The cloud of mist above obscured the portraits – until Richard Nixon leaned out of his frame, puffed out his cheeks, and blew down a gust of air.

The mist drifted to the sides of the room. Hayes and Kristoff looked up at portraits that now twitched and harrumphed in their frames. Along with Roosevelt and Nixon, with their names engraved in gold in each frame, were nineteenth-century satirist Ambrose Bierce; National Review founder William F. Buckley Jr; President Dwight D. Eisenhower; Joseph Coors of the Coors Brewing Company; Mark Twain; Call of the Wild author Jack London; “most trusted man in America” Walter Cronkite; and President Herbert Hoover.

“How da-aaare you dist-urrrb us?” Richard Nixon asked, his jowls shaking as he drew out the question. He climbed out of his portrait and sat on the edge of the frame, his legs dangling, revealing bright yellow socks. He glared down at Hayes. “We’re all perfectly happy being dead! It’s relaxing! Why would you wake us? It had better be important!”

“I know you seek peace, brothers, and I truly do hate disturbing you,” Hayes said. “But perhaps you can answer a question?”

“What question?”

“Where is Dahlia Kristoff?”

“Who?” President Eisenhower asked. “Who is he talking about?”

“Dahlia Kristoff,” Hayes repeated. “Of San Francisco. Daughter of our esteemed club member Denver Kristoff. It is vital that we find out if her spirit is among the dead.”

“Vital to whom?” Nixon said. “I couldn’t care less about a missing girl. She’s probably gone off to some debauched hippie commune—”

“Shut your mouth!” Denver Kristoff interrupted, leaping on to the table. “Do you know whom you’re talking to? Aldrich Hayes built this place. None of you would have achieved wealth and fame if it weren’t for the Bohemian Club and the Lorekeepers.”

The faces in the portraits glanced at one another.

“That’s right! Nixon, how do you think an unattractive dolt like you with a lousy personality, foul breath and yellow socks could ever be elected president? Because of the Lorekeepers!”

Nixon reached down and pulled at the bottom of his cuffed trousers, trying to hide his yellow socks.

“And Eisenhower?” shouted Kristoff. “Who do you think is really responsible for all of your military victories?”

“The Lorekeepers,” muttered an embarrassed Eisenhower.

“And Teddy Roosevelt?” barked Kristoff. “Do you think it’s just a coincidence that a mean-spirited lush like you won the Nobel Prize? Now, as a fellow Lorekeeper, I implore you … help me find my daughter. Help me find out if she’s alive or dead.”

“Never,” said Herbert Hoover. “Not after the way you spoke to us.”

“Usually, when we’re disturbed,” said Teddy Roosevelt, “it’s an extremely serious situation. An event that threatens the Bohemian Club itself.”

“And I don’t know about you fellas, but I don’t appreciate these insults,” said Nixon. “If I wanted to be treated like this, I’d move back into the White House. I’m going back to being dead.” Nixon began to return to his frame.

“No!” Kristoff grabbed Hayes’s hand and cranked up the record player. He began pulling Hayes in a circle, repeating their earlier movements, chanting “Diablo tan-TUN-ka!”

“Will you stop that?” Teddy Roosevelt said.

Kristoff ignored them all and bellowed, “Spirits of San Francisco! Come do what the Lorekeepers cannot! Show yourselves in our time of need!”

Up on the balcony, a plink hit Eleanor’s back. It was as if a drawing pin had fallen on her. She turned to look up – but Brendan held her still, trying to keep her quiet. She looked to her side and saw a human tooth on the ground! Eleanor couldn’t believe it, but before she could grab it—

Kerrrrrash! – the skylight above the portraits shattered into a million tiny pieces!

Hayes and Kristoff were dusted with falling glass. As they shook themselves off, there was an otherworldly whoosh …

And a horde of ghosts entered the Bohemian Club.

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Eleanor had never seen ghosts before, but she knew what she was looking at. Their bodies were long and made of mist. They had howling faces with mouths that stretched into distorted ovals. They flew around like a tornado, streaking past Kristoff and Hayes and swirling on the balcony. They seemed to fly through Eleanor, Brendan and Will, who clutched one another in terror.

The room was overrun with spirits.

“I’m looking for Dahlia Kristoff!” Denver yelled to the ghosts. “Dahlia, if you are among the spirits … reveal yourself to me!”

Now Eleanor could see the ghosts more closely. Their colourless hair floated behind them as if they were underwater. Some wore bonnets and dresses from the nineteenth century; others had snazzy three-piece suits with wide lapels from the eighties.