Chris Grabenstein - The Black Heart Crypt

“It was never the lock that held us prisoner,” said Barnabas. “It was something much stronger.” His mask—a jack-o’-lantern pattern cut into a coarse burlap sack—was cinched around his neck with a frayed rope as thick as any hangman’s noose.

“What’re you bumping your gums about?” demanded the 1930s gangster ghost, Crazy Izzy Ickleby.

“The sinister spell of the three detestable Jennings sisters,” said Barnabas. “They were the ones who sealed our souls inside this wretched tomb with their cursed incantations.”

The spirits now circled around Barnabas were his direct descendants: Silas Ickleby, in his powdered wig; Webley Ickleby, the most notorious mass murderer of the 1820s; Pie-Eyes Ickleby, who had rushed to California in 1849, not to mine for gold but to steal it from those who did; Little Paulie Ickleby, who, with Mad Dog Murphy, had robbed banks during the 1950s.

“Do you suppose those three sisters might lock us up once again?” This came from Hornus Ickleby, a scallywag who, like so many of these thirteen Icklebys, had met his death at the noosed end of a rope.

“Rest easy, gentlemen,” hissed Barnabas. “We simply need to seize the black heart stone before the Jennings sisters reassemble it and repeat their abominable spell!”

“Seize it?” snarled Cornelius Ickleby, an embezzler who, in the late 1800s, had devised clever Wall Street swindles. He was crouched near a fallen branch. “Look here—I cannot even seize this twig lying before me on the ground. My hands pass clean through it.”

“You idle-headed, inky-fingered clerk,” sneered Barnabas. “As ghosts, we can do little. To thrive, we must find a living, breathing body!”

“Say what, Old Scratch?” said Bad Bart Ickleby, a riverboat gambler who had died with five aces up his sleeve.

“He’s right, man,” said Eddie Boy. “We gotta find us a new body.”

“How we gonna do that, huh, huh?” demanded Crazy Izzy.

Barnabas smirked beneath his mask. “Do not worry, children. A fresh body will come to us when the veil between our world and theirs is at its thinnest.”

“And when exactly is that?”

“Today!” croaked Barnabas. “Halloween.”

Halloween fellon a Monday, so at two-thirty in the afternoon, Zack was still at school.

“The same middle school where his father used to chat with the dead crossing guard,” said Ginny. “The same school where Zack recently ran into the ghost of Horace P. Pettimore.”

“We must put an end to all this,” said Hannah. “Immediately.”

“Oh, yes,” echoed Sophie. “We surely must. Right after supper.”

Zack’s three great-aunts stood huddled around the cold barbecue grill on the deck. Zack’s dad was working at his office in New York City. Judy had gone to the mall to pick up some last-minute costume accessories for Zack and his friends.

Only Zipper remained at home with the three sisters, and he was hunkered down inside his doghouse, keeping one eye on the three elderly women, the other on the three cats circling their ankles.

Zipper didn’tlike this.

It was bad. Very, very, very bad.

Three cats in the yard. His yard.

A dog’s backyard was his castle.

But now three cats were out on the deck, purring and stretching and sticking their fannies up in the air like they owned the place. Soon they’d be prancing down the steps to poop in the shrubs and pee under the trees. They would make Zipper’s castle smell cat nasty.

This was a cat-tastrophe.

One of the cats, Mister Cookiepants, a tabby who was sort of tubby, had already stolen several pieces of kibble from Zipper’s food bowl.

Another, Pyewacket, swung around and swatted him on the snout when she didn’t like the way Zipper sniffed her heinie.

The third one, Mystic, the black cat, had hissed at Zipper when he tried to steal her floppy fish toy. Mystic was bad luck and bad news.

Zipper usually liked cats. But usually, they lived somewhere else and peed and pooped in a box or some other dog’s backyard.

He wondered if Pyewacket, Mister Cookiepants, and Mystic were moving in.

Would there be crystal dinner bowls filled with globs of fishy gunk?

Would he start coughing up hair balls?

Would they make him join in the chorus when they started howling at the moon?

Zipper sighed and sulked and sank his head between his paws.

He needed a plan.

Well, first he needed a nap.

He yawned and stretched and drifted off into the most wonderful dream.

It was marvelous. Better than a bacon cheeseburger wrapped in ham and served on a meat loaf bun.

Zipper was chasing hundreds of cats up trees and telephone poles.

And not a single one of them ever came back down!

Ginny couldtell: Her big sister Hannah was, once again, ready to tell her and Sophie what they needed to do.

“There is only one sure way to protect Zachary,” Hannah decreed. “We must take him to the Hedge Pig Emporium. He must drink the milk shake.”

“Oh, Hannah,” said Ginny. “Honestly. That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? What if Zack does not wish to give up his gift?”

“He is a boy, Virginia. He does not know what is best for him.”

“And we do?” asked Ginny, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course we do. We’re adults.”

“Wisdom and age, dear sister, are not automatically linked.”

The three cats meowed. They always did that when they heard something they agreed with.

“Could we go with Zack and order milk shakes, too?” asked Sophie, who was working open the crinkly wrapper on one of the fun-sized candy bars she had snagged from the bags Judy kept stored in the pantry.

Hannah glared at her.

“I was just curious,” Sophie mumbled. “Actually, I prefer ice cream sodas. And Milky Ways.” She popped one into her mouth.

“Might I remind you, sisters,” said Ginny, “that the milk shake will only prove effective should Zack truly desire to free himself from these uninvited visitors?”

“It worked on his father,” countered Hannah.

“Indeed it did,” said Ginny. “But only after he was ready to let his gift go.”

“Sisters,” said Sophie, licking her chocolate-smudged fingertips, “today is Halloween. Dead souls will be popping up all over the place, searching for anybody who has the gift, anyone who can do their bidding. Oh, my—they’ll be looking for Zack! They’ll be looking for us!”

“We should immediately counsel Zack to make the choice,” said Hannah. “To willingly drink the drink. We should do it before sundown!”

“But, dear sister,” said Ginny, “what if, by taking away his gift just when he needs it most, we render Zack even more vulnerable to the demons who seek to do him harm?”

“Who?” asked Sophie, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head. “Who wants to hurt Zack?”

“Many,” said Ginny. “Never forget, we three made quite a few immortal enemies when we were young and in our prime.”

“Very well,” sighed Hannah wearily. “What would you suggest, Virginia?”

“Yes,” said Sophie, unwrapping a second candy bar. “Tell us.”

“It’s very simple,” Ginny answered calmly. “Georgie will be taking Zack and his friends trick-or-treating on Main Street tonight. He will be surrounded by a crowd of living souls to shield him from the wandering dead.”