Chris Grabenstein - The Black Heart Crypt

“Did people say they were witches?” blurted Zack. “Because that’s what I think. When Aunt Ginny did the sage deal and started chanting at the ghost, that’s when I said, ‘Yep, Dad’s aunt is a witch.’ ”

He heaved a sigh of relief. He was glad he’d finally said it out loud.

“Oh-kay,” said Judy, “let’s just say George’s aunts are a bit peculiar. Here’s how the Jenningses and the Icklebys get all tangled up together.”

She clicked the computer mouse and brought up the next page of the newspaper article.

Zack just prayed it wasn’t a story about naked moon dancing.

“It’s apretty short article,” said Judy. “Just a three-paragraph notice in the ‘Goings-On About Town’ column.”

Mrs. Emerson leaned in to examine the screen more closely.

“Well, what exactly was going on, dear?” she asked.

Judy read from the newspaper report. “ ‘Immediately after the funeral for convicted felon Edward “Eddie Boy” Ickleby at Saint Barnabas Episcopal Church in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, all thirteen coffins in the Ickleby family’s ancestral mausoleum were removed from the family crypt and transported forty miles south by truck to North Chester, Connecticut.’ ”

“Why?” asked Mrs. Emerson.

“The newspaper doesn’t really say. It just reports that all thirteen Ickleby men ‘who had been interred’ in the crypt behind Saint Barnabas church, which was founded by Squire Barnabas Ickleby and other ‘good Christian men’ in the early 1700s, would ‘find their eternal rest in an empty mausoleum down in Connecticut’s Haddam Hill Cemetery.’ It also mentions that ‘counting the recently deceased Edward Ickleby, twelve of the thirteen coffins removed from the ancient tomb contained the remains of Ickleby men who had been convicted of committing heinous crimes against their fellow man’ and that the transfer would be ‘supervised by the sheriff of North Chester Township, James Jennings.”

“Grandpa?” said Zack.

“Yep,” said Judy.

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Emerson.

And then nobody said anything for two whole minutes.

Thanks toNorman, Crazy Izzy was able to stash the black heart stone where nobody could ever find it.

Turned out the puzzle-cracking hardware-store clerk also knew how to pick the one lock in the one door that blocked his entrance to the hiding spot Barnabas had selected for the stone. When that job was done and Izzy came out of the building, he saw a black bird sitting on top of a parking meter.

All of a sudden, Barnabas started croaking at him inside his noggin.

“Go to Stansbury Stables. There you will find a black stallion by the name of Ebony. Steal him. Bring him to the crypt.”

“What about killing the Jennings kid?” Crazy Izzy thought back, even though his brain was wracked with pain, what with Norman and Barnabas both yakking it up inside his skull.

“That task can wait.”

“For what?” he shouted out loud.

“Never mind. Bring me the horse!”

“All right, already! I’ll do it!”

The throbbing headache ended.

“Norman?” said a new voice. A real one. “Are you okay?” It was a goon in a cop uniform.

“That’s Michael Wasicko,” Norman’s voice piped up inside Izzy’s head. “He was in my chess club in high school.”

“Don’t worry, Mike,” said Izzy out loud. “I’m fine.”

“You were talking to yourself.”

“Yeah. Guess I drank too much giggle juice.”

“You still watching all those old movies like you used to?” said the cop. “Because you sure sound like one.”

“Yeah. Sure. You still play chess?”

“Yep, but not as good as you. You sure you’re okay? You look a little wobbly on your feet. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“Yeah, Mike. That’d be swell. I need to head over to Stansbury Stables.”

“That horse ranch east of town?”

“Right. Whattaya say we take a powder, head over that way?”

The cop checked his watch.

“Sure, Norm. I get an hour for lunch. I’ll drive you over.”

“Swell.”

“You want me to wait? Give you a lift back to town? Like I said, I get the whole hour for lunch.”

“No thanks, pal. I’ll just ride my horsey home.”

Judy foundMrs. Chang and told her that Zack would have to miss school for the rest of the day.

“Is everything okay?” asked the teacher.

“Are you feeling all right, Zack?” asked Malik as the whole history class crowded around Zack and his stepmom in the main hall of the library.

“Did you eat every piece of your trick-or-treat candy last night?” said Azalea. “Does your stomach hurt?”

“No, my stomach doesn’t hurt,” said Zack, feeling a little defensive.

“We need to go see a priest,” said Judy. “About some funeral arrangements.”

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Chang.

“Who died?” asked Malik, sounding extremely concerned.

“Mr. Ickleby, ” said Zack very broadly, hoping Malik and Azalea would take the hint.

“The poor man from the earthquake?” said Azalea, mugging a wink.

“Yeah,” said Zack. “Him.”

“He was such a wise old sage ,” said Malik to let Zack know he understood what was going on, too.

“I’ll let Zack’s other teachers know he will be out for the rest of the day,” said Mrs. Chang. “Please give our condolences to the family.”

“Oh, we will,” said Judy.

If we can find any Icklebys who are still alive , thought Zack.

While A. J. Tiedeman drove Zack’s history class back to school, he and Judy would be heading north to Saint Barnabas Church in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. The current pastor, a Father Clayton Abercrombie, had been at the church since 1977. When Mrs. Emerson called, Father Abercrombie said he would be happy to meet with Zack and Judy.

“Let’s run home and grab Zipper,” said Judy as they climbed into their car in the library parking lot. “He needs a break from all those cats.”

“Yeah,” said Zack. “I think he might be allergic. To their claws, anyway.”

It only took about an hour for Zack, Judy, and Zipper to drive from North Chester to the small country church. It was the middle of the afternoon but the sky was already dark under heavy clouds. The white clapboard church building was tucked into a weedy field under a webbed canopy of overgrown trees.

When they piled out of the car, Zack saw a priest dressed all in black standing outside the dilapidated church’s front door.

Everything about Saint Barnabas Episcopal Church looked old. Paint was peeling off the shingles. The door had been painted red ages ago but was now the color of watery tomatoes. The roof was bowed and cracked.

Zipper tucked his tail between his legs. This eerie old church in the middle of nowhere was giving him the willies, too.

“Mrs. Jennings?”

“Yes,” said Judy.

“I’m Father Clayton Abercrombie.”

The Episcopal priest reminded Zack of a nervous ferret from a cartoon.

Judy reached out to shake the priest’s trembling hand.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” she said. “I’m Judy. This is my stepson, Zack. You met his grandfather a long time ago. Sheriff James Jennings.”