Chris Grabenstein - The Black Heart Crypt

“Do you know the Ickes family?” the priest asked Judy.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“They run the hardware store,” said Zack. “Ickes and Son. On Main Street. The son is a friend of Malik’s. They’re in a puzzle club or something.”

“They’re Icklebys!” said the priest. “Good ones, but I remember fearing for them when I first heard that they had moved to North Chester. You see, the father, Herman Ickleby, now calls himself Herman Ickes. He was Eddie Boy Ickleby’s brother. Herman was so ashamed of what his older brother had done that he took his pregnant wife and fled from Great Barrington. I never found the courage to tell him about the new location of the cursed Ickleby crypt. Poor Herman. He had wanted to move away from the earthly remains of his evil ancestors. Unfortunately, he ended up moving closer!”

Zack, Judy, and Zipper said goodbye to the fidgety priest, who hurried off to the rectory, the dilapidated house where he lived all by himself, and locked the door.

“So now we know how the Icklebys got down to North Chester,” said Zack as they hiked up the hill to Judy’s car.

“And I think all those evil Icklebys didn’t want to make the move,” said Judy. “They knew their way around Great Barrington. Knew where to find their enemies and how to terrorize them.”

“So you think they’re still mad at Dad’s aunts for shipping their coffins down to North Chester?”

Judy nodded. “They only started popping up after the three sisters came to visit us.”

“Guess they’re mad at us now, too,” said Zack, remembering the ghost who’d tried to kung fu him in the hardware store and the one who’d tried to slash Judy on the front porch with his switchblade knife.

“Well,” said Judy, “we are Jenningses.”

“Yeah,” said Zack. “So do you want to change your name back to Judy Magruder?”

She laughed. “No thanks. Being a Jennings is much more exciting.”

The stableowner, a doll all decked out in riding pants and one of them velvety chin-strap helmets, walked the big black stallion into a horse trailer hooked up to the rear bumper of a heavy-duty pickup truck.

She’d already tossed in a saddle and a bunch of what they called tack.

“You certainly know how to pick a horse, Mr. Ickes,” she said to Norman, who was really Crazy Izzy Ickleby. “Ebony’s bloodlines go all the way back to the first Arabian stallion brought to this continent in 1723.”

The purebred horse’s tail plume swished back and forth proudly as Miss Horseypants patted his glossy flanks.

“Look, doll, it’s getting dark. Whattaya say we quit flappin’ our gums and go into the barn there and settle up?”

“It’s a paddock, sir, not a barn.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” Izzy reached into Norman’s pocket and pulled out the wad of cash he had pinched from the hardware store.

“You intend to pay for Ebony with cash?”

“What, my lettuce is no good?”

“Well, I’m just surprised you would carry so much money on your person.”

“Sure, sure. I’m lousy with dough.”

“Very well. I’ll write up the papers.”

“Swell.”

“After, of course, you give me the five hundred thousand dollars.”

They closed up the horse carrier and went back into the small office at the front of the stables.

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but might I see the rest of your cash?”

“Sure, sure.”

Izzy reached down into his coat pocket. The one with the pistol packed in it. He whipped the weapon up and bashed the lady hard on the head with the butt of it.

The dizzy dame crumpled to the floor. She was out cold.

“Ooh, that was incredible,” said Norman’s voice inside Izzy’s head. “I never knocked anybody out before. I never even punched a person.”

“Stick around, kid. I’m just gettin’ started.”

Izzy dragged the unconscious dame into Ebony’s empty stall, tied her up to a hitching post with a bunch of leather bridles, stuffed a wad of hay into her kisser, and gagged her tight with a cowboy-style kerchief he found hanging on a hook.

“That ought to hold her,” he said when he finished binding and gagging the stable owner.

“Now can we please go kill Stephen Snertz?” Norman’s voice begged inside Izzy’s head.

A black raven swooped into the stables and landed on the top rail of a stall.

“Haw!” it croaked.

Izzy got the picture.

“Sorry, Norm. No can do. Snertz will have to wait. Seems Barnabas wants to go on a pony ride.”

Izzy Icklebyused to drive beer trucks for the mob in Chicago.

So piloting the pickup hauling the horse trailer down the highway was no big whoop.

He was only a mile or two away from the Haddam Hill Cemetery when he felt something he hadn’t felt in seventy years.

He was hungry. Starving!

It was nearly six o’clock and he hadn’t eaten anything all day. His headlights hit a sign: The Hi-Way 31 Eat and Run. He gave the hash house a quick up and down. The blinking sign in the window said they served hot apple pie.

Izzy slammed on the brakes, squealed wheels, and pulled his rig into the parking lot.

“Wait out here,” he said to the black stallion. “I’m gonna go inside and grab a quick slice of pie and a cup of joe.”

Izzy entered the diner. Savored the smell of greasy burgers and greasier potatoes. Fresh java was brewing. A waitress waltzed past carrying a slab of pie buried under a scoop of ice cream the size of a softball. The sweet scents of cinnamon, brown sugar, and pure vanilla swirled up to dance a rumba inside his schnozzle.

Crazy Izzy sighed.

Maybe he’d finally made it to heaven.

He sat at the counter and whistled for a waiter.

“What’ll you have?”

“Apple pie all the way. And keep it coming, Mac.”

Izzy finished his eleventh slice of apple pie à la mode.

Most of the ice cream had melted into a shallow white lake. So he raised the pie plate to his lips and sucked the sweet, sticky gunk down his gullet.

“You finished?” asked the counterman.

“Bring me another wedge of pie.”

“There’s none left. You ate it all. You want anything else?”

Norman stood from his stool.

Whipped out his pistol.

Aimed it at a chest-high grease spot on the counterman’s apron.

“Grab a little air, pal!”

“What?”

“Put your hands up. I’m skipping out on my tab, see?”

“You won’t get far. We’ve got cameras.”

“Cameras? You wanna make me a Hollywood movie star, huh? I’m gonna be in pictures?”

“No. You’re gonna be in jail.”

“The slammer? In that case, Mac, let’s make it worth my while. Pop open the cash box. Fork it over.”

The counterman lowered his hands and worked the register keys.

“All of it! That’s it. Nice and easy. Put it in a sack and toss in a couple of them cinnamon doughnuts there.”

The counterman did as he was told. Norman grabbed the bag and swung around to waggle his rod at the sad saps scurrying for the door or trying to hide under their tables.

“Any of you bunnies get the bright idea to drop a dime and call the coppers, I’ll come gunnin’ for you, see? Nobody rats out Crazy Izzy Ickleby!” he shouted as he ran out the front door. “Nobody!”