Chris Grabenstein - The Black Heart Crypt

“Norman?” It was his father.

“Yes, Dad?”

“Oh, hello, Stephen.”

Snertz snorted snot up his nostrils. “Good afternoon, Herman.”

Norman’s father, Herman Ickes, was a timid man. He was barely five feet tall, and what little hair he had left on his head had gone white when he was in his late thirties. Everything scared him. His ulcers had ulcers.

“Norman, if you don’t mind, could you run down to the cellar? Mrs. Floyd is looking for an eight-foot stepladder.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Thank you. Stephen?”

“Yeah, Herm?”

“Perhaps you can lend Norman a hand with the ladder?”

“Nah.” He popped a fistful of candy corn into his mouth. “I’m on my break.”

“Oh. I see. Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, well now you do.”

“Right.” Norman’s dad peeled another antacid tablet off his foil-wrapped roll. “Well, I’ll be in my office.”

“Great,” said Snertz. “I’ll be in the back. With the appliances.”

Norman rolled his eyes. That meant Snertz would be watching college football on TV for the rest of the afternoon while Norman hauled stepladders up from the cellar.

Ten minutes later, Norman was ringing up Mrs. Jessie Floyd at the cash register.

Stephen Snertz was in the back of the store, screaming at the TV screens.

Apparently, one of the referees was an idiot.

Norman’s dad was still in his office. With the door locked. He liked to hide in there a lot.

“Can you help me carry this to my car?” asked Mrs. Floyd, who was about sixty years old.

“I guess,” said Norman. He came out from behind the counter and hoisted the eight-foot stepladder off the floor. The thing felt like it weighed five hundred pounds, even though the sticker on its side claimed it only weighed twenty-six point two. “Stephen? Watch the register. I’m helping Mrs. Floyd.”

“What?” Snertz shouted, unable to hear him over the roar of eight different football games on eight different TVs.

So Norman swung around to repeat himself.

The ladder swung with him and took out the display racks in front of the counter. Rolls of duct tape went flying.

Norman spun back around.

This time, he took out everything stacked on top of the counter: washers, wing nuts, the disco-dancing Frankenstein doll, the plastic pumpkin, and the entire key and key ring rack.

“Smooth move, Ex-Lax!” shouted Snertz. “What a wimp. Just like your old man!”

Head down, Norman Ickes shuffled out the front door, toting Mrs. Floyd’s ladder.

She was snickering at him, too.

Norman’s shoulders sagged.

Stephen Snertz was right.

He was a wimp. Just like his father.

They should call their hardware store Wimp & Son. Better yet, Wimp & Wimpier.

People weregawking at Jenny Ballard as she drifted up the sidewalks of Main Street.

They weren’t used to seeing anyone walking around North Chester in a hooded cape. She passed two young boys, maybe ten or twelve years old, sipping soft drinks and straddling their bikes.

“Hey, witch lady,” said the chubby one. “Aren’t you a little early? Halloween isn’t until Monday!”

Jenny turned to glare at the boys. Smiling devilishly, she wondered what the chubby one might look like as a honey-baked ham or, perhaps, a donkey.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t learned those spells yet.

Besides, she had work to do. For the voice!

She continued up Main Street, past the town clock tower, past the Hedge Pig Emporium (a shop that sold herbs and extracts to crunchy granola–type people), past the North Chester Book Nook and Yankee Doodle Dry Cleaners.

All the stores had posters in their windows for something called Nightmare on Main Street—a Halloween Fun Fest. Sounded pretty lame to Jenny.

When she reached the Ickes & Son Hardware store, she suddenly stopped.

“Bring him to us on All Hallows’ Eve!” whispered the strange crow’s voice in her head.

She glanced through the plate-glass window.

Saw a nerdy guy in an ugly tie cleaning up a mess on the floor.

“Bring him to us!”

“Him?” Jenny said out loud.

“Him!”

“They landfirst thing tomorrow morning,” said Zack’s father. “Bradley Airport.”

“It’ll be good to see them again,” said Judy. “Um, could you remind me of their names? I met so many people at the wedding.”

“Sure. Aunt Hannah—she’s the oldest—Aunt Sophie, and Aunt Ginny. Ginny’s the youngest.”

“How young?” asked Zack, who vaguely remembered meeting three little old ladies at his real mom’s funeral and then at his dad and Judy’s wedding.

“Aunt Ginny is seventy-seven.”

Oh, yeah , thought Zack. She’s practically an infant .

Zack, Judy, and his dad were sitting in the dining room, passing around a pizza box. This was their usual Saturday dinner. It was easy for Judy to fix; all she had to do was pick up the phone. Zipper was hunkered down beneath the table, ready to pounce on any stray pepperonis that fell his way.

“I guess you should probably call them Aunt Hannah, Aunt Sophie, and Aunt Ginny, too, Zack,” his dad said, “even though, technically, they’re your great-aunts. And, Zack?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re nothing like Aunt Francine.”

Aunt Francine was his real mother’s sister. She had always hated Zack.

“These three are your good aunts.”

Zack smiled. “I thought you said they were my great aunts.”

His dad laughed. “They are. Especially Ginny. You’ll see. They’ll stay with us for a few days and then head back to Florida.”

“Um, Dad?”

“Yeah, Zack?”

“Why exactly are they coming?”

“Remember how I told you I used to see ghosts when I was your age?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Aunt Ginny was the only one I could talk to about it.”

“How come?”

“My mother had already passed away and my dad was too busy, being sheriff and all. Besides, I figured he’d just think I was a big baby if I told him the truth.”

Zack could relate. He’d felt the same way. It was why he only told his dad about his “gift” after his father had already seen it in action.

“Anyway, after I talked to Aunt Ginny—poof! The ghosts left me alone.”

“I thought that happened when you turned thirteen,” said Judy.

“Right. Aunt Ginny and I talked on my birthday; dead people never bothered me again.”

“Zack?” said Judy.

“Yeah?”

“We know you don’t need Aunt Ginny or anybody to babysit you. But with Halloween coming, your dad and I figured we should take some extra precautions. Besides, Aunt Ginny’s family. She’ll have your best interests at heart.”

Zack raised an eyebrow.

Judy knew about Zack’s real mother. How she had belittled and berated him. Susan Potter Jennings had never, ever had Zack’s best interests at heart.

“I think Aunt Ginny will be different, hon,” said Judy.

Zack nodded. “Okay.”

“Great,” said his dad.

“We’re going to need the two guest bedrooms plus your room while they’re here,” said Judy. “You and Zipper okay with camping out down in the rumpus room?”

“Sure,” said Zack.

The rumpus room was where he had his video games hooked up to their old TV. There was also a mini-fridge stocked with soft drinks and chocolate milk, plus a microwave oven for popcorn.