Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

Actually, to glare at him.

While she glared, Zack noticed that her lipstick was also black and that her eyes had been circled with some kind of black gunk, which made her whole face look extremely raccoonish.

The girl shot Zack a defiant “what are you looking at, dork?” look.

Zack dropped his eyes down to his desk.

“Do you know her?” Malik whispered from his seat next to Zack’s.

Zack shook his head. “No.”

“Me neither. She must be new, too.”

On the TV, the principal was droning on.

“It’s Mexican Fiesta Day in the cafeteria. Several clubs are scheduled to hold their first meetings of the year this afternoon. The Drama Club. The Chess Club. The Competitive Math Team …”

Zack was totally zoning out. His eyes drifted to the window.

Where he saw another ghost.

Outside. In the parking lot. His legs inside the hood of a car.

This one was mostly a wavering silhouette against the morning sun. All Zack could make out was the slender form of a tall man wearing a chauffeur’s cap.

The ghost drifted forward with a slight tremor to the rigid swing of his arms. Zack could tell that the ghost was, or had been, an old man.

He quickly glanced around the room.

The teacher was still beaming up at Principal Smith on the TV screen.

At the desks, most kids, Malik included, were obediently watching the monitor; others had their heads down, trying to catch a quick nap. Benny had a finger buried up his nose.

Zack turned back to see if the ghost had disappeared.

He hadn’t.

He had marched right up to the window.

Zack recognized the ghost immediately: Mr. Rodman Willoughby, wicked Gerda Spratling’s crotchety old chauffeur.

That summer, Zack had saved Mr. Willoughby’s life.

Looked like it hadn’t stuck.

22

After thebell finally rang, Zack headed into the hall.

Mr. Willoughby was waiting for him right outside the door.

“Hello, Zachary! I hate to trouble you, but might I have a moment of your time?”

Of course nobody else saw or heard the dead chauffeur. They didn’t have Zack’s “special abilities.”

“Do you have math next?” asked Malik, who had come out of homeroom right behind Zack.

“Yeah.”

“Me too!”

“Cool.” Zack was still staring straight ahead—at the ghost of Mr. Willoughby, decked out in his chauffeur uniform and driver’s cap, standing in the hallway while kids changing classes swarmed all around him. One walked straight through him and started brushing at his face like he’d just walked through a sticky spiderweb.

“Um, I need to get something out of my locker,” Zack said to Malik.

“Better hurry. They only give us five minutes between classes. And it takes three minutes and twenty-six seconds to make it to Mrs. Alessio’s classroom.”

“Yeah. Thanks. See you there.”

Zack head-gestured to let Mr. Willoughby know which way to walk.

“Ah! A walk and talk, eh? Splendid idea, Zachary.”

Zack tucked his chin down into his neck so he could talk sideways without anybody noticing.

“What happened?”

“To me? Ah, yes. It seems I died. Heart attack, I believe. I’m a bit fuzzy about the particulars. One minute I’m enjoying my microwaved dinner, and the next I’m chatting with these wise beings in white robes. Anyway, as penance for my worldly misdeeds, the judges have suggested that I perform a stint of ‘community service’ and kindly offered me the opportunity to become your guardian ghost.”

Zack knit his eyebrows. The less he said in this extremely weird conversation with someone nobody else could see, the better.

“Ah,” said Mr. Willoughby, who had apparently learned how to read minds or facial expressions since he’d passed away, “an excellent question. I’m told the position is somewhat new here at this school. And why do you need a guardian? Well, as you might’ve heard from Davy Wilcox—who, by the way, put in a very kind word for me upstairs—a voodoo zombie has recently awoken in his nearby hidey-hole. I know this because, well, mine was the first corpse he feasted upon when waking.”

Zack urped. Almost tossed his cookies.

“Sorry,” said Mr. Willoughby.

“I’m okay.”

“Me too! Fortunately, being dead has one benefit: I didn’t feel a thing while the beast ripped me apart and gobbled down my brain.”

This time when he urped, Zack had to put his hand over his mouth.

“Again, my apologies,” said Mr. Willoughby. “Where was I?”

“The zombie was eating your brain?”

“Ah, yes! As my spirit lingered near my corpse, I heard the zombie’s master, a fiendish ghost of the worst order, state that he would soon be scouring this school for one very special child. Someone newly arrived. Fresh blood, he called it.”

Zack stopped walking. “This is my first year at this school,” he said. “I’m fresh blood. Do you think the zombie’s master meant me?”

“I most certainly do. Oh, by the way—not a word of this to your parents. I’m told it’s for their own protection.”

“But …”

“Fear not, Zachary. You will not need your parents. You have me!”

Yeah , Zack wanted to say, that’s the scariest part of the whole deal .

But he didn’t say it.

Mr. Willoughby had just died.

He didn’t want to make the poor guy feel even worse.

23

Zack hurriedup the hallway—without Mr. Willoughby, thank goodness.

He had thirty seconds to make it to Mrs. Alessio’s math class.

He raced around a corner, pushed open a swinging door, took a left, and nearly bumped into Mr. Crumpler, the assistant principal, who was standing in the corridor, barking into a walkie-talkie.

“Where is the janitor, Mrs. Pochinko?”

“I don’t know!” a nasal voice shouted back.

“Find him!”

“I’m trying!” Mrs. Pochinko’s tinny voice whined out of the radio. “Mr. Muggins is not answering his radio.”

“We have a serious vomitory situation in corridor twelve!”

“I’ll keep trying to locate him, sir.”

“Hurry! It won’t smell any better the longer it sits on the floor!”

“Yes, sir.”

Zack glanced left and saw a queasy-looking girl holding her stomach.

He wondered if the poor girl had just heard what zombies liked to eat for breakfast after they wake up from a twenty-year nap.

Mr. Crumpler saw Zack staring at the girl and the lumpy puddle on the floor.

He clipped his radio back to his belt and did that two-fingers-to-his-eyes, two-fingers-to-Zack thing again.

Zack now had two old men keeping an eye on him: one living, the other dead.

24

Wade Mugginswas totally glad he had grabbed the flashlight before crawling through the hole in the wall.

Otherwise, he’d be stumbling around in the dark.

First he slid down some sort of angled chute and ended up on his butt again in a tunnel where the ceiling was braced with beams like you’d see in a coal mine.

“Hanging up a few lightbulbs would’ve been a smart move, dudes,” he mumbled as he dusted himself off.

Then he remembered: Martians had burrowed this tunnel and they had X-ray vision. They didn’t need light to see where they were going.

“Mr. Muggins? Where are you?”

The radio on his belt. Mrs. Pochinko. The annoying lady in the front office who talked through her nose. She worked for Assistant Principal Crumpler and was always riding Wade’s butt, making him work when he’d rather be in the Wade Cave listening to heavy metal and keeping the beat on his cowbell.