Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

The bloodline lived on and he knew that despite Queen LaSheena’s best efforts to thwart him, he would one day find his rightful heir.

Inspired by the pharaohs of old who had stored their treasures inside the tombs of the pyramids so they might have use of their wealth in the next life, Pettimore had his slaves construct a labyrinth of tunnels beneath his home. He created an impenetrable hiding spot for his cache of stolen Confederate gold, which would be waiting for him when he came back to life inside the body of his blood relation.

His minions, the troop of sixty-six dead Union soldiers whose souls he had stolen, used every scrap of lumber, every piece of equipment, every lamp off his old steamboat when building the captain his underground fortress.

And then he killed all the zombies.

He burned them while they slept in their tents.

All save one.

He used their deaths as an excuse to erect his war memorial cemetery, the underpinnings of which had been designed to feed fresh corpses to his one remaining zombie.

Cyrus McNulty.

The man who, without his soul, became the most ferocious beast of them all. The cemetery would give the zombie sufficient, if meager, food to tide him through the waiting.

Next, after burying the voodoo lure charm out front, Horace Pettimore generously donated his home, his land, and a substantial sum of money to the town of North Chester for the specific purpose of building a school near his burial site.

He needed children, lots and lots of children, a fresh crop every year, if he hoped to snatch the One he so desperately needed to live again.

Perhaps Pettimore would become the new boy in the front row, the skinny child with the thick glasses who kept staring back at him whenever his airy spirit slid inside a portrait.

Zack, they called him.

His family tree had deep roots in North Chester.

He might be the One.

A descendant of Mary Jane Hopkins!

Horace Pettimore could not help smiling.

29

Judy parkedoutside the North Chester Public Library, a two-story red brick building topped with a small schoolhouse steeple.

Her good friend, the librarian, Jeanette Emerson, a feisty lady with curly white hair and bright purple reading glasses, saw her come in the front door.

“Judy! Hello, dear!”

“Hi.”

Mrs. Emerson arched an eyebrow. “Did you remember to wipe your feet?”

Judy backtracked to the welcome mat. Swiped her shoes clean.

“Now then,” said Mrs. Emerson, “to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from our favorite children’s author and critically acclaimed dramatist?”

“Research.”

“Wonderful. You can help me reshelve these books while we chat.”

Mrs. Emerson pushed a rolling cart into the stacks.

Judy dutifully followed.

• • •

“Okay, here’s my question,” said Judy as she slipped a neon pink murder mystery back into its proper slot on the shelf. “Actually, it’s from Zack. Another paranormal research project.”

“Has he seen …?” Mrs. Emerson peered over the tops of her reading glasses. “An apparition?”

Judy nodded. “At the middle school.”

“Oh, my.”

“It was the two boys,” whispered Judy. “The Donnelly brothers.”

“Fascinating. What did they want?”

“For Zack to become their ‘Kit Carson.’”

“I’m sorry. Their what?”

“Kit Carson. Don’t ask me what it means.”

“Very well. I won’t.”

“The older brother …”

“Joseph.”

“Told Zack they were ‘sons of Daniel Boone.’ But then his little brother …”

“Seth.”

“Said he was Johnny Appleseed.”

Mrs. Emerson nodded contemplatively. “A very interesting and yet confusing family tree. Perhaps the two boys were just playing at being famous frontiersmen. It was quite the thing to do in 1910. Not that I was around back then. Almost, but not quite.”

“Well, more importantly, I want to learn as much as we can about the Donnelly brothers. How exactly did they die? Was the fire their fault? Were they good kids or bad kids? Are they …”

“Good ghosts or bad ghosts?”

“Exactly.”

“Come along,” said Mrs. Emerson. “These books can wait. My curiosity, however, much like that of a certain cat I know, is demanding that I feed it some answers!”

30

It didn’ttake long for Judy and Mrs. Emerson to find the facts about the Donnelly brothers and the fire at Pettimore Middle School.

It was all in the North Chester Weekly Chronicler’s account of the terrible tragedy of Tuesday, January 11, 1910.

TWO DONNELLY BROTHERS AND

HEROIC TEACHER DIE IN SMOKY CORRIDOR

AT PETTIMORE SCHOOL

Joseph and Seth Donnelly, orphans, ages twelve and ten, along with their arithmetic instructor, Mr. Patrick J. Cooper, perished last night, all three having suffocated inside a cramped and smoke-filled corridor on the first floor of The Pettimore School for Children.

Mr. Cooper, the teacher, had gone into the smoky hallway in a valiant attempt to rescue his two charges who, according to firemen at the scene, had been playing with matches, attempting to ignite an “indoor campfire” with sheets of paper and wooden rulers. The fire quickly spread to a nearby bulletin board as well as the wood-paneled walls. The doorknobs at both ends of the corridor had been locked by the boys to prevent their antics being discovered.

However, Mr. Cooper, a newly arrived genteel Southerner, who had quickly established himself as a guardian to the wayward and neglected children at the Pettimore school, was grading papers in his classroom, one of two off the narrow hallway leading to the school’s woodworking shop. He apparently rushed into the corridor when he smelled smoke. The door to the classroom, firemen state, “accidentally locked behind him,” denying the three victims their only possible escape route, as the door to the classroom across the hall had already been locked at the close of the school day.

“The Donnelly brothers were both members of the Sons of Daniel Boone,” Pettimore School Principal John Broadwater told reporters. The Boone society is the largest boys’ organization in America. The group teaches camping, conservation, and outdoor pioneering skills. “I wish they had stuck to indoor games, such as treasure hunting, this winter,” added Principal Broadwater.

Firefighters responding to the incident reported that the boys and their teacher were dead when they arrived on the scene. The blaze was quickly doused and contained to the one hallway.

“It was a good thing this happened after school hours,” said North Chester Volunteer Fire Brigade Commander Samuel J. Morkal.

The coroner has ruled that both Donnelly boys and Mr. Cooper succumbed to smoke inhalation, having been trapped inside the corridor with the fire, which quickly consumed all the available oxygen. Their bodies were burned beyond recognition.

“Building a campfire indoors, especially in such a confined space, is never a very bright idea,” Morkal said.

Patrick J. Cooper, the heroic teacher who lost his life trying to save the boys, was a recent arrival to the North Chester area.

Originally from Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, he came to Connecticut last fall to teach mathematics and volunteered to serve as the faculty advisor for the Daniel Boone scouting group. His fellow teachers say Mr. Cooper always went out of his way to help “the weak and the orphans.”

Another member of Mr. Cooper’s family had also, in the past, migrated north to live in the North Chester area. In something of an ironic twist, Mr. Cooper’s grandfather John Lee Cooper is buried in the “potter’s field” section of the Riverside War Memorial Cemetery on the riverbank behind the school.