Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

Zack, on the other hand, never wanted to mess with it again!

35

Wade theZombie stared at the ghostly boy standing in front of him, the first human soul he had encountered since the beast had sprung out of the darkness and bit him.

“Who are you?” the ghost boy asked.

“Ah boo blot blow, blasder,” Wade grunted in reply.

“Huh?”

“I do not know, master,” Wade grunted more clearly.

That made the ghost boy smile.

“Did you just call me master?”

“Yes, master.”

A second ghost boy drifted into the room. Instinctively, Wade jumped forward to put his body between this new boy and his master.

“Must protect master!”

The new boy laughed. “What did that drool bucket just say?”

“He said he had to protect me because I’m his master.”

“Seth? What’s going on here, little brother?”

“Well, Joseph, I found this feller stumbling around down here in the dark.”

“You think he’s a …?”

“Sure looks like one.”

“Mush problect blasder,” Wade grumbled.

“Sure sounds like one, too!”

The boys turned to face him again.

The older one spoke: “Not for nothin’, pal, but were you recently bitten by a zombie?”

Wade turned to the younger one.

“You may answer,” said the master.

“Yes, master. Yes. I was bitten.”

“And you escaped before he could crack open your skull and scoop out your brains?”

“Yes.”

The two boys both looked very pleased with his answers, the younger one more than the older.

“Hot diggity dog, Joe, he’s callin’ me master!”

“That means he’s your zombie slave, Seth!” said the older boy. “We can make him do all the stuff we can’t do no more! We can finally get this show on the road!”

The ghost boys moved closer.

“Hop on your left foot!” snapped the younger one, the boy called Seth.

Wade hopped.

“Pick up some firewood and drop it on your toe.”

Wade did that, too. It did not hurt.

“Say, Zombie Man,” asked the older boy, “do you know how to operate a furnace?”

“Yes.”

“You packin’ any matches?”

The zombie reached into his pants. Showed the ghost boys the box of wooden matches the man he used to be always carried in his pants pockets to light his smokes and pick his teeth.

“Hot diggity dog!” said Seth.

Then he and his brother started singing.

Mine eyes have seen the glory

Of the burning of the school …

36

That night, Eddie and Madame Marie snuck into the cemetery behind the school.

They had driven straight from Lily Dale, New York, to North Chester, Connecticut. Eddie led the way through the iron graveyard gates. Madame Marie carried a worn leather briefcase. In it were all the tools she would need to conduct a séance.

“Where are the physical remains of the spirit you wish to contact?” she asked Eddie as she adjusted her turban.

“Over yonder, ma’am.”

They hiked downhill toward the Pattakonck River, which flowed through the darkness like a velvet ribbon. Madame Marie swung her flashlight beam back and forth across the rows of weathered headstones. It hit upon one, the largest marker in the cemetery.

“Ma’am?” said Eddie. “That isn’t the spirit we wish to contact.”

“This Captain Pettimore must have been a Mason. See that carving at the top of his stone?”

Madame Marie pointed at the image of an eye inside a triangle surrounded by sunbeams. It reminded Eddie of the floating eyeball over the pyramid on the back of a one-dollar bill.

“Masons call that the Eye of Providence. It serves as a constant reminder that a Mason’s deeds are always being observed by the Grand Architect of the Universe!”

“Fascinating,” said Eddie, who figured he might as well see if the medium could discern anything else about the plundering Yankee gold thief. “What else can you tell me after studying that stone?”

Madame Marie focused her flashlight beam on the tall slab of marble.

CAPTAIN HORACE PHINEAS PETTIMORE

1825–1900

ALL THAT I HAVE

I LEAVE FOR HE

WHO COMES AFTER ME

“Only that it is a lovely piece of chisel work—I love the delicate, lacy framing above and below the epitaph—and that Captain Pettimore must have been a very generous soul, leaving all that he had to those who came after him. Quite impressive.”

Yes, ma’am , Eddie thought, it’s easy to give money away when it isn’t your own .

“Now,” warbled Madame Marie, “where is the soul you wish me to contact?”

“This way, ma’am.”

Crickets chirped. Frogs croaked. They hiked downhill.

“Our man is buried way down there,” said Eddie, pointing toward a clump of short stones near the riverbank. “They put him in with the paupers—poor folks buried free of charge.”

They came to the smallest of the small headstones.

Madame Marie read the words chiseled into the tiny slab:

JOHN LEE COOPER

1835–1873

CSA

HOORAY, MY BRAVE BOYS,

LET’S REJOICE AT HIS FALL.

FOR IF HE HAD LIVED

HE WOULD HAVE BURIED US ALL.

MR. COOPER WAS A SNOOPER.

“My heavens,” said Madame Marie. “Rather disrespectful, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ma’am. But in 1873 I suppose the wounds of the Civil War had not yet fully healed. Mr. Cooper had, as you see, fought for the CSA.”

“The CSA?”

“The Confederate States of America. He made the unfortunate mistake of dying too far north.”

37

Madame Marieclosed her eyes and clutched the edges of the miniature headstone.

“Speak through me, Mr. Cooper. Speak through me!”

She had already laid out her séance tools: candles, sketch pad, sharpened pencils, and her “spirit slates,” two chalkboards bound together that, when opened, would reveal messages written by those on the far side of the grave.

“I am here to be your voice,” said Madame Marie, releasing her grip on the stone and sinking deeper into her trance. Gazing off at some unseen middle distance, she sat cross-legged on the grass, placed the sketch pad in her lap.

Eddie handed her a pencil.

She gripped it in her fist without even looking at it and let it hover in circles over the first sheet of paper. “Let your words flow through me, Mr. Cooper! Speak through me now!”

Her pencil touched the paper. Seemingly powered by an unseen force, it scratched out rings of overlapping circles.

And then Madame Marie’s hand automatically wrote a single word:

CHILD

“Find a child,” she said in a faint, wispy voice that wasn’t her own.

The pencil spun out more circles.

“Young enough to communicate with spirits.”

The pencil scraped across the pad.

YOUNG

“Like Seth Donnelly.”

SETH

“A ghost seer.”

SEER

“For I cannot speak to you directly. But through the child you will find the gold.”

GOLD

The pencil point snapped.

Madame Marie’s eyes flew open. She gasped.

“Oh, my. What happened?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Although I believe you may have overexerted yourself. You passed out.”