Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

“The ghost of your grandfather, John Lee Cooper, told me where to find the entrance to Captain Pettimore’s treasure tunnel.”

The boy, who is also a member of the scouting group I chaperone, then showed me a rubbing he had made of the carvings in a most peculiar stone he had found where grandfather had sent him. To Seth, the angled scribbles above and below the single easily decipherable line held no meaning. I, however, immediately recognized them for what they were: a coded message. Having researched the dastardly captain’s history prior to moving here to become a teacher in the same buildings where the vile beast lived for so many years, having studied grandfather’s diary, I knew that Horace P. Pettimore had been a Freemason long before he became a powerful high priest in the voodoo cult.

Oh, Grandmother Amanda, you should have seen young Seth’s eyes widen when I told him the markings were a voodoo curse scribbled by Captain Pettimore and meant to harm small children, such as he and his brother, if they dared look at the stone a second time without an adult who knew the chants required to shield them from the witch doctor’s “juju.”

Meanwhile, I took the paper from the lad and deciphered the secret message.

I now know where the entrance to Pettimore’s treasure tunnel is located. I have no fear of the “zombie” he so brazenly claims guards his gold, as I know it is simply another of the villain’s heinous lies, meant to scare off any honorable sons of the South brave enough to venture into the labyrinth to reclaim what is rightfully ours.

Tomorrow, dearest Grandmother, I will secure the stolen gold and redeem our family’s good name.

Of course, I will need to dispose of Seth Donnelly, and his brother, Joseph, as well, for I fear that those two share secrets.

I will have Seth lead Joseph and me to the spot where the stone and tunnel entrance are located. I will then execute them both in the most merciful fashion, a single bullet to their heads. I will do this late at night, when the school is deserted, so I might drag their bodies back to the building and, in a cramped corridor I know of, start a fire that will consume both their bodies and melt the lead bullets nestled inside their skulls. I will make the whole thing look like a tragic accident brought on by the boys’ own careless acts and will appear to have attempted a dramatic rescue before escaping from the blaze out my classroom window.

Next week, or perhaps next month, I will resign my position at the school, claiming to be overwrought with grief from the death of my two “precious charges,” and return to Georgia with our gold. The South shall rise again!

Be well, Grandmother.

Know that your husband’s work, thanks in no small measure to his own indomitable spirit, finally nears its completion.

Give Louella my love and kiss my babies for me. Tell them my mission in the godforsaken land of the Connecticut Yankee demons nears its completion and I will soon return home to the bosom of my family.

Faithfully yours,

your loving grandson,

Patrick J. Cooper

67

Lunch wasn’tmuch fun for Zack on Friday.

The two tables had grown to three, but Zack was worried about Malik, who had brought his calculator to the cafeteria and kept crunching numbers instead of munching his food.

“What’re you working on?” Zack asked.

“Hmm? Oh, this? It’s nothing.”

“Then why are you working on it?”

Malik blinked about a hundred times. “Just for fun.”

Azalea wasn’t there for a snappy comeback. She was six or seven chairs away, over at table three with Benny, who hadn’t even asked Zack today what he was going to blow up next.

So Zack ate his PB and J in silence.

Finally, Ms. DuBois—who was like twenty minutes late—came to the table. She sat down directly across from Zack, in the seat where Azalea usually sat.

“Sorry I’m late. Mr. Crumpler has me filling out more forms. Stop by this afternoon and we’ll finalize our plans for the trial-run field trip tomorrow.”

“Cool, can I come?” asked a boy named Riley Mack, whose guardian ghost was, believe it or not, a German shepherd named Thor. He’d been the family pet. Died the year before. Riley was his favorite. Used to sneak Thor a hamburger whenever the family cooked out.

The dog didn’t tell Zack all this. It was more like telepathy or something.

“I’m afraid tomorrow’s field trip isn’t for everyone, Riley,” said Ms. DuBois, her voice dripping with honey. “It’s something of a practice. Zack, Malik, Azalea, and I shall be the guinea pigs. If our adventure proves fun and educational, we’ll still take the whole class the weekend before Halloween!”

“Awesome,” said Riley.

“What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?” Ms. DuBois asked Zack.

“That’s okay. My mom and dad can drop me off.”

“Don’t be silly. I drive right past your house anyway. Shall we say nine a.m.?”

“Okay.”

“Um, I don’t need a ride tomorrow,” said Malik. “I’m gonna bike it.”

“Very well. How about you, Azalea?”

“Sure. Nine will be fine.”

Okay, that was extremely weird.

Not only did it rhyme, but just the day before, Azalea had told Zack she never, ever woke up before noon on Saturday or Sunday!

68

“I sawCaptain Pettimore,” Joseph said to Seth.

“Where?”

“Drifting through the tunnels. I asked him, ‘How’s tricks?’ and he says he’s shoving off in the morning. Returning to the distant shore.”

“Can he do that?” asked Seth.

“Maybe. Remember, kiddo, he’s always boasting about being a big-cheese voodoo king. Says he can do all sorts of neat tricks we can’t.”

“Mr. Cooper told me Pettimore was a witch doctor—back when I found the stone.”

“Yeah, well, the captain says he found himself a new ‘earthen vessel’ and will be coming back down tomorrow to fetch his gold.”

“You know what that means?” said Seth, his eyes widening.

“Yep.” Joseph’s smile grew so wide his teeth ran from ear to ear. “Some other folks will see what he’s up to and come down here after him! Adult folks!”

“So we can leave here, too!”

“Hold your horses, little brother. First we need to set things right. Undo the wrong done to us!”

“Will killing an adult set us free, Joseph?”

“Maybe. I think so. And if killing one grown-up don’t make me feel better about moving on, well, by gum, we’ll find us another one to lock inside that smoky box! And if that don’t work, we’ll keep killin’ ’em till I say we’ve killed enough!”

Seth just nodded. He always did what his big brother told him to.

“Where’s your zombie?”

The creature loped out of the darkness, his arms flopping limply, his knuckles nearly scraping the floor.

“Tell him to stoke the furnace,” said Joseph.

“Stoke the furnace.”

“Yes, master.”

“We need it smokin’ by morning! Go on. Tell him!”

“We need it smokin’ by morning.”

“Yes, master.” Seth’s zombie hobbled over to the woodpile, pried a log free, carried it to the furnace, and jammed it into the first firebox.

Then he repeated the trek a dozen or more times while Joseph broke out in song.

Glory, glory, hallelujah

Teacher hit us with a ruler

He shot us in the head

To make certain we was dead

But now we’re killin’ them!

Seth, on the other hand, didn’t feel much like singing.

69

When thefinal bell rang, Zack hit the halls, looking for Malik, because they usually rode the bus home together.