Chris Grabenstein - The Hanging Hill

“Well, yeah … but…”

“Zachary,” said Mr. Willowmeier. “I have a proposition to make. I would like to cast you in a leading role, here at my theater!”

“Why me?”

“You’re special!”

“So’s Meghan. She sees ghosts, too.”

Mr. Willowmeier frowned for a second. “We know.” Then he smiled and his face became a jolly pumpkin head again. “But, well, Miss McKenna’s quite busy. The show must go on and all that. However, it may not go on at all if you do not do what needs to be done.”

“Personally, we can’t do much,” squealed the other showgirl. “Except go to parties. Parties are fun.”

“Thank you, Tina,” Mr. Willowmeier said patiently. “Zack, here then is my predicament. My careless grandfather erected his tavern on top of what had previously been Hangman’s Hill. Never a very bright idea, eh? But, let’s be fair. He negotiated a marvelous deal on the land.”

“It was dirt cheap,” said the showgirl on his left. “On account of it being cursed by that Indian chief and all.”

“Did the chief have a daughter?” Zack asked.

“Indeed,” said Willowmeier. “Princess Nepauduckett. She was the first to climb up the Hanging Hill scaffold to the gallows. Back in 1639, I believe. Gross miscarriage of justice. Accused of crimes she did not commit. Corn thievery, which, I gather, was considered a capital offense in those days.”

“She’s still here,” said Zack.

“We know. For years, we have lived here with her and … the others . Maintaining a fragile equilibrium. Now, however, some rather greedy mortals have arrived. They mean to upset that delicate balance and evict us from our home. That is why we are all so thrilled you’re here, Demon Slayer!”

“Huzzah!” shouted a chorus of voices from somewhere up above.

Zack dared to look.

In the glowing windows of the second floor, he saw a whole gallery of ghosts. A chorus line of showgirls wearing colorful headdresses; two men in baggy striped pants, holding cream pies; a rotund woman in a Viking helmet, clutching a spear; a stagehand in a hat and suspenders, lighting sparklers and tossing them up to Juggler Girl, who stood balanced on one toe atop the tip of an ornate lightning rod, twirling the glittering fireworks in a dizzying circle above her head.

“Wow!” said Zack. “How many of you are there?”

“Quite a few!” said Mr. Willowmeier, rumbling up another belly laugh. “Anyone who ever traipsed across the boards or worked here behind the scenes, anyone who found their joy in the limelight, their happiness in the roar of the crowd, all are welcome to return!”

“Be not afraid of greatness, lad!” The swashbuckling Shakespearean actor Zack and Meghan had seen in the basement pounced to the ground in front of Zack, sheathed his sword, and propped his fists heroically against his hips. “Remember: ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em’”

“Zack,” said Mr. Willowmeir, “allow me to introduce Bartholomew Buckingham. One of the finest thespians it was ever my pleasure to know!”

“What say you, Zachary?” Buckingham asked, his vowels round and rich. He cocked up a single eyebrow. “Will you assist us?”

“Me? What can I do?”

“Much. For you are the demon slayer, are you not?”

“Right,” mumbled Zack. “I’m special.”

“Huzzah!” shouted Buckingham.

“Huzzah!” echoed all the others.

Zack wasn’t sure, but he might’ve just said yes without even knowing he had said it.

“Oh, Zack?” said Mr. Willowmeier in a stage whisper.

“Yes, sir?”

“Not a word of this to Judy, Derek, or Meghan, eh?”

“How come?”

“I’m afraid they may soon need the protection of a demon slayer even more than we do!”

53

First thing Monday morning, Hakeem, Badir, and Jamal escorted Reginald Grimes back to the basement.

This time, they led him into the vast warehouse located two stories below the theater’s scene shop. Hakeem flicked on a work light and Grimes was staring up at a brass statue of his new god.

“Is it the original?”

“No, oh Holy One. However, it is an exact replica. Handcrafted by our faithful artisans in Kairouan.”

“Are they also my devoted followers?”

“But of course. They have provided much financial assistance for our endeavors.”

Grimes stared at the metal beast. “The dog days are upon us, Hakeem!” he declared. “Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest star in all the heavens, now rises and sets in sync with the sun. We enter a time of sweltering heat, when none will feel the hot blast from hell’s furnace door as we pry it open. This is the evilest time of the rolling year, when the seas boil, wine turns sour, dogs grow mad, and mankind burns with fevers and frenzies!”

“You have studied well,” said Hakeem.

“I took the book home last night. Reread a few chapters.”

“Then you are ready!” Hakeem held up his key. “Let us go open the final drawer!”

The four men scurried across the basement to the room where the trunk was stored.

“It is time, Exalted One.”

Hakeem’s brass key glistened in the sharply angled beam of sunshine slicing through the casement windows.

The birds outside ceased chirping.

“It is time!”

He slowly inserted the key into the lock on the one drawer that remained sealed.

“Hurry up!” said Grimes. “Open it!”

“Guard the door,” Hakeem commanded Badir and Jamal. “Let no infidels approach!”

They grunted. Went to the door.

Hakeem turned the key. The locked drawer clicked open.

“Show me!” said Grimes, quivering with anticipation.

Hakeem bowed, slid open the creaking drawer, and extracted a brittle parchment roll.

“What is it? Another ritual? More necro- or necyomancy?”

Hakeem grinned. “What if you could not only summon forth the spirits of the damned but restore them to full life?”

Grimes thought about that. “Bring the dead back to life? Resurrect them? Are such things possible?”

“Yes, Exalted One. Here, in this place, at this time, such things are very possible, indeed.” He gestured toward the scroll. “Behold the resurrection ritual! Your grandfather, may Ba’al rest his soul, attempted to perform it. Once.”

“When?”

“Many years ago.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Why here?”

“This building was erected on what some might call cursed land. What we would call sacred soil. It is a power spot. A vortex where negative energies collide. A swarming place for the foulest demons imaginable! It is land ripe for our resurrection ritual!”

54

Zack was eating Cheerios out of a paper bowl in Judy’s room.

She went with the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. They’d sliced up a banana and shared it, too. Zack figured he should probably be eating steak and eggs, biscuits and gravy. Something with tons of protein. Might bulk him up. Make him look more like what he imagined a demon slayer ought to look like. Like the superheroes in the comic books.

Zack had tossed and turned all night. Kept dreaming about show-people ghosts.

Not to mention demons in top hats toting bloody meat cleavers.

And Native American girls with bloated black tongues.

And …

“How’d you sleep?” Judy asked.

“Not so good.”

“Me neither. Lumpy pillow. Strange bed. Too quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

“We’ve been living in that motel so long, I’m used to my nightly traffic serenade. Tires humming. Brakes squealing. Eighteen-wheelers rumbling along the interstate at five a.m. Last night, all I heard was quiet. And crickets.”