Chris Grabenstein - The Hanging Hill

“Who?”

Meghan assumed her spelling bee pose again. “Minotaur: From Greek mythology. A monster with the body of a man and the head of a bull.”

76

Zack and Meghan found their way back to the archway that had led them to the gigantic statue the first time.

“Look at those gloves on the wall!” said Meghan. “They all kind of point toward the Minotaur’s lair!”

“Yeah,” said Zack. “I’ve been thinking: The Minotaur is sort of like Sobek, the Egyptian god of the Nile. He had a man’s body but a crocodile’s head.”

“Don’t forget Sekhmet,” said Meghan. “Body of a woman. Head of a lioness.”

They both paused and stared at each other. Zack had never met anybody fascinated by the same sort of stuff that fascinated him. In fact, he was used to bullies beating him up during recess for even knowing goofy stuff like Sobek and Sekhmet.

They rounded another shadowy corner, went down that switchback ramp, and approached the sliding barn doors to the scenery warehouse.

The doors were locked. A heavy padlocked chain was looped through the handles.

“That’s weird,” said Zack. “It was wide open yesterday.”

“Shhh!” said Meghan.

Then Zack heard it, too: muffled sounds coming from the other side of the door. Metal hitting metal. It sounded like someone banging a refrigerator with a sledgehammer.

Meghan held her finger up to her lips, leaned in, and cupped her left ear against the steel door. Zack did the same.

They heard gruff voices.

“Hurry up, Jamal!” said one man. “All must be in readiness!”

“It will be!”

More hammering. Steel on steel.

“They must be building scenery,” whispered Meghan.

“Yeah,” Zack whispered back. “Or tearing it apart.”

He felt a frigid breeze brush across the back of his neck. Goose pimples shivered down his spine all the way to his toes.

Judging from the expression on Meghan’s face, her neck, spine, and toes had just hit the deep freeze, too.

They both turned around slowly.

Very, very slowly.

“Hello, children!”

They saw a shriveled hag holding a small hatchet.

The hatchet was dripping blood.

77

The leering crone was wearing an antique black dress with poofy sleeves and a high collar.

“So,” she croaked. “You must be the two children! The chosen ones!”

Zack and Meghan shot each other a quick glance.

“Chosen for what?” asked Zack.

“To set us free!”

“Actually,” said Meghan, “I’m just here to do a show. It’s called Curiosity Cat . Oh, by the way, I’m Meghan McKenna. Who the heck are you?”

Zack couldn’t believe how cool Meghan was, getting sassy with a ghost.

“Lilly Pruett!”

“Who?” said Meghan, totally unimpressed.

“Oh, I’ve heard what you children say about me while skipping rope.” She swung her hatchet. Zack could see patches of dry blood on its dented blade. “Lilly Pruett, said she didn’t do it, she was lying and everybody knew it!”

The hatchet was weeping blood now, splattering red droplets against the walls as she swung it back and forth like a grisly pendulum.

Meghan and Zack weren’t giggling anymore.

Lilly Pruett, however, was cackling.

“Lilly Pruett had six babies, chopped them up to make some gravy. When the kids were good and dead, she found their father and chopped off his head!”

Meghan looked at Zack.

Zack looked at Meghan.

They both yelled it at the same time: “Run!”

78

“Head for the door on the right!” Meghan shouted. “The staircase!”

They dashed across the cluttered storage space.

For some reason, this Lilly Pruett ghost seemed different from all the others Zack had ever met. More like a ghoul. The type that can actually feast on human flesh.

Zack sometimes wished he hadn’t read so many books from the library’s paranormal shelf.

“Lilly Pruett said she didn’t do it.”

Great. The hungry hellcat was right behind them.

“She was lying and everybody knew it.”

“Hurry, Zack!” Meghan wrenched open the exit door and leapt into the stairwell.

“I’m coming!” Zack wormed his way around some Styrofoam headstones. He dared to look over his shoulder.

Lilly Pruett was right behind him, toilet breath steaming out her nostrils. She had her hatchet all lined up and aimed at his neck.

Suddenly, something grabbed hold of a belt loop on Zack’s jeans and yanked him backward into the stairwell. The door slammed, and on the other side, as he raced up the steps after Meghan, he heard a woman who wasn’t Lilly Pruett scream, “Leave Zack alone, you crazy witch!”

He froze. So did Meghan.

“Zack? Who was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“She knew your name!”

“Yeah.” He headed down the stairs. Went to the door.

“Zack? What’re you doing?” For the first time since they’d met, Meghan McKenna sounded scared.

“I need to see who it was.”

“Lilly Pruett might still be out there!”

“I don’t hear her anymore.” He reached for the doorknob.

“Zack? Be careful. I think she’s different than the other ghosts. She might be able to actually hurt us.”

“I know. But I have to see who just saved me.”

Zack gripped the doorknob.

He squeaked open the door.

Peered into the basement.

“Lilly’s gone.”

“Good,” said Meghan, coming down the stairs.

In the distant shadows, under the brick archway, Zack caught a glimpse of the curly-haired ghost—right before she vanished.

“It was her again,” said Zack.

“Who?”

“The ghost who led me to the trunk.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I can never see her face!”

Zack felt a lump of guilt or shame or both jumbling up inside his throat. Sadness washed over him and left his limbs feeling weak. He felt like he had to cry, only he couldn’t, because he didn’t want Meghan McKenna to think he was a big fat baby.

A lone teardrop, the only one he couldn’t control, streaked down his cheek.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” said Meghan as she rubbed the moist spot with her thumb. “We’ll figure it out, Zack. I promise. Together, we’ll figure it out.”

79

“Oh, we have quite a collection of Hanging Hill theatrical memorabilia,” said the librarian. “Especially for famous authors to look at!”

She led Judy and Mrs. McKenna into the rare books room. “I’ve pulled out all our historical playbills as well as the archives of our local newspaper.”

“Thank you,” said Judy as she and Mrs. McKenna sat down at a long table. “You sure you don’t mind helping me look into this, Mary?”

“Are you kidding? I was a history major. I love this stuff!”

They flicked on two green-shaded lamps and went to work.

“Here’s something,” said Judy, coming upon an antique playbill. “Professor Nicodemus performed here in August 1939.”

“Great,” said Mrs. McKenna. “I’ll check the local newspaper. See if there’s a review or a write-up.” She flipped through the long sheets of newsprint in a book of newspapers from 1939. “Here we go!”

Judy peered over her shoulder to read the article.

Nicodemus Packs Them In With

Mesmerizing But Horrifying Magic

Professor Nicholas Nicodemus proclaims himself a “resurrectionist” and boldly states at the beginning of his current show that he will raise the dead.

At first, this seems like innocent flimflam, the type of puffery often proclaimed by other magicians plying their trade on the vaudeville circuit.