Chris Grabenstein - The Hanging Hill

Zipper brought Zack the ball. Dropped it at his feet.

Zack figured he’d play with Zipper downstairs on the lawn for a little while and then meet Judy when the rehearsal broke up. He grabbed a bottle of water off the bedside table in case he or Zipper got thirsty, then picked up the squishy ball.

“What ho, Zipperus!” Zack said, putting on his best Mount Olympus voice. “Lo! See how the mighty demon slayer tears the sun from the sky and flings it at the moon!”

He tossed the sponge ball out the door. Zipper chased it. Zack figured they could play fetch all the way down the hall and into the elevator. He stepped into the corridor. Zipper brought the ball back. Zack threw it down the hall. Zipper chased it.

“Bring me back the golden orb from Apollo’s chariot, boy!”

“My brother,” whispered someone behind Zack.

He whipped around.

Juggler Girl had materialized under the Exit sign at the far end of the hall.

Zipper saw Juggler Girl, too!

He dropped his saliva-soaked sponge ball on the carpet and stared hungrily at the shiny circus balls swirling above the little girl’s head.

“Help Wilbur!” Juggler Girl said, and dropped her arms to her sides.

Five balls fell to the floor and bounced down the stairwell.

Zipper took off after them.

85

Early that evening, Doris Ann Norris was at home sitting in her comfiest chair, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Her weary feet were up on an ottoman; her contented cat was snoozing in her lap.

It had been some day at the library! First the world-famous author Judy Magruder Jennings had dropped by. Then the movie star Meghan McKenna! And the boy with the adorable dog!

Quite a day. She’d been so busy, she still hadn’t gotten around to reading the morning newspaper.

Putting aside her glass, she picked up the paper and flipped through the pages.

Nothing too interesting. Same old, same old. Even the funnies seemed dull.

Then again, she had been brushing elbows with celebrities all day. There wasn’t much in this newspaper or any other that could wow her today.

Eventually, when she reached the pages near the back—the broadsheets cluttered with used car and muffler repair advertisements—she did stumble upon one story that caught her eye:

Magician Nicodemus

Suffers Heart Attack

After Slaying Visitor

Nicodemus. That was the name of the magician Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. McKenna had been researching!

Doris Ann Norris quickly scanned the accompanying block of copy. Apparently, the vaudevillian Artemus Grimes, whose stage name was “Professor Nicholas Nicodemus,” was one hundred and five years old and had been a resident of a mental institution called the Riverstream Hospital for the Criminally Insane ever since he killed a six-year-old magician’s assistant at the Hanging Hill Playhouse back in the 1930s. Before collapsing in his wheelchair from a fatal heart attack, the ancient magician had killed a young man named Habib Mzali, a visitor from Tunisia. The police had not recovered the murder weapon, apparently a knife.

Oh, my. She knew Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. McKenna would want to know about this so she found her sewing scissors and clipped the article out of the paper. She would take it to the theater. First thing tomorrow.

86

Derek Stone was starting to panic.

He was having trouble breathing and it had nothing to do with dust, dogs, dandelions, or dander.

He was stumbling around the piles of junk in the basement, trying to remember where he had hidden his secret script. They were supposed to meet outside the basement door for the party with the director in less than forty-five minutes.

Mr. Grimes had said he wanted this new scene memorized by tonight. His mother had said he needed to change clothes and put on his tuxedo, which she always insisted he pack, wherever they traveled, just in case somebody wanted to give him a key to their city or something.

It never happened. Nobody ever thought he was that good of an actor.

Except Mr. Grimes. He was the first person ever to believe in Derek.

Wait a second.

He was an actor!

He could fake it!

He could use his training in improvisation, all those Acting 101 classes he hated, where he had to pretend to be a strip of bacon sizzling in a frying pan or a pebble in somebody’s shoe.

“Oh, magnifying Malarkey!” Yes. The first line went something like that. “Oh, magnificent Mucus!”

He could do this. He could pull it off. The words were such phonetic mumbo jumbo, who would even know if he was saying them correctly?

Derek was feeling good again. Confident.

He heard a noise in the stairwell. Someone was coming down the set of steps that led up to everybody’s bedrooms. Fast!

Derek decided it was time for him to leave. He dashed over to the spiral staircase, grabbed hold of the banister, and raced up to the lower lobby as swiftly as he could—taking the steps two at a time.

87

Zipper chased the bouncing ghost balls into the basement.

Zack chased Zipper.

There had been five balls; now there was only one and it was sitting in front of a door with Janitor Closet stenciled on it.

When Zipper bit into the ball, it poofed into a hazy puff and disappeared. Zack laughed, because with wispy steam curling out both sides of his muzzle, Zipper looked like he’d just been caught smoking a cigar.

Zipper whimpered.

Zack went over to give him a reassuring head rub and maybe a splash of water to wash the taste of ectoplasm out of his mouth.

“Help…”

Zipper cocked his head sideways, raised an ear.

“Did you hear that?” Zack asked his dog.

Zipper barked what had to be a “Yes!” and started scratching at the closet door.

“Help…”

“It’s coming from inside the closet!” Zack banged on the heavy steel door. “Hello?”

“Help…”

“Somebody’s in there, Zip!”

Zack grabbed the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. He yanked it. It wouldn’t budge.

“Hang on! I’ll run upstairs! Get somebody to help!”

“No…”

“What?”

“No…”

“I’m going upstairs…”

“No…”

Zack lay down on the floor, put his head near the crack under the door.

“Sir, I’m going upstairs to tell them that you’re in trouble.”

“Don’t!” The voice sounded stronger. The man sounded old. Grouchy. “The children!” Okay, now he sounded like the grumpy old-fart janitor.

“Hello, Zack,” said a soft female voice.

He turned around. It was the actress. Not the bowing one. The singing one from Bats in Her Belfry . Kathleen Williams. She looked like a lot of the 1950s-style ghosts Zack had met back in North Chester: she wore a jazzy hat and a dress that swung out like a flowery bell.

“Remember me?” she said.

“Um … I saw you do the matinee yesterday.”

“Was I good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I owe it all to you, Demon Slayer.”

“Hunh?”

“I told Mr. Willowmeier all about you, Zack. Told him how you slay demons, because I was on the bus. The one you set free.”

“You were?”

“Sure. After my smashing success on Broadway, I became a nightclub singer. Toured the country! I was riding on that Greyhound to my next gig when we had that dreadful accident.”

“And you were stuck in North Chester?”

“That’s right. Until you came along. I owe my triumphant return to the stage to you, Zack. I owe you big!”

“Thanks. But, right now, well—there’s a man locked inside that closet.”

“Where’s the key?”

“I don’t know!”