Chris Grabenstein - The Hanging Hill

Zack played along. “Why’s that?”

“They’re supposed to smile when they are low.”

As they drove away from the theater, Zack glanced at the side-view mirror for one last look at the darkened Hanging Hill Playhouse, perched behind them on the river-bank. Now all the windows were black, so it didn’t look like a ginormous jack-o’-lantern anymore, just a deserted haunted house lit by a spooky moon.

Suddenly, Zack saw a flurry of bright flashes flare from casement windows in the basement. It looked like somebody was down there working with a welder’s torch.

Or plugging in an electric chair.

15

The spinning saw blade kept grinding against the rusty lock, sending up a shower of red-hot sparks.

Reginald Grimes and the man who called himself Hakeem were in one of the rooms in the maze that was the basement of the Hanging Hill Playhouse. Sparks streamed off the whirling teeth of the miniature power saw as it gnawed its way though the hinged shackle and lit up the cobweb-coated casement windows behind them.

For whatever reason, Hakeem was attempting to open an ancient steamer trunk that had been triple-looped with heavy chains, the links secured with padlocks.

“How did you know this trunk would be here?” asked Grimes.

Hakeem shut off his power tool and grinned. “Why do you think you are here?”

“What?”

“You were placed here to be the guardian of this treasure chest.”

“No. I came here after college to direct plays. Musicals. I am Reginald Grimes!”

“We know this, for we are the anonymous donors who agreed to endow the theater with one million dollars, provided, of course, they hired you to be the company’s artistic director.”

“Nonsense.”

“We are the same benefactors who made certain you received a college degree in either theater or theology.”

Grimes was shocked.

Theater or theology .

That was precisely what his guidance counselor at the High School for Orphans and Helpless Youth had told him: An anonymous donor was willing to pay for his room, board, and college tuition, provided he studied theology or theater. At the time, Grimes had thought the bequest rather peculiar if not downright ridiculous. Why two subjects so alphabetically linked? Why the fixation on “t-h-e” degrees? He would have been foolish, of course, to turn down the offer for reasons related to spelling, because it was his ticket out of the orphanage, a chance to show the world the special talents he knew he had.

Grimes chose theater because he felt studying theology would have been a complete waste of his time, since he had stopped believing in God long ago—at least, any benevolent, all-powerful, halfway-caring god.

Hakeem’s saw blade started whirring again, chewing through the final lock’s steel shackle. Grimes shielded his eyes from the spew of sparks.

“Why me?” he called out over the harsh whine of steel on steel.

The final lock popped free. Hakeem turned off his power tool.

“I knew your grandfather.”

“Impossible. I have no family.”

“So you have always been told. However, in truth, you are the sole surviving male heir of a very noble line. Your family tree has its roots in antiquity and the most glorious civilization to ever spring forth along the coasts of the Mediterranean Sea!”

“Nonsense. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“For your own protection.”

“What?”

“We placed you there.”

“You put me in that godforsaken pit on purpose?”

“It was for the best.”

“Really? The best?” Rage engorged Grimes’s soul. His mangled left arm twitched at the shoulder. “Who do you think you are?”

“I am your loyal and obedient servant, Royal High Priest.”

“What?”

“I live only to serve and protect the true descendants of the high priest of Ba’al Hammon, lord of the incense altar, chief god of Carthage, consort of the goddess Tanit.”

“You’re a religious fanatic! No wonder you wanted me to study theology. But why theater?”

“Much religious ritual requires a certain theatricality,” said Hakeem. “We desired that you would receive the training required to stage our most spectacular rites.”

“Who are you people? Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about?”

“The Brotherhood of Hannibal. Those who live but to see Carthage rise to its former glory!”

“Hannibal? The warrior who marched elephants over the Alps to attack ancient Rome?”

“The same, Exalted One.”

Hakeem bowed, his hands clasped together in a tent of supplication.

Grimes liked the bowing bit. Liked being called Exalted One, too. Maybe he could forgive his “loyal servants” for dumping him in a home for unwanted children if they all treated him this way.

“So,” he said, “you knew my grandfather?”

“Indeed, sire. He was a remarkably talented man.”

“What about my father? My mother?”

“I knew of them.”

“Are they alive?”

Hakeem shook his head. “Sadly, they are both deceased. You are the sole surviving male heir. You are the one chosen to fulfill the prophecy.”

Now Grimes felt his chest swell with pride.

The chosen one .

“Very well,” he said, assuming the bearing of a haughty high priest. “What, pray tell, is inside this dusty trunk?”

“Much.”

“Open it!” Grimes commanded.

“As you say, Exalted One.” Hakeem pried apart the lid.

Grimes smelled mothballs. On one side, he saw dark costumes hanging on a closet rod; on the other, a stack of drawers, each with its own brass pull. The top drawer had a keyhole.

“We will open this locked compartment in due time,” said Hakeem.

“You have the key?”

“Yes.”

“Then open it now!” Grimes demanded.

“First you must read this.” Hakeem pulled open the second drawer and extracted a book the size of a big-city phone directory. The leather cover was crackled with age.

“What’s in this book?” asked Grimes as he felt the ancient volume’s heft.

“Your destiny!”

16

After spending the night at the Holiday Inn, Zack, Judy, and Zipper drove back to the Hanging Hill Playhouse first thing Sunday morning.

Zack liked the Holiday Inn. They stayed in one of the nonhaunted rooms. The only things sizzling in the breakfast room were the microwaved sausage links.

“The table meeting is at ten a.m.,” said Judy.

Zipper whined quizzically.

“You’re meeting a table?” asked Zack.

“That’s what they call it when the director, designers, writer, composer, and cast all get together for the first time. You sit around a big table, everybody introduces themselves, and then the actors read the script out loud.”

“Cool,” said Zack. “Can I come?”

“Sure.”

They parked in the spot where they had parked the night before. Zack looked up at the big white building perched on its hump of a hill. In the bright morning sunshine, it looked like a wedding cake with lots of frosting ribbons rippled around the edges.

A woman came out to the porch and started waving at them.

“That’s Monica,” said Judy. “She’s the company manager.”

“Welcome to the Hanging Hill!” the young woman called out with an enthusiasm bubbly enough to rival Judy’s. “We’re so glad you made it! Was the drive okay?”

“Fine,” said Judy. “This is my stepson, Zack.”

“The one the script’s dedicated to?”

“The same,” said Judy. “We arrived late last night.”

“Really?”

“Very late,” Judy said with a smile. “The janitor kicked us out.”

“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Wilbur Kimble. He’s been here so long he thinks he runs the place. Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.”