Chris Grabenstein - The Crossroads

Zack had been twisting at the duct tape binding his wrists, stretching it out while his hot sweat worked to dilute the glue. Now it was easy to slip free.

“Clint?” Miss Spratling cried. “Do something! Please?”

“Don’t move, kid!” Eberhart screamed, but he didn’t do anything.

Zack’s theory was correct! Eberhart couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t do anything except make noise and order these two old farts around. Just like Davy Wilcox couldn’t do anything. Davy never hammered a nail or drilled a hole or even ate a hamburger. Davy told Zack what to do and then stood around and watched Zack do it because Davy couldn’t do anything.

“Don’t let that kid—”

Eberhart groaned in agony. He doubled over and clutched his stomach.

“Clint? Sweetheart?”

“Accckkk…”

“Clint?”

Now Zack tore the tape off his legs.

Eberhart fell to his knees and slumped forward. But before his body hit the floor, he vanished into a swirling puff of dust.

Zack was getting used to these vanishing acts, so he didn’t skip a beat to watch Eberhart vamoose into the vapor. He was up and ready to run. He could’ve gone straight for the door, could’ve saved himself, but he wanted to save the baby, too. So he ran back to the center of the big room to grab the handle on the Tote ’n Go car seat.

The old lady snagged him, wrapped her bony fingers tight around his wrist. Then she pressed a serrated knife blade against his throat.

“And just where do you think you’re going, young man?”

“Smash the galdern windows, too!”

Judy had used candles to set the altar cloth on fire. She had thrown a dozen votives to the floor to start the carpet burning. Now the chapel was filling with toxic fumes, but Davy was right: There was still time to shatter the stained-glass windows and destroy a few more statues.

“This will weaken him?”

“You bet, Mrs. J. Ol’ Clint Eberhart’s probably clutchin’ his gut right now and wonderin’ why he feels so galdern weak!”

Zipper tore apart the velvet cushion in the front pew with his teeth: It still had Spratling’s scent on it.

Judy slammed a statue through a stained-glass window. “You ever do any work, Davy?”

“Can’t, I reckon. But I’m full of good ideas, ain’t I?” A bell chimed in the distance. “They want me back, Mrs. J.”

“Tell me what I need to do.”

“Can’t do that, neither.”

“Really? Who writes all these rules?”

“Folks upstairs. Frustratin’, ain’t it?”

Zipper snarled.

“What do you two think you’re doing in here?”

Clint Eberhart grasped a marble pedestal and struggled to keep standing.

Judy looked at the statue in her hand. Looked at Eberhart. She slammed the statue against the hard edge of a pew.

“Hey! Lady! Easy!”

She banged it again. The blows struck Clint as if she were wielding a plaster voodoo doll.

“Put that thing down! Come on. Cut me some slack, doll.”

Judy turned to Davy. “Is he a ghost, too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Judy swung the statue she was holding like a baseball bat at the knees of another statue. Eberhart crumpled to the floor.

“Stop! Ouch! That hurts!”

Judy hacked a cough. She was inhaling too much smoke. Currently, Judy and Zipper were the only two creatures in the room who actually needed to breathe. Therefore, they also needed to leave.

“Davy?” Judy peered through the haze. It stung her eyes. “We need to get out. Now.”

Davy didn’t answer.

He’d disappeared.

It was just Judy, the dog, and the demon squirming on the floor.

She stood over him. Raised her statue high.

“Where’s Zack?”

“Where you’ll never find him!”

“Where?”

Eberhart moaned.

“Come on, Mrs. J.!” It was Davy. Somehow, he had transported himself out of the chapel and into the library at the other end of the secret passageway. “You best get out before the fire gets you!”

Eberhart struggled to his feet. “Where’s your son?” he snarled. “On his way to hell!”

Judy turned. “Which way, Davy?”

The boy was gone. Again.

“Come on, Zipper! Run!”

They had at best a ten-step lead.

And no one left to help them.

Gerda Spratling was on her knees, ferociously praying to revive Eberhart’s wounded soul.

The baby kicked and screamed.

“Miss Spratling?” Willoughby held his head. “The baby?”

Miss Spratling kept mumbling prayers.

“They’re going to arrest you, too,” Zack said to Willoughby. He was chained to the pipe again. “Accessory to murder, I figure.”

“Be quiet!”

“They’ll probably give you one of those lethal-injection deals.”

“Miss Spratling?”

“You know how they do that? Well, they have this huge needle,” Zack said. “I hear it’s like three or four feet long.”

“Miss Spratling?”

“They stick that needle in your butt.”

“Miss Spratling!”

The baby screeched.

“And that needle’s full of rat poison.”

“Miss Spratling?”

The baby sent his bottle skidding across the floor and let loose a squeal. Willoughby lunged toward Spratling and shook her.

“Miss Spratling!”

“How dare you interrupt my prayers!”

“I can’t do this! I can’t!”

“Pray with me, Mr. Willoughby.” Her right hand disappeared under the folds of her gown.

“I don’t want to die from a lethal injection!” He shambled over to the pole, fumbled in his pocket for the keys.

“Rodman?”

The old chauffeur undid the lock behind Zack’s back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What I should have done ages ago: say no to one of you miserable Spratlings!”

“Mr. Willoughby? Are you forgetting certain documents I keep locked in Father’s safe?”

“I don’t give two hoots about it anymore! I’m old! I have no children! Who cares if you blackmail me?”

While the old folks argued, Zack slowly slid across the floor…easing over to…the baby…the portable car seat….

“Why, you ungrateful, insolent old man!”

Miss Spratling reared up. The knife blade came out from under her wedding gown and glinted over her head.

“Don’t do it!” yelled Zack. He grabbed the handle on the baby seat. “Leave Mr. Willoughby alone or I swear I’ll take this baby so far away, you and your boyfriend will never find him!”

“Hah! You wouldn’t get far! I’d catch you!”

“Really? And just how fast can you run in that wedding dress?”

The old lady slowly lowered the knife but kept it aimed at Mr. Willoughby’s heart. “Fine. We’ll simply wait for Clint to return. He’ll deal with you,” she sneered. “He’ll deal with you both!”

Judy and Zipper raced back into the mansion’s library.

Davy had disappeared again and so had Eberhart. But it seemed some other tormented spirit was in the room with them because Judy heard ghostly moaning from somewhere up near the ceiling.

Zipper ran over to the rolling ladder attached to the towering bookcases.

“Hello?” Judy called out. She saw the faint outline of a man standing near the top of the ladder. “Who are you?”