The Black Heart Crypt

by Chris Grabenstein

  So did Uncle Gus in the wheelchair.

  “I believe our work here is done,” said Ginny, plopping the plastic straw back into her water glass. “Shall we go upstairs and pack?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sophie.

  “Indeed,” added Hannah.

  The three sisters walked over to the elderly man left stranded in his wheelchair.

  “Would you like us to take you up to your room, Augustus?” offered Hannah.

  “Thank you. How very kind of you.”

  Then the three Jennings sisters, with Hannah piloting the wheelchair, left the poolside patio, ignoring the frantic pleas of the young brute flailing about in the water so violently, he would probably slosh it all out before he remembered he knew how to swim.

  Early Saturday, two days before Halloween, Zack; his stepmom, Judy; and his two best friends from school, Malik Sherman and Azalea Torres, piled into Judy’s car and headed out to pick pumpkins at Paproski’s Pumpkin Patch, a farm a few miles south of North Chester.

  They took Zipper, too, because pumpkin picking was an outdoor activity. But Zack would need to make sure that Zip didn’t pee on somebody else’s just-picked pumpkin.

  Zack’s father would’ve joined them for pumpkin picking, but even though it was Saturday, he was extremely busy managing the affairs of the Pettimore Charitable Trust, which, thanks to Zack and Malik, had just inherited a ton of gold. Literally. The boys had found more than two thousand pounds of solid gold bars hidden underneath their middle school.

  Malik and a school janitor named Wade Muggins, who kind of sort of accidentally helped discover the gold, were supposed to receive big rewards. Malik would use his share to help his mother pay her colossal medical bills. Mr. Muggins would probably use his to buy an electric guitar and several cowbells.

  “Here we go, guys,” said Judy as the car bumped down a gravel road toward the field where pumpkin pickers parked. Zack could see acres of wilted greenery spotted with bright orange balls. Hay bales, some with comical scarecrows squatting on top, lined paths to wagon rides, an apple cider stand, and a corn maze—what Paproski’s Pumpkin Patch called the Amazing Haunted Maize Maze.

  “Did you know that the tradition of carving gourds into lanterns dates back thousands of years to Africa?” said Malik, who was African American and quite proud of his heritage. He was also the smartest kid in Zack’s sixth-grade class.

  “So why do they call them Jack O’Lanterns?” asked Azalea, who had stopped doing her total Goth look but had maintained much of her Goth ’tude. “Were Jack and the beanstalk from Africa, too?”

  “Doubtful,” said Malik. “The term ‘jack-o’-lantern’ comes from the phenomenon of strange lights flickering over the Irish peat bogs, called ignis fatuus or jack-o’-lantem.”

  “Irish, huh?” said Azalea. “No wonder his last name is O’Lantern.”

  “Indeed,” said Malik, who sometimes talked like a walking Wikipedia. “Throughout Ireland and Britain, there is a long tradition of carving lanterns from vegetables. Particularly the turnip and mangel-wurzel.”

  Behind the wheel, Judy laughed. “The mangel-what?”

  “The mangel-wurzel,” said Malik. “It is a little-known root vegetable hailing from the same family as beets.”

  “You mean the yucky family?” said Azalea, scrunching up her nose. “I hate beets!”

  “Me too,” said Judy. “They smell like dirt.”

  “Exactly!” said Azalea.

  Zack, who was riding up front in the passenger seat, smiled. It was so cool to have a carful of friends, not to mention one totally awesome stepmother. It sort of made up for the first nine years of his life, when he had no friends and a mother who never smiled.

  “I heard this legend about a guy named Stingy Jack,” said Zack, turning around in his seat.

  “Aw, you’re not that stingy, Zack,” said Azalea, winking at Malik, who chuckled.

  “Jack, not Zack!”

  “Whatever.”

  “When Stingy Jack died, the devil couldn’t take his soul, on account of some trick Jack played on the devil when he was still alive. And God wouldn’t let Stingy Jack into heaven, either, because Jack had hung out with the devil while he was living. So after he died, they both tossed Jack out and he became this doomed soul, wandering around with nothing but a glowing coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved-out turnip and he’s been roaming around ever since. The Irish people called his ghost Jack of the Lantern, which, you know, became jack-o’-lantern.”

  “This Jack ghost,” said Azalea, “you ever meet him, Zack?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Jennings?”

  “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” said Judy, turning to park where a guy flapping a flag directed her.

  “They say people carve pumpkins and turn them into lanterns to scare off Jack and all the other spirits roaming around on Halloween night,” said Zack.

  “How about that dude?” said Azalea, gesturing at the flag waver, who was costumed in a bedsheet and skeleton mask. “Is he a ghost?”

  “No,” said Malik. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be able to see him.”

  “But Zack and Mrs. Jennings could, right?” said Azalea. She’d missed a lot of what had happened when Zack and Malik were dealing with the roaming spirits underneath their middle school, because, well, Azalea’s body (and brain) had been taken over by an evil ancestor.

  Fortunately, Azalea’s possession had lasted less than a day. When the evil spirit left her, her memories of the event said buh-bye, too, which was weird because Azalea usually had a photographic memory. She didn’t have to cram for exams; she had all the textbook pages burned into her brain cells.

  So of course Azalea remembered the time when Zack told her that he could see ghosts.

  His stepmom, Judy, had the gift, too. His dad used to have it but lost it when he turned thirteen. The gift had returned, however, when he really, really needed it: when Zack was being chased through a maze of tunnels by a brains-gobbling zombie.

  Of course, his dad might have relost his ghost-seeing ability just as quickly as he had refound it; it could have been a one-time-only, emergency-situation type of deal. The jury was still out on that one, his dad said (probably because he was a lawyer).

  Malik? He hadn’t been able to see any of the ghosts he and Zack had bumped into under the school. Zack figured it was because Malik was too smart: His rational brain overrode any irrational woo-woo junk trying to creep in.

  Azalea? She’d been out to lunch mentally when all the ghosts started popping up. The jury was still out on her, too.

  And Zipper? Zip saw everything Zack saw, maybe more. Every once in a while, the dog would sit in the middle of a room, staring at a blank wall, and Zack knew his dog had spotted some sort of spirit lurking behind the plasterboard.

  “Come on, you guys,” said Judy when the car was parked. “Let’s go pick some pumpkins. Ones with good shapes for scary faces!”

  Zipper barked in agreement.

  It was his “hurry up and let me out” bark. It’d been a long car ride, so he wanted to find a pumpkin, too.

  One shaped like a fire hydrant.

  “So, have you heard from your dad?” Judy asked Azalea as they picked their way through the patch looking for their perfect pumpkin.

  “Yeah,” said Azalea, whose father was in the army. “His deployment is almost up. He’ll be stateside in time for Christmas.”

  “That’s great,” said Zack, who was pulling a little red wagon loaded with the two tumbling pumpkins he and Malik had already chosen because they were exactly what they were looking for: tall and oblong, perfect for carving a Frankenstein face or, in Malik’s case, the silhouette of a headless horseman galloping on his thundering steed while holding his head high above his shoulders.

  Malik liked to carve.

  Zipper was also riding in the wagon, his front paws perched on top of one of the pumpkins so he could stand up and ride his chariot like he wa
s a pharaoh hound.

  “Mrs. Jennings?” said Malik.

  “Yes?”

  “Zack and I have already selected our jack-o’-lanterns.”

  “Oh. Do you guys want to go grab some cider or something?”

  “No, thank you,” said Malik. “I’m more interested in attacking that corn maze.”

  “Really?” said Zack. “Didn’t you get enough maze running a couple weeks ago?”

  “You know me,” said Malik. “I love a puzzle and a fresh challenge.”

  True. When Zack first met Malik, he was working two Sudokus at once.

  “Would you like to join us in the maze, Azalea?” Malik asked.

  “Nah. I still need to find my pumpkin or one of those mangel-wurzels.”

  “Hang on,” said Judy. “We should probably all do the maze if that’s where Zack’s going.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Zack, who loved his stepmom but didn’t want her babysitting him all the time. “You and Azalea should go find your pumpkins.”

  “You sure, Zack? Your father and I are a little worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, it’s almost Halloween.”

  “So?”

  “You see ghosts,” Malik whispered. “Remember?”

  “I know, but …”

  “What?” said Azalea. “Do the spirits of the dead really swarm out of their graves for Halloween?”

  “I think so,” said Judy.

  “Today’s not Halloween,” said Zack.

  “Well,” said Judy, “take Zip. Just in case you run into an early riser.”

  “Fine,” said Zack.

  Zipper hopped out of the wagon, his tail wagging.

  “Azalea and I will meet you guys over there at the cider stand. And, Zack, if you see anything … or anybody …”

  “All we’re gonna see is a bunch of dead cornstalks. Come on, Malik.”

  “Remember,” said Malik, “if we take nothing but right turns, we’ll easily find our way to the exit.”

  “Okay,” said Zack. They’d been wandering around inside the dusty labyrinth for about twenty minutes. “Um, maybe we should check out the map they gave you back at the start.”

  “I didn’t take one,” Malik said proudly as they trudged up a muddy tractor path. “There’s really no need for a map if you already know how to solve the puzzle. Right turn!”

  “Right.”

  Zack was wondering if maybe they should try taking a couple of left turns. He sensed they were somewhere in the middle of the maze. He glanced up at the bright blue sky, hoping the sun might give him a hint as to what direction they were heading, but it was noon, so the sun was directly overhead. Against its blazingly bright light, Zack saw a black crow circling the cornfield. He figured that was why the maze needed so many scarecrow decorations.

  “You know,” said Zack, “I haven’t seen any other people for like five minutes.”

  “Because they all got lost,” said Malik. “Right turn.”

  “Right.”

  Zack followed Malik around another bend and up to a T intersection.

  They were facing a solid wall of withered corn.

  Before Malik could say “Right turn” again, a dead man with a watermelon-sized head walked straight out of the cornstalks like those baseball players in that movie—only this wasn’t Iowa and the guy wasn’t there to play ball.

  Zipper snarled.

  The ghost grinned. His teeth were an Indian corn checkerboard of browns and blacks.

  “Trick or treat, smell my feet. Give me something good to eat.” He hawked up a big laugh. “Hello again, kid.”

  “Hello, Mad Dog,” said Zack.

  “Pardon?” said Malik, about to follow the path to the right.

  Zack gestured at Mad Dog Murphy, a notorious (and very dead) criminal from the 1950s. Malik, of course, couldn’t see the guy, or the metal helmet from the electric chair sizzling on top of his stubbly head.

  “Is it a ghost?” gasped Malik.

  Zack nodded.

  The crow floating overhead in lazy circles started to laugh: “Haw-haw-haw.”

  “So,” said Mad Dog, “where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” said Zack.

  “The thingamajig.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on, kid. Barnabas already figured out you’re a Jennings. Word to the wise? You shouldn’t spend so much time in graveyards. You do, dead people pick up stuff, learn things you don’t want ’em learnin’.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “What’s he saying?” asked Malik.

  “Nothing,” said Zack.

  “Nothing?” snarled Mad Dog, his chest swelling.

  This was the first time Zack had seen Mr. Murphy when he wasn’t sitting down, strapped into his electric chair, the one they’d executed him in at the state penitentiary back in 1959. The guy had to be at least seven feet tall.

  “Look, kid—Little Paulie’s a pal of mine. We holed up in that barn over there once when the cops was chasin’ us. Good times. Now Paulie wants out. So give his people what they’re looking for. Or else.”

  Mad Dog Murphy vanished.

  In his place, Zack could see the shadow of the circling bird. When he looked up, the crow’s wings stretched out wide as it swooped into dive-bomb mode—aiming straight for Zack.

  “Crow!” Zack shouted.

  “Actually,” said Malik, “I believe that’s a raven. Note the wedge shape of its tail feathers and …”

  “Come on!” Zack grabbed Malik and they started running up the alley of corn. Zipper was hot on their heels.

  “Zack?” yelled Malik. “Ravens often attack small dogs!”

  Zack bent down and grabbed Zipper off the ground. “Shortcut!” he shouted.

  Dog in arms, Malik right behind him, Zack mowed through the walls of the maze, trampling down crispy, crackly cornstalks, plowing forward till they finally came out in a muddy field right beside an inflatable light-up pumpkin the size of a small toolshed.

  Zack glanced over his shoulder.

  The big black bird pulled up, banked left, and shot off toward the horizon.

  “Haw-haw-haw!” It was still laughing at them.

  “Hey, Malik?” said Zack, catching his breath and brushing corn crap off his clothes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s not tell Judy about this, okay?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, if we do, I think my mom and dad might lock me in my room till I turn thirteen.”

  “Is that when ghosts leave kids alone, when they turn thirteen?”

  “I hope so,” said Zack with a sigh. “I hope so.”

  Later that afternoon, Norman Ickes stood behind the counter at Ickes & Son Hardware on Main Street, fidgeting with his brand-new Nut Case, a shiny brass puzzle that looked like two hexagonal nuts screwed around the center of a half-inch bolt that had one head at the top and another at the bottom.

  “It looks simple, but it isn’t,” he said to his young customer, a fellow puzzle maven named Malik Sherman, who was well on his way to Nerdsville, a neighborhood where Norman Ickes had lived for most of his twenty-four miserable years. “The goal is to remove the small nut hidden inside the hollow bolt without cutting the whole thing open with a hacksaw.”

  “Have you figured out the solution yet?” asked Malik.

  “No.” Now even Malik, a fellow loser, was working his nerves. He wished the kid would butt out and let him fidget in peace.

  “Well, good luck with it, Norman. My dad and I are here looking for pumpkin-carving tools. I picked out a doozy this morning down at Paproski’s Pumpkin Patch.”

  “Will you be carving a jack-o’-lantern or something a bit more interesting, say a Halloween scene sculpted in silhouette?”

  “Definitely a silhouette,” said Malik. “Much more challenging and, therefore, rewarding.”

  Norman nodded. Any idiot could take a butcher knife and slice triangle eyes
and a row of jagged teeth into a hollowed-out gourd. It took skill, patience, and the proper tools to create a pumpkin masterpiece.

  “Aisle two. Seasonal items.”

  “Awesome. Thanks, Norman! Catch you later.”

  The kid bounded over to aisle two. Norman reached into the plastic pumpkin on the counter and palmed a few more pieces of candy corn. The high-fructose sugar rush helped him focus.

  Concentrating intensely, Norman worked the two center nuts around and around, then dabbed at the perspiration beading up on his forehead with the tip of his green striped tie, the one his mother had given him for Christmas. It had come in a box with a matching short-sleeve green shirt. A prepackaged, easy-to-wrap combo.

  “Whatcha doin’, Nor-man?”

  Norman looked up and saw an idiot grinning at him.

  It was his coworker with the shaved head, the no-neck Neanderthal Stephen Snertz, whose young cousins, Norman had learned, terrorized all the children of any intelligence at Malik Sherman’s middle school.

  Stephen Snertz had droopy eyes and half a goatee neatly trimmed on his chin. Judging by his very consistent stubble, he apparently shaved his upper lip and cheeks whenever he shaved his head.

  Why Norman’s dad had hired this moron to work in the Ickes & Son family hardware store, Norman would never know.

  Maybe because Snertz had been the star of the high school football team six years ago, back when Norman had been president of the chess club.

  Maybe because Norman’s dad was a bigger wimp than Norman, always letting people push him around. His father even let Snertz keep a Smith & Wesson pistol tucked under the counter near the cash register for “security purposes.”

  “What kind of screwy bolt is that, you nut?” said Snertz, raiding the plastic pumpkin, scooping up every last piece of candy corn.

  “It’s a brainteaser.”

  Something you’ll never need, he wanted to add, seeing how you don’t have a brain.

  “Norman?” It was his father.

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “Oh, hello, Stephen.”

  Snertz snorted snot up his nostrils. “Good afternoon, Herman.”

  Norman’s father, Herman Ickes, was a timid man. He was barely five feet tall, and what little hair he had left on his head had gone white when he was in his late thirties. Everything scared him. His ulcers had ulcers.