The Black Heart Crypt

by Chris Grabenstein

  The others hissed and moaned.

  “Who was it?” asked Little Paulie Ickleby, the stubby ghost of a bank-robbing thug who’d died in 1959. “Who bumped off my boy?”

  “The Jennings family, of course,” said Barnabas. “The boy and one of the hags who imprisoned us here.”

  “You sure?”

  “My spy saw it all.” Barnabas nodded toward the black bird roosting on the roof. “They saged him first. Then the woman spoke the words.”

  Little Paulie twitched, cracked his knuckles, and smoothed out his jelly roll hairdo. Eddie Boy had been one of Paulie’s two sons. The other one hadn’t taken up the family business: crime. Instead, Paulie’s second son, Herman, had become a coward—living the straight life, peddling paintbrushes, toilet seats, and duct tape in a two-bit small town.

  “Send me out next,” said Paulie.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll kill the Jennings kid. Give ’em the ol’ eye-for-an-eye. They hustle my boy off into the great beyond, I send theirs to an early grave.”

  “Perhaps we should wait until we have a body to do our bidding,” suggested Barnabas.

  “No way. Tonight’s Halloween. We killed that old witch’s cat on Halloween, remember? Up in Great Barrington. Right before they shanghaied us down here to this Nowheresville.”

  “True,” said Barnabas.

  “Hey, we may be dead, but one night a year, we’re also deadly—just so long as our souls ain’t sealed up in that tomb no more. Come on. The clock’s ticking here. Where do I find this Jennings punk?”

  The raven swooped off the roof.

  Barnabas pointed toward its inky silhouette flitting across the sky.

  “Follow our winged friend,” said Barnabas. “He shall lead you to the child.”

  Zack and his friends decided to skip the costume competition.

  Their poster-board “Bs” were torn during the hardware store scuffle, and now, instead of killer bees, they looked like a squashed “D,” a “P,” and a “3.”

  “We probably wouldn’t have won anyway,” said Azalea. “We’re looking slightly B-draggled.”

  Zack and Malik laughed. They were riding in the backseat with Aunt Ginny. Zipper was sound asleep in Zack’s lap.

  “Good thing you wore your gym clothes,” said Malik, indicating Aunt Ginny’s purple tracksuit. “So how come you know so much about ghosts and how to vanquish them?”

  “Oh, I just listened to a lot of folklore as a child. Studied the powers of herbs. We had an older cousin up in Great Barrington who knew everything about … herbology.” She reached over to pat Zack on the knee. “You did good in there, champ.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Azalea and I might have been seriously injured,” said Malik, “if Zack hadn’t pushed us out of the way like that.”

  Zack shrugged. “I could see what the guy was doing; you two couldn’t.”

  “Indeed,” said Malik. “You have an extremely rare and useful talent, Zack.”

  “I guess.”

  Azalea turned around to ask Aunt Ginny a question. “So how come this ghost could actually do junk like knock over shelves full of paint cans? Zack told us ghosts can’t do stuff like that.”

  “Zack is correct,” said Aunt Ginny. “Ghosts are disembodied spirits, so on most days, they cannot do much in our realm. Tonight, however, is Halloween.”

  “Ooh,” said Malik eagerly, “do they get special superpowers every October thirty-first?”

  “Something like that,” said Aunt Ginny. “On Halloween, the border between this world and the next is so thin, spirits can more easily reach through the veil that separates the living from the dead.”

  “They can reach out and touch someone,” said Azalea. “Whack ’em, too.”

  “Well, it’s eight o’clock,” said Zack’s dad. “They only have four more hours to reach out and wreak havoc.”

  “Actually,” said Aunt Ginny, “they have until sunup tomorrow.”

  “The sun rises at 7:22 a.m. tomorrow,” said Azalea.

  “It was on the front page of the newspaper this morning.”

  “Great,” said Zack. “They’ve got eleven and a half hours to knock junk over.”

  “Or try to knock people off,” added Azalea.

  The van was headed west on State Route 13.

  Fortunately, Zack knew they would exit before reaching the Haddam Hill Cemetery. He did not want to see who else had risen to pull a Halloween all-nighter in the boneyard.

  He turned to Aunt Ginny.

  “Last Friday,” he whispered, “I hid behind the Ickleby crypt up in the graveyard.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. You think maybe they’re mad at me for doing that? Is that why Eddie Boy came after me tonight?”

  “Doubtful, dear.”

  They passed the tall wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Spratling Manor, a deserted stone castle built in 1882. No one had lived on the mansion grounds since Gerda Spratling and the last resident, Mr. Rodman Willoughby, her longtime chauffeur, passed away.

  And there he was. Standing in front of the vine-shrouded gates. A ghost in a black suit and driver’s cap. He waved cheerily at Zack as the van passed by. Zack gave him a tentative finger wave back.

  “You know, Zack,” Aunt Ginny whispered, “there is a way to be rid of your gift, if that’s what you want.”

  “Really?” Zack whispered back.

  Azalea had cranked up the radio when it started playing the theme from the movie Ghostbusters—enough disco noise for Zack and Aunt Ginny to chat without anyone hearing what they were chatting about.

  Now Zack saw Davy Wilcox walking along the edge of the road with a fishing pole slung over his shoulder.

  “Howdy, pardner!” Davy shouted with a wave.

  Only Zack and Aunt Ginny heard him.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Ginny.

  “Yeah,” said Zack, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. “That’s Davy. I met him last summer. In the crossroads.”

  “Well, all you have to do, if you never want to see him or an Ickleby again, is drink a special drink.”

  “You mean like a magical herb potion?”

  “Actually, it’s more like a chocolate milk shake.”

  “Like my dad drank?”

  Aunt Ginny nodded.

  “And then the ghosts would all go away?”

  “Well, they’d still be there. You just wouldn’t be able to see them.”

  Zack turned back to the window and thought about what Aunt Ginny was proposing.

  Ever since he had first started seeing ghosts (and not just imagining that the ghost of his dead mother was lurking in the shadows to make him pay for making her life so miserable), Zack had wished his special talent came with a gift receipt so he could take it back and exchange it for something better, like Azalea’s photographic memory.

  But tonight his ghost-seeing ability had helped him save Malik and Azalea from getting creamed under a heap of falling hardware or tumbling paint cans. It helped him rescue Zipper.

  Tonight his special talent really did feel like a gift because he’d been able to use it to protect his friends.

  “I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got, Aunt Ginny.”

  “You sure?” she asked, unable to hide her pride at hearing Zack’s answer.

  “For now. Yeah. I’m good.”

  She patted his knee again. “You certainly are.”

  Zack smiled and looked out his window again. In an open field, six Korean War soldiers (whom Zack had also met last summer) were greeting all sorts of other soldiers: guys from World War II, Vietnam, the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, even the American Revolution. They tapped a keg of what probably wasn’t root beer and passed around frothy mugs to celebrate Memorial Day on Halloween night.

  “If you change your mind …,” said Aunt Ginny, who was also staring out the window, admiring the rowdy army men.

  “I’ll let you know,” said Zack.

  “Don’t
you worry, Zack,” said Aunt Ginny. “This isn’t your fault. My sisters and I made this mess—years ago. It’s our duty to clean it up before we leave.”

  Zack nodded, even though he had a funny feeling that, somehow, he’d be on the cleanup crew, too.

  Norman followed Jenny Ballard through the graveyard gate.

  “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To meet your ancestors.”

  “Why?”

  They made their way through the empty cemetery.

  “What if you could show everybody in North Chester who you truly are?” Jenny asked breathlessly. “What if you could become a man to be feared?”

  Norman liked the sound of that.

  “And no one could give me grief or call me a nerd or make fun of me? Not Steve Snertz or those brats who tossed eggs at me tonight because I stopped handing out candy after the earthquake?”

  “They wouldn’t dare, Norman. Not after you become the man I know you can be!”

  “Oh, yeah? And who’s that?”

  “You, of course. But ruled by the lionhearted souls of your ancestors.”

  They stopped in front of what looked like a small mildew-stained chapel made of massive stone blocks. The weathered wooden door at the front of the crypt was sealed with a lock shaped like a black heart. Norman read the name inscribed over the entrance:

  ICKLEBY

  He felt his pulse quicken.

  He was an Ickleby. These were his ancestors.

  Blood surged to every muscle in his body.

  “Wouldn’t you like to be one of the invincible and almighty immortals, Norman?”

  Norman did not answer her.

  He simply grinned.

  It was after eight p.m. and nobody had rung the doorbell for half an hour, so Judy figured she’d seen her last trick-or-treaters for the night.

  “We found the sage candles,” said Aunt Hannah, hovering in the foyer, clutching a white tube.

  “Pyewacket showed us where to look,” added Aunt Sophie.

  “Pyewacket?”

  “Virginia’s cat.”

  “Oh. Great,” said Judy, who had no idea how a cat knew where the sage candles were stored. “Speaking of candles, I’m going outside to blow out the jack-o’-lanterns.”

  “Oh me, oh my!” gasped Sophie.

  “Is that wise?” asked Hannah.

  “Well, if I don’t, they’ll wilt the pumpkins. Or maybe the wind will knock them off the railing and we’ll burn down the house. Again.”

  “But …”

  Suddenly, there was a horrible shriek—an angry yowl followed by banging, something falling, a crash, and another yowl.

  “Mister Cookiepants?” snapped Aunt Hannah. “Leave Mystic alone!”

  “Mystic?” cried Aunt Sophie. “Leave your sister alone. Bad cat! Bad, bad, very bad!”

  The two aunts hurried up the stairs to referee a catfight.

  Judy went out to the porch, picked up the pumpkin lids, and blew out the candles one by one. As the wicks smoldered, she savored the scent of fresh-baked pumpkin pie.

  “We should all smell so good when we die, am I right?”

  A stout young man swaggered toward the porch steps. He was costumed like a character from the musical Grease. Slicked-back hair. White T-shirt. Blue jeans. A pack of cigarettes tucked into his rolled-up shirtsleeve. When he moved into the porch light, Judy could see that what she’d thought were the white tips of cigarettes were actually writhing maggots.

  “Can I help you?” asked Judy.

  “Your people vaporized my son tonight. Sent him packing.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a Jennings, right?”

  “Who are you?”

  “They call me Little Paulie.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a blunt black handle that had a silver button on its front. “Little Paulie Ickleby.”

  Ickleby.

  The ghost Zack and Ginny had battled at the hardware store had been an Ickleby.

  This Ickleby pressed the button on the black knife handle. A sharp steel blade sprang up.

  “Go away,” said Judy. She fumbled in her pocket for a match to relight one of the jack-o’-lanterns. Couldn’t find one.

  The ghost put one foot on the first step.

  “Hey, don’t be a wet rag. Word from the bird: If you didn’t want me to drop by, you shouldn’t’ve blown out your overgrown turnips. Jack-o’-lanterns protect you, sister. Frighten spooks away.”

  Okay. The folktales were true.

  Little Paulie Ickleby lurched up to the second step.

  “First you Jenningses drag us away from home.”

  He climbed the third step.

  “Next you rub out Eddie Boy? My favorite son? Now all I got left is chickenhearted Herman!”

  Little Paulie slashed his knife angrily to the left.

  It scratched a deep scar into the porch railing.

  The knife blade could do serious damage. It was real.

  Because tonight is Halloween, Judy realized.

  “Where’s your son?” asked the ghost, his eyes narrowing to reptilian slits.

  “What?”

  “You people take my son; we take yours. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a boy for a boy.”

  Little Paulie lunged forward.

  Behind Judy, the front door flew open.

  A cat hissed.

  “Duck!” shouted Aunt Hannah.

  “Incoming!” shouted Aunt Sophie.

  The two aunts leapt onto the porch and hurled smoldering white smoke bombs at the feet of Little Paulie Ickleby.

  Pyewacket, Aunt Ginny’s gray-and-white cat, sprang over to swat its paws at the greaser’s knees. Little Paulie froze in his tracks and dropped the switchblade knife so he could clench his throat.

  “You’re … bad … news!” he gasped in pain.

  “Especially for you, young man,” said Aunt Hannah.

  The aunts leaned over the gulping specter and started to chant. “It is time for you to leave. All is well. There is nothing here for you now.”

  Judy could’ve sworn that the ghost was starting to fade away, like somebody had just unplugged him.

  “Go now, Paul Ickleby,” said the two aunts. “Go. Complete your passing.”

  With one last pitiful, choking whoop, the ghost disappeared.

  And somewhere, high in a tree, a bird cawed harshly.

  Zack was feeling pretty good as the van headed up Stonebriar Road for home.

  He’d hang on to his ghost-seeing gift, at least until Halloween was over. He’d protect his friends and family.

  They’d already dropped off Malik and Azalea.

  “Sorry we had to cut Halloween a little short,” said his dad, turning into the driveway in front of their house.

  “That’s okay.”

  “If you like, Zack,” said Aunt Ginny, “we can go to the grocery store tomorrow. I suspect all the Halloween candy will be half price.”

  He chuckled.

  But then he saw Judy and his dad’s other two aunts up on the porch. All three were waving their arms over their heads the way people do when they’ve just witnessed a car wreck on the highway. Zipper shot his ears up, sensing trouble.

  “Oh, my,” muttered Aunt Ginny.

  Zack’s dad jammed on the parking brake, jumped out of the van, and raced up to the porch. Zack and Zipper were right behind him. Aunt Ginny was bringing up the rear.

  “What happened?” Zack’s dad asked.

  “Another one of those Ickleby ghosts,” said Judy. “This one looked like he was from the 1950s.”

  “Aha,” said Aunt Ginny after she caught her breath. “Little Paulie. The next-youngest man in the mausoleum.”

  “What?” said Zack’s dad. “Who’s Little Paulie?”

  “Eddie Boy’s father,” said Ginny.

  “Who’s Eddie Boy?” asked Judy.

  “The ghost Aunt Ginny smoke-bombed in the hardware store,” said Zack.


  “Virginia?” said Aunt Hannah, her hands on her hips. “What have you done?”

  “Me? Why, nothing, sister.”

  “How would you explain this sudden influx of evil Icklebys?”

  “We three agreed,” mumbled Aunt Sophie somewhat sheepishly. “I remember. We did.”

  “Did you use my sage candles, sisters?” Aunt Ginny asked very sweetly.

  “Yes,” said Hannah. She looked like she was so mad she might turn into a smoke bomb, too.

  “Wonderful,” said Aunt Ginny. “Two down, ten to go.”

  “You seem very pleased,” said Hannah.

  “Me? Hardly. But now that the cats are out of the bag, so to speak, perhaps we three should go inside and discuss this matter further?”

  “What matter?” asked Judy.

  “Oh, we’re not to speak of it,” said Sophie. “It’s a triple-pinky secret.”

  Aunt Ginny winked at Judy. “I’ll clue you in later, dear.” She gestured toward the front door. “Sisters? Shall we?”

  Hannah harrumphed into the house. Sophie followed her.

  “Oh, Georgie?” said Aunt Ginny.

  “Yes?”

  “We may need to stay in town a bit longer than originally planned.”

  Jenny Ballard found a sharp twig and etched a five-pointed star into the blackened dirt in front of the Ickleby family crypt.

  Then she surrounded her pentagram with one dozen sputtering candles.

  “Stand in the center of the burning circle, Norman!” she said, her voice urgent and breathy. “Prepare to welcome your ancestors into your body.”

  Norman hesitated.

  “This is your chance!” said Jenny. “Forever banish weak Norman from your body!”

  “I can make my dad pay for never standing up for me?”

  “Yes, Norman.”

  “And Snertz? I get to cream him, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And those jerks from high school?”

  “Yes! All who once caused you pain shall cower in fear before you.”

  “And evil. Do I get to be evil? Because evil people have all the fun.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And will you be my girlfriend?”