The Black Heart Crypt

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Wow.”

  “On the other hand, the very first Ickleby to come to America, Squire Barnabas Ickleby, was revered as a pillar of his community. He even helped the early colonists erect a lovely church in the Berkshire Mountains.”

  “So Barnabas was a good guy?”

  “Apparently so. But his son, Lucius? Robbed his neighbors and killed their cows. You can read all about his trial for capital crimes in the Boston newspapers from the 1760s.”

  “Mrs. Emerson?”

  “Yes, Zack?”

  “Boston and the Berkshires are both in Massachusetts, right?”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “So the Icklebys aren’t from North Chester or even Connecticut?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, why isn’t the family crypt back in the Berkshires at that church the good guy helped build? Didn’t they have a graveyard?”

  “Aha. You Jenningses all think alike.”

  “Huh?”

  Mrs. Emerson pushed open the door to her office.

  Judy was seated at the desk.

  “Your stepmother just asked me the very same question!”

  “Shouldn’t you be out there with the rest of your class?” Judy asked Zack.

  “Why should he be out there when the answers he seeks are in here?” said Mrs. Emerson.

  Judy smiled. “You’re right. Come on, Zack. Let’s figure this thing out.”

  Judy swiveled around to clack a computer keyboard.

  “I was just doing an Internet search on ‘Ickleby family crypt.’ I think I found the connection.”

  “The connection to what, dear?” asked Mrs. Emerson, peering over her reading glasses at the computer screen.

  “How the Jenningses and the Icklebys are related.”

  “Oh, my. Your husband’s family is related to these nefarious miscreants?”

  “No. Look at this: In 1979, right after the funeral for Edward Ickleby …”

  Judy scrolled down through the newspaper article. A picture popped up of a nasty-looking man with a mullet haircut.

  “That’s him!” said Zack. “Eddie Boy! The guy Aunt Ginny and I had to, you know, take care of on Halloween night.”

  “I take it this Eddie Boy was a ghost?” said Mrs. Emerson.

  “Yeah,” said Zack. Mrs. Emerson was a big believer in supernatural stuff, so it was okay to tell her the truth. “He looked just like that picture until Aunt Ginny stunned him with the sage stink bomb and started chanting at him. Then he disappeared.”

  “Interesting. The Native Americans often used white sage in a sacred smoke bowl blessing to dispel evil spirits from their midst. I see that the Jennings sisters are still dabbling in spiritual herbology.”

  “Did you know them?” asked Judy. “When they lived here in North Chester?”

  “Not very well. They are, after all, several years older than me. But one did hear stories.”

  “What kind?” said Zack.

  “Oh, several of the local gossips claimed that the Jennings sisters were, well … different. They were known to dabble in herbs and potions. Spent a good deal of time at the Hedge Pig Emporium on Main Street, where they sell all manner of nontraditional remedies.”

  “They also make a mean milk shake,” said Zack.

  “Indeed? Never heard that.”

  “Aunt Ginny told me.”

  “I see. She’s quite a character, your great-aunt. They say in her youth, Virginia Jennings would spend many nights out in the woods, talking to owls and raccoons—communing with their spirits. She and her two sisters, Sophie and Hannah, liked to dance in the misty meadow out near Spratling Manor whenever the moon was full. I am told they danced au naturel.”

  “Excuse me?” said Zack.

  “They would dance about naked.”

  Zack closed his eyes and tried not to think about what that might’ve looked like.

  “And of course,” said Mrs. Emerson, “none of the Jennings girls was ever without a cat or two. One of which was always black.”

  “Did people say they were witches?” blurted Zack. “Because that’s what I think. When Aunt Ginny did the sage deal and started chanting at the ghost, that’s when I said, ‘Yep, Dad’s aunt is a witch.’ ”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. He was glad he’d finally said it out loud.

  “Oh-kay,” said Judy, “let’s just say George’s aunts are a bit peculiar. Here’s how the Jenningses and the Icklebys get all tangled up together.”

  She clicked the computer mouse and brought up the next page of the newspaper article.

  Zack just prayed it wasn’t a story about naked moon dancing.

  “It’s a pretty short article,” said Judy. “Just a three-paragraph notice in the ‘Goings-On About Town’ column.”

  Mrs. Emerson leaned in to examine the screen more closely.

  “Well, what exactly was going on, dear?” she asked.

  Judy read from the newspaper report. “ ‘Immediately after the funeral for convicted felon Edward “Eddie Boy” Ickleby at Saint Barnabas Episcopal Church in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, all thirteen coffins in the Ickleby family’s ancestral mausoleum were removed from the family crypt and transported forty miles south by truck to North Chester, Connecticut.’ ”

  “Why?” asked Mrs. Emerson.

  “The newspaper doesn’t really say. It just reports that all thirteen Ickleby men ‘who had been interred’ in the crypt behind Saint Barnabas church, which was founded by Squire Barnabas Ickleby and other ‘good Christian men’ in the early 1700s, would ‘find their eternal rest in an empty mausoleum down in Connecticut’s Haddam Hill Cemetery.’ It also mentions that ‘counting the recently deceased Edward Ickleby, twelve of the thirteen coffins removed from the ancient tomb contained the remains of Ickleby men who had been convicted of committing heinous crimes against their fellow man’ and that the transfer would be ‘supervised by the sheriff of North Chester Township, James Jennings.”

  “Grandpa?” said Zack.

  “Yep,” said Judy.

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Emerson.

  And then nobody said anything for two whole minutes.

  Thanks to Norman, Crazy Izzy was able to stash the black heart stone where nobody could ever find it.

  Turned out the puzzle-cracking hardware-store clerk also knew how to pick the one lock in the one door that blocked his entrance to the hiding spot Barnabas had selected for the stone. When that job was done and Izzy came out of the building, he saw a black bird sitting on top of a parking meter.

  All of a sudden, Barnabas started croaking at him inside his noggin.

  “Go to Stansbury Stables. There you will find a black stallion by the name of Ebony. Steal him. Bring him to the crypt.”

  “What about killing the Jennings kid?” Crazy Izzy thought back, even though his brain was wracked with pain, what with Norman and Barnabas both yakking it up inside his skull.

  “That task can wait.”

  “For what?” he shouted out loud.

  “Never mind. Bring me the horse!”

  “All right, already! I’ll do it!”

  The throbbing headache ended.

  “Norman?” said a new voice. A real one. “Are you okay?” It was a goon in a cop uniform.

  “That’s Michael Wasicko,” Norman’s voice piped up inside Izzy’s head. “He was in my chess club in high school.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike,” said Izzy out loud. “I’m fine.”

  “You were talking to yourself.”

  “Yeah. Guess I drank too much giggle juice.”

  “You still watching all those old movies like you used to?” said the cop. “Because you sure sound like one.”

  “Yeah. Sure. You still play chess?”

  “Yep, but not as good as you. You sure you’re okay? You look a little wobbly on your feet. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  “Yeah, Mike. That’d be swell. I need to head over to Stansbury Stables.”

  “That horse
ranch east of town?”

  “Right. Whattaya say we take a powder, head over that way?”

  The cop checked his watch.

  “Sure, Norm. I get an hour for lunch. I’ll drive you over.”

  “Swell.”

  “You want me to wait? Give you a lift back to town? Like I said, I get the whole hour for lunch.”

  “No thanks, pal. I’ll just ride my horsey home.”

  Judy found Mrs. Chang and told her that Zack would have to miss school for the rest of the day.

  “Is everything okay?” asked the teacher.

  “Are you feeling all right, Zack?” asked Malik as the whole history class crowded around Zack and his stepmom in the main hall of the library.

  “Did you eat every piece of your trick-or-treat candy last night?” said Azalea. “Does your stomach hurt?”

  “No, my stomach doesn’t hurt,” said Zack, feeling a little defensive.

  “We need to go see a priest,” said Judy. “About some funeral arrangements.”

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Chang.

  “Who died?” asked Malik, sounding extremely concerned.

  “Mr. Ickleby,” said Zack very broadly, hoping Malik and Azalea would take the hint.

  “The poor man from the earthquake?” said Azalea, mugging a wink.

  “Yeah,” said Zack. “Him.”

  “He was such a wise old sage,” said Malik to let Zack know he understood what was going on, too.

  “I’ll let Zack’s other teachers know he will be out for the rest of the day,” said Mrs. Chang. “Please give our condolences to the family.”

  “Oh, we will,” said Judy.

  If we can find any Icklebys who are still alive, thought Zack.

  While A. J. Tiedeman drove Zack’s history class back to school, he and Judy would be heading north to Saint Barnabas Church in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. The current pastor, a Father Clayton Abercrombie, had been at the church since 1977. When Mrs. Emerson called, Father Abercrombie said he would be happy to meet with Zack and Judy.

  “Let’s run home and grab Zipper,” said Judy as they climbed into their car in the library parking lot. “He needs a break from all those cats.”

  “Yeah,” said Zack. “I think he might be allergic. To their claws, anyway.”

  It only took about an hour for Zack, Judy, and Zipper to drive from North Chester to the small country church. It was the middle of the afternoon but the sky was already dark under heavy clouds. The white clapboard church building was tucked into a weedy field under a webbed canopy of overgrown trees.

  When they piled out of the car, Zack saw a priest dressed all in black standing outside the dilapidated church’s front door.

  Everything about Saint Barnabas Episcopal Church looked old. Paint was peeling off the shingles. The door had been painted red ages ago but was now the color of watery tomatoes. The roof was bowed and cracked.

  Zipper tucked his tail between his legs. This eerie old church in the middle of nowhere was giving him the willies, too.

  “Mrs. Jennings?”

  “Yes,” said Judy.

  “I’m Father Clayton Abercrombie.”

  The Episcopal priest reminded Zack of a nervous ferret from a cartoon.

  Judy reached out to shake the priest’s trembling hand.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” she said. “I’m Judy. This is my stepson, Zack. You met his grandfather a long time ago. Sheriff James Jennings.”

  The priest’s left eye twitched. “Tell me—the spirits? Are they stirring again?”

  Judy nodded. “Yeah. They’re stirring.”

  “Big-time,” added Zack.

  Father Abercrombie bit his knuckle. “Has anyone been hurt?”

  “A girl,” said Judy. “She was found dead outside the Ickleby crypt in the Haddam Hill Cemetery.”

  The priest made a quick sign of the cross and said, “Please, follow me.”

  They made their way around the church building to its ancient graveyard.

  “The original Ickleby crypt is in the farthest corner,” said Father Abercrombie as they walked through the field of faded headstones, many of which dated back to the 1700s.

  “Barnabas Ickleby was the first warden of this parish. A very generous, very munificent man. Provided all the money to erect our original building. He was, of course, initially buried here.”

  He gestured toward a sagging marble mausoleum.

  Zack and Judy were staring at the blackened earth circling the old Ickleby crypt. It was as if someone had burned a three-foot path around the original family tomb. Dead ivy vines crept up the grime-covered walls.

  “My wife and I came to this church when I was a very young man, back in 1977,” said Father Abercrombie. “In no time at all, my parishioners started regaling me with ghost stories about the Icklebys. How, through the centuries, the evil ones rose up from this crypt on Halloween night to walk the earth and wreak havoc. You do know the nature of the twelve men who were buried in this vault with Barnabas?”

  Judy nodded. “We have a pretty good idea.”

  “Most of the Icklebys, the good ones, were buried out here. You can see their headstones sprinkled in amongst the rest. But the bad ones, well—Barnabas had given the church so much gold, every priest who has ever served here was content to look the other way when it came time to entomb yet another Ickleby sinner behind the heavy doors of their family crypt.”

  Father Abercrombie swallowed hard.

  “My turn came in 1979. The young thief the newspapers called Eddie Boy was gunned down in a convenience store robbery after slaying the owner and three teenaged customers. Several days before the funeral, I, for the first time, opened the Ickleby crypt—to make certain we had room for yet another casket.”

  The priest started nibbling on his knuckle again.

  “Then what happened?” asked Judy.

  “Days later, the evil revealed itself.”

  “On the morning of the funeral,” the priest continued, “when next I opened the doors to the mausoleum, all of the coffins had been rearranged!”

  “Did somebody sneak in and do it as a prank?” asked Zack.

  “Impossible. That door is six inches thick. The lock is made of iron. Only I have the key.”

  The clergyman crept closer to the creepy crypt.

  “I tried to ignore what I had seen, to construct a rational explanation. Perhaps there was metal in the coffins and a shift in the earth’s magnetic field had caused them to slide into their unusual configuration.”

  Maybe there was an earthquake, thought Zack.

  “When the funeral service concluded and the pallbearers carried Edward’s coffin into the tomb, the caskets had moved once more! The one against the wall was upside down. Three had organized themselves into an ‘I’ formation. An ‘I’ for ‘Ickleby’!”

  The priest stared at the crypt doors—as if he feared they’d suddenly swing open and swallow him whole.

  “Months later, on Halloween, some children reported hearing voices inside the mausoleum. That night, horrible deeds were done.”

  “By trick-or-treaters?” asked Zack.

  “Trick-or-treating children do not burn down barns or slash the throats of innocent animals. They do not kill the one witness who survived Eddie Boy’s convenience store rampage and testified against him in court.”

  “All this happened on Halloween night?” asked Judy.

  “Yes. The following morning, I once again entered the Ickleby crypt.”

  “Had the coffins been rearranged again?” asked Judy.

  “All thirteen were upside down and resting on their lids.”

  Zack’s eyes went wide as he imagined it.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” said Father Abercrombie. “I could not harbor the spirits of demons here on sacred soil!”

  And so you shipped them off to us, thought Zack. Nice.

  “With nowhere else to turn, I consulted a wise old woman who lived in a hovel deep in
the woods. I had heard of her … reputation.”

  Judy said it first: “Was she a witch?”

  “Some would certainly call her that. Her name, as I recall, was Harriet, and she was quite familiar with the Icklebys and their evil ways, for she claimed a swarm of Ickleby ghosts had, on that very same Halloween night, slain her favorite pet. A black cat she called Grizzmaldo.”

  “When was this?” asked Judy.

  “Thirty years ago. My wife—may she rest in peace—thought I had gone mad, prattling on about the ghosts of the evil Icklebys, the coffins in the crypt, decapitated cats, witchy women in the woods.…”

  “How did this Harriet know it was Ickleby spirits who killed her cat?” Judy asked.

  “She saw them. A crowd of twelve ghosts, one brandishing an axe. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘We be Icklebys,’ they replied. ‘This night belongs to us and all those who would do evil even after death!’ The one with the axe used it on her black cat.”

  Zipper moaned. He wouldn’t wish that kind of cruelty on any creature, even ones with claws.

  “I begged the wise woman of the woods to do something. Anything. This churchyard had to be cleansed of its foul spirits! She agreed. Said she wanted the cursed Ickleby corpses moved as far from their familiar haunts as possible. She told me she would contact certain cousins, three distant sisters who might be able to help us both.”

  Zack looked at Judy. They both realized who Harriet’s three cousins had to be: Ginny, Sophie, and Hannah.

  Now the priest stared down at Zack. “That week, all my prayers were answered. Your grandfather, Sheriff James Jennings—may God bless his soul—contacted me. He told me he wasn’t sure why, but his sisters had insisted that he call to tell me about ‘the empty Spratling crypt.’ ”

  “Spratling!” mused Zack.

  “A wealthy family that lived in North Chester, the town where your grandfather was sheriff.”

  “We know all about the Spratlings,” said Judy.

  “Well, apparently, they had built a family crypt in the Haddam Hill Cemetery, which they never used because they built a second, much more elaborate mausoleum on the grounds of their estate.”