The Black Heart Crypt

The ghosts of Barnabas Ickleby’s eleven descendants gathered around him outside the family crypt.

An oily black raven sat perched on the peak of the mausoleum’s gabled roof.

“They sent Eddie Boy into oblivion,” reported Barnabas.

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.”