The Black Heart Crypt

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.