The Black Heart Crypt

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.