The Black Heart Crypt

“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.