The Black Heart Crypt

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.”