The Black Heart Crypt

Crazy Izzy made Norman’s hands jerk the steering wheel hard to the right.

The truck and horse trailer bounded off State Route 13, up the rutted road, and through the wrought-iron cemetery gates. It finally skidded to a stop in front of the Ickleby crypt.

The masked ghost of Barnabas Ickleby stood there waiting.

“Why the rush, Izzy?” asked Barnabas.

“I knocked over a greasy spoon on the way home,” said Izzy, climbing out of the truck. “Now the boys in blue are hot on my tail. I figure my getaway vehicle here will be easy for them to spot, on account of the fact there’s a horse buggy hitched to its bumper!”

“You found Ebony?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Let me see Satan’s descendant.”

“Huh?”

“When I was alive, I rode a black Arabian stallion whom I called Satan.”

“Sweet. Hang on.” Izzy unlatched the back doors to the horse hauler. The proud horse backed down its metal ramp.

“Excellent,” said Barnabas, admiring the animal.

“Okay. Swell. You got your horsey.” In the distance, Izzy heard the faint wail of approaching police sirens. “I need to scram.”

“Yes, Isador, you do.”

Izzy’s hands flew up to his head. He felt all kinds of dizzy.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” he moaned. “My noodle feels like it’s bein’ squeezed in a nutcracker.”

“That’s me,” said Barnabas. “You have served me well. You did your jobs. Now it is time for you to depart that body.”

“What? No way. I want to keep on livin’!”

“Sorry. I want to live, too. I just didn’t want to bother with all the pesky details of organizing my new life.”

Izzy was clutching Norman’s ears now. He’d never felt a headache like this before. Like sledgehammers to his temples. Sledgehammers and red-hot railroad spikes and tommy guns rat-a-tat-tatting in his brain.

“Depart the body!” Barnabas commanded.

Izzy heard a horse whinny. Then another one. Different-sounding.

Barely able to raise his eyelids, Izzy struggled to look up.

There was another black stallion standing beside Barnabas.

“Enter your offspring!” his masked ancestor shouted. All of a sudden, the ghost horse turned into a blazing ball of purple swamp gas and shot into the live horse’s heaving rib cage.

Ebony screamed. Just once. And then he snorted and flicked his mane and scraped at the ground with his hoof as the soul inside tried on its new body for size.

“You chiseled me into helping you bust loose!” Izzy groaned.

“Of course I did,” said Barnabas. “I was evil long before you were even born!”

Izzy could feel Norman’s body going limp. He slumped to his knees, his arms and neck all rubbery.

“I didn’t kill the Jennings kid for ya,” he grunted.

“No problem. I will. In fact, I rather enjoy slaying children. And—I was much, much better at it than you.”

Now Barnabas was turning into a violet ball of fiery gas.

Izzy felt a sock to his gut.

Everything went purple, then black.

And he was nothing more than a soul without a body again.