The Hanging Hill

50

The Native. American girl was standing inside the elevator.

She was still sobbing.

“The corn is ours!” she blubbered. “How can we steal what is ours?”

Suddenly, Zack heard a tremendous whoosh.

Someone else shot up the elevator shaft: Streaming through the floor of the car was a blast of dust that materialized into a person who clutched a sparkling necklace in one hand and brandished a bloody meat cleaver in the other.

“Silence, little girl, or I promise: I shall give you something to cry about!”

The girl wailed louder.

“Silence, I said!”

The new ghost was dressed in a black top hat and a Dracula-style cape. Blood was spattered all over his white shirt and waistcoat. Blood was caked on the blade of his cleaver.

Zipper whimpered.

Zack wished he had taken the time to tie his shoelaces; it would’ve made running away easier.

“My time is nearly up!” Cleaver Man cried. “But I shall return! Oh, yes—I shall return!” He disappeared.

The girl stopped crying.

Zack heard that trapdoor sound again.

The Indian girl fell halfway through the solid floor, then stopped with a jerk. Her head snapped sideways. She gacked and a bloated black tongue popped out of her mouth.

“Come on, Zip!”

Zack scooped up his dog and bolted down the hall to the stairwell.

Zipper still had to pee.

That meant Zack still had to face whoever or whatever else might be lurking in the shadows on the five flights of steps they would need to descend before they reached the lobby.

He just hoped whomever they bumped into wouldn’t be as scary as the girl swinging from an invisible noose back in the elevator.

Or the Jack the Ripper look-alike who popped in with his jewelry and bloody butcher blade.