The Hanging Hill

51

Zack was whistling.

He figured that if it worked when walking past graveyards, it might work in haunted stairwells, too.

“Five more floors to go,” he whispered tensely to Zipper.

The stairwell was windowless and nearly dark, illuminated only by the soft red glow of Exit signs on every landing. Zack kept one hand on the cold handrail, used it to feel his way down the steps; his other arm was wrapped snugly around Zipper.

He heard a tick-tick-tick.

Something was clicking. He stopped. The sound stopped, too.

Juggler Girl, he thought. Plastic balls!

Zipper squirmed in his arms. Zack could see that pained sorry-but-I-really-have-to-pee look in his eyes.

“Okay. Hang on.”

He headed down the steps again. Faster.

The tick-tick-tick started up again. Faster. Zack figured the girl was spinning her balls like crazy, getting warmed up to attack.

He rounded the third-floor landing.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

What if she was juggling knives with plastic handles? Magician’s knives!

Tick-tick-tick.

What if, defying all the rules, her ghostly knives could actually hurt a human and a dog?

Zack stopped.

So did the ticking.

He took another step.

Heard one tick.

He stepped down.

Tick!

He looked at his shoes. The loose shoelaces had plastic tips that slapped against the stairs every time he took a step.

Next time Zipper had to go outside in the middle of the night, Zack was definitely tying his shoes first!

They made, it outside.

“Okay, boy.”

Zack unclipped the leash and Zipper raced across the porch, down the wide center steps, and into the landscaped lawn, where he made a beeline for the nearest tree and raised his leg.

“Probably better if he did that at the curb, don’t you think, lad?”

Zack didn’t want to turn around, but he did.

A roly-poly man chomping a cigar stood near the theater’s front door. He was accompanied by two giggly girls who sort of looked like Santa’s elves at the mall, only naughtier—with short skirts, long legs, and jazzy Robin Hood hats.

“I’m joshing,” the jolly man said, pulling the cigar stub out of his mouth so he could let loose with a rumbling belly laugh. “Welcome to the Hanging Hill Playhouse, Zack! Your dog may piddle wherever he pleases. After all, you are the demon slayer!”