The Hanging Hill

54

Zack was eating Cheerios out of a paper bowl in Judy’s room.

She went with the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. They’d sliced up a banana and shared it, too. Zack figured he should probably be eating steak and eggs, biscuits and gravy. Something with tons of protein. Might bulk him up. Make him look more like what he imagined a demon slayer ought to look like. Like the superheroes in the comic books.

Zack had tossed and turned all night. Kept dreaming about show-people ghosts.

Not to mention demons in top hats toting bloody meat cleavers.

And Native American girls with bloated black tongues.

And …

“How’d you sleep?” Judy asked.

“Not so good.”

“Me neither. Lumpy pillow. Strange bed. Too quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

“We’ve been living in that motel so long, I’m used to my nightly traffic serenade. Tires humming. Brakes squealing. Eighteen-wheelers rumbling along the interstate at five a.m. Last night, all I heard was quiet. And crickets.”

Zack nodded.

Maybe the whole deal with Mr. Willowmeier and the ghosts had been a dream. Either that or they had worked up some kind of spell so nobody heard everybody shouting “Huzzah!” but him. Zachary Jennings.

Mr. Demon Slayer.

He needed another bowl of Cheerios. Maybe a multi-vitamin with iron. Not to mention a sword or something.