The Hanging Hill

87

Zipper chased the bouncing ghost balls into the basement.

Zack chased Zipper.

There had been five balls; now there was only one and it was sitting in front of a door with Janitor Closet stenciled on it.

When Zipper bit into the ball, it poofed into a hazy puff and disappeared. Zack laughed, because with wispy steam curling out both sides of his muzzle, Zipper looked like he’d just been caught smoking a cigar.

Zipper whimpered.

Zack went over to give him a reassuring head rub and maybe a splash of water to wash the taste of ectoplasm out of his mouth.

“Help…”

Zipper cocked his head sideways, raised an ear.

“Did you hear that?” Zack asked his dog.

Zipper barked what had to be a “Yes!” and started scratching at the closet door.

“Help…”

“It’s coming from inside the closet!” Zack banged on the heavy steel door. “Hello?”

“Help…”

“Somebody’s in there, Zip!”

Zack grabbed the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. He yanked it. It wouldn’t budge.

“Hang on! I’ll run upstairs! Get somebody to help!”

“No…”

“What?”

“No…”

“I’m going upstairs…”

“No…”

Zack lay down on the floor, put his head near the crack under the door.

“Sir, I’m going upstairs to tell them that you’re in trouble.”

“Don’t!” The voice sounded stronger. The man sounded old. Grouchy. “The children!” Okay, now he sounded like the grumpy old-fart janitor.

“Hello, Zack,” said a soft female voice.

He turned around. It was the actress. Not the bowing one. The singing one from Bats in Her Belfry. Kathleen Williams. She looked like a lot of the 1950s-style ghosts Zack had met back in North Chester: she wore a jazzy hat and a dress that swung out like a flowery bell.

“Remember me?” she said.

“Um … I saw you do the matinee yesterday.”

“Was I good?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I owe it all to you, Demon Slayer.”

“Hunh?”

“I told Mr. Willowmeier all about you, Zack. Told him how you slay demons, because I was on the bus. The one you set free.”

“You were?”

“Sure. After my smashing success on Broadway, I became a nightclub singer. Toured the country! I was riding on that Greyhound to my next gig when we had that dreadful accident.”

“And you were stuck in North Chester?”

“That’s right. Until you came along. I owe my triumphant return to the stage to you, Zack. I owe you big!”

“Thanks. But, right now, well—there’s a man locked inside that closet.”

“Where’s the key?”

“I don’t know!”

“Gosh. That’s too bad. Of course, I can’t tell you what to do…”

“I know. The rules. But Mr. Kimble is in serious trouble!”

“You know, I remember this one time on Broadway, my dressing room door was locked and I couldn’t find my key.”

“Miss Williams, I’d love to hear the story but…”

“So, I used my hatpin. Just jiggled it in the keyhole till I hit the latch and popped open the lock. Of course, I’m not telling you what to do, Zack. You’ll have to figure that out all by yourself.” She winked.

Zack’s eyes darted around the room.

He saw a Styrofoam head wearing an old-fashioned hat. There was a big honking hatpin holding it in place.

“Thanks!” Zack said to the ghost of Kathleen Williams, who, of course, had already vanished.

Zack pulled out the hatpin, hurried back to the door, and started working at the keyhole with his makeshift lock-picking tool. After a few jerks and wiggles, the pin caught hold of something metal. Zack levered it up and felt the pin press against the hidden lock latch.

The closet door popped open.