The Smoky Corridor

113

George draped his jacket over as much of the corpse as he could.

Zipper slumped to the ground, his tail tucked between his legs.

“This is horrible. What’s going on down here?”

“Something unbelievably bad,” said Judy, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Why didn’t Zack tell me?”

“You? Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have believed him.”

“What?”

“This was done by some sort of supernatural beast. A werewolf or a ghoul or a …”

“Or a zombie.”

“What? You don’t believe in zombies or ghouls or ghosts. Right?”

“Sure he does,” said a kindly voice in the darkness.

Judy whipped her flashlight around. Its beam reflected off a white crossing-guard sash.

“Scary Arie?” said George.

“Hiya, George.”

“Honey?” said Judy.

“Judy, uh, meet Arie Sibirski. In 1949, he died saving a kid in a crosswalk.”

“Darn turnip truck,” groused Arie.

“He’s a ghost?” said Judy.

“Yeah.”

“And you can see him?”

“You see him, too, right?” George asked Judy.

“Yeah. So that’s where Zack gets it.…”

“Zack sees ghosts? He never told me.”

“Did you ever tell anybody?”

“Are you kidding? They would’ve thought I was …” He paused for a second. “Oh. Yeah.”

“Zack your son?” asked Arie.

“Yes.”

“He and a friend named Malik went down to the end of the tunnel and took the staircase on the left.”

“Thanks! Come on, Judy.”

Arie flipped up a handheld stop sign. “Sorry. It’s not safe down there.”

“That’s why we have to find Zack!”

“No, I mean it’s not safe for you two.”

“Sorry, Arie.” George grabbed Judy by the hand. “Our son needs us. We’re breaking the stupid rules!”