They circled each other.
“Who are you?”
“Your worst nightmare,” said Mullet Man with a sneer.
Zack backed up a few steps and realized he was standing in the worst possible place—right underneath a Peg-Board loaded with box cutters, knives, and scissors, all with their blades pointed down!
“Cool it, Eddie Boy,” warbled a familiar voice from the door.
It was Aunt Ginny, in her purple tracksuit, a white tube clenched in her fist. Beyond her, Zack could see his dad, Malik, Azalea, and Zipper out on the sidewalk.
“You!” said Eddie Boy Ickleby. “Where are your two grody sisters, you old hag?”
“At home, Edward. Packing flares just like this one.” She popped a plastic cap off the white stick. Struck it against the doorframe. Sparks sizzled. Smoke spewed. Aunt Ginny tossed the smoldering stick at the ghost’s feet.
“No!” The ghost sounded stunned. He stood stock-still, frozen in place.
“Aunt Ginny?” shouted Zack’s dad from outside. “Is that a stink bomb?”
“No, Georgie. It’s a smudge stick. Garlic, clove, thistle, peppermint, and of course sage. Lots and lots of sage.”
“Hate … sage,” gasped the petrified ghost. “Can’t … move …”
“Yep,” said Aunt Ginny. “Breathe it and weep.”
Thick white clouds billowed up out of the sizzling tube.
“You … wretched … old … witch!” The ghost choked as he clutched his throat. He seemed to be fading. Zack could see clear through him, like the ghosts in cartoons.
“What’s going on in there?” cried Zack’s dad.
“Just dealing with a nasty troublemaker from 1979.”
“What? Who’s in there besides Zack?”
“Nobody, dear,” said Aunt Ginny, moving closer to the gasping ghost. “Not for long, anyway.”
Aunt Ginny bent forward and spoke directly into the dematerializing man’s ear.
“It is time for you to leave. All is well. There is nothing here for you now.”
The ghost’s eyes went wide as he fought against the incantation.
“Go now, Edward. Complete your passing.”
And with one last whimper, the ghost vanished.
Zack looked at Aunt Ginny, his eyes filled with awe and amazement.
“Wow. That was incredible.”
“Is the ghost gone?” asked Azalea from the door.
“Yes, dear,” said Aunt Ginny as she briskly swiped her hands clean a few times. “One down. Eleven to go.”
“Is Zack okay?”
Judy, at George’s suggestion, had put the phone on speaker. George’s aunts Hannah and Sophie were standing in the front hallway, mouths hanging open, listening.
“Zack’s fine,” said George. “Malik and Azalea, too. According to Aunt Ginny, it was one of the Ickleby ghosts.”
The two elderly aunts gasped.
“What’s an Ickleby ghost?” Judy asked.
“I’m not sure,” said George. “Aunt Ginny said she’d tell me more once we make certain Zack and his friends are safe and take care of the mess we made here at the hardware store. Oh, she did mention that there are eleven more of these ‘evil Icklebys.’ ”
“Eleven more?”
Now the two elderly sisters were nodding. Sophie was also nervously nibbling on a bite-sized Baby Ruth.
“Hang on, hon,” said George. “Aunt Ginny wants to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“Judy? Am I on speakerphone, dear?”
“Yes, Aunt Ginny. What happened?”
“Oh, we just had an unfortunate incident. Everything’s fine now, just fine. Hannah and Sophie? I packed some extra sage candles in my trunk. Maybe you two should run upstairs and retrieve a few.”
“Sage candles?” asked Judy.
Judy saw Hannah and Sophie exchange worried glances.
“Well, dear,” said Ginny on the phone, “they’re actually more like portable smudge pots, if you will.”
“They stun evil spirits into submission,” said Hannah, sounding upset. “Come along, Sophie. It seems our baby sister has been up to some sort of mischief.” Hannah started trudging up the staircase to the second floor.
Sophie looked at Judy. Fear filled her eyes. “Will you be giving away all of the Butterfinger bars?”
“Sophia?” shouted Hannah from the steps.
“Coming.” Sophie followed Hannah up to the second floor.
Right after Judy slipped her a Butterfinger.
The doorbell rang as a new group of kids stormed up the front porch steps and screamed, “Trick or treat!”
Judy just hoped they weren’t little Icklebys.
“Trick or treat!”
“Oh, my. Look at all these goblins and ghouls. Here you go, kids.” Smiling, Judy started doling out the candy bars. “Neat costume, Alistair.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Jennings. I like your pumpkins.” The boy gestured at the six flickering jack-o’-lanterns lined up along the porch railing.
As soon as the kids were gone and the door closed, the phone began to ring again.
“Hello?” Judy answered.
There was silence on the other end.
“Hello?”
More silence.
“George? Is that you?”
“No,” replied a weak voice. “This is … Francine.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is Zack’s aunt. Francine. I’m his mother’s sister.”
“Oh, right. Francine. Hi.”
Judy had never met the woman, but from what she had gathered from George, Francine Potter-Kressin-Venable-Greene was a very wealthy, extremely crabby, exceptionally angry middle-aged woman.
From Zack, Judy had learned that “Aunt Francine hates me even more than my mother did. She blames me for killing her sister.”
All in all, Aunt Francine didn’t come very highly recommended.
“Is there a number where I can call you back?” asked Judy. “We’re kind of busy here tonight.…”
“Are you Judy? The woman who took my …”
There was a long pause. “… my sister’s place?”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. I’m on my way.”
“On your way where?”
“Tell Zack it’s Halloween, so I’m coming to take care of him.”
Norman Ickes’s father had fired him.
“It was an earthquake,” Norman had tried to explain. “A kid panicked and knocked over some display racks. We had to evacuate the store.”
His father wouldn’t listen.
Now Norman and the strange girl, Jenny Ballard, were sitting in her car at the dead end of the dirt road that snaked up the back of Haddam Hill.
They parked in a moonlit patch of asphalt and stared at the eerie cemetery.
After several minutes with no sound but the creak of skeletal trees dancing with the wind and an angry cat’s moaning at the moon, Norman finally spoke: “My father probably wishes I had never been born.”
Jenny cuddled closer. “I’m very glad you were, Norman. You are the heir to an awesome line of amazing men.”
“What?”
“You, Norman, are an Ickleby!”
“I am?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s an Ickleby?”
“Your real name.”
“Ickleby Ickes?”
“No, silly. Norman Ickleby.”
“Says who?”
“The voice.”
“The voice?”
“It speaks to me. In here.” She tapped the side of her head. “It told me to find you, to bring you here. It told me to bring this!”
She held up a very sharp hunting knife.
“Did you steal that from my dad’s store?”
She nodded.
Norman sighed. “It was in a locked display case!”
“I unlocked it. While your father was firing you.”
“Great. You stole a very expensive hunting knife. How stupid are you? My dad’s going to know it’s missing.”