Judy shook her head to clear out her ears. “What?”
“Halloween. The veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is thinnest on October thirty-first!”
Oh, boy, thought Judy.
Ever since George had learned that Zack could see ghosts (the same way George had been able to when he was a boy), he had been spending a little too much time on his daily commute to and from New York City reading books about the spirit world.
George grabbed a flashlight. He and Judy hurried out the back door.
“What’s that?” George swung his beam across the yard, pausing at a half-buried lump in the grass. “It looks like a head. A shrunken head!”
“That’s Zipper’s ball,” Judy said calmly.
“Are you sure? Maybe a ghost shrunk Zack’s head.”
“That’s not Zack, sweetheart. His head isn’t yellow and squishy.”
George tilted up his flashlight and moved the beacon across a flurry of swaying branches.
“There’s a ghost up there, waving at us! See him?”
“That’s a tree, hon.”
“You sure?”
“Ghosts don’t have that many limbs. Or bird nests.”
“But trees can have ghosts hidden inside them. Zack told me about the tree that crashed into the backyard, how the ghost trapped inside broke free and went on an all-out evil spree.”
Judy took George’s arm and cuddled up against him. “That ghost is all gone.”
“I know. But maybe he’ll come back.”
“I don’t think he can.”
“On Halloween, anything is possible. They all get a hall pass on Halloween.”
Judy smiled.
George kept on going. “Communicating with ancestors and departed loved ones is easiest near Halloween, the night when souls once again journey through this world on their way to the Summerlands, which is what ancient Druids called the afterlife.”
“George?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever think about going back to reading mysteries and military histories?”
“Why? Do you think I’m going overboard with this stuff?”
“Maybe. A little. Kind of.”
“I’m just trying to make sure Zack is safe. Halloween isn’t easy for a guy who sees ghosts, trust me.”
“Look, I’m sure if Zack sees anything paranormal, he’ll tell us.”
“I hope so. Maybe he should wear a disguise so the wandering spirits don’t wreak revenge on him.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. They’re dead. They’re not thinking straight.”
Judy heard leaves crunching.
“What’s that?” George swung his flashlight toward the forest.
And practically blinded his son.
“Hey, Dad. Hey, Mom.” Zack had to shield his eyes with his forearm. Zipper stood at his side, merrily wagging his tail.
“Are you two okay?” his father asked.
“Yeah. Zipper went chasing after a devil dog.”
“A what?” said Judy.
“A big black dog with glowing red eyeballs. He chased it all the way up to the Haddam Hill Cemetery.”
“Ah,” said his father. “A Black Shuck! They guard graveyards. I read about those.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” asked Judy.
“Yeah. The dog-beast vanished.”
His father nodded knowingly. “They’ll do that.”
“But,” said Zack, “we might want to keep an eye out for Henry H. Heckman.”
“The baker on Main Street?” said George, who had grown up in North Chester and knew everybody in town.
“Yeah. He just died. The gravedigger figures he’ll be up and walking around on Monday night, seeing how it’s Halloween and all.” Zack yawned. “I’m pooped. Think I’ll head up to bed.”
“You still want to go pumpkin picking tomorrow?” his father asked, his brow wrinkled with concern.
“Yeah. And Malik and Azalea are really looking forward to it, too.”
“Great,” said Judy, smiling warmly. “Good night, hon. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
“I won’t. Come on, Zip.”
The two of them headed into the house.
“Okay,” said George, “that does it. We’re going to need reinforcements. I’m texting Aunt Ginny.”
Judy, who had only married George five months earlier, was still a little foggy about his family. “Which one is she?”
“Virginia. The youngest of my father’s three sisters. She helped me when I was Zack’s age and could see ghosts.”
“Really? How?”
“She made them go away.”
Near midnight, a young woman, maybe twenty-four, scaled the cemetery fence and approached the Ickleby crypt.
“Hey,” said the youngest soul trapped inside, the one the others called Eddie Boy, the Ickleby who had been gunned down by the Massachusetts State Police during a convenience store robbery gone bad in 1979. “Who’s this chick? She is loo-king goooood!”
The girl had ringlets of wild blond hair curlicuing out from under the peak of her hooded cape. Her cloak was made of black velvet and lined with deep-purple silk. A pentagram pendant, a five-pointed sterling silver star, dangled on a chain around her neck.
“She,” said Barnabas, his voice a sinister squawk, “is one who can be of much use to us. Her name …”
He strained to suck thoughts from the young woman’s mind. Having been a ghost for over 260 years, Barnabas Ickleby had honed telepathic powers few other spirits possessed.
“… is Jenny Ballard, and, children, it seems she fancies herself a witch. She longs to fill her mind with evil thoughts. Miss Ballard should prove quite receptive to all my subconscious suggestions!”
The other twelve souls sniggered at the remark.
“I shall infest her mind with wickedness!” Barnabas gloated. “And then—I shall send her forth to seek out our new earthen vessel!”
Fast asleep in his bedroom, Zack sure hoped he was dreaming.
If not, all sorts of dead people were dropping by to wish him a happy Halloween.
First to arrive was Rodman Willoughby, the dead chauffeur for the Spratlings, the family that used to be the richest one in all of North Chester because they owned the famous Spratling Clockworks Factory.
Seeing Mr. Willoughby sitting on the edge of the bed in his black suit and driver’s cap wasn’t too big of a shock because Zack had already seen Mr. Willoughby’s ghost at school, a couple of days after the old guy had died.
“On Halloween,” Mr. Willoughby whispered mysteriously, “I must hurry home to take care of the Cadillac. It needs its oil changed.”
That was why Zack figured this had to be a dream. In his experience, dead people never had to whisper, because nobody could hear them except the people they wanted to hear them, anyway. Whispering was a total waste of time for ghosts.
Before Zack could say, “Thanks for popping by,” Mr. Willoughby turned into Davy Wilcox—a ten-year-old farm boy in denim overalls with a slingshot sticking out of his back pocket. Weird junk like old men turning into ten-year-old boys happened only in dreams. Or movies.
“Howdy, pardner,” said dream Davy.
Zack tried to say, “Hey,” back, but since he was asleep, he couldn’t make his mouth move.
“Best be prepared come Halloween,” said Davy. “Whole mess of ghosts will come a’swarmin’ up out of the ground. It’s the dadgum spooks’ and spirits’ big night out on the town.”
Davy disappeared and became the ghost of Kathleen Williams, a dead nightclub singer and star of Broadway musicals back in the 1950s. Dressed in a black-and-orange sequined gown, she sat with her legs crossed on the edge of the bed and held a microphone in her hand. The black widow spider ring on her finger looked like it was alive!
“Hiya, Zack!” She turned to an unseen accompanist: “Hit it, Joe!”
Now Zack heard heavy pipe organ music as Kathleen Williams started belting out a little-known verse from “The Hearse Song”: