Norman Ickes stumbled to his feet.
His legs were a little wobbly.
“What happened? Where am I?”
“We’re in the top of the town clock tower,” said Zack. “The police should be up here soon.”
“They’re going to arrest me, aren’t they?”
Malik and Azalea both looked at Zack.
“Maybe,” said Zack. “See, some pretty strange stuff happened.”
Norman made his way toward the clock face.
“Take it easy,” suggested Azalea. “You’ll probably feel a little dizzy for a while. I know I did after I got possessed.”
“A ghost took you out for a joyride, Norman,” added Malik.
“My dad’s a lawyer,” said Zack. “I think he can help you. Maybe you can plead temporary insanity or something.”
Norman peered through a hole in the clock face.
“My father is down there. And Stephen Snertz is still alive? Why is everybody helping him into that ambulance?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Zack. “You see, Malik and I—”
“I hate my father,” said Norman, who wasn’t really listening to anything Zack said. “He’s a weakling. And that Snertz? He’s a bully.”
“I know. They all are. But like I was saying, my dad—”
“I should’ve killed them both,” said Norman, “when I had the chance!”
“Excuse me?” said Malik.
“I liked being evil, Malik! You would, too! Having the rage of my wicked ancestors burning inside my body. I felt strong. Nobody could stop me. Not that Stephen Snertz, that’s for sure. Why did you three take that away from me?”
“You were possessed by an evil spirit,” said Zack, trying to explain.
“I wasn’t possessed,” said Norman. “I was fulfilled! I invited the demon into my body to make me the man I always dreamed I could be. And now I’m just Norman Ickes again?”
“You’re a good guy,” said Malik.
“A good guy?” He spat out the words. “A good guy. You mean a nerd and a geek. I don’t want to live like that again.”
“Take it easy,” said Zack.
“You ruined me!”
“No, we …”
Norman didn’t listen.
He turned to the giant clock face and pounded the glass with both balled-up fists.
The whole clock face crackled like thin ice and fell out of its frame in sheets of angled glass.
All that was left were the black scrolled hands.
“Stand and deliver!” Norman shouted to the crowd below, sweeping his arms out wide. “I am Jack the Lantern!”
A diving raven swooped past the wide-open circle that used to be a clock.
And Norman Ickes leapt from his perch to soar after it.
The next weekend, Zack, Azalea, and Malik went to Norman Ickes’s funeral.
Stephen Snertz did not make it. He was in traction at the hospital, suspended upside down with his fractured fanny in a plaster cast.
Ebony, the black stallion possessed by Satan, had been captured near Spratling Manor and taken back to Stansbury Stables, where he was spending the weekend under the watchful eye of an expert animal psychologist.
At the funeral services, Norman’s father announced that his son’s coffin would not be buried in the Ickleby family crypt or anywhere near the Haddam Hill Cemetery.
“The cycle of evil and violence that has plagued my family all these years must stop,” he told the mourners. “It must end with my son.”
Zack totally agreed.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, Zack and his dad drove the three aunts and their cats to the airport for their return flight to Florida while Judy stayed at home with Zipper, who almost wagged his tail off saying “buh-bye” to his departing kitty kin.
Aunt Ginny was bandaged but recovering nicely from her gunshot wound.
Thanks to Aunt Sophie’s wide load, Aunt Ginny and Zack were, once again, scrunched up together in the backseat of the family van.
“You did good, Zack,” Aunt Ginny said, patting him on the knee.
“Thanks. You too.”
“Oh, dear.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We forgot to go to the Hedge Pig Emporium and order you that chocolate milk shake.”
“That’s okay, Aunt Ginny. Maybe next time you come visit.”
“Are you sure? Because we can change our flight. Fly back tomorrow.”
“Aunt Ginny, can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Is the chocolate milk shake only on the kids’ menu?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would it work on you? Could you drink one and stop seeing ghosts?”
“What? And miss out on all the fun?”
“I’m serious.”
Aunt Ginny sighed and thought about her answer. “Yes, Zack. I could. But I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, dear, I think that those of us who can see and stop evil need to protect those who cannot.”
“Yeah. That’s kind of what I think, too.”
“I know.” She winked at him. “It runs in the family.”
THANK YOU …
In my school visits, I have fun improvising a ghost story based on suggestions from the assembled students to teach about story structure, protagonists, and antagonists. So I am eternally grateful to the fifth grader who, when prompted for a good name for a bad guy, shouted out,
“Ickleby!”
I’d also like to thank all those who made generous contributions to the Artemis Project animal rescue group in New York for a chance to name one of the aunts’ cats. Pyewacket, Mister Cookiepants, and Mystic were the winners, along with all the strays the Artemis Project helps here in New York City.
Thank you also to R. Schuyler Hooke, the best editor on this metaphysical plane or any other; Nicole de las Heras, who makes my many-chaptered books look so good; Scott Altmann, who has made the last three covers so creepy; Lisa McClatchy from Kids @ Random House, who helps me organize all my school visits; Emily Pourciau, who tells the world about Zack and Judy; the copy editors, who have taught me things about colons I never realized; and everybody else at Random House Children’s Books, who has been so terrific to me and my stories.
Thanks as always to my agent, Eric R. Myers, who in six short years has shepherded seventeen of my stories to publication.
And to all the teachers, students, librarians, and parents who have told other teachers, students, librarians, and parents about the Haunted Mystery series.
Finally, all the cats in the book would like to thank Jeanette, Parker, and Tiger Lilly—the three cats who allow me to share their office space when I write.
CHRIS GRABENSTEIN’S first three books for younger readers—The Crossroads, The Hanging Hill, and The Smoky Corridor—have won a bunch of accolades and awards, including two Agathas and one Anthony.
Born in Buffalo, New York (where sometimes it snows on Halloween), and raised in Tennessee (which is why Davy talks the way he does), Chris moved to New York City many years ago to become an actor and a writer. He did improvisational comedy in a Greenwich Village basement with some of the city’s funniest performers, including this one guy named Bruce Willis. He used to write TV and radio commercials, cowrote the made-for-TV movie The Christmas Gift, starring John Denver, and even wrote for the Muppets.
Chris is also a New York Times bestselling author of such award-winning mysteries and thrillers for adults as Tilt-A-Whirl, Rolling Thunder, and Slay Ride.
Chris and his wife, the actress J. J. Myers, live in New York City with three cats and a dog named Fred, who has the best credits in the family: Fred starred on Broadway in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. You can visit Chris (plus Fred and the cats) at ChrisGrabenstein.com. Chris loves hearing from readers. His email address is author@ChrisGrabenstein.com.