The Hanging Hill Read online

  The elevator squealed to a stop. Zack slid open the accordion cage door.

  Someone was inside. Weeping.

  “Are you a demon?” she asked.

  50

  The Native. American girl was standing inside the elevator.

  She was still sobbing.

  “The corn is ours!” she blubbered. “How can we steal what is ours?”

  Suddenly, Zack heard a tremendous whoosh.

  Someone else shot up the elevator shaft: Streaming through the floor of the car was a blast of dust that materialized into a person who clutched a sparkling necklace in one hand and brandished a bloody meat cleaver in the other.

  “Silence, little girl, or I promise: I shall give you something to cry about!”

  The girl wailed louder.

  “Silence, I said!”

  The new ghost was dressed in a black top hat and a Dracula-style cape. Blood was spattered all over his white shirt and waistcoat. Blood was caked on the blade of his cleaver.

  Zipper whimpered.

  Zack wished he had taken the time to tie his shoelaces; it would’ve made running away easier.

  “My time is nearly up!” Cleaver Man cried. “But I shall return! Oh, yes—I shall return!” He disappeared.

  The girl stopped crying.

  Zack heard that trapdoor sound again.

  The Indian girl fell halfway through the solid floor, then stopped with a jerk. Her head snapped sideways. She gacked and a bloated black tongue popped out of her mouth.

  “Come on, Zip!”

  Zack scooped up his dog and bolted down the hall to the stairwell.

  Zipper still had to pee.

  That meant Zack still had to face whoever or whatever else might be lurking in the shadows on the five flights of steps they would need to descend before they reached the lobby.

  He just hoped whomever they bumped into wouldn’t be as scary as the girl swinging from an invisible noose back in the elevator.

  Or the Jack the Ripper look-alike who popped in with his jewelry and bloody butcher blade.

  51

  Zack was whistling.

  He figured that if it worked when walking past graveyards, it might work in haunted stairwells, too.

  “Five more floors to go,” he whispered tensely to Zipper.

  The stairwell was windowless and nearly dark, illuminated only by the soft red glow of Exit signs on every landing. Zack kept one hand on the cold handrail, used it to feel his way down the steps; his other arm was wrapped snugly around Zipper.

  He heard a tick-tick-tick.

  Something was clicking. He stopped. The sound stopped, too.

  Juggler Girl, he thought. Plastic balls!

  Zipper squirmed in his arms. Zack could see that pained sorry-but-I-really-have-to-pee look in his eyes.

  “Okay. Hang on.”

  He headed down the steps again. Faster.

  The tick-tick-tick started up again. Faster. Zack figured the girl was spinning her balls like crazy, getting warmed up to attack.

  He rounded the third-floor landing.

  Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

  What if she was juggling knives with plastic handles? Magician’s knives!

  Tick-tick-tick.

  What if, defying all the rules, her ghostly knives could actually hurt a human and a dog?

  Zack stopped.

  So did the ticking.

  He took another step.

  Heard one tick.

  He stepped down.

  Tick!

  He looked at his shoes. The loose shoelaces had plastic tips that slapped against the stairs every time he took a step.

  Next time Zipper had to go outside in the middle of the night, Zack was definitely tying his shoes first!

  They made, it outside.

  “Okay, boy.”

  Zack unclipped the leash and Zipper raced across the porch, down the wide center steps, and into the landscaped lawn, where he made a beeline for the nearest tree and raised his leg.

  “Probably better if he did that at the curb, don’t you think, lad?”

  Zack didn’t want to turn around, but he did.

  A roly-poly man chomping a cigar stood near the theater’s front door. He was accompanied by two giggly girls who sort of looked like Santa’s elves at the mall, only naughtier—with short skirts, long legs, and jazzy Robin Hood hats.

  “I’m joshing,” the jolly man said, pulling the cigar stub out of his mouth so he could let loose with a rumbling belly laugh. “Welcome to the Hanging Hill Playhouse, Zack! Your dog may piddle wherever he pleases. After all, you are the demon slayer!”

  52

  Zack crept backward down the porch steps, careful not to trip on his loose shoelaces.

  The jolly man and his bubbly-but-dead girlfriends drifted forward and Zack remembered what Mrs. McKenna had said during lunch: Justus Willowmeier III “was seldom seen without a cigar in his mouth and a pretty woman on each arm.”

  Zipper came running over to join Zack in a circular patch of grass at the front of the building. Dark clouds raced across the starry sky, blotting out a moon that was almost full.

  “Enjoying your stay, Zack?” Mr. Willowmeier asked from his perch up on the porch. The two showgirls batted their spidery eyelashes and smiled at him with plump, painted lips. Zack figured their lipstick must have been ruby red, but in this light it looked jet-black.

  “Having fun in my house, lad?” Willowmeier hooked his thumbs into his vest. Bounced up on his heels. Waited again for a reply.

  Zack nodded. Oh, yeah. He was having a blast.

  “Attaboy. We were all quite delighted to hear you had finally arrived!”

  “You’re our hero!” one of the girls cooed.

  “Um, I think you have the wrong guy.”

  “Nonsense. We have heard all about your courageous exploits, how you dealt with that nasty fellow at the crossroads. Sent him packing, eh?”

  “Well, yeah … but…”

  “Zachary,” said Mr. Willowmeier. “I have a proposition to make. I would like to cast you in a leading role, here at my theater!”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re special!”

  “So’s Meghan. She sees ghosts, too.”

  Mr. Willowmeier frowned for a second. “We know.” Then he smiled and his face became a jolly pumpkin head again. “But, well, Miss McKenna’s quite busy. The show must go on and all that. However, it may not go on at all if you do not do what needs to be done.”

  “Personally, we can’t do much,” squealed the other showgirl. “Except go to parties. Parties are fun.”

  “Thank you, Tina,” Mr. Willowmeier said patiently. “Zack, here then is my predicament. My careless grandfather erected his tavern on top of what had previously been Hangman’s Hill. Never a very bright idea, eh? But, let’s be fair. He negotiated a marvelous deal on the land.”

  “It was dirt cheap,” said the showgirl on his left. “On account of it being cursed by that Indian chief and all.”

  “Did the chief have a daughter?” Zack asked.

  “Indeed,” said Willowmeier. “Princess Nepauduckett. She was the first to climb up the Hanging Hill scaffold to the gallows. Back in 1639, I believe. Gross miscarriage of justice. Accused of crimes she did not commit. Corn thievery, which, I gather, was considered a capital offense in those days.”

  “She’s still here,” said Zack.

  “We know. For years, we have lived here with her and … the others. Maintaining a fragile equilibrium. Now, however, some rather greedy mortals have arrived. They mean to upset that delicate balance and evict us from our home. That is why we are all so thrilled you’re here, Demon Slayer!”

  “Huzzah!” shouted a chorus of voices from somewhere up above.

  Zack dared to look.

  In the glowing windows of the second floor, he saw a whole gallery of ghosts. A chorus line of showgirls wearing colorful headdresses; two men in baggy striped pants, holding cream pies; a rotund woman in a Viking helme
t, clutching a spear; a stagehand in a hat and suspenders, lighting sparklers and tossing them up to Juggler Girl, who stood balanced on one toe atop the tip of an ornate lightning rod, twirling the glittering fireworks in a dizzying circle above her head.

  “Wow!” said Zack. “How many of you are there?”

  “Quite a few!” said Mr. Willowmeier, rumbling up another belly laugh. “Anyone who ever traipsed across the boards or worked here behind the scenes, anyone who found their joy in the limelight, their happiness in the roar of the crowd, all are welcome to return!”

  “Be not afraid of greatness, lad!” The swashbuckling Shakespearean actor Zack and Meghan had seen in the basement pounced to the ground in front of Zack, sheathed his sword, and propped his fists heroically against his hips. “Remember: ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em’”

  “Zack,” said Mr. Willowmeir, “allow me to introduce Bartholomew Buckingham. One of the finest thespians it was ever my pleasure to know!”

  “What say you, Zachary?” Buckingham asked, his vowels round and rich. He cocked up a single eyebrow. “Will you assist us?”

  “Me? What can I do?”

  “Much. For you are the demon slayer, are you not?”

  “Right,” mumbled Zack. “I’m special.”

  “Huzzah!” shouted Buckingham.

  “Huzzah!” echoed all the others.

  Zack wasn’t sure, but he might’ve just said yes without even knowing he had said it.

  “Oh, Zack?” said Mr. Willowmeier in a stage whisper.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Not a word of this to Judy, Derek, or Meghan, eh?”

  “How come?”

  “I’m afraid they may soon need the protection of a demon slayer even more than we do!”

  53

  First thing Monday morning, Hakeem, Badir, and Jamal escorted Reginald Grimes back to the basement.

  This time, they led him into the vast warehouse located two stories below the theater’s scene shop. Hakeem flicked on a work light and Grimes was staring up at a brass statue of his new god.

  “Is it the original?”

  “No, oh Holy One. However, it is an exact replica. Handcrafted by our faithful artisans in Kairouan.”

  “Are they also my devoted followers?”

  “But of course. They have provided much financial assistance for our endeavors.”

  Grimes stared at the metal beast. “The dog days are upon us, Hakeem!” he declared. “Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest star in all the heavens, now rises and sets in sync with the sun. We enter a time of sweltering heat, when none will feel the hot blast from hell’s furnace door as we pry it open. This is the evilest time of the rolling year, when the seas boil, wine turns sour, dogs grow mad, and mankind burns with fevers and frenzies!”

  “You have studied well,” said Hakeem.

  “I took the book home last night. Reread a few chapters.”

  “Then you are ready!” Hakeem held up his key. “Let us go open the final drawer!”

  The four men scurried across the basement to the room where the trunk was stored.

  “It is time, Exalted One.”

  Hakeem’s brass key glistened in the sharply angled beam of sunshine slicing through the casement windows.

  The birds outside ceased chirping.

  “It is time!”

  He slowly inserted the key into the lock on the one drawer that remained sealed.

  “Hurry up!” said Grimes. “Open it!”

  “Guard the door,” Hakeem commanded Badir and Jamal. “Let no infidels approach!”

  They grunted. Went to the door.

  Hakeem turned the key. The locked drawer clicked open.

  “Show me!” said Grimes, quivering with anticipation.

  Hakeem bowed, slid open the creaking drawer, and extracted a brittle parchment roll.

  “What is it? Another ritual? More necro- or necyomancy?”

  Hakeem grinned. “What if you could not only summon forth the spirits of the damned but restore them to full life?”

  Grimes thought about that. “Bring the dead back to life? Resurrect them? Are such things possible?”

  “Yes, Exalted One. Here, in this place, at this time, such things are very possible, indeed.” He gestured toward the scroll. “Behold the resurrection ritual! Your grandfather, may Ba’al rest his soul, attempted to perform it. Once.”

  “When?”

  “Many years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Why here?”

  “This building was erected on what some might call cursed land. What we would call sacred soil. It is a power spot. A vortex where negative energies collide. A swarming place for the foulest demons imaginable! It is land ripe for our resurrection ritual!”

  54

  Zack was eating Cheerios out of a paper bowl in Judy’s room.

  She went with the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. They’d sliced up a banana and shared it, too. Zack figured he should probably be eating steak and eggs, biscuits and gravy. Something with tons of protein. Might bulk him up. Make him look more like what he imagined a demon slayer ought to look like. Like the superheroes in the comic books.

  Zack had tossed and turned all night. Kept dreaming about show-people ghosts.

  Not to mention demons in top hats toting bloody meat cleavers.

  And Native American girls with bloated black tongues.

  And …

  “How’d you sleep?” Judy asked.

  “Not so good.”

  “Me neither. Lumpy pillow. Strange bed. Too quiet.”

  “Too quiet?”

  “We’ve been living in that motel so long, I’m used to my nightly traffic serenade. Tires humming. Brakes squealing. Eighteen-wheelers rumbling along the interstate at five a.m. Last night, all I heard was quiet. And crickets.”

  Zack nodded.

  Maybe the whole deal with Mr. Willowmeier and the ghosts had been a dream. Either that or they had worked up some kind of spell so nobody heard everybody shouting “Huzzah!” but him. Zachary Jennings.

  Mr. Demon Slayer.

  He needed another bowl of Cheerios. Maybe a multi-vitamin with iron. Not to mention a sword or something.

  55

  “With this final ritual,” Hakeem explained to Grimes, “you will assemble the ultimate cast! A living, breathing army of demons eager to do your bidding.”

  Grimes understood. “They could rob banks for me.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Steal gold. Jewelry. Stocks. Bonds. Anything. Everything!”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  Grimes felt the blood surging through his crippled arm. “A monster like Lilly Pruett could take revenge on all my enemies.”

  “And she will. She will do whatever you tell her to do. So will they all. They will be your puppets. You will be their puppet master.”

  “Show me what must be done.”

  “These are the words the male child must speak during the ceremonial offering.”

  Grimes moved to snatch the scroll out of Hakeem’s hands.

  “Careful! It is two thousand years old!”

  “Then read it to me!”

  “As you wish.”

  Carefully, very carefully, Hakeem unrolled the parchment and recited the ancient words. When he was finished, Grimes fully understood the magnitude of his destiny, the tremendous power he had been given.

  The bloody deed that must be done to make it all so.

  He was more than special.

  He was very close to being a god.

  His eyes grew wider and wilder.

  “The boy must chant these words before the two children enter the holy place,” said Hakeem. “Tonight. When the moon is full.”

  “Why these two children?”

  “They were both born under a full moon.”

  “So that’s why you got rid of Brad Doyle and hired Derek Stone.”

&n
bsp; “Indeed.”

  “Clever. And once Derek and Meghan have played their parts, once they make their ‘exits,’ I will become the undisputed ruler of all the reanimated demons we have summoned forth?”

  Hakeem nodded.

  “Good. Good.”

  “We, of course, hope you will see fit to share whatever riches you acquire with your loyal acolytes in the Brotherhood of Hannibal.”

  “Fear not,” said Grimes. “You people have proved faithful and true. I shall prove generous and munificent.”

  “Badir? Jamal?” Hakeem clapped his hands. “Take the trunk. Hide it where no heathen might stumble upon it.”

  “Yes, Hakeem!”

  “Then finish your preparations! All must be in readiness by moonrise tonight!”

  “Fear not,” said Grimes. “I shall be ready! So shall the children!”

  56

  Derek Stone sat in the corridor outside his bedroom on the fifth floor, thumbing the remote for his radio-controlled monster truck, the only vehicle his mother had allowed him to bring on this stupid trip to Connecticut.

  He zipped it up the carpeted hallway. Slammed it into a spinning U-turn. Sent it flying over a bump in the rug and watched it carom off the baseboards. It was totally awesome.

  “Derek?”

  His mother. Calling from her room. He sidewinded the monster truck—with anodized aluminum wheel hexes and slipper clutch—into a sliding skid near the elevator alcove. Parked it. Out of sight. Out of mind.

  “Yes, Mommy?”

  “Rehearsal starts at ten a.m.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve got an hour!”

  “I know.”

  She stuck her head out her door. Her hair was in all kinds of curlers. There was green goop on her face.

  “Have you memorized your lines?”

  Derek gestured toward the script sitting in his lap, where it did an excellent job of hiding the monster-truck remote. “I’m working on it.”

  “Out here?”

  “I concentrate better in the hallway.”

  “Fine. I need to finish putting on my makeup.” She slammed the door.