The Smoky Corridor Page 7

  30

  It didn’t take long for Judy and Mrs. Emerson to find the facts about the Donnelly brothers and the fire at Pettimore Middle School.

  It was all in the North Chester Weekly Chronicler’s account of the terrible tragedy of Tuesday, January 11, 1910.

  TWO DONNELLY BROTHERS AND

  HEROIC TEACHER DIE IN SMOKY CORRIDOR

  AT PETTIMORE SCHOOL

  Joseph and Seth Donnelly, orphans, ages twelve and ten, along with their arithmetic instructor, Mr. Patrick J. Cooper, perished last night, all three having suffocated inside a cramped and smoke-filled corridor on the first floor of The Pettimore School for Children.

  Mr. Cooper, the teacher, had gone into the smoky hallway in a valiant attempt to rescue his two charges who, according to firemen at the scene, had been playing with matches, attempting to ignite an “indoor campfire” with sheets of paper and wooden rulers. The fire quickly spread to a nearby bulletin board as well as the wood-paneled walls. The doorknobs at both ends of the corridor had been locked by the boys to prevent their antics being discovered.

  However, Mr. Cooper, a newly arrived genteel Southerner, who had quickly established himself as a guardian to the wayward and neglected children at the Pettimore school, was grading papers in his classroom, one of two off the narrow hallway leading to the school’s woodworking shop. He apparently rushed into the corridor when he smelled smoke. The door to the classroom, firemen state, “accidentally locked behind him,” denying the three victims their only possible escape route, as the door to the classroom across the hall had already been locked at the close of the school day.

  “The Donnelly brothers were both members of the Sons of Daniel Boone,” Pettimore School Principal John Broadwater told reporters. The Boone society is the largest boys’ organization in America. The group teaches camping, conservation, and outdoor pioneering skills. “I wish they had stuck to indoor games, such as treasure hunting, this winter,” added Principal Broadwater.

  Firefighters responding to the incident reported that the boys and their teacher were dead when they arrived on the scene. The blaze was quickly doused and contained to the one hallway.

  “It was a good thing this happened after school hours,” said North Chester Volunteer Fire Brigade Commander Samuel J. Morkal.

  The coroner has ruled that both Donnelly boys and Mr. Cooper succumbed to smoke inhalation, having been trapped inside the corridor with the fire, which quickly consumed all the available oxygen. Their bodies were burned beyond recognition.

  “Building a campfire indoors, especially in such a confined space, is never a very bright idea,” Morkal said.

  Patrick J. Cooper, the heroic teacher who lost his life trying to save the boys, was a recent arrival to the North Chester area.

  Originally from Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, he came to Connecticut last fall to teach mathematics and volunteered to serve as the faculty advisor for the Daniel Boone scouting group. His fellow teachers say Mr. Cooper always went out of his way to help “the weak and the orphans.”

  Another member of Mr. Cooper’s family had also, in the past, migrated north to live in the North Chester area. In something of an ironic twist, Mr. Cooper’s grandfather John Lee Cooper is buried in the “potter’s field” section of the Riverside War Memorial Cemetery on the riverbank behind the school.

  Funeral services for Joseph and Seth Donnelly will be held this weekend at Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church, North Chester.

  Mr. Cooper’s body will be transported by railcar to Georgia for interment in the family plot.

  Judy sat back in her chair and shook her head.

  “How could those two boys be so stupid? An indoor campfire? They were scouts, for goodness’ sake.”

  Mrs. Emerson nodded. “Perhaps this Sons of Daniel Boone organization no longer exists because their handbook failed to point out the obvious hazards of such foolish behavior!”

  “Is that hallway still such a firetrap?”

  “No, thank goodness. They rebuilt it completely. Put in a fire exit. Used brick instead of wood. Replaced one classroom, put in newfangled bathrooms—indoor plumbing being quite the rage in 1910. It’s very safe back there now. Unless, of course, the two Donnelly boys turn out to be ghosts of the more dangerous sort.”

  “We need to dig a little deeper into this scout group,” said Judy. “I’d like to find out what all that ‘Kit Carson’ and ‘Johnny Appleseed’ talk means. Why do they want Zack to join them?”

  “We’ll keep digging. But, Judy?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I were you, I’d advise Zack to steer clear of the Donnelly brothers.”

  “You’re right. Zack doesn’t need any more trouble from fires, indoors or out!”

  31

  Zack was starving.

  He went to his locker (nobody was inside it waiting for him) to retrieve his lunch box and followed a swarm of hungry sixth graders toward the tantalizing aroma of tacos wafting up from the cafeteria’s steam tables. Mexican Fiesta Day!

  Girls were giggling. Guys were goofing around, slugging each other in the arms.

  And Zack saw another ghost. One he recognized.

  The ghost was leaning against a wall near the tray rack, wearing tights, a tunic, and a Robin Hood hat.

  “What ho, Zachary!”

  It was Bartholomew Buckingham, a dead actor Zack had met at the Hanging Hill Playhouse.

  “How fare thee, lad?”

  “Fine,” Zack muttered as he bent down and pretended to tie his shoe so nobody would see him talking to a stack of plastic cafeteria trays.

  “My, what a merry and motley crew is this!” said Buckingham, placing his hands on his hips and taking in the cafeteria scene. “Are these your new school chums?”

  “No. Not really. It’s my first day and—”

  “Tut-tut. I trust you shall soon be as popular amongst your peers as I was.” Buckingham struck another pose. This one involved jutting out his chin.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Ah! An excellent question, most excellent, indeed! I was recently anointed guardian ghost of my great-great-grandson Charles Buckingham.”

  The ghost gestured at a boy in the food line.

  “Unfortunately, being deceased, I can do little to help the poor child.…” The hammy actor took off his feathered cap and held it over his heart. He sobbed some.

  Zack sighed. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “Huzzah! Glad you asked!” He sounded all bright and cheery again. “Here, then, is the situation: I fear young Charles may have inherited my heart condition—the one that did me in during my final performance as Hamlet. I’m told the critics called it ‘the best death scene ever done by any Hamlet anywhere’—even if it did come one act early.”

  “I’m not a doctor.…”

  “No, but perhaps you could have a word with his gym teacher? If Charles exerts himself too much, say shinnying up a rope or doing too many jumping jacks, I fear there might be complications.”

  “You want me to tell a gym teacher that your great-great-grandson should be excused from phys ed?”

  “Huzzah! What a brilliant idea! Thank you, Zachary!”

  Buckingham disappeared before Zack could tell him he’d only said what he’d said so the actor could hear how ridiculous it sounded.

  And then he saw something more bizarre than a swashbuckling Shakespearean actor: Malik Sherman standing on top of a chair at the far end of the dining room, flailing his arms above his head and whistling like a maniac.

  32

  “Over here, Zack! Over here!”

  Most of the other tables were already crowded.

  Malik’s table, on the other hand, was almost empty. Malik sat at one end, Azalea Torres at the other. Zack went over to join them. He sat in the middle.

  “So, what did you bring for lunch?” Malik asked eagerly.

  “Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s the only thing my stepmom knows how to make.”

&nb
sp; “Well, it’s an excellent choice, seeing how Pettimore Middle School has not yet been declared ‘nut free.’”

  Zack nodded. If ghosts like Bartholomew Buckingham kept popping in, it never would be, either.

  “A bit heavy on fat content, perhaps, at eighteen grams,” Malik continued, “but it will also provide sixteen percent of your daily recommended protein! To control your sugar intake, you might suggest to your mother that she use fruit preserves instead of jelly.”

  “She already does.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And, actually, she’s my stepmother.”

  Azalea looked up from the book she’d been reading while nibbling nacho chips. “What happened to your real mother? Did she die?”

  Zack nodded. “Yeah. Cancer.”

  Azalea nodded back. “Sorry.”

  “What’s that?” Zack asked, pointing at her three-sectioned cafeteria plate. Salsa. Chips. More chips.

  “My very own Mexican fiesta.”

  “Smart,” said Zack. “I saw those tacos they were serving. They said they were beef but the meat looked kind of gray and goopy.”

  “Yeah,” said Azalea. “They probably boiled somebody’s shoe.”

  Zack and Malik laughed. Azalea actually smiled.

  “You ever wish you could talk to her?” she asked Zack.

  “Who?”

  “Your mom.”

  Zack looked at the Goth girl. Beneath all that black makeup, she seemed pretty nice—despite how tough she pretended to be. But they’d known each other for only ten seconds. Zack hadn’t even told Judy how horrible his real mother had been until they’d been together a pretty long time.

  So, like he did when discussing this particular subject, he lied.

  “Yeah. I wish I could talk to my mom.”

  “I think it’d be neat to talk to dead people,” Azalea said thoughtfully.

  Zack nodded. It could be. Every now and then.

  “So, Zack,” said Malik, “are you fascinated with the afterlife as well?”

  He shrugged.

  “I think it would be cool to start a séance club,” said Azalea.

  “Whom would you seek to converse with?” asked Malik.

  “I dunno. Maybe those Donnelly brothers. I’d like to hear their side of the story.”

  Zack was tempted to say, Hey, I’ll give you their number. He bit into his sandwich instead.

  Benny, his friend from the neighborhood, came over to the table, holding a tray loaded down with Mexican food. Charles Buckingham was with him.

  “Hey, Zack. This is my buddy Chuck. Can we sit with you guys?”

  “Sure.”

  “Awesome!”

  The two boys eagerly climbed into their seats but Benny was too excited to eat his mystery-meat taco. “Hey, Zack, I was telling Chuck about how you’re going to blow up the principal’s office.…”

  “I’m not gonna blow up the principal’s office, Benny!”

  “Great. Because Chuck thinks maybe you should take out the cafeteria first!”

  “Or the gym,” said Chuck. “I hate phys ed. I’m so glad I don’t have to take it until tomorrow!”

  Great. Zack had one day to figure out how he could convince a gym teacher to go easy on the guy.

  “So, Chuck,” Zack said as casually as he could, “you ever think about seeing a cardiologist?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know … a heart doctor?”

  “Can’t. We don’t have health insurance. I just try not to get sick.”

  Oh-kay. Zack needed a new idea. The direct approach wasn’t going to work.

  “Hello, everybody.” Ms. DuBois, the history teacher, hovered near their table, holding a tray with nothing on it but a fruit cup. “I’m on cafeteria duty. Might I join you?”

  “Please do, Ms. DuBois,” said Malik.

  And she did!

  33

  Wade Muggins had been wandering aimlessly through a maze of corridors underneath the school.

  No.

  Wait.

  He’d been walking for more than an hour. He had to be beyond the school by now. Maybe underneath the woods behind the gym.

  At one point, he’d dropped the rusty revolver so it would be a landmark, let him know if he was walking around in circles. He never saw the thing again.

  He sniffed the air. There was a faint hint of dampness to it. Maybe he was near the Pattakonck River.

  Holy crap. If he was near the river, that meant he was under the cemetery!

  Dude! There were dead people snoozing in the dirt right above his head! Skeletons and worms and rotted flesh. Skulls and bones and tattered clothes.

  He was about to toss his cookies.

  But he had to keep going. There was gold down here, too. There had to be. Why else would somebody build a maze underground? He swung his flashlight to something painted on a row of support beams, one word on each board:

  WELCOME

  ABOARD

  THE

  CRESCENT

  CITY

  Freaky.

  He crept up the narrow corridor.

  He thought he heard breathing. Wet, wheezy breathing.

  “Is anybody down here?” he shouted. “Dude? I come in peace!”

  No response.

  He came to a junction. Left or right? He went right again.

  He shone his light into the darkness in front of him.

  It flashed off two dull eyeballs.

  “Whoa.” Wade stepped back. The eyes looked dead. Gross. A cadaver had fallen through the ceiling when the bottom of its coffin had rotted away.

  Then the eyes moved.

  The two dead eyeballs weren’t attached to a dead body!

  Suddenly, the eyes sprang forward.

  Some kind of living creature leapt into the air and sank its fangs into Wade’s arm. He dropped the flashlight and screamed.

  The creature released its grip and opened its jaws wide to strike again. Wade could tell by the rumble in its throat that the thing was lining up for a second lunge. He could feel and smell the monster’s breath.

  “No!” Wade pleaded.

  Just as the beast was about to bite off his face, Wade heard an unbelievably evil voice cry out from somewhere in the darkness: “McNulty!”

  The beast stopped.

  “McNulty, come!”

  “Yes, master,” slurred a slow, dull voice.

  Wade heard soft footfalls as the creature loped off into the gloom.

  Wade wasn’t dead! He reached for the flashlight lying on the ground. The bite in his arm hurt so bad it burned.

  But he could walk. He could run!

  Breathing hard, feeling woozy, he raced around blind corner after blind corner and finally stumbled into a room he hadn’t been in before.

  He swung the flashlight around in circles until it hit an elongated black tank with steam valves popping up at either end. Wade saw a furnace below the tank with four fuel doors. A black exhaust pipe rose out of one end, angled sharply, then disappeared through a wall like a dryer vent would. Wade, who knew a thing or two about furnaces and boilers, recognized what it was immediately: the tube boiler from an old paddle wheel steamboat.

  “What’s it doing way down here?” he mumbled. “The river is aboveground.”

  Wade needed to talk, just to hear his own voice. Ever since that thing had bit him, his head had been feeling kind of fuzzy. Fuzzier than normal.

  He leaned against a neatly stacked mountain of firewood.

  “Mommy? I have a boo-boo.” He could feel his mind slipping away, his memories oozing out his ears.

  “Twinkle, twinkle little star …”

  Drool dribbled down his chin.

  “Baa-baa black sheep …”

  He could feel his teeth growing longer, their spiky tips pricking the lining of his cheeks.

  “Ba-ba-ba-ba …”

  He didn’t recognize his own voice.

  He remembered the first word he ever learned.

  “
Dada.”

  And then he could think of nothing.

  Except the desire to taste human brains.

  34

  “Dinner will be a little late tonight,” Judy said when she came up to Zack’s room around six o’clock. She was carrying a brown envelope and a folded-over copy of the North Chester weekly newspaper.

  “Everything okay?” Zack asked.

  Zipper, who had been sleeping on his back against the baseboard, his legs sticking up in the air, rolled over to pay attention.

  “Your dad’s just running late at the office. I could heat something up if you’re starving.…”

  “Nah, that’s okay.”

  “So, what’re you working on?” Judy asked.

  “Homework.”

  “On the first day of school?”

  “Yeah. I’m almost done.”

  Judy opened up the newspaper. “Zack, there’s a death notice in the obituaries I wanted you to see.…”

  “Is it about Mr. Willoughby? Because he died a couple days ago.”

  “Yes. But how did you know?”

  “He came to see me today.”

  “What?”

  “At school. Davy sent him.”

  “Our Davy?”

  “Yeah, I saw him today, too.”

  “At school?”

  “Yeah. That place has a ton of ghosts—guess most schools do.” And he hadn’t even mentioned Bartholomew Buckingham.

  Judy looked concerned. “Is everything okay, Zack?”

  He wanted to tell her all about the zombie that Davy had warned him about. But Davy had also warned him not to tell Judy. Can’t bring no adults into this zombie situation, he’d said. Willoughby had said basically the same thing: Not a word of this to your parents. It’s for their own protection.

  “Yeah. Everything’s cool. Mr. Willoughby just wanted to say so long and Davy just wanted to say howdy. I have the same locker he had when he went to school at Pettimore.”

  “Well, if anything seriously spooky starts happening …”

  “You’ll be the first person I tell.”