The Black Heart Crypt by Chris Grabenstein

mess—years ago. It’s our duty to clean it up before we leave.”
    Zack nodded, even though he had a funny feeling that, somehow, he’d be on the cleanup crew, too.

Norman followed Jenny Ballard through the graveyard gate.
    “Come on.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “To meet your ancestors.”
    “Why?”
    They made their way through the empty cemetery.
    “What if you could show everybody in North Chester who you truly are?” Jenny asked breathlessly. “What if you could become a man to be feared?”
    Norman liked the sound of that.
    “And no one could give me grief or call me a nerd or make fun of me? Not Steve Snertz or those brats who tossed eggs at me tonight because I stopped handing out candy after the earthquake?”
    “They wouldn’t dare, Norman. Not after you become the man I know you can be!”
    “Oh, yeah? And who’s that?”
    “You, of course. But ruled by the lionhearted souls of your ancestors.”
    They stopped in front of what looked like a small mildew-stained chapel made of massive stone blocks. The weathered wooden door at the front of the crypt was sealed with a lock shaped like a black heart. Norman read the name inscribed over the entrance:
    ICKLEBY
    He felt his pulse quicken.
    He was an Ickleby. These were his ancestors.
    Blood surged to every muscle in his body.
    “Wouldn’t you like to be one of the invincible and almighty immortals, Norman?”
    Norman did not answer her.
    He simply grinned.

It was after eight p.m. and nobody had rung the doorbell for half an hour, so Judy figured she’d seen her last trick-or-treaters for the night.
    “We found the sage candles,” said Aunt Hannah, hovering in the foyer, clutching a white tube.
    “Pyewacket showed us where to look,” added Aunt Sophie.
    “Pyewacket?”
    “Virginia’s cat.”
    “Oh. Great,” said Judy, who had no idea how a cat knew where the sage candles were stored. “Speaking of candles, I’m going outside to blow out the jack-o’-lanterns.”
    “Oh me, oh my!” gasped Sophie.
    “Is that wise?” asked Hannah.
    “Well, if I don’t, they’ll wilt the pumpkins. Or maybe the wind will knock them off the railing and we’ll burn down the house. Again.”
    “But …”
    Suddenly, there was a horrible shriek—an angry yowl followed by banging, something falling, a crash, and another yowl.
    “Mister Cookiepants?” snapped Aunt Hannah. “Leave Mystic alone!”
    “Mystic?” cried Aunt Sophie. “Leave your sister alone. Bad cat! Bad, bad, very bad!”
    The two aunts hurried up the stairs to referee a catfight.
    Judy went out to the porch, picked up the pumpkin lids, and blew out the candles one by one. As the wicks smoldered, she savored the scent of fresh-baked pumpkin pie.
    “We should all smell so good when we die, am I right?”
    A stout young man swaggered toward the porch steps. He was costumed like a character from the musical Grease . Slicked-back hair. White T-shirt. Blue jeans. A pack of cigarettes tucked into his rolled-up shirtsleeve. When he moved into the porch light, Judy could see that what she’d thought were the white tips of cigarettes were actually writhing maggots.
    “Can I help you?” asked Judy.
    “Your people vaporized my son tonight. Sent him packing.”
    “What?”
    “You’re a Jennings, right?”
    “Who are you?”
    “They call me Little Paulie.” He reached into thepocket of his jeans and pulled out a blunt black handle that had a silver button on its front. “Little Paulie Ickleby.”
    Ickleby .
    The ghost Zack and Ginny had battled at the hardware store had been an Ickleby.
    This Ickleby pressed the button on the black knife handle. A sharp steel blade sprang up.
    “Go away,” said Judy. She fumbled in her pocket for a match to relight one of the jack-o’-lanterns. Couldn’t find one.
    The ghost put one foot on the first step.
    “Hey, don’t be a wet rag. Word from the bird: If you didn’t want me to drop by, you shouldn’t’ve blown out your overgrown turnips.