He couldn’t see any floating fiends or phantoms.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t up there, biding their time, waiting for a chance to swoop down and terrify Zack.
They’d probably all heard how special he was.
18
Zack saw Judy and Monica the Company Manager near the box office, which looked like an elaborately decorated circus wagon with bank-teller windows.
Zipper barked.
“Hey, Zack!” Judy waved them over.
“Sorry we’re late. Zip and I ran into some of the actors out back.”
“Who?”
“Meghan McKenna!”
“Really?”
“Yeah!”
“Did you get her autograph?”
“Not yet.”
Judy was excited. “Well, get one for me when you do!”
The company manager beamed. “We were all so thrilled to hear that Miss McKenna, an actual Oscar nominee, would be joining the Pandemonium Players!”
There was that word again. “Pandemonium?” Zack asked.
“That’s what we call our resident acting company,” Monica explained.
“Cool,” said Zack, wondering why the janitor wanted him to beware of a bunch of actors. They seemed pretty harmless. Unless, of course, that kid Derek sneezed all over you.
Judy handed Zack a brass key. “Monica and I need to get the scripts organized for the table meeting. Why don’t you take Zipper up to the room, make sure he has water, and then meet us downstairs in rehearsal room A? We’re on the very top floor!”
“Awesome. Oh, I forgot to tell you—I also met Derek Stone.”
“Who?”
“You know, the Hollywood guy who used to be on Ring My Bell?”
Judy looked confused.
“It’s a TV show. He’s not on it anymore.”
“Oh,” said Judy. “I see. He’s one of the adults in the cast.”
“No. He’s a boy. About my age. I guess he’s playing Charlie.”
“No, Brad Doyle is playing Charlie,” said Judy. “He’s a Broadway actor from New York.”
“Uh,” said the company manager, “Derek Stone was a last-minute replacement. Signed him on yesterday.”
Now Judy seemed shocked. “Really?”
“Yes. Brad Doyle got sick. Very, very sick.”
19
“Have you memorized your lines, Derek?”
“No. Not completely.”
“What’s taking you so long?”
“I just got the script yesterday, Mom.”
“And?”
Derek Stone hung his head. He and his mother were striding across the carpeted lobby of the Hanging Hill Playhouse, on their way to rehearsal room A for the first read-through and table meeting.
Derek didn’t want to be here.
He couldn’t sing. In fact, he scared the neighbor’s pets when he tried. Yes, driving around in a chauffeured limousine was fun but what he really wanted was to go home to Marina del Rey so he could race his remote control monster truck up and down the driveway some more.
“Chin up,” said his mother. “You’re a star, Derek. Act like one. Stop slouching.”
Derek did as he was told. He held himself erect and moved swiftly. He smiled and nodded at everyone they passed. He even tucked one hand into the side pocket of his blazer while letting his other arm swing freely at his side. He’d seen a British prince walk that way once on TV. It looked suave.
Derek Stone would make his mother happy and try to act like a great actor.
He just wished he really were one.
It would make all the pretending so much easier.
20
Judy and the company manager headed for the down staircase and rehearsal room A.
Zack and Zipper hurried across the lobby to the elevator. He kept pushing the up button until he finally read the sign hanging on the sliding cage door:
OUT OF SERVICE
That meant he and Zipper would have to climb the steps.
All the way to the fifth floor.
21
Bleary-eyed, Reginald Grimes sat at the desk in his office, devouring the curling pages of the thick book.
“I have a table meeting at ten,” he mumbled. “Shouldn’t miss it.” He kept speed-reading.
He had been up all night with the ancient text and was nearing the end of The Book of Ba’al, which was filled with astonishingly incredible spells and incantations, amazingly powerful rituals and rites.
In the first pages of the book, he had found his family tree, something every orphan dreams of one day discovering. He learned that not only did he have a father and a grandfather, he had two thousand years of history and could trace his roots all the way back to Carthage and the supreme high priests of Ba’al Hammon.
He felt as if he were in a hypnotic trance. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or all the coffee he had been guzzling. Grimes remembered the time when the orphanage doctors had attempted to surgically repair his withered arm years after the incident with the wringer washer. They had put him under with ether, an anesthetic that had sent him swimming through a murky pool of sleep and dreams. He felt the same way now, under the spell of this intoxicating book.
“The children have arrived,” said Hakeem, standing guard at the office door. Two Tunisian musclemen had accompanied Hakeem to the theater this morning: One was named Badir, the other Jamal.
“Hmmm?”
“The chosen children. They are here. Young Miss McKenna and Master Stone.”
Grimes looked up from the book. “Master who?”
“Stone,” said Hakeem. “Derek Stone.”
“Who in blazes is he?”
“The young boy who will be playing the leading juvenile in your next production.”
“Charlie?”
Hakeem nodded.
“Bah! I cast Brad Doyle for that part!”
“Have you not heard? Young Master Doyle has taken ill. It came over him quite suddenly.”
Grimes thought he heard one of the burly thugs guarding the door chuckle.
“Besides,” Hakeem continued, “Master Stone is better suited for the role. He has—how shall I put this?—the same qualifications as Miss McKenna.”
“Really? Says who?”
“The financial backers of Curiosity Cat.”
“Oh. You’ve spoken to my producers? Because I never have. I am given to understand that they are very wealthy, very busy men.”
Hakeem smiled. “Indeed. We are. Very, very busy.”
22
Yesterday Zack had thought it was totally awesome that they’d be sleeping in what was basically the Hanging Hill Playhouse’s attic. Now, as he and Zipper rounded the landing for the second floor, he wasn’t so sure.
“Only three more floors to go,” he said. He was panting. Zipper wasn’t. Zack hoped that they’d get the elevator fixed before he and Judy had to haul in their luggage. Otherwise, they’d be lugging it up five flights of stairs.
Trudging up to the third floor, Zack heard a little girl giggling.
Probably Meghan McKenna, Zack thought. He held on to the handrail. Leaned out. Peered up.
He saw nothing except the space between alternating flights of stairs and the bottoms of the billion metal steps he and Zipper still had left to climb.
“Come on, Zip.”
They hiked up to the landing between the second and third floors.
That’s where they heard more giggles.
“Meghan?” Zack called out. “Is that you?”
No answer.
“This is pretty funny, hunh? Guess the elevator’s so old it croaked.”
Another laugh. No. A howl.
This time it came from a man. From below.
“The devil led me on!” A raw voice rang out.
Now Zack heard plodding footsteps.
Someone was climbing up the staircase—behind them!
“The devil led me on!”
“Come on, Zip.” Zack picked up his d
og and started taking the stairs two at a time. Behind them, the footfalls continued.
Click. Clunk.
Heavy boot heels hitting steel.
Click. Clunk.
Zack’s heart was pounding hard. He could feel Zipper’s racing, too.
“Don’t worry, Zip. I’m here.”
Zipper barked and his sharp yap rang like a bell in a tiny tiled bathroom.
The girl upstairs giggled again.
“Meghan?” Zack gasped. “Is that you?” Each word took more air than he had in his lungs. Each breath took more effort than the breath before.
Click. Clunk. Click. Clunk.
“The devil led me on!”
Zack spun around.
Saw nothing. No one.
But he did feel an icy chill pass right through him!
Clack. Clunk.
Clack. Clunk.
Now the footsteps were in front of him!
Zack didn’t move.
“Beware of that one,” whispered a voice.
Slowly, very slowly, Zack tiptoed up to the next landing, where he really, really, really hoped he’d find Meghan McKenna hidden in the shadows, doing a spooky voice.
Only it wasn’t Meghan.
It was another girl. Younger. Five, maybe six. She was juggling three balls high above her head. Her skin was ashen. Her dress was ruffled, her hair tied up in a big red bow.
“Beware!” she whispered again. “He’s one of the others!” And then she vanished.
Suddenly, at the top of the stairwell, Zack heard a wooden trapdoor swing open. A man screamed.
Zack leaned over the handrail, looked up.
The soles of two hobnailed boots came hurtling straight down at him!
He snapped back and watched the falling man yank to a stop.
Another ghost.
And this one was wearing really old clothes. Long boots with buckles, pants buttoned near the knees, and a cloak with a broad white collar. As he dangled in the narrow space between the staircases, Zack realized that this ghost looked exactly like a Thanksgiving Pilgrim without his hat.
Except those Pilgrims didn’t usually have nooses around their necks.
23
Reginald Grimes rose from his chair.
“So you people, you brothers of Hannibal, you fancy yourself theatrical producers?”
“Only when it suits our purposes, Exalted One,” Hakeem replied humbly.
“Is that so?” Grimes was furious. He balled up his good hand into a fist and banged it hard against his desk. “How dare you change my cast without consulting me first!”
Hakeem bowed slightly. “It was for the best.”
“Oh, really? For the best? Explain that to me, Mr. Hakeem.”
“In good time, High Priest. In good time.”
“Bah! Now!”
Hakeem raised his eyes. Smiled. “First, you must prove yourself worthy of our trust.”
Grimes scoffed at that. “What? You dare audition me?”
“Yes,” said Hakeem thoughtfully. “We do.”
“I am Reginald Grimes!”
“We know that.”
“I audition for no one.”
“Really? Not even when the role we offer will give you wealth and power beyond your wildest imaginings?”
That gave Grimes pause.
“How much wealth and power?”
“More than any mortal man has ever known.”
Oh. He liked the sound of that. He liked it a lot.
“Very well, gentlemen. For the time being, I accept your cast change. I will work with this new boy. What’s his name?”
“Stone. Derek Stone.”
“He’s right for the part?”
“He and Meghan are both perfect.”
Grimes returned to his chair. Leaned back. “I am curious about one thing. Why did your so-called brotherhood choose to produce Curiosity Cat? Why not Bats in Her Belfry?”
“Curiosity Cat provides that which we require. The two children. This sacred power spot. The full August moon. Even now the portal begins to open.”
Grimes grimaced and reopened the ancient text sitting atop his desk. He frantically flipped through the pages—forward, then backward—hoping to find some explanation, maybe something he had missed the first time through. Two children? August moon? Sacred power spots?
“The answers you seek are not revealed in that text,” said Hakeem. “To find them, we must open the secret compartment, to which I alone have the key—the key personally handed to me by your glorious grandfather.”
“So let’s go open it!”
“No. First you must finish reading all that is written in The Book of Ba’al and my men must install the scenic piece that arrived only this morning.”
“You’re changing my scenery, too?”
“This prop will not appear onstage. However, I am happy to report, it was delivered in most excellent condition, having traveled across the sea from Tunisia.”
“Tunisia?” said Grimes. “You people imported scenery we’re not even going to use—all the way from Tunisia?”
“Yes,” said Hakeem.
“You’re insane!”
“Actually, we prefer the term ‘devout.’”
24
“Soon,” he hears them say.
“Soon!” It is hissed by a hundred voices slithering around him in the swirling cesspool of disembodied demons and devils beneath the theater, all yearning to live once more.
“Soon the moon grows full!”
“The portal begins to widen.”
“The two children have arrived!”
“Soon we shall see the red moon!”
“Soon comes the lightning moon!”
“The dog moon!”
The demon spirits howl and cackle and hiss again in harmony: “Sssooooon!”
Diamond Mike Butler, the Butcher Thief of Bleecker Street, feels hope swell once more in his decay-riddled soul.
Soon the full August moon will rise in the sky. Soon he will rise as well.
And, if all goes as promised, this time he will also cross the precipice to life, where he will once again pillage and plunder and cause more people to die!
25
Wilbur Kimble, who was more than eighty years old, had worked at the Hanging Hill Playhouse all his life, dating back to when it was a stop on the old vaudeville circuit.
He pushed his broom into rehearsal room A and sized up the dozen or so people milling about drinking coffee. Actors. Designers. The stage manger. Kimble recognized Tomasino Carrozza. Talented man. Could’ve been a head-liner back in the days of vaudeville, when you had to have talent or the audience would toss rotten tomatoes at you. Literally. Janitor’s job was even harder back then.
Kimble shoved his broom underneath the folding table where the producers had set up a coffee urn, hot cocoa, juice boxes, paper cups, muffins, bagels, and doughnuts.
Cocoa. Juice boxes.
That was because there were kids in this show. A couple of actors from out in Hollywood.
Kids.
Wilbur Kimble hated seeing children in the theater. Made his job that much harder.
He ran his broom along the baseboard so he could move around the room and eyeball the woman who intended to live at the theater for three weeks with her son. Apparently, from what he’d seen on the posters up in the lobby, this Judy Magruder Jennings was a big-deal children’s book author.
“Excuse me? Sir?”
Kimble turned. A bottled blonde who appeared to be smuggling soccer balls under her blouse was waving at him. Her bracelets kept clacking against each other.
“Aya?” said Kimble.
“My son spilled his apple juice.” She gestured at a boy in a blue blazer. The bratty Little Lord Fauntleroy was holding his juice box upside down and squeezing it like he was milking a cardboard cow, fascinated by not only the squirts but the gassy fart sounds they made. Boy seemed a bit peculiar. Maybe dim-witted, too.
“This apple juice is dangerous
!” the boy whined out his nose. “I’m fructose intolerant!”
Some of the adults were staring at the kid, wondering what kind of holy terror they’d be spending the rest of their summer with. Well, the little monster didn’t scare Kimble. He’d seen his type before. What they lacked in talent, they made up for with hot air and temper tantrums.
The boy dropped his crumpled juice box to the floor. His mother wiggled her fingers to indicate exactly where Kimble needed to mop up.
Stage mothers. The spoiled brats and crybabies always had one.
“Has anyone seen Miss McKenna?” the stage manager called out.
“Her mother must’ve let her sleep in,” said juice boy’s stage mother. “Maybe because Meghan is a ‘movie star.’” The blonde made quote marks in the air. Sounded jealous.
“I’m waiting for my son, too,” said the playwright.
“We have a few more minutes,” said the stage manager. “Reginald is running late.”
Kimble pushed his broom out of the room
Kids.
Three of ’em.
Two in the show plus the writer’s son.
There hadn’t been any children at the Hanging Hill Playhouse since that ill-fated production of The Music Man, a show that had been forced to close early because all the children in the cast quit.
They were all too terrified to work at the theater. Seemed they kept seeing ghosts.
Kimble smiled.
Maybe he could convince these three to go home, too.
26
Zack decided he’d skip the table meeting.
They’d be rehearsing the show for three whole weeks, so what was the big deal about being there for the first read-through?
Why not give the Pilgrim Guy a chance to vacate the premises?
There was a knock on the door.
Ghosts usually didn’t knock; they more or less seeped their way in. But maybe this was a trick.
Another knock.
“Zack?”
It was a girl and she sounded older than the juggling ghost.
The Hanging Hill Page 5
