The Smoky Corridor

  Wade dragged the canister he’d taken off his barbecue grill through the secret portal and into the root cellar room. Its dirt floor rambled back about twenty feet. The only cool things in the dank place were a couple of rock star posters he’d duct taped to the walls and one of Horace P. Pettimore, who looked like he could’ve been a rocker. He even had the fancy soldier coat.

  Wade lugged the white tank back to the spot where, earlier, he had heard mice scratching against stone.

  “I’m comin’ to getcha!” Wade screeched at the wall.

  Then he’d pumped his fist and diddled out an air-guitar riff that would’ve sounded totally awesome if, you know, he’d had a real guitar and known how to play it.

  There was a tiny arched hole where the fieldstone wall met the dirt floor. It looked like the entrance to a tunnel on a model-train set. Wade worked the rubber hose snaking off the gas tank into the hole.

  “Time for beddy-bye, dudes!”

  He twisted the valve and propane hissed through the nozzle.

  Wade waited.

  Ten minutes later, nothing had happened.

  No mice came stumbling out of the hole, gasping for air so Wade could bop them on the head with a rubber mallet like the cats always did in cartoons.

  So he figured he’d go ahead and smoke a quick cigarette.

  He lit up his cancer stick and flicked the still-flaming match to the floor.

  That was when the wall exploded.

  5

  Zack realized he must’ve taken a wrong turn.

  In his search for the bathroom, which he really needed to use now, he had ambled up all sorts of twisty, windy hallways, some of which were modern, some old, some ancient. His new school was a dozen or more buildings all linked together by cinder block corridors lined with lockers.

  He took another turn, opened a wooden door with a frosted glass panel, and found himself in an extremely narrow corridor, maybe six feet wide. The only light was the faint red glow of an exit sign reflecting off the mottled glass in the door at the far end of the hallway.

  Zack could also see a classroom door on the left-hand wall and two doors close together on the right. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed signs jutting out above the double doors: Boys, Girls.

  Yes!

  He had (finally) found a bathroom.

  He hurried up the hallway and smelled smoke—like the wet lining of a chimney when rain trickles down it in the summer.

  Then he heard a soft boom.

  Felt the whole floor shimmy and shake.

  It was pretty chilly for the first day of September, so Zack figured it was just the furnace kicking in downstairs. Nothing more. Nothing to be afraid of.

  As he neared the boys’ room, he could read another sign, the one hanging over the door at the far end of the hall, which was bloodred, thanks to the nearby exit sign. It said “Wood Shop.”

  Great.

  This was the smoky corridor—the place where the two boys and their teacher had died.

  Zack decided he really didn’t need to use the bathroom after all.

  He turned around and headed back the way he’d come.

  He passed a porcelain drinking fountain with a steady drip-drip-drip.

  Then he suddenly froze, because, once again, he could sense someone staring at him from behind, making him feel like he needed to defrost his neck.

  Could it be the ghost of his dead mother?

  That would explain the smoky smell.

  His real mother had smoked so many cigarettes she’d caught cancer and died. But before she died, she summoned Zack to the railing of the hospital bed they had set up in the living room of their New York City apartment, and croaked at him, “You’re the reason I smoked so much!”

  “Psst!” whispered a voice behind him. “Got a match, sport?”

  Zack spun around.

  “How about a lighter, pal?”

  It wasn’t his dead mother.

  6

  The Donnelly brothers.

  They had to be. One was ten, the other maybe twelve. Both were dead. Zack could tell.

  Hey, he’d seen a lot of ghosts in the past three months.

  Both boys had sad and sunken faces. Both were wearing tweed suit coats and ruffled bow ties. Their heavy wool pants only went down to their knees, where long, thick socks took over.

  “Didn’t you hear my brother’s question?” asked the younger one, his voice raw and scratchy.

  “You got any fire sticks on ya, pal?” asked the older one, stepping forward and shoving his little brother aside. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Zack.

  Zack coughed a little. The corridor was filled with a smoky haze.

  So how did the hall become hazy all of a sudden? Zack wondered. Is it fog rolling in from the river?

  Or had the Donnelly brothers brought the smoke from their deadly fire back with them from the grave?

  And what about the heroic teacher who had died trying to rescue the two boys? Where was his ghost?

  “Are you guys Joseph and Seth?” he asked. “The Donnelly brothers?”

  The two ghosts nodded.

  “I’m Johnny Appleseed,” said the younger brother. “We need a Kit Carson.”

  “You ready to join up, Zack?” asked the older, tougher brother—who sort of reminded Zack of all the bullies he’d met in 2010. “Or are you some kind of lily-livered sissy boy?”

  “We’ll have a ton of fun, Zack!” wheezed the younger.

  Zack didn’t ask the ghosts how they knew his name. They just sometimes did.

  “Why are you two still here?” he asked. “Why haven’t you moved on from this place?”

  “We’re sons of Daniel Boone, boy-o,” said the older brother. “This is our fort. We can’t desert our post because we’re not chicken like you!”

  “But what about the teacher? The one who died trying to save you?”

  The two boys smiled creepily as they recited a song that must’ve been around even in 1910.

  Mine eyes have seen the glory

  Of the burning of the school

  We have tortured every teacher

  We have broken every rule

  We have marched down to the principal

  To tell him he’s a fool

  The school is burning down.

  The Donnelly brothers took one step forward. Zack took one step back.

  “Well,” he sputtered, “I, uh, gotta go.…”

  Glory, glory, hallelujah

  Teacher hit us with a ruler

  Then he shot us in the head

  To make certain we was dead

  And we ain’t gonna say no more, no more.

  The two boys slowly vanished. So did all the smoke and the sooty smells.

  Zack heard the wooden door swing open behind him.

  “What in blazes do you think you are doing back here, young man?”

  7

  Wade Muggins was sitting on his butt in the spot where he’d landed when the wall had blown open.

  Fortunately, there was no fire. Just the explosion.

  And a jumble of tumbled stones.

  “Far out,” he muttered.

  Wade had totally blown a jagged opening about four feet wide through the ancient block and mortar wall.

  And off in a crooked corner, he saw one itty-bitty, teeny-weeny gray mouse.

  It was chowing down on a chunk of cheddar cheese that had Assistant Principal Carl D. Crumpler’s name written all over it.

  8

  “What’s your name, young man?” the bald man snapped at Zack.

  “Zack. Zack Jennings.”

  “Jennings?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a new student.”

  “Did I ask you anything about your enrollment status?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  The man had to be a teacher. He had pens and note cards stuffed in the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. He wore old-fashioned aviator glasses, a striped t
ie, and a very mean look.

  “You’re a Jennings, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The bald teacher, who wore his belt above his belly button, put his hands on his hips to give Zack an even sterner look.

  “Any relation to George Jennings?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

  “Humph. Figures. What, pray tell, are you doing back here in the dark?”

  “I, um, got lost. Trying to find a bathroom.”

  “Is that so? And what do you call that room located directly behind you?”

  “It’s a bathroom.”

  “Really? I thought you said you couldn’t find it?”

  “Well, I did … eventually.…”

  “So you were lying when you said you couldn’t find the bathroom, since you obviously did!”

  “Well, yeah—now I did.”

  “Was that lip?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Were you giving me lip? Back talk? Sauce?”

  “No, sir, I’m just saying …”

  “Oh, I see. You’re a smooth talker. Just like your father. Well, listen to me, buddy boy, and listen good: I will not tolerate any of your shenanigans. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.…”

  “Hello, Mr. Crumpler.”

  It was the pretty teacher from the auditorium. She flicked on a light switch and suddenly the cramped corridor wasn’t so dark anymore.

  “Excuse me, young lady, who gave you permission to activate that light switch?”

  The blonde laughed gently. “Well, nobody, I suppose. But I figured it didn’t make much sense for the three of us to be standing here in the dark.”

  “Is that so? And who are you?”

  The teacher held out her hand the way a princess would in a fairy tale.

  “I am Daphne DuBois, Mr. Crumpler. Your new sixth-grade history teacher? We met last week during teacher orientation.”

  “Humph. I suppose we did.” Mr. Crumpler pushed his glasses up on his nose a little.

  “I do apologize that I haven’t had the chance to stop by your office for a more personal introduction. I only arrived in North Chester last week, and, I confess, I’ve been so busy setting up my classroom and working on my lesson plans that I haven’t had the chance to fraternize with my fellow faculty members.”

  “I am not a faculty member,” said Mr. Crumpler, very deliberately. “I am your assistant principal!”

  “Yes, sir, of course. And that is why I am doubly pleased to see you again.”

  Zack noticed that Ms. DuBois had a compassionate way of speaking, even when talking to a cranky old crab like Mr. Crumpler, who’d probably been grouchy longer than he’d been bald.

  “What are you doing in this sector of the school?” Mr. Crumpler demanded.

  “That,” said Ms. DuBois, gesturing toward the door across the hall from the bathrooms, “is my classroom. Hopefully, several of my students and their parents will be dropping by this evening.” She held up a giant cupcake carrier. “I hope three dozen will suffice.” She turned to Zack. “Are you in the sixth grade this year?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Will you be taking history?”

  “I sure hope so. I mean, I think so.”

  “Good. It was a pleasure conversing with you again, Mr. Crumpler.”

  “Humph.”

  “Would you care for a cupcake before you go?”

  “No, I would not.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then swiveled them around to point at Zack. “I’m watching you, Mr. Jennings.” He repeated the gesture. “I am watching you!”

  Mr. Crumpler stomped away.

  “Mr. Jennings?” said Ms. DuBois from the doorway. She had flicked on the lights in her classroom.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Zack followed her into the room. The walls were covered with the most amazingly awesome posters and pictures. Scenes from Civil War battles. Famous faces from ancient civilizations. Drawings of the pyramids and Babylon. It was like stepping into one of his favorite video games, Age of Empires.

  “Are you any relation to that handsome young lawyer who was just onstage with the firefighter?”

  “He’s my dad.”

  “Well, aren’t you lucky?”

  “Yeah. He’s probably wondering where I am. I better go back to the auditorium.”

  “Would you like your cupcake now?”

  Zack nodded.

  “Help yourself.”

  Zack went to her desk and grabbed one with a whole mountain of brown frosting swirled on top. He chomped off half its head with one bite.

  “Any good?” the teacher asked.

  “Delicious!”

  “Well, go find your father. He deserves a cupcake, too!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Zack felt so warm and happy inside he almost forgot about Mr. Crumpler and the two Donnelly brothers.

  Almost.

  As he headed toward the door, Zack saw an old newspaper clipping pinned to a bulletin board. The headline was huge.

  TWO DONNELLY BROTHERS

  AND HERO TEACHER

  DIE IN SMOKY CORRIDOR AT SCHOOL

  The corridor just outside Ms. DuBois’s door.

  9

  Eddie parked his sporty convertible next to the other car.

  He had the ragtop rolled up tight, because he didn’t want anybody to see the dead body slumped beside him in the passenger seat.

  Not that there was anybody else tooling around on this backcountry road at nine o’clock at night.

  Mr. Timothy Johnson’s bulging eyes looked like bloodshot hard-boiled eggs. There was a hole in the center of his forehead, where the single bullet from Eddie’s pistol had entered.

  Eddie stepped out onto the deserted road.

  Looked both ways.

  He didn’t see any head- or taillights up or down the highway, so he dragged Mr. Johnson from the convertible to his own beat-up used car. He shoved the corpse behind the steering wheel.

  “Enjoy the ride, sir,” Eddie said as he reached across the dead man’s legs to twist the key in the ignition.

  The car roared to life.

  Eddie adjusted the steering wheel till the nose of the vehicle was aimed at a stone wall on the other side of the road.

  The Connecticut countryside was famous for its picturesque barriers made out of fieldstones stacked on top of each other. Cars were forever running off the road, slamming into them, occasionally blowing up.

  Eddie jammed one end of the dead dowser’s divining rod under his right knee and braced the pointy tip against the gas pedal, pressing it all the way down to the floor.

  When the car burned up, so would the stick.

  So would Mr. Johnson’s body.

  Even the lead ball in his brain would melt.

  “Sir,” said Eddie, “it gives me great pleasure to bid you a fond farewell.”

  He reached through the open window and tapped the transmission into drive.

  The car blasted off.

  Flew across the roadway.

  Smashed into the wall.

  Exploded.

  Eddie’s cell phone rang. He snapped it open.

  “How may I be of assistance?”

  It was the boss.

  “Yes. Mr. Johnson just had his accident. Terrible tragedy. Where? Very well. I am on my way.”

  He snapped the clamshell shut.

  Eddie now had to drive to a small town called Lily Dale, New York, where, apparently, all the citizens were spiritualists, clairvoyants, or psychics.

  He was to pick up a medium named Madame Marie, whom the boss had recently hired in case Mr. Timothy Johnson failed to find what they were searching for.

  Eddie grinned.

  If Madame Marie could not help them, he would need to locate another stone wall for her to have an accident with.

  10

  Zack found his dad in the auditorium shaking hands and laughing with old friends.

  “Where’d you run off to?” his dad asked.


  “Bathroom.”

  “Any trouble finding it?”

  “A little.”

  Zack’s dad smiled. “Don’t worry. It just takes a day or two to get used to the place.”

  Then Zack’s father gave him a guided tour of the school. “This is the gym. We’ll follow this breezeway around to a bunch of interconnected classroom corridors. Right before we reach the wood shop, we’ll take the exit door on the left, and that’ll put us in the cafeteria, which is connected to the old Pettimore mansion—the main entrance hall.”

  They were basically following the same route Zack had taken earlier, so they ended up visiting Ms. DuBois’s classroom, where Zack’s dad had a cupcake with sprinkles and chatted with the teacher about what sort of history the sixth grade would be studying.

  Meanwhile, Zack stared up at a framed print of the Horace Pettimore oil painting he had seen hanging in the main lobby. It was displayed on the wall above the chalkboard, between prints of Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass.

  Fortunately, none of the famous men’s eyes were staring down at Zack.

  Zack wandered over to join his dad and Ms. DuBois, who looked like a model from a magazine, with golden hair shimmering down to her shoulders.

  “I’m a little nervous,” she said to Zack’s dad, who was finishing up his cupcake. “This is my first year at Pettimore.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jennings. I’m certainly going to try.”

  “Well, we’d better take off. My wife is coming home tonight.”

  “Where has she been?”

  “Over in Chatham. The Hanging Hill Playhouse just concluded their world premiere run of a musical based on her books.”

  “It’s called Curiosity Cat,” added Zack. “It might be on Broadway next!”

  “Really?” gushed Ms. DuBois. “How wonderful.”

  “Well, it’s not official,” said Zack’s dad. “Not yet. But there has been some very serious interest in moving the show down to New York.”

  He and Zack were both so proud of Judy Magruder Jennings they couldn’t help bragging about her every now and then.

  • • •

  They were cruising down Highway 31 on their way home.