Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor
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- Book:The Smoky Corridor
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- Publisher:Random House Children's Books
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- Year:2010
- ISBN:978-0-375-89600-2
- Rating:3 / 5
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ALSO BY CHRIS GRABENSTEIN
The Crossroads
winner of the Agatha Award and the Anthony Award
The Hanging Hill
For
R. Schuyler Hooke,
editor extraordinaire
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
1
The night before he officially started at his new school, Zack Jennings already had a feeling the place was haunted.
He was standing in the main hall of Horace P. Pettimore Middle School, staring at an oil painting that was staring back at him.
He stepped to his right.
The portraits eyes followed him.
Zack moved left.
The hooded eyes followed him.
Zack hopped from foot to foot, from side to side, and the man in the portrait, some sort of Civil War soldier, kept a scornful eye on his every move.
Zacks dad came up behind him. Put a hand on Zacks shoulder. Zack stopped bouncing.
Nervous?
Huh?
You looked jumpy. I was over there talking to Principal Smith, saw you wiggling. I figured you were either anxious about tomorrow or you were busting out some new dance moves.
Zack forced a smile.
Tomorrow. The start of a new school year. His first in North Chester, Connecticutthe small town where his father had grown up.
I was just, you know, looking at the painting, Zack explained, gesturing at the ornately framed portrait of the Yankee soldier, whose blue uniform had a column of shiny brass buttons running up the front all the way to his bearded chinnot to mention gold ropes on both shoulders. The scowling face had, of course, stopped swinging its eyeballs back and forth the instant Zacks dad looked up at it.
Ah! Thats Captain Horace P. Pettimore. This main hall used to be the grand foyer of his mansion.
Aha.
He was a steamboat captain who moved here after the Civil War. Became a very wealthy, very generous gentleman farmer.
Zack knew only one farmer. A boy named Davy Wilcox. Davy wore overalls, not a Civil War uniform.
First, Zacks dad, the history buff, went on, Mr. Pettimore donated the property out back, several acres along the river, for the cemetery. Then, when he died, he bequeathed his mansion and all his lands surrounding it to the town, only asking that it be used for a school and that he be buried in the cemetery so he could keep an eye on the place.
Zack figured that was why they called it Horace P. Pettimore Middle School.
And why the place was haunted.
Hey, you cant build a school this close to a creepy old cemetery and not expect ghosts.
Plus, according to what Zacks dad had told him on the car ride over, the school had been the site of a terrible tragedy back in 1910.
It happened in a windowless corridor in an old part of the school, the narrow hallway leading to the wood shop. A horrible fire killed Joseph and Seth Donnelly, the two boys who started it by playing with matches, and the brave teacher who tried to rescue them.
A graveyard, a terrible tragedy, two brothers and a heroic teacher killed in a corridor they couldnt escape?
Oh, yeah.
This school was definitely, one hundred percent haunted.
Zack knew a thing or two about haunted places, because he had a special gift: He could see all sorts of dearly departed souls (even the ones who popped into paintings) whom other people, especially adults like his dad, could not. He always figured it was the kind of gift that shouldve come with a gift receipt so he could take it back for something better, like athletic ability or superpowers.
You ready to head on back? Zacks dad asked. I need to make a little speech, present the check.
Sure.
This way. The auditoriums in one of the modern wings, built in the seventies. The nineteen seventies.
They followed the flock of parents, teachers, and students eager for the start of Pettimores annual Back to School Night. Theyd hike about a half mile back to the auditorium, where thered be a few speeches and a couple of awards, and then everybody would have a chance to visit classrooms, meet teachers, and buy souvenir Pettimore Yankees sweatshirts and stuff. Thered probably be cupcakes, too.
As they moved with the jostling crowd, Zack once again sensed he was being watched.
He glanced over his shoulder, back at the gloomy portrait of Horace P. Pettimore.
Yep. The old guy was staring at him again.
Zack walked faster.
2
The two men trudged through boot-sucking mud in the dark.
Eddie was following Mr. Timothy Johnson, who, according to Eddies boss, was the best dowser in the world. That was why Johnson was holding out a divining roda forked branch from a witch hazel tree.
Find anything, sir? Eddie asked as they made their way through the forests surrounding Pettimore Middle School.
Silence, said Mr. Johnson. I must remain focused.
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.
Now the only sound came from the chorus of crickets and cicadas chirping in the nearby meadow.
Eddie did not want to throw the little man in the bowler hat off course. Johnson was a pro when it came to finding things with his Y-shaped stick. Hidden things, like freshwater, gold mines, oil geysers, and most importantly, buried treasure.
The clues the boss had already pieced together had brought them this far, to the woods surrounding what had once been the Horace P. Pettimore estate near the town of North Chester, Connecticut. Now Eddie was counting on Mr. Johnson to tell him exactly where to head next.
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