X Marks the Haunt

by Lindsay Currie

Overview

From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Mystery of Locked Rooms, when a centuries old crypt key is lost—unleashing a dark force—it’s up to the son of the local crypt keeper to end the haunting for good.

Find the key. Put it back. Get rid of the ghost. It’s supposed to be simple…it’s not.

Thanks to his mother’s job at a local graveyard, twelve-year-old Will Stone has some unique talents. For one, he knows exactly how a burial vault works and why they’re used. For another, he’s great at genealogy and can decode centuries old records. Not your normal every day after school activities, that’s for sure!

But when a centuries old crypt key is lost, his normally peaceful existence at Graceland cemetery is shattered. Trees wither and die. The lake becomes covered with a sinister green slime that threatens to choke out anything living in it. And suddenly, the graveyard’s reputation isn’t the only thing in jeopardy . . . Will and his friends' safety is, too.

Suddenly, Will is forced to consider that the lost key might be an even bigger problem than he originally thought. A dark force has been unleashed within the cemetery gates, and along with his friends Stash, Michelle, and Henry, Will must use his unique skill set to figure out which restless spirit is draining the graveyard of life, and how to end the haunting for good.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780593811696
Publisher:	Random House Children's Books
Publication date:	01/06/2026
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	304
Age Range:	8 - 12 Years

About the Author

Lindsay Currie is a #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of mysteries for young readers, including the Delta Games series and It's Watching. She grew up on Nancy Drew and loves a good twisty tale. When she's not writing, Lindsay can generally be found looking for an adventure of her own. She loves researching forgotten history and recently relocated from Chicago to a 220 acre farm in downstate Illinois where she finally gets to see stars every night, and take hikes every day.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Somehow, the machinery is always louder than I remember. The crane roars to life, slowly and carefully maneuvering the rectangular block of cement until it’s dangling above the hole in the ground. It’s the burial vault, the thing that goes in the ground before a casket. Eventually the casket and body will go inside the vault, and everything will be sealed so dirt and worms and water can’t get in.

The team stands at the edge of the hole, guiding the vault in the air with their hands to make sure nothing goes wrong. Not that anyone could ever guarantee that. Burial vaults weigh over two thousand pounds, and some are closer to three thousand! Moving them is just . . . hard.

This part isn’t ever in television or in the movies, though. They only want to show the quiet, peaceful side of burials—the casket, surrounded by flowers and greenery and family. They never show all the work it takes to dig the perfect hole without disturbing nearby vaults, or how miniature avalanches can force the crew to start all over again, or what to do if a random bone comes up in the dirt (gently tuck it back in).

I’ve seen it, though. I’ve seen it all. Comes with the territory of having a mom who works in a graveyard, I guess.

“Will, you wanna come help?” Art, the grounds supervisor here at Graceland Cemetery, calls. He waves me over with a broad smile. His faded overalls are darkened at the knees, and his cheeks are flushed with the cold. “You know we can always use an extra hand.”

“Can’t. Sorry. I gotta get inside,” I yell back.

He gives a quick uptick of his chin to let me know he heard me, and he approves. Then he salutes me like he always does. It’s not exactly a secret handshake or anything, but it feels the same. Like our special sign.

Art whistles and the crew slowly lowers the vault. As it vanishes belowground, I tell myself I’ll come back after the burial when the casket is in there and everything is covered with dirt again. I’ll introduce myself, leave a stone or two. They deserve a proper welcome.

I make my way to the main office where I meet Mom every day after school. She’s the executive director of Grace­land, which is really just a fancy title for the lady who figures things out.

Rummaging around in my backpack, I realize I don’t have my keys to the office. I push the button by the main door of the tiny brick building and listen for the ding. I imagine Mom or Margaret getting up from their desk, making that old person sound as they straighten. The door’s lock clicks open, and I step in, savoring the warm air on my face. It’s only November but it’s cold. The trees have lost most of their leaves and the sun rarely comes out. People think October is the spookiest month because of Halloween, but have they seen November? It’s gray, gray, and grayer.

The lobby is empty right now, which is good. Sometimes I go through the back door to avoid coming in this way because as much as I love Graceland, I don’t love crying people. And graveyards see a lot of crying people.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mom says, appearing in the little window that separates the lobby from the back office. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” I say.

“Just fine? Nothing interesting at all?” she presses with a wink. “I bet if you think hard, you could come up with something.”

This is how Mom always is. Curious. Sometimes I think she could find something interesting about the most boring things in the world. Like soap. Or cotton. It’s probably why she works here and is so good at what she does.

“Well, Christian Delly did throw up at lunch,” I offer.

Her face pinches. “Ew. Okay, forget I asked.”

I laugh and slide off my coat, then open the door to the office. It’s nearing the end of the day when the graveyard officially closes to the public, so it’s quiet. No phones ringing, no problems waiting to be sorted. Hopefully this doesn’t mean Mom wants to leave earlier than usual today.

“How long do I have?” I ask.

Mom slides her phone out of her pocket and glances at the screen. Her hair is swept into a crooked bun that looks more messy than usual. Must’ve been a hectic day. “Well, I have to catch up on email and I have a few calls to make. Can we head home around four-­thirty? Addi is doing the security drive tonight.”

I nod enthusiastically. It’s only three-­thirty, so I’ll have plenty of time to research. Some nights I ride with Addi on the security drive. That’s when she drives all over the graveyard to make sure no one gets locked in once the gates close. Since Graceland is huge, over 120 acres, it happens! And no matter how brave people claim to be, no one wants to be locked in a cemetery overnight.

“You going to stay in here or go with Addi?” Mom asks.

“Stay here,” I answer quickly.

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure? With this chilly weather, the coyotes will definitely be out this evening.”

That is hard to pass up. I love the coyotes here in the cemetery. Right now, there are six adults and two pups in a den we just discovered. We don’t force them to stay here inside the graveyard walls, but they do. With all the squirrels and rabbits and stuff to eat, I don’t blame them. They never bother us, or anyone who visits, and we make sure no one bothers them, either.

“And it’s Aaaaadiiiiii,” Mom repeats in a singsong voice.

I feel myself wavering. The security rides with Addi are more fun than they are with anyone else. Mom is too serious. Art talks about challenging burials the whole time. But Addi is a blast. Even though Mom says Addi’s in her thirties, she feels younger than that. She plays music and laughs and keeps the car windows down even when it’s chilly. I love that.

“Ugh. I should keep going through the books. I’m up to 1910.”

She smiles. “Such dedication. I’m pretty sure you are the only person who is reading through all the interment books like that, and you aren’t even getting paid!” Mom cackles at this.

I crack a smile. It is kinda funny. Tons of folks don’t even know what the word interment means, but I could tell you exactly what information is contained in these books. The burial lot number, the date, the name, the cause of death. It’s all right there like a permanent record of the day that person stopped walking the earth.

“Well, if you really want to pay me, I won’t argue,” I say.

“Nice try,” Mom answers. “Seriously, though, if you keep this up, in no time you’ll be able to do my job.”

“Right,” I say, wishing that were true. Mom says there aren’t enough cemeterians—the people interested in the history and protection of graveyards—left in the world. Here at Graceland, though, Mom is more than just a ceme­terian. She’s the everything person. She arranges new burials. She tracks down old burials. She directs the grounds crew. She even helped dig a grave once.

But the thing she does that interests me the most is the genealogy stuff. Sometimes a family comes in and wants to know if a distant relative is buried here, or what lot they’re in, or if they were moved to another graveyard at some point. You’d think everything would be on a computer and easy to find, but nope. They didn’t have computers in the 1800s and people have been getting buried here since then, so it’s not that easy. Most of the records are still on paper. There are file cards, file folders, even giant books with handwritten information.

For the past year, I’ve taught myself how to read the records, which was not an easy thing. For one, they’re in cursive. And not just any cursive. It’s really fancy cursive and sometimes the words are old-­timey. Once I got better at reading those, Mom started letting me help her with simple genealogy searches. She gives me whatever information the family provides and then I help her research. We check the note cards first, then the files. We dig through everything we have in the vault until we uncover a connection. That’s the best feeling. Like fitting the last piece into a puzzle.

Still, I want my own project, my own mystery to track down. I can’t wait for the day Mom has enough confidence in me to hand over the information and just let me do it. That’s why I come here every day after school instead of playing a sport or even just hanging out somewhere like the other kids. If I keep reading and learning and practicing . . . if I keep showing up, she’ll eventually trust me.

Right?

“Oh,” Mom says, her face lighting up. “I saw a new cause of death today.”

I perk up. This is one of my favorite games. I call it Guess the Wacky Cause of Death.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I say, rubbing my hands together.

Mom’s eyes glide up to the ceiling as if she’s thinking. “Okay. Clue number one is . . . ahh . . . it’s related to babies!”

Babies. Huh. The only thing that pops into my head when I think of babies is dirty diapers and screaming. “Um, rash? Diaper rash?”

She laughs. “Nope, but good guess. The year on the death certificate for this particular cause of death was late eighteen hundreds, FYI. Want another guess?”

My mind is blank. This might be the hardest one yet.

“Teething!” she finally blurts, a sharp, barking laugh spilling from her lips. “Can you believe it? Teething as a cause of death?”

I can believe it, but only because I’ve seen so many weird ones. Milk sickness. Senility. War of the stomach. There were a lot of things doctors didn’t understand that long ago, and sometimes I think they just made stuff up because of it.

Laughing, I put my backpack in the corner and reach for one of the enormous books labeled Graceland Cemetery Company on the worn spine. It’s so big and heavy I need to use two hands to slide it off the shelf.

“Is Stash coming?” Mom asks. “I know he started looking through the records with you.”

“Not today. He’s got a piano lesson.”

Mom snorts. “Still surprises me.”

“Yeah, he hates it,” I answer. It’s the truth. Stash’s real name is Sean. He earned his nickname in fourth grade when he smuggled an entire stash of candy into the overnight school field trip and secretly handed it out after all the teachers had gone to bed. Since then, he’s lived up to his reputation as fun, and willing to bend the rules if he thinks they’re unfair. Stash is the only one I’ve ever brought to the graveyard with me, the only one who even knows my mom works here.

“His mom is obsessed with someone being able to play that piano his grandma left them when she died.” I look up into Mom’s eyes, which are crinkled in amusement. “When you die, leave me something cool, okay? No ­pianos.”

“We don’t own a piano, Will,” Mom says matter-­of-­factly. “But we do have an old sewing machine from the 1960s. I bet you’d be great at that.”

I let my jaw drop in a look of mock horror and toss a pencil her direction. She ducks, laughing as she leaves me alone in the vault.

Time to earn that trust.

Editorial Reviews

"Fun and frightening. Currie's plot twists and turns and tension ticks tighter and tighter, as mysteries mount and pages turn as fast as your heartbeat!"—Dan Poblocki, bestselling author of Tales to Keep You Up at Night

From the Publisher