by Dan Poblocki
“Did you see something?” said Timothy, almost a whisper.
“Excuse me?”
“In the jars. Did you see something?” This time, he said it more loudly.
“See something? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something scary.”
The teacher opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a harsh crackling sound.
After Mr. Crane was gone, Timothy dragged the closest desk toward the wall. He climbed on top of it and, shuddering, removed the specimens from the shelves.
In the closet behind Mr. Crane’s desk, Timothy found an empty cardboard box. Working quickly, he placed the jars in the box, looking away every time he found a specimen that was especially heavy or clearly visible through the liquid.
Something in these jars had scared Mr. Crane yesterday. What had he seen?
There was a connection between all of these events. Too many pieces of this strange puzzle had matching edges.
The box was full. Every jar fit inside. Straining, Timothy lifted the box and headed to the parking lot. Outside, the garbage bin was as high as Timothy was tall. The lid was open, but as Timothy stood there, he realized that he couldn’t toss the box inside. As disgusting as some of these creatures appeared to be, he felt weird throwing them in the garbage. Besides, the box was simply too heavy. Timothy placed it on the ground, then quickly made the sign of the cross. “May you rest in peace,” he whispered. It seemed right.
With a nod, he turned away and headed toward the address Abigail had scrawled on the piece of paper in his pocket.
16.
The apartment building was sixteen stories tall—the tallest building in the neighborhood. Made of pale blond stone, it stood on the crest of Shutter Avenue, south of the bridge.
Timothy slowly made his way through the front garden, staring up at the building. Lots of windows. Lots of curtains. The front doors were made of black iron lace. Inlaid into the stone over the entrance were dark marble words: THE MAYFAIR. As Timothy reached out to take the handle, the door swung inward. A man stood just inside the lobby. “Mi amigo, who are you here to see?”
“Umm … I’m here for Abigail.”
“Abigail?”
“She’s uh … staying with her grandmother? Mrs. Kindred?”
He was delivered by the elevator to a small hallway with three large black doors, one of which was marked 16B. Abigail’s place.
As he approached, he heard a dog barking. Then came Abigail’s voice: “Hepzibah! No!” Footsteps. The doorknob turned, and there she was, wearing a sad smile and an oversized blue artist smock. At her feet, a small gray dog greeted him, loudly. Timothy bent down to say hello, but the dog backed away into the apartment’s foyer. “Just ignore her. She thinks she runs the place,” said Abigail, glancing at the dog. “Don’t you, little queen?” Hepzibah listened for a second, then began barking again. Abigail rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to stand in the hallway,” she said to Timothy. “She won’t bite.”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Abigail raised an eyebrow. “What are you afraid of, then?”
Timothy felt his face flush. He stammered, “Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not afraid of your dog. That’s all.” He came through the door. “Hepzibah? Strange name. Where’d you come up with it?”
“I didn’t come up with it. My grandmother loves Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hepzibah’s a character in one of his books,” Abigail said. The dog sniffed Timothy’s cuff. He stuck out his palm. Hepzibah considered him, then gave several soft kisses. “See? She likes you.”
“Good. I like her too.” Looking around, Timothy felt small. “Cool place. It’s huge.” Across the foyer, a wide arched entry opened into a sprawling living room filled with antique furniture. Outside, through paneled French doors, was an enormous roof patio. Several of the spires from the college were visible beyond the railing, and beyond those were the river and then the hills of Rhode Island. Through a smaller doorway in the foyer, a long hallway stretched into darkness.
“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Abigail.
“You don’t like it?”
“Well, I didn’t ask to live here.” Suddenly, she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, I probably sound like such a little brat. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t.”
“My grandmother is really lucky to have this place. And I’m really lucky to be able to stay until … well, for now. It’s just that at night … it can get a little … creepy.”
“Creepy how?” said Timothy, suddenly noticing the many shadows in the numerous corners.
“Here,” said Abigail, leading him into the dining room, changing the subject. “You can put your stuff down. I’ve already gotten started in the kitchen.”
“Started with what?”
She turned to look at him. With an embarrassed smile, she said, “You’ll see.”
Timothy dropped his coat and bag on a chair at the end of the dining table, then followed Abigail through a series of doors to a narrow, cluttered kitchen. The countertop was scattered with a number of plastic bottles, and on the stove sat a small cardboard box. On the cover, a woman smiled as she ran her hands through her black hair. The words COLOR ME WILD—RAVEN SILK leapt out in white text underneath the woman’s shapely chin.
“You’re going to dye your hair black?”
“Nope,” said Abigail, snatching the box from the stove-top and handing it to him. “You’re going to do it for me.”
Hepzibah came around the corner from the direction of the dining room. She sat in the doorway and looked at him, as if prepared to watch the show.
“You want me to dye your hair?” asked Timothy, appalled.
“You don’t need to be good.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I just need an extra pair of hands to get the back, but the box only comes with one pair of gloves, so you might as well just do the whole thing. You don’t really mind, do you?”
Timothy thought about that. After everything that he’d been through that week, helping his new friend dye her hair shouldn’t be a big deal.
His new friend? Was that what they were now?
“Okay,” said Timothy softly.
“Great.” Abigail reached into the open box and pulled out a pair of plastic gloves. “See if these fit. I’ll start mixing.”
Hepzibah followed as they set themselves up at the long dining room table. Abigail spread out some old newspapers underneath their supplies, then sat in one of the high-backed chairs. Grabbing the plastic bottle, which Abigail had filled with pungent-smelling chemicals, Timothy squeezed a lavender-colored gel onto her head.
“Ooh, it feels gross!” she said.
“Sorry,” said Timothy.
He remembered the reason he’d come here: to talk to Abigail about her grandmother. But he still didn’t know how to tell his story.
“Why did you want to do this anyway?” he said instead.
“I guess I just want to be someone else for a change. I’m cutting it all off next.”
“Really? All of it? Like a crew cut?”
“Nah, sort of, like … ear length. I’ve got the scissors in the bathroom.” She glanced up at him. “Make sure you get it all even. Then just start combing it through.”
Even through the gloves, the gel was squishy. “Is it just you and your grandmother here?” he asked.
“No. I came with my mom from New Jersey when Gramma fell again last month. Mom thinks she’s getting sick. I just think she’s getting old and doesn’t want to admit it. She says to my mom, ‘If I’m sick, you’re sick.’”
“Is your mother sick?”
“Not in the conventional sense of the word.” Abigail suddenly burst out laughing. “My mother suffers from a disorder called Freakazoidism.”
Despite all the talk of illness, or perhaps because of it, Timothy couldn’t hold back his own laughter. “So do my parents!” he said.
“Yeah,” said Abigail. “My mom left my dad �
�� like, left-left him, and didn’t tell me, and thought I wouldn’t notice that they weren’t living together anymore, you know? In the same state?”
“But I thought you came here to help your grandmother.”
Abigail raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “There’s always an ulterior motive with my mom. She really just needed a place to go. Voilà—New Starkham, here we come!”
“Wow,” said Timothy. “That’s harsh.”
“That’s the truth. The funniest thing is that she thinks she has me fooled, that I’m just so young and gullible.” She sniffed. “So why are your parents freaks?”
“They’re not freaks, exactly. They just don’t really seem to know how to talk to me.” Abigail didn’t say anything. Before he knew it, he blurted out, “My brother’s unit was attacked overseas. He got hurt. Bad. They’re keeping him in a coma, I think to protect his brain.”
Abigail shuddered and brought her hand to her mouth. “He’s in the—what, the army?” she asked. Timothy nodded. She grabbed his hand, and he flinched. “I’m so sorry … I had no idea.”
“No—it’s—” Timothy stammered. “Nobody did. That’s the thing … My parents didn’t want me to tell anyone.”
“Why not? It’s public information anyway. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I think they felt ashamed. Like his injury is their fault. They don’t want their friends to blame them.”
“That alone is ridiculous, but what on earth does that have to do with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t they thought that you might want to, I dunno, talk about it with someone?”
Timothy shook his head. “Guess not.”
“I mean, ever since I moved here, all I’ve wanted to do is talk to my cousins back in Jersey about everything that’s happening. It’s good that they listen on the phone, you know, about Gramma, and Mom and Dad, but still, there are things I feel like I can’t tell anyone … not even them … and it’s kinda driving me crazy.” Abigail blinked, as if she expected him to ponder that last statement. “So I sort of know what you’ve been going through.”
“Thanks,” said Timothy, secretly wondering what it was that she couldn’t tell anyone. Would she tell him now?
“So where is your brother?”
Guess not. “He’s in a military hospital somewhere in Germany. He’s been … critical for a while now. They say they’ll send him home when he’s healthy enough to travel, even if he is unconscious,” said Timothy. Abigail was staring at him again. Her head was slick with purple goo. She looked funny. He smiled. After a few seconds, he realized that he’d actually finally told someone about his brother. It had been easier than he thought it would be. “So … what is it that you can’t tell anyone?”
Abigail glanced at the floor, her mouth pursed. She actually looked like she was considering the answer, but then said, “Never mind. It’s not important.”
17.
After they cleaned up, Abigail put on a plastic bathing cap and led Timothy down the long hallway to a small room. The dark purple walls were entirely covered with black-and-white photographs in black wooden frames.
“My grandmother was a photographer for a local newspaper. Sometimes she wrote, but mostly she just took pictures.” She pointed at one picture that looked like flowers of light, blossoming in the night sky. “The Fourth of July. Cool, huh?”
Timothy nodded.
Against the far wall was a twin-sized brass trundle bed. They plopped down on the mattress, giggling at the way she looked. Hepzibah leapt onto the bed too, circled a small spot in the corner several times, then lay down.
“Do you want to listen to some music?” said Abigail. In the corner of the room was a low bookcase, on top of which sat an old record player. The shelves below it contained vinyl records.
“Okay.”
“They belonged to my grandfather before he died. Gramma said I could have ’em. Pick out whatever you want,” said Abigail. “We’ve got a half hour before rinse time.”
Timothy slid off the bed. Abigail followed. The record jackets were old and dusty. They’d been arranged in alphabetical order. Lots of country music. Not his favorite—but some of the covers looked interesting. He plucked a record from the shelf. “Gunfighter Ballads,” Timothy read. “Cool title.” He handed it to Abigail. She slipped the disk from its envelope, placed it on the turntable, then lifted the needle. A dark melody began to play.
“So,” said Abigail, sitting down on the bed again. “Now you know that my grandmother was a photographer. What else did you want to know?”
“It’s not that simple,” he said. She stared at him, curious. “I mean … I need to tell you something first. But I don’t know where to start.”
Abigail settled against the wall and folded her hands in her lap, as if preparing for a bedtime story. “It’s always best to start at the beginning.”
By the time the needle reached the center of the record, Timothy had said everything he’d meant to say. The book, the names, the author. The locker room. Stuart’s monster. For the most part, while he spoke, Abigail listened intently, barely reacting when he got to the most outrageous and unbelievable parts of the story. Now she stared at the patchwork quilt underneath her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth pressed tight.
After nearly five seconds of silence, Timothy couldn’t take it anymore.
“What do you think?” he said. “Am I crazy?”
Leaning forward, Abigail reached into her back pocket. She pulled out her silver lighter, flipped open the lid, and brushed her finger against the flint wheel. Flame bloomed in her fist. She stared at it for a few seconds, then said, “If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy too.” What was that supposed to mean?
The flame wicking at the tip of the lighter was hypnotic. “Have you ever seen anything like what I’ve seen?” he said.
To his surprise, Abigail clicked the lighter closed, squeezed her eyes shut, then nodded quickly. But before he could even respond, she exclaimed, “Shoot! I have to rinse this junk out of my hair.” She slid off the bed and raced toward the door. Hepzibah woke up, gave a short bark, and chased her out of the room. A moment later, Timothy followed.
In the bathroom, Abigail had her head underneath the bathtub faucet. When she turned the water off, Timothy asked, “Do you think your gramma has something to do with all of this?” She ignored him, hiding underneath a towel, using it to rub her head dry. “Abigail,” Timothy began again, speaking slowly so she could understand the importance of what he was saying, “I can’t shake this feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I need to do something about it. If you know something, please … tell me.”
She stopped drying her hair. Finally, she pulled the towel away. For a brief moment, Timothy thought he was looking at a brand-new person, someone he’d never met before. Her hair was purple-black. It completely obscured her face, like a ghost in a scary movie, and when she brushed her hair to the side, she didn’t look at him. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
A few seconds later, she returned. She showed him a Polaroid picture of her bedroom. “Have you ever heard of an author named Nathaniel Olmstead?”
“Yeah,” said Timothy, unsure what the author had to do with the Polaroid. “I’ve read some of his books. Totally creepy.”
“I used to be obsessed with them. My favorite was The Revenge of the Nightmarys.”
“I didn’t read that one.”
“It was about this gang of evil ghost girls. The book was so popular, they came out with trading cards. I collected them all.”
“I saw those once at the comic-book store with Stuart,” said Timothy, handing the photo back to Abigail. Suddenly, Timothy felt guilty, like he should be at the hospital. “I think he actually bought a pack. What do they have to do with anything?”
She plopped herself down on the edge of the bathtub and pulled the lighter out of her pocket. She lit it. “My father’s lighter,” she said. “I wanted him to stop sm
oking, so I stole it from him before we left New Jersey. I didn’t actually think it would change anything. Fire is one of the easiest things in the world to find. I guess it was more of a symbolic gesture?” The flame flickered as she breathed on it. “Like, if he realized that I was the one who took it from him, he might know that I still think about him every day, and even though we don’t see each other anymore, the fact that I stole it would matter to him so much that he would stop smoking altogether…. Stupid.” She held the flame underneath the Polaroid. The paper slowly caught fire. “The funny thing is, he hasn’t mentioned that it’s missing.” She tossed the photograph into the bathtub behind her, where it curled up, black and dead. Seconds later, the flame fizzled out in a hiss of weak smoke.
Abigail finally looked up again. Her newly black hair hung down at either side of her face. Her eyes seemed to change, to sharpen. She smiled, and whispered, “I’m such an idiot.” She waited a moment, then, as if an afterthought, hitched a quick breath and added, “I thought I could hide.”
That last sentence gave Timothy chills. “Hide?” he said. “From who?”
“That’s the real reason I dyed my hair.”
“You dyed your hair to hide from your father?”
“No, Timothy. I’m telling you something else now. You told me, and now I’m telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
“About the Nightmarys.”
18.
Growing up in Clifton, New Jersey, Abigail Tremens actually had friends—not many, but enough to keep busy after school.
Things changed the summer before sixth grade, when two new girls moved into Abigail’s neighborhood. They both happened to be named Mary. Oddly, Mary Brown was white, and Mary White was black; they were both beautiful. The two Marys formed an immediate bond. They liked the same music and food and clothes. They seemed to know each other’s thoughts. Abigail had never shared anything quite like it with any of her friends, and she wondered what it might feel like to be that close with someone.