by Dan Poblocki
I’m not sure how much more I can help you, other than with the small bits of information I’ve already provided. There do not appear to be any New Starkham newspaper archives online from that time just yet. But if you are curious and able to make a visit to New Starkham, I’m sure one of the local libraries would be able to help track down an article or two to flesh out additional details.
I hope I was able to provide some worthy assistance. Please let me know if you may be eventually interested in a copy of the book. My own son and his friends have enjoyed reading the series very much, and I believe you may too.
Yours truly,
Frances May
Owner and Proprietress—
The Enigmatic Manuscript Bookstore
Gatesweed, Massachusetts
“Hmm,” said Timothy. “Do you think we’ll have time to make a visit to the library in New Starkham? It’s so far away.”
At that, Abigail laughed, hard.
24.
Timothy and Abigail decided to go to the hospital after their trip to the town library that afternoon. He knew it would be weird to arrive with Abigail but felt it was really important that they both hear Stuart describe what he’d experienced at the pool. At the very least, they would see how he was doing, even if Stuart didn’t expect or even want to see Abigail.
When they arrived at the library, to their extreme disappointment, they found the microfiche unavailable. The librarian explained that all their film and fiche were being digitized, but they should try back next week. Discouraged, they left and walked toward Howard Square, where, several blocks ahead, the ten-story tower of New Starkham Hospital rose like a white marble monument.
In the elevator, Timothy felt claustrophobic. The car brought them swiftly upward.
“Timothy!” cried Mrs. Chen softly when they reached the room. Standing in the hall, she grabbed him and squeezed tight. “You came. I’m so glad.”
“Yeah, I skipped swim practice tonight.”
Mrs. Chen looked at Abigail and struggled to hold on to her spontaneous smile.
“This is … Abigail,” said Timothy. “She wanted to see Stuart too.”
“Abigail?” said Mrs. Chen. She’d obviously heard the name before. That smile became more of a struggle. “It’s … nice to meet you. Please, come in.”
Stuart was sitting in his bed, hugging his knees, staring at the blanket. A large snapdragon bouquet sat on the side table. Mrs. Chen made her way to the table, conspicuously silent, and began to fiddle with the arrangement. Timothy paused in the doorway. When Stuart saw Timothy, he burst into tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. You were right! I was such a fart-slap.” Mrs. Chen flinched, pretending not to hear that.
Timothy froze. Abigail was hidden several steps behind him.
“You don’t have to apologize,” said Timothy.
“Yes, I do. You don’t understand. She’s going to come back if I don’t. And I don’t want to think about what she’ll bring next time.”
Mrs. Chen rested her palm on his forehead. She looked nervously toward the door, as if contemplating calling the nurse. “Now, Stuart. Timothy came to see you. Calm down. Okay?”
“Who …,” Timothy began, “who’s going to come back?”
Mrs. Chen threw him a look, as if to say, Please don’t start. But Timothy couldn’t help it. He needed to know.
“The girl.”
“What girl?”
Tears were streaming down Stuart’s face now. “Please. You have to forgive me. That’s the only way to make it stop.”
Mrs. Chen came toward Timothy and pulled him away from the bed. She whispered, “He’s been having these delusions since they brought him here. They’re running tests to see what might be causing them.”
“They’re not delusions,” said Stuart, from his bed.
“Can we …,” Timothy began, “can I have a second alone with Stuart? I think I might be able to help.”
Mrs. Chen glanced at Abigail, who was standing in the hallway, still outside Stuart’s field of vision. Abigail held her hands in front of herself. She looked terrified. “I suppose a short time alone will be all right,” said Stuart’s mother hesitantly. “But if he starts throwing things at … the corner of the room, please call me immediately.”
“The corner of the room?” said Timothy.
Mrs. Chen shook her head, then left and closed the door behind her. Once the latch clicked, Stuart leaned forward again. “You came,” he said. “That has to mean something.” His pupils were large, as if he was sitting in a room much darker than this one.
“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Well, I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I saw Coach Thom pull you out of the water.”
“You’re here,” said Stuart, ignoring what Timothy was saying. “Everything’s going to go back to the way it was before, now. Right?”
“Before?” said Timothy, sitting on the end of the bed. “Before what?”
“Before she came,” Stuart whispered.
“Who?”
“Abigail.” He said her name so harshly Timothy felt a hole open in his stomach. What would Stuart do when he found out she was standing in the hallway?
Still, Timothy answered, “Everything’s exactly the same as it used to be.” It felt weird lying to Stuart, but Stuart looked like he needed to be lied to. “I’m here. It’s all good. Everything is going to be fine now.” Stuart smiled a true smile. “Hey, I have a favor to ask.”
Stuart leaned away, cautious. “What is it?”
“Tell me what you’ve being seeing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me about … your monster.”
Timothy was surprised at how easily Stuart opened up. Randy Weiss’s story had been right. Stuart believed he’d seen the Wraith Wars claw monster at the bottom of the pool, that it had dragged him under.
The first night in the hospital, he began to hear a voice from underneath his bed. It told him that his “accident” had happened because of what he’d done at the museum. Abigail was angry at him now—a bad thing. The next morning, after he told a nurse about the voice, the doctors became even more concerned.
“They think I’m crazy,” said Stuart, “but I know I’m not.”
Timothy nodded. “I know you’re not either.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve known you forever,” said Timothy, with finality. “I mean, I’ve always thought you were a little weird, but crazy? Come on.”
Stuart smiled weakly. Then he continued his story.
The night before, Stuart lay awake, expecting the voice to return. Sometime after midnight, he heard a noise at the foot of his bed. He sat up and whispered, “Who’s there?” Slowly, a tall, skinny girl rose up and clutched the bed frame. Stuart was too frightened to even scream. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out her face, but somehow he knew she was Abigail—a nightmare version even though he was awake.
“Sorry yet?” Abigail had asked.
“Yes!” Stuart had answered. “Yes, I’m very sorry. Please, leave me alone.”
“I don’t believe you. You don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it! I’ve never been sorrier.”
She laughed. “I’ll know when you’re really sorry,” Abigail said. She glanced at the darkest corner of the room, beside the drawn window curtain. “He’ll tell.”
“Who?” said Stuart. “Who will tell?” The girl was gone, but Stuart knew he was not alone. He strained to see beyond the shadows into the far corner of the room, where the girl had glanced before disappearing. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He finally made out a figure dressed in a shapeless black robe, propped rigidly against the wall. Small, shiny black eyes stared out from a pale, hairless, and doughy face. Terrified, Stuart grabbed the glass of water off the nightstand and flung it into the corner of the room. It shattered above the figure’s head, but the thing did not move or even respond. It only continued to watch him.
Then the nurses came. They turned o
n the lights. The corner was now empty. Stuart screamed and struggled and fought, until the nurses gave him a sedative that made him feel sleepy and weak. He begged them to keep the lights on, to stay with him awhile longer, and they did. But later, even in his dreams, the thing in the corner of the room watched him, waiting until he was really sorry for what he had done.
No one believed his story. In fact, the more he insisted on its truth, the more they wanted to keep him there for observation.
Timothy sat at the end of the bed, stunned. Stuart had seen an Abigail, the same way Abigail said she had seen the Nightmarys.
Stuart glanced past Timothy and cringed. Timothy turned. “Hi, Stuart,” said Abigail. She stood just inside the room, looking embarrassed. “Timothy and I came to see how you’re doing.”
“Mom!” Stuart called.
“She’s talking with a nurse down the hall,” said Abigail quietly. “She’ll be back soon.”
“Please,” said Stuart. “Just take that thing out of here.”
Anger flashed in Abigail’s eyes. “What did you just call me?”
“Not you,” Stuart pleaded. “The thing. The thing you put in the corner of the room.”
Abigail glanced at Timothy. She raised her eyebrow. “I’ve never been in this room until me and Timothy came tonight. I promise.” He now understood she’d overheard Stuart’s story. They both looked at the corner of the room near the window. To them, it was empty.
“Is he staring at you right now?” Timothy asked. Stuart pursed his lips and nodded discreetly. “Why don’t you just ask him to leave?”
“He’ll get mad. I know it.”
“But there’s nothing there,” said Abigail.
Silence fell. The three of them stared at each other for a while before Timothy could think to say, “We’ve all been seeing scary things this week, Stuart. Not just you.”
“You have?”
Abigail nodded, then glanced to the corner of the room. “Yes. We have.”
“We, who?” said Stuart.
“Me and Abigail,” said Timothy. “And Mr. Crane.”
“Mr. Crane?” said Stuart. “Why? What kind of scary things?”
Timothy thought of a simple explanation. “A man has been following me. And Abigail has been seeing … ghosts. And Mr. Crane—”
“So you’re not making these things happen to me?” Stuart asked Abigail.
She looked guilty but shook her head and said, “I wouldn’t even know where to begin to learn something like that.”
“Then how?” said Stuart. “Why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Timothy.
“We want to help you,” Abigail added, almost reluctantly.
“Help me? Why would you want to help me?”
“Because you obviously need it.”
Stuart finally appeared to get it. Folding his hands in his lap, he quietly said, “If you want to help me, please, just accept my apology.”
Abigail came forward out of the doorway and grabbed on to the end of Stuart’s bed. “It was just a stupid water balloon,” she said. “I’ve already forgotten all about it.”
Red-eyed, Stuart licked his lips and glanced into the corner of the room. “Then why is he still standing there?” he asked in a very small, very frightened voice. “Why is he still staring at me?”
25.
“What’s wrong?” said Abigail. They were standing at the bus stop, just outside the hospital entrance. The wind had picked up. Thunder rolled across the river. “You haven’t said a word since we said goodbye to Stuart’s mother.” She was right, but Timothy was too busy feeling overwhelmed to notice.
He suddenly felt a surge of indescribable anger. “Hmm, let’s see. What’s wrong?” he echoed Abigail. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s that I just realized my best friend has lost his mind, and I’m beginning to feel pretty much the same way.” Timothy wiped his nose. “My brother’s in a coma. My parents won’t talk to me. And—”
“Hey,” Abigail said softly, “you don’t have to snap at me. I’m just asking a question.”
“I’m not snapping,” Timothy continued, knowing that was exactly what he’d been doing. “I’m just … I’m just …” He finally looked at her. She was squinting at him, trying to figure him out, like she always seemed to be doing whenever he caught her looking at him. “I’m sorry.”
They heard an engine shift gears as two bright headlights came around the far corner of the building. Through the wet window, the bus driver looked unhappy to stop. The rest of the bus was empty. They stepped inside and paid the fare.
Sitting together, Abigail looked at Timothy’s reflection in the window. They were transparent, like ghosts. “I still don’t get it,” she said. “We don’t know anything more than we did before.”
“But that’s not true.”
“Okay,” said Abigail, nodding. “What do we know?”
“We know that Stuart blames you for what happened to him.” Timothy watched as Abigail soaked in that information. She looked like she wasn’t sure how to feel about it. “We know that he saw almost exactly what you saw.”
“Which would be?”
“A girl,” said Timothy. “But he thought she was you, not some brats from New Jersey.”
Abigail drew away from him, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “So what … he’s scared of me?”
“You could’ve told the thing in the corner to go away.”
“There was nothing there!”
“It would’ve helped! Stuart was terrified of it.” Timothy felt an odd tightening in his chest. He kept thinking back to the conversation he’d had that morning with his brother, or the thing that was pretending to be his brother. “According to the message from the owner of that bookstore, The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse is based on true events. She wrote that in the book there was some sort of object, a bone that gives you the power to control other people’s fears. Right?”
“It’s just a stupid book, Timothy.” Now Abigail started to look nervous, as if Timothy was talking crazy.
“But part of it happened, or at least we’re pretty sure it did.” Abigail blinked and shook her head. Timothy continued, “Someone is screwing with what makes us afraid. Stuart’s claw monster. Mr. Crane and the things in those jars. That phone call and my brother’s injury. I mean, I’ve been having nightmares about Ben for a while, but only when I’m asleep. This is totally different.” Abigail sighed and started to speak, but he cut her off. “Let me finish. I know you said you never wanted to hurt anyone—”
“Timothy!”
“I know you said that, but Stuart obviously made you angry, and you certainly got mad at Mr. Crane in the museum. And me …” Timothy took a deep breath. “You said it yourself that first day I asked to be your partner. You thought I was picking on you. You wanted me to stay away from you.”
“So what?” Now Abigail was fuming.
“So? There you have it. Three reasons to want to get back at the three people, besides you, supposedly, who’ve all of a sudden started seeing some really creepy stuff.”
“We already went over all this,” said Abigail. “Last night when you came over, I told you that the Nightmarys are doing it. They wanted to help me. I never asked them to! They want me to follow them—”
“Right. The Nightmarys. Who just happened to show up at your apartment because they wanted to be your friend. And play games. In the middle of the night.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believed you before I found out about this jawbone thing,” said Timothy, the words pouring from him. “What if someone found it and learned how to use it?”
“You think it’s me?” said Abigail.
Timothy’s skin tingled as he remembered. “The museum.”
“What about it?”
“Remember, just before we found The Edge of Doom? We saw that poster that talked about magic and religion? There was an artifact in the case that was supposed to gi
ve one tribe the power to control their victim’s fear. The instructions were printed right there. Hold the thing. Name the victim. Place a curse.”
“A jawbone,” Abigail whispered, turning pale. “But someone had removed it for cleaning.”
“Your grandmother was there that day, she said for inspiration, but what the heck does that mean?”
Abigail’s mouth dropped open. A few seconds later, she managed to say, “Don’t tell me you think Gramma—”
“I have no idea what to think,” Timothy interrupted. The windows were totally fogged with their breath, their reflections gone. They could only stare at each other now.
“Well, you want to know what I think?” Abigail shouted. She didn’t wait for an answer. She stuck out her finger and wrote on the window, carving into the fog in enormous block letters: U-SUCK. Then she pressed the yellow plastic strip that ran vertically up the wall next to the window, ringing the bell for the bus to stop.
A few seconds later, the driver pulled up to the curb and opened the door.
“What are you doing?” Timothy asked.
“I’m walking,” said Abigail, flinging herself out of her seat.
“Yeah, but where are you going?” he called.
She practically ran to the front door. “To disappear.” Timothy scrambled to catch up. Just before she stepped out onto the wet curb, she turned and said, “It’s just a stupid book.” She shook her head, disappointed. “There’s no such thing as a magical jawbone, Timothy. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You … butt-munch.” She started walking up the street, away from the bus.
Timothy didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just let her stomp home alone in the dark, not after everything that had happened, not after knowing all the things that might be out there waiting for her. But then he realized that he had just sort of blamed her for orchestrating the whole thing, which, if true, would make her safe after all.
Stupid stupid stupid! he wanted to scream.