by Dan Poblocki
“Maybe if we can figure out the place he’s talking about, it won’t seem so scary?”
Abigail closed her eyes and sighed. “I see a dark place. It’s wet and cold and I’m alone.” She looked at Timothy, distraught. “I don’t know how to not be scared of it.” Timothy took her hand, and she continued, “I wish we could ask my grandmother. She’s always been so good at this kind of thing. And this is all about her. Isn’t it? That’s why she kept calling it her mess. Jack wanted to hurt her, so he came after me.”
“In the Zelda Kite books, though,” said Timothy, “she always beat the bad guy in the end, right?”
“Yeah.” Abigail’s eyes blazed. She leapt to her feet. “I never got a chance to read those books, but I’m pretty sure she kicked his butt.”
Outside, tires crunched on gravel and an engine turned off. Timothy and Abigail glanced at each other, then ran to the octagonal window. At the curb, a champagne-colored Cadillac had parked. As both the driver’s- and passenger’s-side doors opened, Abigail gasped. “What the …?” she said.
“What’s the matter?” said Timothy. “Who is it?”
Abigail turned to look at him. She wore a look of pure horror. “That’s Georgia’s car.”
“Who’s Georgia?” Timothy strained to see.
“My next-door neighbor,” said Abigail. “Oh, no!” At that point, she didn’t need to explain. Wearing a bright purple kimono, Zilpha Kindred had conspicuously climbed out of the passenger door and stood in the middle of Ash Tree Lane, staring curiously up at the house.
37.
“Your grandmother and Georgia?” said Timothy. “What are they doing here?”
“Who cares?” Abigail shouted. “They can help us.” She reached across the desk and pounded on the window. “Gramma!” She screamed as loudly as she could. But the old woman didn’t appear to notice. Abigail turned to Timothy. “Help me break this glass.”
“With what?”
“Anything. It doesn’t matter!” said Abigail, glancing around the room for some object to smash the window.
Timothy jumped onto the desk. He pulled his arm back, then punched his fist as hard as he could against the glass. An explosion of pain burst up his forearm. He fell off the desk and landed on his back in a cloud of dust. After a few seconds, he whispered, “Ouch.”
“Are you okay?” said Abigail, scrambling over to him.
Timothy’s hand was numb and warm, but he knew that soon the pain would begin. “No. I—I think I hurt it bad.”
“We’ll get you help,” said Abigail, frantic. “But first we have to warn my grandmother.” She glanced at the window. “Why didn’t the freakin’ glass break?”
Timothy struggled to sit. He leaned against the desk’s thick wooden leg. “The curse. It makes our fears seem real, right? We’re scared that your grandmother and Georgia won’t hear us scream.” He grunted as his fingers began to throb. “Pound on that window as hard as you want. We can’t pound hard enough.”
Abigail didn’t listen. She leapt onto the desk and slammed both palms against the glass, again and again, but when the doorbell buzzed downstairs, she finally stopped. Abigail slumped off the desk and landed next to Timothy on the floor. “But she’s got to hear us,” she said, panting. She sounded defeated, tired, and in pain. “We have to warn her.”
Timothy waved her quiet as she finally heard what he was hearing. The voices were muffled, but listening closely, Timothy could make out the conversation at the front door.
“Why, hello, Georgie,” said the old man.
“Hi, Johnson,” said Georgia. “I’d like you to meet my dear friend and neighbor, Zilpha Kindred.”
“Johnson?” said Timothy. “I thought his name was Jack Hesselius.”
“He must have changed it or something,” said Abigail. “Didn’t want to be associated with his dad?”
“Ah, the famous Johnson Harwood,” said Abigail’s grandmother. “It is truly a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Georgia has been singing your praises for months now. What a strange coincidence my needing your help like this.”
“Gramma,” Abigail whispered to no one in particular.
Timothy closed his eyes and leaned closer to the floor.
“Georgie’d been telling me we must meet, have dinner, something. But it never happened,” said the old man jovially. “I hear you actually came to the museum looking for me,” he continued, “but I wasn’t around that day.”
“He definitely was there that day,” said Timothy. “Liar.”
“He’s Georgia’s boyfriend?” said Abigail, in shock. “That’s how he knows about me. Eww, that’s so creepy.”
“The museum must keep you quite busy,” Zilpha’s voice came through the floor. “Director is a big job, isn’t it?”
“Never stops,” said the old man.
Abigail grabbed Timothy’s hand. “He’s the museum director?”
Timothy nodded, enraptured by what he was learning. “That’s why he was in the basement during the field trip. He works there. He was watching us. Learning.”
“But I’m here now,” Zilpha continued, “so we can chat and hopefully conduct the business I mentioned earlier.”
“Ah,” said the old man. “The jawbone.”
“Yes,” said Zilpha. “The Record mentioned it in that article about recent donations to the museum. It will be perfect for my project.”
“Jawbone?” said Georgia. “What kind of jawbone?”
“An artifact,” said the old man, “that once belonged to an ancient human. One of our more recent acquisitions.”
“Recent acquisitions!” cried Timothy. “See? Christian didn’t hide the jawbone at the museum. Since Jack is the museum director, he must have used his father’s journal to locate the jawbone. Then he brought it to the museum.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Abigail. Timothy shook his head.
“How morbid!” Georgia cried.
“It’s not morbid. It’s history.” The old man forced a laugh. “I’d taken home the bone earlier this week to examine it more closely. Coincidentally, curious Mrs. Kindred, here, came to the museum looking for it. Come on in, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased!” said Zilpha, her voice becoming clearer. She was now inside the foyer. “Maybe you’ll let me get my hands on it. And do call me Zilpha.”
Abigail and Timothy stared at each other in shock.
There was a pause. Then the old man said, “It’s quite delicate, Zilpha.”
“I understand,” she answered. “I’ll be gentle. Obtaining a tactile sense of the object would be beneficial to the photo project I’m working on. If you don’t mind, of course.”
Timothy whispered, “Your grandmother knows he has the jawbone. She’s trying to get hold of it.”
“Does she know who he is?” asked Abigail.
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“But what’s she want with the jawbone? She’s not going to curse him with it.”
There was silence downstairs. Then Jack, or Johnson, or whatever his name was, said, “Please have a seat in the living room. I’ll be back shortly.”
Abigail pounded on the floor and pressed her mouth up to a crack between the boards. “Gramma!” she called. Timothy pounded on the floor too.
Zilpha finally said, “Georgia, do you hear that?”
“Yes,” said Georgia. “Must be the television upstairs? Johnson won’t admit it, but he is hard of hearing.” Timothy and Abigail looked at each other in frustration, then continued to shout. But Georgia went on, “Ooh, is that it?” Jack was back. “So small and disgusting. How old did you say the bone was, Johnson?”
“The tests indicate possibly thousands of years,” said Jack. “That’s why I must ask you to put on these gloves, Zilpha.”
“He’s just going to give it to her?” Timothy said.
“Like a doctor’s office,” Jack joked. No one laughed. A few more seconds of silence; then he sa
id, “And here you go. I hope this helps your photo—”
Georgia screamed.
The old man cried, “What are you doing?”
“I—I’m sorry,” said Zilpha. “It slipped out of my hands.”
“But, Zil, your shoe!” said Georgia. “You’re stepping on it! Stop! You’re crushing it!”
“Oh, my,” said Zilpha dramatically. “I’m such a klutz. I’m so sorry, Mr. Harwood.”
“Please!” said the old man, his voice stern. “Don’t move! Maybe I can salvage some of it.” After a moment, he screamed, “Wait!” He sounded pained. “Now you’ve pulverized it.”
Abigail turned to Timothy, wearing an enormous smile of comprehension. “That’s what she came for,” said Timothy. “To destroy the jawbone and its link to the metal tooth.”
“If she breaks the talisman, the curse will be broken too!” said Abigail. “I was so stupid. She promised me she would finish this herself.”
“Maybe we should go?” suggested Georgia.
“That’s a fantastic idea,” said Jack. “I’ve got quite a mess to clean up.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Harwood,” said Zilpha. “I really didn’t mean—”
“No!” said the old man. “Don’t … touch … anything …”
“I’m an old, clumsy woman,” said Zilpha, her voice moving directly below the floor now, back in the foyer. “I—I really didn’t mean any harm.”
“I’m sure you never do,” said the old man. “But that doesn’t help me now, does it?”
“I suppose not,” said Zilpha. “Maybe I can pay for it?”
The old man laughed. “The artifact is irreplaceable. How much do you think something like this is worth? Believe me, the answer is not a sum total! I cannot simply send you a bill, Zelda!”
“It’s … Zilpha,” said Georgia quietly.
“Zelda, Zilpha!” said Jack. “Whatever! Just get out.”
“Now, Johnson,” said Georgia, distraught. “You’re upset. We’ll go. You drink some milk. Lie down. You’ll feel better.” The women were outside now, possibly on the porch. Timothy ran to the window, climbed onto the desk, and watched them make their way through the front garden and out the gate. All hope was leaving with them. Abigail stood silently beside him, watching them go. Downstairs, Jack started to chuckle.
38.
The light in the attic grew dim as the sun moved closer to the western horizon. Blue sky continued to stare at them through the octagonal window, but this clear weather was no comfort; in fact, it made things worse. Jack had left the house and driven away a while ago, leaving Timothy and Abigail alone to worry.
To kill time, Timothy examined the attic door once more. All he learned was that his hand still hurt. The door’s hinges were tight, and the lock felt solid; then again, so had the window when he’d tried to break it. Timothy’s gym bag was down in the kitchen, so the only weapon they had was Johnson Harwood’s ratty copy of The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse, and only if the old man came back could they smack him with it.
“There’s got to be some way out of here,” said Timothy. When Abigail didn’t answer, he looked at her sitting on the desk. She hung her head and hugged her rib cage. “Don’t you think?” She remained silent. Timothy stood. “Come on,” he said. “What happened to us being heroes?”
Abigail laughed, but it was not a happy sound.
“Are you worried that he went after your grandmother?” said Timothy. “Because I have a feeling she can take care of herself.”
“Oh, you do?” said Abigail, tucking her chin closer to her chest. “Then why am I so freaked out?”
Timothy crossed the room. He took both of Abigail’s hands into his own, as best he could. “Abigail,” he whispered. “We can control it. That’s why we’re still okay. We are getting out of here, no matter what.”
“No matter what?” she asked. Then, eyes wide, Abigail suddenly pulled away. “Shhh,” she whispered. “And don’t turn around.” At her word, he froze, goose bumps embracing every inch of him. Then he heard a sound that made everything even worse. The door hinges squeaked, and he couldn’t stop from spinning.
The door had opened a crack. Had it even been locked? The room was filled with violet haze—remnants of the light through the window—but in the darkest corners, thick layers of dirty cobwebs clung from the floor to the sloped walls, wavering in a slight draft.
“Were those there before?” Timothy whispered.
“What do you think?”
“I’m gonna go with … no?”
“How fast do you think we can make it to the door?” Abigail whispered.
“I’m not so sure I want to make it to the door now,” said Timothy. “Something on the other side opened it.”
“Yeah, but something on this side wants us to leave.”
Timothy strained his eyes. Small dark shapes shifted beyond the webs, pulling the flimsy curtains away from the walls. Holes grew as the webs stretched to their breaking points. All at once, the dark shapes solidified, became small, childlike bodies. Two figures stepped through the webs, which clung to them like rotting veils. Mary Brown and Mary White? Abigail and Timothy screamed, clutching at each other.
The door swung open. Instead of a tall old man, another girl appeared in the doorway. Her face was a blur. She wore a dress similar to the others’, made of dirty white cobwebs, rags, and lace, tied together with bits of string and knotted twine that dangled past her bare feet. Timothy choked out, “The Nightmarys?” Abigail did not answer, but instead grabbed his arm and stepped forward. None of the girls moved. “How come we’re both seeing them now?”
“Maybe we’re both scared of them now.”
“Get out of here!” Timothy shouted at the girls. “Leave us alone!”
“Shhh,” said the one in the doorway.
Abigail pulled him toward the door. The two figures in the shadows turned like clockwork to watch them move through the room. As Abigail slowly approached the girl who had opened the door, more and more of them appeared behind the patches of web, then stepped through. The room was suddenly crowded, and Timothy was getting claustrophobic. “What … are … we … doing?” Timothy said through a clenched jaw.
“Getting out of here,” Abigail whispered back.
When they were several feet away from the girl in the doorway, she stepped into the hall and held out her hand, as if welcoming them to their doom.
“Should we just walk by?” Timothy asked.
Abigail answered by pulling him forward. Timothy tried not to look as they crept past the creature. He sensed her watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her face shifting, dissolving, and reassembling behind the veil, unable to hold shape, like the figures behind the cobwebs had done before they’d emerged into the room.
Once on the landing, they tried to run toward the stairs, but Timothy lost Abigail’s grip. When he turned around, he realized the figure in the doorway had stepped between them. Remembering how his hands had passed through zombie Ben last night, Timothy wondered how solid the apparitions actually were. He reached out for Abigail, but she slipped away from him. He stumbled, which gave the creature time to block Abigail entirely. But he bolted at the phantom girl anyway. Before he made contact, the rest of the cobwebbed girls rushed through the attic toward the doorway, arms raised, hands reaching, fingers clutching, nails now sharp as talons.
Timothy froze as Abigail screamed, “Stop!” She panted. “They’ll kill you. I know they will, because I’m terrified that they will.” The Nightmarys paused, crowded at the attic door, watching him. Were they only an illusion? They looked so real. “Timothy, run!” Abigail cried.
“I can’t leave you here,” he said.
The girl who was blocking Abigail stepped aside, revealing the small legion of specters waiting beyond the doorframe. The grotesque group broke forward, pushing through the door and onto the landing, immediately separating Timothy from Abigail. Now through their thin cobweb veils he could see their faces,
but he couldn’t comprehend what he was looking at, as if his brain wouldn’t let him see. Words couldn’t describe the horror he felt as they raced toward him.
“Get help!” Abigail cried. “Run!”
Inches away, the girls’ claws reached for his throat. Timothy tripped backward down the stairs, caught the railing, and steadied himself. Taking three steps at a time, he made it to the next landing before turning around, but Abigail was gone. In her place, more and more of the wretched creatures streamed from the attic door, barreling down the stairs toward him.
The stairwell filled with the sound of strange chattering, unintelligible static, almost like birdsong, as the Nightmarys communicated to each other in their own secret language. Timothy fell through a doorway behind him: the hall with the closed doors. The mob swiftly approached. Timothy grabbed the nearest knob and turned it. The door swung outward, and he slipped inside a dark closet. He peered around the door but couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs. The chattering came closer, and the floor began to shake as if a stampede of large animals were approaching. As one of the girls peeked in at him, Timothy slammed the door shut. He held the knob as the building shuddered and then settled into silence.
Even though he was terrified to open the door, the absolute darkness inside the small space soon became unbearable. Slowly, with his good hand, he turned the knob. A slice of light appeared. The hallway was empty. Abigail’s voice rang in his memory: They’ll kill you … because I’m terrified that they will. Could these horrors actually kill, or were the cursed only in danger from themselves, like Stuart, who’d inhaled the pool water? Timothy realized that the Nightmarys had never touched him. Sure, his hand hurt, but that was because he’d actually hit the window. That part had been real; he knew the Nightmarys were not.
Abigail had been wrong; they could beat these things, if they could beat their fear.
Through the railing, Timothy glanced into the foyer below. Something slammed the front door, and he froze. After a few seconds of silence, he knew he was alone. He pulled the closet door open and rushed onto the landing. He raced down the stairs. Bursting onto the front porch, he glanced down the street. Except for the waning daylight, everything looked as it had when they’d first arrived. Totally normal.