The Nightmarys

by Dan Poblocki

  Maybe Abigail was upstairs? The rusting bolts attached to the walls told him it might not be a safe climb.

  Timothy closed the door, so that no one might slip in behind him. Crossing to the lamp, he flicked the switch, filling the room with white light. He stood in the center of the room and spun one last time to see if he’d missed a clue, when his sneaker caught in a groove in the concrete floor. Looking down, Timothy gasped.

  Familiar words were carved there: Righteousness, Integrity, Sacrifice. Earlier that day, he’d noticed these words stitched in a triangle on a gray flag in Hesselius’s office. But here, under Timothy’s feet, the words were arranged differently. Etched in the stone, the words radiated from a single point, like a three-pronged star. Surrounding the words was a halo of engraved numbers about six feet in diameter.

  Timothy bent down to examine the carvings more closely. Brushing the concrete with his fingertips, he noticed that this part of the floor had been built in several fragments. The words had each been sculpted into a separate triangle of concrete, and each number surrounding the center triangle was contained within its own single stone. Timothy stood up and stepped away to get a better view. He read the words again, then traced the circle of numerals several times, trying to glean a pattern.

  435, 102, 340, 921, 556, 900, 167, 761, 149, 899, 255, 929, 320, 532, 203, 230 …

  Timothy knew he was missing something.

  Then, just like that, the answer struck him.

  Carlton Quigley. Bucky Jenkins. Leroy “Two Fingers” Fromm. The writing from The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse. The baseball cards. Christian’s clue to his son. The jersey numbers had been the safe’s combination. Once Jack Harwood had discovered his father’s secret office and opened the safe, he’d pieced the puzzle together in the same way Timothy had. The journal inside must have pointed Harwood here, across the river.

  Timothy thought of Hesselius’s clue: the names in the book. Maybe this emblem was another part of it? The numbers on the floor were different than the jersey numbers. Bigger. But not too big for page numbers … He closed his eyes, trying to picture the names on the pages and the order Harwood had mentioned. First, second, and third base. Jenkins, Quigley, then Fromm.

  Bucky Jenkins … Page 149? Slowly, Timothy crossed the circle and pressed his foot against the stone with the number 149 carved into it. It took a bit of effort, but the stone descended a few inches into the floor and something deep underneath the building shook and clicked into place. Yes! Timothy thought.

  Next came Carlton Quigley.

  He crossed to the stone that read 102. He pressed his sneaker against the stone, and it too sank a few inches into the floor. Another deep click rattled the building.

  One more number to go. Leroy “Two Fingers” Fromm.

  Timothy thought for a long time. He wasn’t sure which number to step on. He imagined that each stone might be capable of sinking. He figured he could try stepping on all of the stones, and see which ones descended. But what if he stepped on a wrong number and screwed something up? Abigail had mentioned that Christian Hesselius had been interested in the engineering feats of ancient civilizations. This place might be booby-trapped. He decided he couldn’t take any chances; he needed to remember the code correctly. He glanced around the circle one more time, then intuitively moved toward two adjacent stones: 203 and 230. His memory assured him it was one of these, but he wasn’t quite certain which one. They were too similar. Hesselius might have arranged them to throw off an intruder like him. Timothy took a deep breath, and tried once again to imagine the book. He saw the cover, the title, the look on Zelda Kite’s face. The jacket was tattered. The pages were yellowed. Fromm had been written on a right-hand page, just like Jenkins on 149. An odd number.

  Fromm must be an odd number too.

  The answer was 203.

  Tentatively, he stepped on that stone and felt it sink into the floor. Another solid clicking sound shook the building; then suddenly, the floor began to tremble. Timothy scuttled away from the circle, watching from a safe spot near the desk as dust puffed out from the cracks between the stones. One by one, each triangular panel slid straight down into the floor. First went Righteousness. Then Integrity. And finally, Sacrifice.

  By the time the lighthouse had settled again into the sound of its steady engine whirring, a steep spiral staircase had descended into the floor. The numbered stones had risen, erasing the code, once more becoming level with the rest of the concrete slab. Each of the word panels had lowered to form a step, each step two feet lower than its predecessor, ending at Sacrifice. From there, a dark, ragged gash in the bedrock opened into a rough-hewn tunnel directly underneath the building.

  Timothy held his sleeve to his mouth, marveling at the gaping black hole, until the dust had dissipated.

  He flicked his flashlight on and off to be sure it still worked. By shining the beam into the new hole, Timothy revealed a steep, wet slope that disappeared at an early bend in the black passage. No way, Timothy thought. I have to go down there?

  But he had no choice. The full moon was rising, and he had to find Abigail.

  As he climbed down the spiral steps and into the tunnel, Timothy’s last thought was of Zilpha edging down the stairs. He hoped she’d be okay.

  In the dark, he concentrated on the tight walls and low ceiling. He forced himself to take deep breaths, as if that would help the tunnel expand. The steep floor was slick with moisture. Rocks jutted every few feet, creating makeshift stairs. Every step he took echoed into the earth. The flashlight glinted off the rock, reflecting cobwebs and several large white scurrying insects. Timothy backed away, as if the bugs might suddenly grow huge and attack him. He leapt over them quickly and kept moving forward. Every time water dripped into his face from the ceiling, Timothy yelped, wiping it quickly away. After he passed an especially tight squeeze between the rocks, he almost started to hyperventilate. How much farther? The flashlight beam shook as his hand trembled. Looking into the infinite darkness, he squeaked, “Abigail?” His voice mocked him as it mimicked him, passing up and down the tunnel like a rodent searching desperately for a way out. Timothy felt the same.

  He closed his eyes and imagined his brother, not the zombie version, but the real one, who was somewhere in Maryland, lying unconscious in a bed. His brother was a hero. Timothy thought he must try to be one too.

  When he opened his eyes again, the walls had receded. The ceiling was higher. Timothy could actually stand up straight. Ahead, several grim tunnels went deeper into the earth. Even if he knew the right way, he was unsure he could bring himself to go any farther.

  Accidentally sweeping the flashlight at the wall beside him, Timothy noticed a large iron door, rusted black. Swung inward nearly a foot, it revealed another dark cavern. Two L-shaped brackets were attached to the outside of the door. On the floor lay a wooden plank, longer than the width of the iron slab. When fitted into the brackets, it appeared, the plank would lock the door shut from the outside. Timothy listened to the darkness inside. Very faintly, he heard someone breathing. His own throat began to close. “Abigail?” he managed to whisper.

  Moments later, he heard a high-pitched moan from inside the room.

  Abigail!

  Timothy threw his body against the heavy door and pushed it open even farther. The rusting hinges squealed, but the door gave way, scraping against the floor.

  As he shined the light into the new cavern, the first thing Timothy noticed was a pale lump sitting in the middle of what looked like a pile of rubble. The shape glanced at him, showing a grubby face and black hair. Abigail’s eyes were red-rimmed and wide with terror. Someone had bound her mouth with what looked like strands of white cobweb. With her arms behind her back, she’d been tied to a wooden column that stretched from the floor to the ceiling.

  As Timothy took a step into the room, he noticed with horror that the rubble under Abigail was crumbling grayish bones. They’re only bones, he told himself, feeling as though he might faint. Bu
t then Abigail made a pleading noise. “We’ll get out of here,” he promised. “Don’t be scared.”

  Something was moving in one of the tunnels behind him. Timothy spun, shining the flashlight into the darkness. He screamed as a pair of cobweb-covered claws reached for his face. A Nightmary. She swooped closer, her face shifting underneath her veil. He swung the flashlight up at her, but his hand passed through the illusion and the girl disappeared. The flashlight slipped out of his hand, fell to the floor, and rolled against the far wall outside the chamber. With a shout, Timothy toppled backward into the room with Abigail.

  Before he caught his balance, strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him deeper into the chamber. Timothy hit the ground as someone rushed past him and out the door. He quickly turned and glanced at the entry. The beam from his flashlight moved as someone picked it up. Timothy tried to crawl back toward the metal slab. Before he could reach out and grab hold of it, he saw a face peek at him from around the edge.

  Jack grinned and said, “Good night, children.” Then the old man yanked the door shut.

  43.

  Timothy blindly examined the door, searching for a handle, but there was none. He shouted, “Let us out!”, then quickly realized how silly he was being. This chamber was no illusion, and the little tricks he’d been using to beat the curse were useless now. Chanting a spell wouldn’t work so well this time.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

  What would his family think when he never came home? What would they tell Ben when he finally woke up? What would happen to Zilpha on the stairs? Would Jack—Johnson Harwood—find her on his way back up? He wanted to curl into a ball and go to sleep. Dreamless sleep.

  Behind him, Abigail began to emit a garbled sound from behind her gag, and that brought him back to reality. “Ack—Ahh—Ket,” she said. He followed her voice in the darkness and nearly tripped over her.

  “Oh my gosh, Abigail, are you okay?” He reached out and touched her shoulder. Her arms were yanked backward and her wrists were bound around the wooden pole. “Here, I’ll untie you.” He managed to pull the gag away from her mouth, but the rope around her wrists was stringy and tight. He couldn’t even tell where to begin.

  “Back pocket,” Abigail croaked.

  “What have you got …?” Then he remembered. Her lighter. The one she’d stolen from her father in New Jersey.

  A Light in the Darkness. Of course.

  He felt a small square lump tucked snugly into Abigail’s jeans. He reached into her pocket with the index finger of his good hand and scooped the lighter up and out. It clattered to the ground. He blindly sorted through the pile of rubble, pushing the thought of old bones out of his head. He located a warm metallic object and picked it up. “I found it,” he said. “What do I do? If I light it, I’ll burn you!”

  “Try,” said Abigail, her voice wavering desperately.

  “Okay.” He flipped the lighter’s lid open. Positioning it under Abigail’s wrists, he said, “Pull your arms as far apart as possible.” Then he pressed the flint switch.

  A yellow spark lit up the darkness, then went out. From where Timothy sat, in that brief moment, he thought he saw a tall, thin figure standing in the corner of the chamber. A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t mention the sight to Abigail. He simply tried the flint again. It was harder now since his hands were shaking. Another spark, longer this time. Another glimpse of the figure. Now it was closer, maybe fifteen feet away. Timothy was certain he could hear the shuffling of skin against the wet stone.

  “Hurry,” said Abigail.

  Trembling, Timothy flicked the lighter again. This time, the flame caught hold, and shadows danced all around the room. Now the figure was closer, and Timothy could see it clearly. Its dirty white hair fell across its skeletal face, past its wide shoulders. Sinewy muscle clung to its jutting bones. Ragged robes, mere black tatters, draped the creature’s torso. It seemed to wobble as it shuffled closer to the wooden column. It held its arms toward them, its long fingers tensed, as if anticipating a large meal. Is that Delia? he thought. Abigail groaned. Timothy didn’t know whether she noticed the creature or if the flame was biting her skin. Just a few seconds longer …

  The creature continued forward, bringing a horrible stench with it. Finally, Timothy could see its face. Its eye sockets were empty, and its mouth was already open. In its bottom jaw glinted a single sharp black tooth.

  No, Timothy now knew, that’s not Delia. I’m crouching on what’s left of Delia. Full moon’s outside. That thing is the Daughter of Chaos….

  The cobweb cords snapped, and Abigail leapt to her feet. Timothy dropped the lighter. The room was again pitched into darkness. He imagined the creature slowly closing the distance. He stood up, reaching for Abigail’s arm. She hugged him tightly, then whispered, “Where’s the lighter?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It fell somewhere over here.”

  Together, they bent down, sweeping the ground near the column. “Got it,” said Abigail, seconds later. Timothy heard the top flip open, then saw a spark as Abigail once again lit the flame.

  “Watch out!” he cried.

  The creature was directly behind Abigail, outstretched fingers nearly at her neck. He pulled her away, around the other side of the wooden column. The flame disappeared again. When he took Abigail’s hand, he felt the closed lighter in her palm. Together, they lurched toward the large iron door.

  Abigail whispered, sounding frantic. “I remember being surrounded by the Nightmarys. Next thing I knew, I was tied to that column. Mr. Harwood was shining a flashlight into a darker corner of the room. Whatever bone Gramma crushed was a fake. He took the real jawbone out of his pocket, whispered something, and plugged it into that thing’s skull. I was so scared….” Her voice wavered. “I tried to do what you said, handle my fear. But it didn’t work, Timothy.”

  “That’s because you were really tied there,” he answered. “It wasn’t part of the curse.”

  “Then you showed up,” she continued. “I saw one of the Nightmarys come up behind you, and when you swung, your hand went right through it.”

  “Right,” said Timothy. “An illusion.”

  “An illusion,” Abigail echoed, as the idea seemed to sink in. From the darkness came a hushed exhalation, like a gasp through a crushed voice box. “That was not an illusion.”

  The corpse was growing frustrated. Timothy and Abigail immediately turned to the cold metal slab, but without a handle to pull, they were trapped.

  Timothy heard Abigail flip the lighter top open again. “Wait,” he whispered.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll sense us. Don’t light it yet.” They listened for a moment. The creature sounded like it was near the wooden column. “In the darkness, maybe it goes directly to the pole where we were tied. Like a habit?”

  “Or what if it can see in the dark?” said Abigail. “What if it’s heading for us right now?”

  Timothy pressed himself against the iron door. “I—I have an idea,” he said.

  “Does it involve drop-kicking this skinny beast?” said Abigail. “Because if so, I’m totally up for it.”

  “Not quite,” said Timothy. “But I’m thinking, if this corpse’s power comes from the tooth, maybe we should try to take the jawbone.”

  “What do you mean … take?”

  “I mean, if Harwood stuck the jawbone into its mouth and activated it, then maybe if we reach in, pull it back out, that would deactivate it?”

  Abigail laughed. “You want to reach into its mouth? Are you crazy? How do we get close enough to do that?”

  “Getting close won’t be the hard part.”

  “And what if it doesn’t work, Timothy? What if it grabs us and … does whatever it does, before we get a chance to—?”

  “I don’t know!” said Timothy. “But can you think of another option?”

  Abigail was silent. A few seconds later, she said, “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

 
; “You’re right. If we’re trapped in here, we’re going to die either way. And I’d rather keep my soul, thank you very much. I’ll light the flame. You do the jaw snatching. Deal?”

  Timothy gulped. “Deal.”

  Abigail pressed the flint button, the spark burst, and the flame flickered from her fingertips. The creature crouched near the column, scratching at the wood. At the sight of the fire, it turned its head and glared at them, then stood and once more began its slow shuffle toward the door. “Go,” Abigail whispered, “now.”

  Timothy pushed away from the slab, barreling toward the mummy thing, his own arms outstretched in defense. As he came closer, he groaned. It had opened its jaw wide, prepared to chomp.

  Timothy shoved his hand into the thing’s mouth, gripping the bone like a door handle. But before he could yank it away, the creature bit down, hard. The pain was unlike anything Timothy had ever imagined. He tried to pull away, but the pain only increased. His fingers were now stuck inside the creature’s mouth. It clasped his neck and began to squeeze.

  Timothy stared into its empty eye sockets and saw his fate, lost forever in this hell of darkness. He kicked at the creature and managed to squeak, “Get … off … me!” The creature responded by dragging his face toward its own. It squeezed Timothy’s neck harder and leaned closer.

  “Abigail … help …,” he croaked.

  His peripheral vision darkened. He was losing consciousness. He kicked at the creature’s skinny legs again, but the corpse was surprisingly strong, and Timothy was getting weaker by the second.

  Just then, light flashed next to his head, and something crashed into him. Timothy saw the creature fly against the far wall, before fresh darkness enveloped the room again. Abigail had sideswiped the corpse. She clutched Timothy’s arm, dragging him away. When they reached the iron door, she whispered, “Are you okay?”