The Nightmarys (12 page)

The black smudge was where the girls were

standing.”

“I didn’t see a smudge,” said Timothy. “I just

saw your bedroom.”

“It was right in the center,” said Abigail.

“They were there!” She looked at the ash in the

tub, as if she now wished she hadn’t burned the

photograph.

“I … believe you,” said Timothy, smiling

“I … believe you,” said Timothy, smiling

weakly. “There’s got to be a connection

between your story and mine. If we’re both not

crazy, then someone or something out there is

trying to make us feel like we are.”

“I know the connection.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “It’s you.”

“Me?” he said, his voice rising.

Abigail closed the lighter and slipped it into

her pocket. “Partly.” Al the color had faded

from her face. “Last night, the girls knew about

what happened at the museum. You know,

with the water bal oon? They knew I was angry

at Stuart for throwing it. And at Mr. Crane for

al owing it to happen. And at … wel … you.”

“Me? What did I do?” Timothy asked.

“I can’t even remember now.” She blushed.

“They said they had helped me. I didn’t

understand, and they said that soon I would.

They said that since they’d helped me, I should

go with them. Play their game. That I owed

go with them. Play their game. That I owed

them.” She was silent for a few seconds. “I

didn’t know what to say. I mean, how do you

argue with a couple of … whatever they are.”

“You’re not going anywhere with them.”

“Of course not. I didn’t agree to anything.”

“They said that they helped you. How?”

Abigail shrugged, unsure. “Horrible things

happened to the three of you.”

“The three of who?”

“Stuart. You. And Mr. Crane.”

“I don’t understand.”

Abigail sighed. “The Nightmarys helped me.

What happened to the three of you, happened

because of me. You saw that creepy man. Stuart

saw the monster in the pool.”

Timothy blinked. “And Mr. Crane saw

something scary in those jars.”

“In Nathaniel Olmstead’s book,” said Abigail,

“the Nightmarys have the power to frighten

people. To make monsters. My Nightmarys

made you see what you saw. Even though I

made you see what you saw. Even though I

didn’t ask for it, the Nightmarys ‘helped’ me.

And almost kil ed Stuart along the way.” Her

voice wavered. “When I found out what

happened to him, I knew it was my fault. I

never wanted anyone to get hurt. Or scared,

even. I just wanted to be left alone.”

“Maybe there are no Nightmarys. Maybe you

have the power to frighten people,” said

Timothy, feeling almost foolish. “Maybe, like,

deep down, you were real y angry at al of us.

So, like, unconsciously or something, you made

us al see things … things that weren’t real y

there.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Abigail shook her head.

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Say you could … maybe you didn’t mean

to.”“But Stuart ended up in the hospital. If there

was nothing there, if he was just seeing things,

how did he get hurt?”

Timothy shook his head. “He believed he saw

a monster. He got scared and inhaled some

a monster. He got scared and inhaled some

water.”

“No,” said Abigail, pressing her palms to her

temples. “I can’t believe that I did that. I mean,

yeah, I was angry at him, but I never wanted

any of this to happen.”

“But—”

“No, Timothy. I know I’m right. I’m not

anything like that. At rst I actual y had the

same thought.” She smiled weakly. “But now I

know this is about something else.”

“How do you know?”

“There are too many other things involved

that don’t add up.”

“Like what?”

“Like … that book you found. And the names

that were writ en in it. And, I suppose, most

importantly … that it might be about my

grandmother.”

Timothy considered that.

“This goes beyond me and my stupid

problems,” said Abigail. She grabbed a chunk

problems,” said Abigail. She grabbed a chunk

of her hair and waved it at him. “I mean,

before you told me your story, I actual y

thought I could hide from them. I dyed my hair.

I was planning on sleeping on the couch in the

living room tonight. I thought maybe they

wouldn’t recognize me, and then tomorrow …”

“Tomorrow, what?” said Timothy.

“Tomorrow, I was going to take a bus back to

New Jersey. My dad’s waiting for me there.”

“Oh …” Timothy felt as though she’d sucker

punched him. He realized how much he didn’t

want to go through this alone.

“But I can’t do that anymore. Not now that

you’re involved,” she said simply.

Timothy nodded, relieved. “I think the most

important thing for us to gure out is who this

man is—the one I keep seeing. And the book. If

they’re both real, not created, like you said, by

… the Nightmarys, they might be the key to

what is actual y going on here.”

Down the hal , a doorknob rat led. They both

jumped.

jumped.

Abigail leapt from the tub and closed the

bathroom door. She opened the mirror cabinet

and grabbed a pair of big black scissors.

20.

“Abigail? Honey? Are you home?” a sweet,

high voice cal ed from the foyer.

Chunks of her hair rained down upon the

oor. Abigail tossed the scissors into the sink

and turned around. Her hair now lay in jagged

chunks just below her ears, swooping up even

shorter in the back.

“How do I look?” Abigail whispered, a smile

in her eyes.

“Uh … di erent,” Timothy managed to say.

He couldn’t believe she’d just chopped o her

hair like that.

“Perfect.”

“Abigail?” The voice had come halfway

down the hal .

“I’m in the bathroom,” Abigail cal ed back.

Then she whispered to Timothy, “Now’s your

chance.”

chance.”

“Chance for what?”

“To ask my grandmother about the book.”

“But—”

Abigail threw the door open and leapt into

the hal way. Her mother screamed, then

gasped.

“Abigail? Is that you? What have you done to

yourself?”

“You don’t like it?”

“To be perfectly honest,” her mother

answered dramatical y, “no, I do not like it.”

Timothy cowered in the bathroom. This was

happening too fast. What if Abigail’s

grandmother freaked out when he asked her

about the book? He looked over his shoulder

for a way to escape, but al he could see was a

tiny pane of fogged glass.

“Mother!” Abigail’s own mother cried. “Come

look what Abigail’s done to herself!”

Abigail peeked at Timothy from around the

doorframe and waved. “Come on,” she said.

doorframe and waved. “Come on,” she said.

Timothy reluctantly fol owed her down the

hal , his heart in his throat. Suddenly, a

hunched silhouet e shu ed in front of them.

They froze where they stood.

“Oh!” the old woman cried. “Abigail, you

frightened me.” Mrs. Kindred contemplated the

two of them for several seconds, then said, “For

a moment, I thought I was looking into a

mirror. You can’t imagine how much you look

like I did when I was your age. What did you

do to yourself?” Abigail’s mother stood next to

Mrs. Kindred.

“A cut-and-dye job,” said Abigail sheepishly.

Her mother shook her head. “Honestly …”

Then she noticed Timothy. “Who are you?”

“I’m Timothy,” he answered, shoving his

hands into his pockets. “Timothy July.”

“We’re working on a school project

together,” Abigail added.

Mrs. Kindred stepped forward and turned on

the hal light. She looked older than she had

earlier in the week. Weary. She held on to the

earlier in the week. Weary. She held on to the

wal , as if to steady herself. “You’re the boy

from the museum,” she said, squinting at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Timothy managed. Now he

wasn’t worried about her freaking out; instead,

he worried she might murder him.

“How nice that you brought home a friend,

Abigail,” she said, softening. Timothy was

unsure if she was just being polite. “I’m

Zilpha.” She glanced at Abigail’s mother. “This

is my daughter, Sarah.”

“Nice to meet you,” he whispered.

“Abigail, go clean up, then let’s al sit down,”

said Sarah. “Gramma’s had a long day.” She

took the old woman’s hand and led her into the

next room.

“I can manage, my dear,” said Zilpha. “I’m

not dead yet, you know.”

“Can Timothy stay for supper?” Abigail

asked.

“Fine with me,” said Sarah. “Is it okay with

your parents?”

your parents?”

“Uh … yeah,” he answered, knowing that

probably wasn’t true.

Abigail and Timothy set the table as her

grandmother sat at the far end of the dining

room. When Abigail raised the question about

what business her grandmother had at the

museum the other day, Zilpha blushed and

mut ered something about inspiration, then

quickly changed the subject to talk about the

weather.

They were interrupted when Sarah brought a

salad to the table. “Oh, Mom, I forgot to tel

you, I final y met Georgia’s new boyfriend.” She

turned to Timothy. “Georgia’s our next-door

neighbor. She and he were coming up in the

elevator together earlier today. I admire her. At

her age … It’s never too late to start dating

again, you know.”

“Hmm. But where would I nd the time,

dear?” Zilpha smiled.

Sarah chuckled and turned toward the

Sarah chuckled and turned toward the

doorway. “Pasta’s almost ready.”

Silence l ed the room. Timothy and Abigail

glanced at each other. He waited for her to say

something, but she nodded at him

conspicuously. “So … uh, we’re working on a

book report,” he said, blushing.

Abigail added, “A combination book report–

history project. That’s why Mr. Crane brought

our class to the museum.”

“How nice,” said Zilpha. “What book are you

reading?”

“Oh, you’ve probably never heard of it,” said

Timothy, staring at his plate. “It’s real y old.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Zilpha,

“I’m real y old too.”

They al laughed. Timothy quietly added, “It’s

cal ed The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse.”

Overcome, the old woman went into a

coughing t for several seconds. After she

recovered, she tentatively asked, “Where did

you find a book with such a morbid title?”

you find a book with such a morbid title?”

Timothy glanced at Abigail. “By chance,”

Abigail answered for him. “It just sort of came

to us.”

“It came to you?”

“I’ve already read about half of it. We’ve

started doing some research,” said Timothy,

trying to sound more assured. “The author was

a lawyer from Boston. Strange.” He thought

careful y before adding, “I think his last name

was the same as yours.”

The old woman stared at the table now, her

mouth set in a grimace. Final y, Zilpha said,

“My uncle wrote several books when I was a

girl, but under a pseudonym. Oswald Kent?

Kentwal ? Something like that. I don’t real y

remember.”

“That’s it,” said Abigail. “Ogden Kentwal .”

“We learned his real last name online. But

your last name is stil …?” Timothy was unsure

how to finish.

“I kept ‘Kindred’ for professional reasons,”

she said. “I was a photographer in my youth.”

she said. “I was a photographer in my youth.”

“Abigail showed me the pictures,” said

Timothy. “They’re amazing.”

A spark lit up the old woman’s eyes as she

looked at him again. “Wel … thank you.”

“Gramma,” said Abigail, “do you remember

your uncle’s books? They say he based the

character on his niece.” She quietly added,

“Was it you?”

“I don’t know what my uncle was thinking

back then,” said Zilpha. She hesitated before

adding, “It’s been a long time since I’ve thought

about it.”

“Can you tel us what happened?” asked

Timothy.

“I … I don’t remember much.”

“Gramma, please. It’l real y help … our

report.”