The Nightmarys (16 page)

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.

Sit ing together, Abigail looked at Timothy’s

re ection in the window. They were

transparent, like ghosts. “I stil 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

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 terri ed 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?”

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

pret y 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 cal 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

total y di erent.” Abigail sighed and started to

speak, but he cut her of . “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

rst day I asked to be your partner. You

thought I was picking on you. You wanted me

to stay away from you.”

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 al of a sudden started

seeing some real y creepy stuf .”

“We already went over al 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 fol ow 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.

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 give 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 tel

me you think Gramma—”

“I have no idea what to think,” Timothy

interrupted. The windows were total y fogged

with their breath, their re ections gone. They

could only stare at each other now.

could only stare at each other now.

“Wel , you want to know what I think?”

Abigail shouted. She didn’t wait for an answer.

She stuck out her nger and wrote on the

window, carving into the fog in enormous

block let ers: U-SUCK. Then she pressed the yel ow

plastic strip that ran vertical y up the wal next

to the window, ringing the bel for the bus to

stop.

A few seconds later, the driver pul ed up to

the curb and opened the door.

“What are you doing?” Timothy asked.

“I’m walking,” said Abigail, inging herself

out of her seat.

“Yeah, but where are you going?” he cal ed.

She practical y 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

… but -munch.” She started walking up the

… but -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 al 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 al .

Stupid stupid stupid! he wanted to scream.

“On or of ?” said the driver, rol ing his eyes.

“I’m o !” shouted Timothy, leaping onto the

curb. The door closed swiftly, and before he

could even think, the bus was pul ing away

into the night, its brake lights blurring red

through the mist.

Timothy cal ed out, “Abigail!” He listened for

a moment, to see if he could hear her. From the

river, the old foghorn wailed. The thunder

cal ed again, its voice a low growl. A

streetlamp threw a hazy glow across the

darkened storefront windows ahead. Timothy

darkened storefront windows ahead. Timothy

thought he could make out the shape of a girl

running away from him, her silhouet e

becoming fainter and fainter as the shadows

swal owed her up.

26.

After running half a block, Timothy had lost

sight of her. Other than the sound of the

growing wind and the continuous rumble of

thunder in the distance, the street was quiet.

He’d been thinking aloud on the bus, but he

hadn’t meant to hurt Abigail’s feelings. He

needed to apologize. Maybe he’d find her at the

Mayfair? Timothy turned up his col ar and

began the ascent up the hil . What if she

wouldn’t forgive him?

Several blocks ahead, Timothy froze. A dark

gure appeared before him, standing

underneath a streetlight. At rst, Timothy

thought it might be the shadow man. Then he

realized that this gure was not nearly as tal .

He also wasn’t wearing that long overcoat. No,

this new gure wore a di erent kind of out t.

A tight- t ing uniform. As Timothy took

another step forward, he noticed that the gure

another step forward, he noticed that the gure

leaned against a crutch. “Ben?” he whispered.

Then the gure turned around and began to

walk away.

Remembering the horrible conversation from

that morning, Timothy hesitated, but as the

gure continued up the hil , he again cal ed

out, “Ben!” By the time he reached the next

stop sign, the gure was only half a block

ahead. When Timothy cal ed out one more

time, the gure only continued his silent

journey, as if he couldn’t hear his lit le brother,

or didn’t care to respond. The rain began to fal

harder now, blurring the night. Timothy wiped

at his eyes, but the next time he looked up the

street, the figure had disappeared.

Before he knew it, Timothy was standing just

down the block from his house. Where had the

gure gone? Timothy struggled to breathe, just

like after a fast sprint during swim practice. He

was too far away from the Mayfair to walk

there now. And he certainly didn’t want to be

alone. Shivering and afraid, he turned at the

alone. Shivering and afraid, he turned at the

corner of Beech Nut, grateful that his house was

just up the street.

Suddenly, the gure stepped out from behind

a tal evergreen bush, and Timothy nearly

tripped over his own feet. Ben grabbed at him,

but he swerved out of his grasp.

Now they were face to face, and Timothy

suddenly wished they weren’t. Ben didn’t look

like Ben. His eyes were milky, his skin blotchy

red. In fact, he looked a lot like Timothy’s

nightmare that week. Ben opened his mouth,

revealing his brown rot ing teeth. “This is your

fault, Timothy,” he said, his voice grit y. “You

shouldn’t have let me leave New Starkham.

You should have told me to stay….”

“What are you …?” Timothy began, his voice

shaking with disbelief. Were they real y talking

about this? As bizarre as the whole thing

seemed, he couldn’t stop himself from

answering. “I shouldn’t have let you leave?

What about what you told me? You needed to

nd some order in al this chaos. What about

nd some order in al this chaos. What about

your light in the darkness?”

Ben blinked, as if he hadn’t heard. “This is

your fault, Timothy. Your fault … But I forgive

you.” Ben smiled a horrible smile. He held his

arms open. The crutch clat ered to the

sidewalk. “Here, give your brother a hug.”

“You’re not my brother!” said Timothy,

pushing at the gure. But when his hands

slipped through the gure into nothingness,

Timothy realized he was standing alone in the

street. Lightning

ashed and almost

immediately the thunder clapped. Ben was

gone.

Timothy closed his eyes for several seconds,

too frightened to move.

He didn’t notice the headlights speeding

toward him from the opposite direction.

27.

Timothy spun.

The lights blinded him as the car screeched to

a stop. When he nal y felt his heart restart, the

car’s horn nearly knocked him over again. He

quickly stepped out of the way, back onto the

safety of the curb, ready to raise a particular

nger to whomever was driving this hunk of

junk. Over the din of the rain hit ing the car’s

hood, he heard the grinding gear of one of the

windows rol ing down.

“What the hel are you doing in the middle of

the street?” The sound of his father’s voice was

nearly as shocking as the car horn moments

earlier. “You looking to hitch a ride on the

roadkil wagon?” Timothy’s father sounded

more worried than angry. Timothy felt so

traumatized he couldn’t even answer. “You’re

al wet. Get in.” Timothy opened the door and

slipped inside.

slipped inside.

They sat quietly for a few seconds, listening

to the rain drumming against the roof.

“So are you going to tel me what you were

doing out there? Or are you going to make me

guess?” said Timothy’s father.

How could he tel his father about seeing

zombie Ben, especial y since Ben had simply

disappeared? At best, his father would ignore

him. At worst …

“I just walked home. Me and Abigail went to

visit Stuart in the hospital.”

“You should’ve cal ed me for a ride. Who’s

Abigail?”

“A girl I go to school with.”

“Hmm,” said Timothy’s father, his mind

elsewhere. “I need you to do me a favor.” He

reached into the glove compartment, grabbed a

set of keys, and handed them to Timothy. “Pul

your mother’s car into the garage. Keep to the