The Nightmarys (18 page)

“Guess not,” said the blond girl. “We don’t

usual y have non–col ege students trying to get

into the library on a daily basis. Two in one

morning is just strange. You’re lucky I’m not a

stickler for the rules. If Gavin was around—”

“There’s a girl here?” Timothy felt his heart

start to pound. “My age?”

She nodded. “Here’s a temporary card. If you

need anything, just let me know.” She slipped

him a smal piece of paper.

“Actual y, I’m wondering if you have old

copies of New Starkham newspapers. Like,

from the 1940s?”

The girl stared at him for a moment, then

said, “Okay, that’s weird. The other girl asked

me the same thing when she came in an hour

ago. I already gave her al that micro che.

ago. I already gave her al that micro che.

You’re going to have to share.” She pointed

into the wing on Timothy’s right. “The room is

behind the last row of books. Careful. It’s dark

back there.”

“Thanks,” said Timothy, heading in the

direction the girl had pointed. As he

approached the last row of shelves, he knew

who he’d find there.

“What are you doing here?” said Abigail when

she saw him.

The faint backlight from the micro che

screen threw her face into shadow. Behind her,

the projected headline echoed how he felt.

Shocker in New Starkham!

“The same thing as you, apparently,” he said.

“Tricky. You’ve got your entire family freaking

out. Your grandmother cal ed this morning and

told me what happened last night when you

got home.”

“She did?”

“She did?”

“She was worried about you.”

“Gramma didn’t want me involved.” She

blinked, completely closed up. “I had to throw

her of .”

“You should cal her and tel her you’re safe.

Or maybe I should.”

“Please … don’t.” She reached out for his

arm, then stopped herself. “If I can gure out

al this nonsense before she does, she won’t get

hurt. She shouldn’t be worrying about cursed

jawbones at her age.”

Timothy sighed, knowing he was about to

break his promise to Zilpha. He pul ed up a

chair next to her. “How did you gure out this

place was here?”

“Got up early. Looked out my bedroom

window. Saw the campus. Realized the answer

was staring me in the face. Oh, and by the

way,” she said, “I’m doing this on my own.”

“But …”

“I know I sound like a jerk,” she said, “but

“I know I sound like a jerk,” she said, “but

after last night, I realized that I need to do this

alone, or not at al . This is about my family.

You shouldn’t be involved, Timothy.”

It took him a moment to catch his breath.

“Abigail, what I said to you on the bus was

real y unfair.”

“You’re right. It was. And that’s ne,” she

answered, blushing and turning back to the

screen, “but your apology doesn’t change my

mind. Besides, this is a smal room, and your

gym bag sorta stinks.”

“Oh,” said Timothy, get ing up and backing

toward the door. “Right. Sorry. I’l just … wait

out here until you’re done.”

“Cool,” she said, scrol ing through the article

on the machine.

At the doorway, Timothy couldn’t help

himself. “Abigail, please,” he said. “I’m real y

sorry.”

She turned to look at him. In the half-light,

for just a moment, he could see something in

her eyes, something that told him she was sorry

her eyes, something that told him she was sorry

too. “You already said that,” she answered, then

turned away.

Timothy sat at the bot om of the staircase just

outside the micro che room. The carpet was

worn, its threads just barely covering a ight of

wooden steps that led upward. Frustrated,

Timothy pul ed at the weave, loosening it

further.

Fine, he thought. Be like that. At least I tried.

Timothy stood up and strol ed through the

last few rows of books, but he and Abigail were

losing precious time. What was she doing in

there?

Moments later, distracted, he crept up the

stairs. With each step, Timothy grew angrier.

He’d only ever tried to be nice to this girl. Right

now, she was being meaner than Stuart could

ever imagine.

Timothy found himself standing in the

middle of a dark landing. A black plastic tarp

middle of a dark landing. A black plastic tarp

hung loosely from the ragged wal paper near

the top, covering part of the wal . Renovations?

After a moment, Timothy pul ed the tarp aside.

Behind the black plastic, he found a dark gap,

and then an older wal , a foot behind the rst

one. In the center of this second wal was a

door with lthy pebbled glass, so it was

impossible to see inside the room.

As Timothy stared at the dirty glass, he saw

that there had once been words decaled that

had since been scratched of .

Dropping his bag to the landing oor, he

went limp. He grabbed on to the knob for

support, reading again the impression of the

scratched-away words.

DR. CHR TIAN H SSEL S–

PROFES OR OF H ST RY

30.

Timothy turned the knob and the latch clicked.

The door wheezed open a crack. A sliver of

darkness stared at him. Timothy took a step

backward, trying to catch his breath. He

glanced down the stairs, toward the main

reading room. Daylight spil ed across the oor.

No one seemed to notice him.

Frances May had told him that this man had

been a professor. According to Zilpha Kindred,

Hesselius had done something bad and had

been locked away. This room must have been

the man’s o ce. The door had been wal ed

over, erased. Weird. Why would the col ege

abandon an entire room?

Curious, Timothy nudged the door open. The

hinges creaked quietly. He listened for any

sound of movement. “Hel o?” he whispered.

After a few seconds of silence, he realized he

was alone. He pushed the door open ful y. The

was alone. He pushed the door open ful y. The

room was not as dark as it had rst seemed.

From the doorway, Timothy noticed smal

details: a thick oak desk, a green glass lamp, a

wal of bookshelves l ed with bel jars,

academic volumes, and picture frames. Velvet

moth-eaten curtains hung from the tal

windows. Next to the windows, two cracked

leather chairs stared at each other, like a pair of

old gentlemen whose conversation had run out.

Abigail needed to know about this, but

would she listen?

Tentatively, he stepped inside. He strol ed

through the chamber, feeling like a ghost, as if

he’d accidental y stepped outside of time.

Final y, he pul ed the curtain away from one of

the windows. Light ooded the room, dust

erupted in a torrent of motes, and he was

blinded. He shaded his eyes. He saw the glass

top of the Husketomic Lighthouse across the

river.

The room was both larger and more clut ered

than it had first appeared. Two flags stood erect

than it had first appeared. Two flags stood erect

on either side of the window—one was the

American ag; the other was a pale gray felt,

embroidered with a white triangle of stars.

Timothy lifted the second ag to see it more

clearly. In the center, three hand-stitched words

echoed the triangle:

RIGHTEOUSNESS, INTEGRITY, SACRIFICE.

What kind of flag was this?

The intense beam of light that ooded the

room was at the perfect angle to il uminate a

crooked frame hanging on the wal opposite

the window. Timothy crept across the room

and straightened the frame. Inside was an old

photograph of the lighthouse, the Taft Bridge,

and cli s across the river. Faint pencil marked

the mat e-paper frame behind the glass. In old

script, someone had writ en Hesselius

Il uminarium. 1940. A Light in the Darkness.

Timothy gasped. His brother’s mantra. Was

this an example of Ben’s Order in Chaos theory

—literal y, his Light in the Darkness—or was

—literal y, his Light in the Darkness—or was

this just more coincidence? Either way,

Timothy felt the need to look closer, as if he’d

been meant to find this of ice.

Someone touched his shoulder, and Timothy

spun. Behind him stood Ben, purple lips pul ed

back into an awful smile.

31.

Timothy tripped backward and was about to

scream, “Get away from me!” when he heard

Abigail’s voice say, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Suddenly, Ben ickered and disappeared. In his

place stood Abigail.

Timothy blinked and exhaled. He slowly

reached out and poked her shoulder. She was

solid. Good. “You … shouldn’t sneak up on

people,” he said, shaking the phantom from his

mind’s eye.

“I, uh, just wanted to let you know the

micro che machines are free,” said Abigail,

clutching a pile of papers. She eyed him

suspiciously, then glanced at his bag on the

oor near the open door. “I fol owed the

chlorine smel . What is this place?” She reached

out and touched the pane of glass where Dr.

Hesselius’s name had once been painted. “Oh

my gosh,” she whispered.

my gosh,” she whispered.

“His of ice,” said Timothy.

“You mean, it was right above my head the

entire time?” Her face went pale.

Timothy nodded.

“But what’s with …?” She gestured to the

tarp.

Timothy shook his head. “I think …” He

paused, unsure if Abigail would understand

Ben’s Order-Chaos theory. “It’s complicated,” he

answered. “The important thing is that we’re

closer to an answer.” Abigail began backing

away, crushing the papers against her chest. She

looked like she had last night, just before she’d

run away. “Oh, come on, Abigail, you can’t do

this by yourself,” he said. She stil seemed

unsure. “Look around,” he added. “This isn’t

just about your family.”

Abigail surveyed the room. After Timothy

showed her the strange gray ag, she was

confused too. Final y, he led her to the wal

with the photo of the lighthouse.

As she examined the writing, he noticed

As she examined the writing, he noticed

another frame l ed with old-fashioned

basebal cards sit ing on the bookshelf next to

the wal . Names were printed on the cards

underneath the players’ photos, but Timothy

couldn’t read them through the thick layer of

crud.

“Timothy, what’s—?”

“Hold on,” he whispered, leaning closer to

the bookcase. He grabbed the frame from the

shelf, cleaned the dust from the glass, then

noticed three familiar names in the bot om

right corner. In order, they were the men who

played second, rst, and third bases on this

team. He gasped.

“Tel me what’s going on,” said Abigail.

“What are you looking at?”

Timothy showed her.

“Basebal cards?” she said, skeptical y. “So

what? According to the articles I found, Dr.

Hesselius was a wel -known col ector of

Americana. As a historian, that was one of his

special interests.”

special interests.”

Timothy smiled. “Nothing more American

than basebal , is there?” he said. “Check out the