The Nightmarys (28 page)

deep within the earth, another light appeared.

Lava, magma, or possibly something living and

nameless, began to rise, shaking the ground

with the speed of its approach.

Timothy shoved his body against the cli , the

railing pressing into his lower spine. He

repeated the sentence, “This isn’t happening,”

over and over, until nal y, he heard Zilpha’s

voice cal ing to him from several steps up.

“Timothy? What’s wrong?”

“The curse … I can’t.”

“Fight it,” she demanded. “Fight it like you

fought the dragon.”

How? If this is the Edge of Doom … ?

How? If this is the Edge of Doom … ?

Timothy thought back to the day at the

museum when he’d imitated the voice of the

robed man on the cli , when Abigail had

thought he was making fun of her. The man in

the painting had been chanting a spel or a

prayer or something. Maybe Timothy could do

the same. He tried to nd his voice. “I …

Timothy July … master of this … domain … do

beseech thee … to leave this place … and

return to … wherever the heck you came

from.” The ground began to shake. Mammoth

red, scaly hands reached up out of the chasm,

claws the size of cars grasping at the space just

below the Taft Bridge. Fighting back a scream,

Timothy clutched at the railing and closed his

eyes. Then, angry, he cried as loudly as he

could, “IN THE NAME OF CHAOS, GO THE

HELL AWAY!”

Everything went stil . Timothy listened to his

heart beating in his eardrums. When he opened

his eyes, the sky had cleared. The red light was

gone. And most important, the claws had

disappeared. The water splashed against the

disappeared. The water splashed against the

rocks, and the stars glit ered in the sky. There

was no Edge of Doom. This was only the edge

of the Lit le Husketomic.

But then he noticed the bright light of the ful

moon higher up in the sky. This was no

il usion. He was running out of time.

“It—it worked,” Timothy stammered,

glancing over his shoulder at Zilpha. “I’l be

right back.”

Timothy rushed down the endless stairs,

holding on to the railing with his good hand,

trying not to slip on the slick boards. He leapt

the last two steps onto a gravel path. The sound

of the river was deafening, but it was a comfort

to hear, as opposed to the horrible rushing

sound of the thing that had, moments earlier,

been rising from the chasm. As Timothy ran,

every few seconds, the path was lit by the light

from above, so he was able to quickly fol ow it

to the smal clapboard building.

Standing in front of a shiny black metal door,

Timothy caught his breath. Glancing back up

Timothy caught his breath. Glancing back up

the cli , he saw Zilpha sit ing on a stair near

the top, inching her way slowly down.

42.

Timothy expected the door to be locked, but to

his surprise, the knob turned in his hand. He

released it, and the door slowly opened a crack.

Timothy stared into the musty darkness. From

inside the building, a grinding sound grumbled,

the whirring of an ancient engine, the light

turning on its old axle.

He kicked the door and it swung open. The

whirring sound was louder now. Timothy

almost cal ed out Hel o? but imagined Jack

hiding somewhere inside. He peered into the

dark room and soon realized that it was not as

dark as it had first seemed.

The room was a perfect circle. Bolted to the

wal , a rickety metal staircase swirled around

the circumference of the building, ending at an

open hatch in the ceiling twenty feet up. From

the hatch, every fteen seconds, the bright light

burst forth, but the rest of the time, a dul

burst forth, but the rest of the time, a dul

phosphorescence spil ed into the room, dusting

the furniture and equipment with a ghostly

glow.

Timothy looked around. The room reminded

him of Hesselius’s abandoned o ce— l ed

with antiques, maps, photos of the surrounding

landscape—except that someone had obviously

recently been here, possibly even worked here

on a regular basis. There was a stack of papers

on a nearby desk. A computer. A telephone. A

tal halogen oor lamp. A modern-looking

o ce chair. Timothy quickly realized he’d seen

al there was to see.

Maybe Abigail was upstairs? The rusting

bolts at ached to the wal s 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 icked the switch, l ing 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

clue, when his sneaker caught in a groove in

the concrete oor. Looking down, Timothy

gasped.

Familiar words were carved there:

Righteousness, Integrity, Sacri ce. Earlier that

day, he’d noticed these words stitched in a

triangle on a gray ag in Hesselius’s o ce. But

here, under Timothy’s feet, the words were

arranged di erently. 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

ngertips, he noticed that this part of the oor

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 bet er view. He read the words

again, then traced the circle of numerals several

again, then traced the circle of numerals several

times, trying to glean a pat ern.

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 basebal 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

o ce 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 oor

were di erent 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.

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 e ort, but the stone descended a

few inches into the oor 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 oor. Another deep

click rat led 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

gured he could try stepping on al of the

stones, and see which ones descended. But what

if he stepped on a wrong number and screwed

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 o 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 tat ered. The pages were

yel owed. Fromm had been writ en 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

Tentatively, he stepped on that stone and felt

it sink into the oor. Another solid clicking

sound shook the building; then suddenly, the

oor began to tremble. Timothy scut led away

from the circle, watching from a safe spot near

the desk as dust pu ed out from the cracks

between the stones. One by one, each triangular

panel slid straight down into the oor. First

went Righteousness. Then Integrity. And nal y,

Sacrifice.

By the time the lighthouse had set led again

into the sound of its steady engine whirring, a

steep spiral staircase had descended into the

oor. 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

marveling at the gaping black hole, until the

dust had dissipated.

He icked his ashlight on and o to be sure

it stil 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 ful 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

wal s and low ceiling. He forced himself to take

deep breaths, as if that would help the tunnel

expand. The steep oor was slick with

moisture. Rocks jut ed every few feet, creating

makeshift stairs. Every step he took echoed into

the earth. The ashlight glinted o the rock,

re ecting cobwebs and several large white

scurrying insects. Timothy backed away, as if

scurrying insects. Timothy backed away, as if

the bugs might suddenly grow huge and at ack

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

especial y tight squeeze between the rocks, he

almost started to hyperventilate. How much

farther? The ashlight beam shook as his hand

trembled. Looking into the in nite 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 wal s

had receded. The ceiling was higher. Timothy

could actual y stand up straight. Ahead, several

grim tunnels went deeper into the earth. Even

grim tunnels went deeper into the earth. Even