The Nightmarys (4 page)

Now, if only the nurses had the same

philosophy …

As he reached out for the cal but on again, a

draft blew against the curtain, as if someone

had opened the door to his room. Final y …

“Nurse!” Byron cal ed. “I need a blanket. It’s

freezing in here!” The curtain went stil , but no

one answered. “Nurse?” he tried again.

one answered. “Nurse?” he tried again.

“Hel o?” Goose bumps broke out al over his

frail body, and this time, it had nothing to do

with the air conditioner. He could feel a

presence. Someone was in the room with him.

He’d said goodbye to his children earlier that

evening, but maybe one of them had come

back.

The curtain at the foot of his bed was

moving, as if someone were scratching at it

from the other side. “Is anyone there?” he

asked, though he wasn’t certain he wanted an

answer. Suddenly, the scratching moved. Now it

was directly to his right, next to the bed stand.

Then the scratching moved again, to the

opposite side of the bed. Suddenly, the entire

curtain began to ripple, as if hundreds of

ngers were dragging against the cloth.

Eventual y, the ngers clenched, bal ing up the

fabric. They began to pul downward, put ing

pressure on the silver bearings that at ached the

curtain to the long slider on the ceiling.

The heart monitor began to beep faster and

The heart monitor began to beep faster and

faster. Though it pained him, the old man cried

out as loud as he could, “Nurse!”

The curtain was torn down, ut ering like a

magician’s cape to the oor. Now Byron could

see that the room was l ed with people. He

shrieked. Their faces were il uminated by that

faint uorescent light, making them al appear

sicker than himself. He knew them. They were

the criminals he’d helped convict over the

course of his life. None of them spoke. None of

them moved. They stood around his bed and

watched as he wet himself. Then, from the

middle of the group, Byron saw a man in a

long gray overcoat step forward. He smiled.

“Christian? Is that you?” Byron whimpered.

“You … you’re dead,” he added, pathetical y.

“You’re al dead.”

A new pain bloomed in his chest, like a

bright red rosebush ful of pricker thorns. The

man in the overcoat smiled wider and chuckled

as Byron’s vision blurred. He tried one last time

to cal for the nurse as his life slipped away

to cal for the nurse as his life slipped away

into darkness, and the heart monitor nal y

stopped its awful beep-beep-beeping, instead

fil ing the room with a plain and soothing hum.

5.

On the morning of the eld trip, Mr. Crane

lined up his students in the hal way. Several

yel ow buses waited in the fog in front of the

school. The classes piled in. To Timothy’s

surprise, Stuart smiled as he made his way up

the aisle and slipped into the seat beside him.

Tufts of dark hair stuck up from Stuart’s head,

his eyes were stil pu y from sleep, and some

sort of pale milky crust had been left from

breakfast just below his lower lip. As usual. But

after yesterday’s ght, Timothy didn’t expect

everything to be fine between them.

“Oh my God,” said Stuart, “you wouldn’t

believe what happened last night.” He didn’t

wait for a response. “You know the part in

Wraith Wars where Fristor has to climb the cli

with his bare hands and we can never get to the

top without losing almost al of our life force

because the giant Nemcaws keep ying at our

because the giant Nemcaws keep ying at our

heads and trying to peck out our eyes?”

“Sure,” Timothy answered tentatively. “That

part’s wicked hard.” He didn’t trust that Stuart

wasn’t stil mad at him.

“Not anymore,” Stuart continued. “When I

was about halfway up the rock, before the

Nemcaws got there, I noticed that there was

this ledge sticking out of the cli way o to the

right of the screen. So I swung myself over to it,

and guess what I found?”

Timothy shook his head and shrugged.

“A cave!” Stuart said, throwing his hands into

the air. “It was so amazing. The wal s were

carved with al these weird symbols and it was

real y dark and I could barely see.”

Stuart paused in his story for a moment, and

Timothy noticed the red-haired girl come onto

the bus. She didn’t look at anyone. Stuart didn’t

say anything about her, but Timothy watched as

something clicked inside his friend, as if Stuart

had checked an item o a mental list. Stuart

simply blinked, then began again. “So I was

simply blinked, then began again. “So I was

crawling into the darkness and al of a sudden,

I saw this huge claw coming toward me.”

Abigail made her way to the back of the bus

and slid into the last empty seat near them.

“I ducked out of the way, then smashed it

with my sword.”

“That’s awesome,” said Timothy, trying to

sound excited.

The bus shuddered as the driver started the

engine. Mr. Crane strol ed down the aisle

taking a nal head count, before the bus nal y

lurched forward into the mist.

The ride up the hil toward the river was

bumpy. Abigail Tremens hung her head.

Timothy could hear the same faint clicking

sound he’d heard yesterday in class, the harsh

grind of the silver lighter’s wheel striking the

int. He wondered if she had on her reproof

socks again.

The bus crossed onto the Taft Bridge. Once

over the river, they passed the Lit le

Husketomic Lighthouse, perched on an

Husketomic Lighthouse, perched on an

outcropping of steep rock upstream from the

bridge. A white light ashed dul y through the

mist and a horn sounded, warning boats to

keep their distance. Moments later, the bus

veered o the highway and exited onto a smal

road. They drove for several minutes through a

pale forest of birch trees. Everyone stared

straight ahead as the Husketomic Museum

appeared in the distance, looking like a temple

out of ancient Greece.

“This is going to be—” Stuart started to say,

but when Timothy glared at him, apparently he

decided not to finish his sentence.

Once outside, in the parking lot, Mr. Crane

asked everyone to partner up. To Timothy’s

surprise, he noticed a redheaded presence

standing next to him. After what Abigail had

said yesterday afternoon, he’d expected her to

simply ignore him al day. Or punch him.

Mr. Crane led the group up the museum’s

front steps, through the teethlike columns, and

into the mouth of the building. Before Timothy

into the mouth of the building. Before Timothy

passed through the doors, he heard the faraway

foghorn cry out once more, greeting the

morning with another warning.

6.

Inside, their tour leader, a gap-toothed young

woman in a tweed jacket, brought the group to

a smal room where they hung their damp

coats. “Keep those eyes open for your project,”

said Mr. Crane.

The museum was endless. Several rooms

were packed entirely with headless and armless

white marble torsos. In other rooms, giant

canvases stretched from oor to ceiling and

were so old, tiny cracks formed in the paint.

There were rooms l ed with tal glaring totem

poles and long wooden canoes; rooms with

mysterious obelisks carved with hieroglyphs;

hal ways of glass cases stu ed with tiny pieces

of colorful ancient jewelry.

As Timothy fol owed the tour, though, he

found himself staring more at Abigail than at

the artwork on the wal s or in the cases. She

was strange and quiet, walking as if in a dream

was strange and quiet, walking as if in a dream

or a daze, as if she was seeing the world in a

way the rest of them couldn’t.

Eventual y, in one smal dark room, he came

upon a large poster on the wal that read,

Magic and Religion in Prehistoric Scandinavia.

Magic? Maybe, Timothy gured, they could

choose one of these artifacts for their project.

Glancing into a glass case nearby, he read a

smal placard that was supposed to mark an

ancient “magical” jawbone with a “primitive

arti cial tooth.” The placard explained that the

jawbone was connected with a dark goddess

cal ed the Daughter of Chaos. The bone was

actual y used as a tool during revenge rituals.

The description continued, “The myths explain

that a member of the tribe would hold the

jawbone in his st, name the person he wanted

revenge upon, and a curse would be placed.

The tribe believed that this curse made the

victim see al his worst fears come true.

Whoever held the bone could read the victim’s

mind and use the victim’s fear to force him to

betray an al y, at ack a family member, or even

betray an al y, at ack a family member, or even

destroy himself.”

This artifact sounded total y amazing.

“Too bad,” said a voice next to Timothy. To

his surprise, he found that Abigail had been

standing beside him, reading along.

“Too bad what?” said Timothy.

She nodded at the case, where the jawbone

was supposed to be. In its place was a piece of

paper that read:

ITEM REMOVED FOR CLEANING

“Would have been a good one. Don’t you

think?”

The woman in the tweed jacket led the class to

one particularly cavernous room on the fourth

oor. While the group listened to the tour

guide’s speech on the far side of the room,

Timothy and Abigail stopped in the opposite

corner and stared at a large dark canvas.

“Many of the most recent acquisitions were

“Many of the most recent acquisitions were

brought to the museum by our new director,”

said the woman. “We’re quite lucky to have

such a distinguished—”

Someone in the group made a farting sound,

and the class burst into laughter.

But Timothy barely registered the noise. His

mind was elsewhere.

The painting on the wal in the far corner

was an enormous landscape. In the sky, at the

canvas edges, clouds roiled, blacker than night.

Below the clouds, a stone temple, which

resembled the museum’s own classical façade,

trembled on the precipice of a deep chasm

from which spewed bril iant red ames. On the

clif ’s edge, a man stood, dressed in black robes,

arms raised, face turned in anguish toward the

sky. In the center of the painting, just above the

burning pit, the clouds glowed yel ow, as if

answering him. The title of the painting, noted

on a smal placard to the right of the canvas,

was The Edge of Doom.

Abigail pointed at the painting, then, almost

Abigail pointed at the painting, then, almost

smiling, she said, “That’s the one. It’s so

amazing.” She turned to look at him.

“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Real y cool.” He

pointed at the man in the center of the

painting. “What do you think that guy’s

saying?” He made his voice real y low and

grunted, “Um, I could use a lit le help here?

Hel o? Anyone?”

Mr. Crane interrupted from across the room.

“You may break into your pairs for one last

wander around the museum. Meet in the

coatroom in an hour, and don’t be late. The bus

leaves promptly at noon.”

Timothy turned back to nd Abigail now

glaring at him.

“What?” he asked. “What did I say?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Abigail said.

“About what?”

“Because I actual y like the painting.” Her

eyes were l ed with re. For some reason,

Timothy remembered her socks. Even though it

Timothy remembered her socks. Even though it

was a stupid thought, he couldn’t help but

laugh a lit le bit. This only made the re in her

eyes grow brighter. “You’re laughing at me?”

“No, I’m not laughing at you,” Timothy tried

to explain, pointing at the painting. “I’m

laughing because …” You keep trying to light

yourself on re, his brain nished the sentence

silently. But he couldn’t say that to her, at least