The Nightmarys (9 page)

“Maybe you heard her wrong.”

“Yeah … maybe. I don’t think she wanted me

listening. So did you start the history project

yet?”

Timothy held his face in his hands.

Something strange was going on here. Randy’s

story was an echo of Stuart’s claims from the

side of the pool last night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Timothy noticed

Abigail slinking down the aisle toward her desk

in the back of the classroom. Her eyes were

pu y. She looked as though she hadn’t slept at

al the night before either.

Moments later, Mr. Crane entered. He too

looked strange. His but on-down shirt was a

lit le wrinkled and his swol en eyes looked

worried and anxious, like he wanted the period

to be over as quickly as possible.

Mr. Crane began the class by asking the

students which artifact from the museum each

pair had chosen for their project. Timothy

listened as his classmates rat led o their

answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at

answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at

the shelves where the glass specimen jars sat.

Suddenly, Timothy realized something. Mr.

Crane had been in the basement of the museum

too, just after Timothy had seen the golden

idols stare at him. If Timothy had seen some

strange things the night before, and Abigail

looked like she hadn’t slept as wel , maybe

something had happened to al of them down

there? Something that was keeping them up at

night. Making them see things. Just like Stuart.

Timothy heard Abigail cal out their chosen

artifact from the back of the room. “The Edge

of Doom painting,” she said. Mr. Crane half-

smiled and moved on to Kimberly Mitchel . But

Timothy kept looking at Abigail. Her

grandmother had been in the basement with

them as wel . He wondered if she had been

seeing things since then too.

The old woman had a strange name, didn’t

she? What was it again? It had been stuck in

Timothy’s brain al night long, but now he

couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?

couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?

No. Not Zelda.

Zilpha.

Zilpha Kindred.

Timothy felt a jolt rush through his body, and

he dropped his pencil on the oor. Scrambling

to pick it up again, he only kicked it farther

into the aisle.

Kindred, he thought. Her last name is

Kindred, like the author of The Clue of the

Incomplete Corpse.

Obviously, here was the connection. But what

did it mean? Could Abigail’s grandmother

possibly have something to do with what had

happened at the museum yesterday morning

and at the gymnasium last night?

“Okay,” said Mr. Crane. “We’ve had enough

fun for now.” The class col ectively groaned.

“Please open your textbooks to chapter seven.”

On the board, he wrote Pre-Colonial America.

Timothy tore a piece of paper from his

notebook. He quickly jot ed a note, folded it

notebook. He quickly jot ed a note, folded it

up, and turned toward Abigail. He dropped the

folded paper on the oor and swiftly kicked it

in Abigail’s direction.

Before she had a chance to lean over and

pick it up, Mr. Crane said, “Mr. July, would

you please bring that to the front of the class?”

As Timothy stood up, his stomach felt like it

was l ed with a big chunk of ice. Abigail bent

over and picked up the note. With a surprising

look of pity, she handed it to him.

Mr. Crane folded his arms across his chest.

“Wel ?”

Reluctantly, Timothy stepped forward to the

large desk in front of the long green

chalkboard. “What has come over you these

past couple days?” the teacher whispered.

Timothy could feel the eyes of his class

whispering across his back. “Dunno,” he

mumbled.

“Go on, then.” Mr. Crane nodded at the note

in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”

in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”

Timothy knew he could just make something

up, but if Mr. Crane saw the writing from over

his shoulder, everything would be worse,

because then the class would know he’d been

lying. “Abigail, I real y need to talk to you

about your grandmother.”

“Ah-ah-ah, Mr. July,” said Mr. Crane. “Slow

down. We couldn’t hear you. Again, please.”

Red-faced, Timothy read the note again, this

time so everyone could hear. “Abigail, I real y

need to talk to you about your grandmother.”

The laughter was immediate and

overwhelming.

Mr. Crane said, “I’ve got a lit le project for

you. Meet me after school, Mr. July. No later

than ve minutes past the last bel . Right here.”

He glanced nervously at the shelves again.

“Now, class, chapter seven …”

Ashamed, Timothy slipped into his seat.

Seconds later, from the corner of the room, he

could feel Abigail Tremens looking at him. He

couldn’t bring himself to look back.

15.

Timothy sleepwalked through the rest of the

day. He was standing at his locker, just after the

last bel had rung, wondering what project Mr.

Crane had in mind for his detention, when he

felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and

spun around, embarrassed.

Abigail was standing behind him. “Sorry

about what happened with that note,” she said.

“I wasn’t quick enough.”

“S’okay,” said Timothy. “I only came up with

the idea to eat it after I’d read it in front of the

whole stupid class.”

To his surprise, Abigail laughed. “Oh my

God, I would’ve paid to see you do that.”

Timothy shrugged. “Next time, then.”

She laughed again, but a second later, her

face quickly changed. “So … um … what was

that about my grandmother?” She drew her

that about my grandmother?” She drew her

eyebrows close together and somehow

managed to repossess that ability to look inside

him.

“I—I…,” Timothy stammered, trying to nish

his sentence. “I’m going to be late.”

“Late for what?”

“For my detention with Mr. Crane.”

“We could talk after your detention. I’m

staying in my grandmother’s apartment for a

while. You could, like, come over if you want?”

“I could do that. Sure.”

“Good,” said Abigail. “I could actual y use

your help with something.”

“Real y? With what?”

She shook her head. “It’s sort of

complicated.”

On a scrap of paper, Abigail quickly wrote

down her grandmother’s address and handed it

to him.

Mr. Crane was waiting for Timothy, leaning

against the chalkboard, staring at the side wal .

He barely glanced at Timothy as he came

through the door. “You’re late,” he said.

“Sorry,” Timothy answered. His teacher

continued to stare at the shelves on the side of

the room. The specimen jars rested there, silent

and unassuming as always. “Uh, Mr. Crane,”

Timothy said, “what do you want me to do?”

Mr. Crane nal y turned to look at him,

pul ed away from the sight of the specimens, as

if from a dream. “I …” He cleared his throat. “I

need you to take those jars out of here.”

Timothy inched. “Where do you want me to

take them?”

“I don’t care,” said Mr. Crane. “They don’t

belong in this classroom. I don’t know why

they’ve lasted as long as they have.” He pointed

out the window. “Take them outside to the

Dumpster,” he said, slipping into his corduroy

jacket. He clutched his leather briefcase under

his arm. “Just close the door when you’re

his arm. “Just close the door when you’re

done.”

“Wait a second,” said Timothy. “You’re

leaving?”

Mr. Crane wiped his forehead with the back

of his hand. “I’m sorry, Timothy. I haven’t been

feeling wel . I trust you’l be ne alone.” He

headed toward the door.

Before his teacher slipped away entirely,

Timothy looked at the specimen jars one more

time. “Mr. Crane?” he said.

The teacher stopped in the doorway, but he

didn’t turn around. “Yes, Timothy?” he

answered stif ly.

“Why do you real y want to get rid of the

jars?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why now?”

Mr. Crane turned around. His eyes were wide

with some sort of secret. “Why now? I told you,

they do not belong here.”

Timothy remembered the black eyebal he’d

Timothy remembered the black eyebal he’d

seen two days ago, staring at him through the

dusty glass. Staring or dead—it had been

impossible to tel the dif erence at the time.

“Did you see something?” said Timothy,

almost a whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“In the jars. Did you see something?” This

time, he said it more loudly.

“See something? Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something scary.”

The teacher opened his mouth to speak, but

al that came out was a harsh crackling sound.

After Mr. Crane was gone, Timothy dragged the

closest desk toward the wal . He climbed on

top of it and, shuddering, removed the

specimens from the shelves.

In the closet behind Mr. Crane’s desk,

Timothy found an empty cardboard box.

Working quickly, he placed the jars in the box,

looking away every time he found a specimen

looking away every time he found a specimen

that was especial y heavy or clearly visible

through the liquid.

Something in these jars had scared Mr. Crane

yesterday. What had he seen?

There was a connection between al of these

events. Too many pieces of this strange puzzle

had matching edges.

The box was ful . Every jar t inside.

Straining, Timothy lifted the box and headed to

the parking lot. Outside, the garbage bin was as

high as Timothy was tal . The lid was open, but

as Timothy stood there, he realized that he

couldn’t toss the box inside. As disgusting as

some of these creatures appeared to be, he felt

weird throwing them in the garbage. Besides,

the box was simply too heavy. Timothy placed

it on the ground, then quickly made the sign of

the cross. “May you rest in peace,” he

whispered. It seemed right.

With a nod, he turned away and headed

toward the address Abigail had scrawled on the

piece of paper in his pocket.

16.

The apartment building was sixteen stories tal

—the tal est building in the neighborhood.

Made of pale blond stone, it stood on the crest

of Shut er Avenue, south of the bridge.

Timothy slowly made his way through the

front garden, staring up at the building. Lots of

windows. Lots of curtains. The front doors were

made of black iron lace. Inlaid into the stone

over the entrance were dark marble words: THE

MAYFAIR. As Timothy reached out to take the

handle, the door swung inward. A man stood

just inside the lobby. “Mi amigo, who are you

here to see?”

“Umm … I’m here for Abigail.”

“Abigail?”

“She’s uh … staying with her grandmother?

Mrs. Kindred?”

He was delivered by the elevator to a smal

hal way with three large black doors, one of

which was marked 16B. Abigail’s place.

As he approached, he heard a dog barking.

Then came Abigail’s voice: “Hepzibah! No!”

Footsteps. The doorknob turned, and there she

was, wearing a sad smile and an oversized blue

artist smock. At her feet, a smal gray dog