The Nightmarys (13 page)

Zilpha shut her eyes, looking ready to close

up entirely.

As one last desperate at empt for an answer,

Timothy said, “Have you ever heard these

Timothy said, “Have you ever heard these

names: Carlton Quigley, Bucky Jenkins, or

Leroy Fromm?”

Now Zilpha looked truly confused. “Some

stories are best forgot en,” she said, shaking her

head with nality. “Why don’t you read

something more fun, instead? I’ve heard so

much about those Harry Pot er books.”

Abigail glanced at Timothy. The look in her

eyes said, This is not going to be easy.

21.

After dinner, Timothy asked the location of the

bus stop, so he could ride back up Edgehil

Road to Beech Nut Street. Abigail’s

grandmother did not like that idea. “It’s too

late,” she said. “Too dark.”

As Sarah put on her coat, Abigail pul ed

Timothy into the living room. “We’l talk more

tomorrow,” she said.

“Right,” said Timothy. “Tomorrow.”

Outside, as Abigail’s mother pul ed her SUV

away from the curb, Timothy noticed someone

exiting the building.

A formidable silhouet e heading north

underneath the nearest streetlight. A tal man in

a long overcoat. A smal hat was perched on his

head.

Timothy pressed his face to the window,

Timothy pressed his face to the window,

craning his neck to keep the man in view as the

SUV moved up the street. In the brief moment

when Sarah paused to make a left onto

Andrade Avenue, Timothy thought he saw the

man pass into the shadows beyond the

building. The sight sent shivers through him. He

pressed himself into the passenger seat.

People often wore long coats and hats

outside on cool nights. Was it possible that the

sight of this man had meant nothing? He

decided to cal Abigail when he got home, just

to be safe.

“Timothy! Where have you been?” his mother

shouted at him when he came through the front

door. The entire rst oor of the house was lit

up.“I was at my friend Abigail’s house,” he said,

slipping out of his wet sneakers and kicking

them into the front hal closet.

“Why didn’t you cal ?” said his mother,

stepping into the doorway from the kitchen.

stepping into the doorway from the kitchen.

“We were so worried. Your father was just

about to notify the police. Plus, your school

phoned that you had detention this afternoon.

What is going on with you?”

“It was for passing a note in class,” Timothy

explained, shoving his hands deep in his

pockets. “Mr. Crane was being total y unfair.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” his father

shouted from the kitchen. “Next time, you’d

bet er cal .”

Something was going on here. Timothy could

sense a change in the atmosphere; his parents

were electri ed. Last night, they hadn’t cared

that he’d walked home alone from the pool,

but now …

“We got a cal from your brother’s doctor,”

said Timothy’s mother. “They feel that he’s

been stabilized enough to transport him to a

base in Maryland. He’s on his way there right

now.”

Timothy grabbed on to the banister at the

base of the stairs to steady himself. “Is he

base of the stairs to steady himself. “Is he

awake?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But there’s hope. I’m

flying down first thing tomorrow.”

“Can we al go?”

“They don’t think that’s a good idea, honey.

Maybe eventual y, but for now, I’m going alone

to sort out the situation.”

“What about Dad?”

“He’l stay here with you,” said his mom. She

held open her arms. Timothy came forward,

and she hugged him. “You boys wil take care

of each other.”

Timothy sat at the kitchen table and listened

to his parents discuss their plans for the next

few days. His mind was swirling with

questions. “Have you heard anything about

Stuart?”

His mother looked up from a pad of paper

she’d been writing on. His father just looked

confused.

“Stuart Chen,” said Timothy. “Is he okay?”

“Stuart Chen,” said Timothy. “Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “We’ve had too

much on our minds. Why don’t you try cal ing

over there? Maybe he’s home now.”

Timothy stood up and went over to the

phone hanging on the wal next to the

refrigerator, but before he had a chance to pick

it up, it rang. Surprised, he quickly answered it.

“Hel o?”

“You lit le monster.” The voice was familiar,

but Timothy was so shocked by the tone that it

took him several seconds to place it.

“Mr. Crane?”

“Don’t play al innocent with me, Mr. July,”

said Timothy’s teacher. His voice shook,

furious. “You know what you’ve done. And I do

not appreciate it.”

“Mr. Crane,” Timothy said slowly, “I don’t

know what you’re talking about.”

“I’l give you a clue,” said Mr. Crane. “The

jars.”

“The what?”

“The what?”

“The jars I requested you throw away after

school this afternoon. Where, may I ask, did

you throw them, exactly?”

“I took them outside and left them next to

the garbage bin. The box was too heavy to lift,”

he answered.

“Why then, may I ask you, have they

appeared on the front steps of my house?”

Timothy was so astounded he couldn’t speak.

The hum of the refrigerator kil ed the

overwhelming silence. He glanced at his

parents, who were now staring at him. His

father mouthed, Who is that? Timothy turned

away and stared at the floral wal paper.

“I don’t know why, Mr. Crane,” said Timothy.

“I didn’t do it.” The Nightmarys had told

Abigail they’d helped her. Could this have been

part of their game?

“Right. Just like you didn’t throw the water

bal oon at the museum. Just like you didn’t try

to pass a note to Abigail Tremens during class

today,” said Mr. Crane. A few seconds later, he

today,” said Mr. Crane. A few seconds later, he

added, “Are your parents home?”

“They’re right here,” Timothy answered.

“I’d like to speak with one of them, please.”

In a daze, Timothy held out the phone to his

mother, stretching the long cord tight.

Timothy spent the rest of the night in his

bedroom, both dreading and looking forward

to the next day. He insisted to his parents that

he hadn’t pul ed the prank on Mr. Crane, and

thankful y, they believed him.

Just before he brushed his teeth, he

remembered that he stil hadn’t cal ed Abigail.

He looked at the clock. It was nearly ten now.

Much too late. He didn’t want to bother

anyone, especial y Zilpha, who, according to

Abigail’s mother, needed her rest. Besides, the

man he’d seen had probably been nobody.

When he turned o his light and got under

his covers, Timothy imagined the specter of

two girls watching him from the corner of his

two girls watching him from the corner of his

room. If what Abigail had told him was true,

what sort of horror might they make next?

22.

Timothy woke up early the next morning when

his mother knocked on his door to say

goodbye. He wished he could go with her.

Later, Timothy was standing on the front

porch, waiting for the bus, when he heard the

Chens’ screen door slam. Timothy rushed to the

railing, leaned forward, and cal ed to Stuart’s

mom, “How is he?”

She smiled a wan smile. “Technical y, he’s

okay,” she cal ed back. “I think the whole thing

has shaken him up a bit.”

Timothy understood the feeling.

“He could use a friend,” she added, making

her way down the driveway toward her car.

“Come by the hospital after school, if you can?

They said he could have visitors. He’d love to

see you.”

“I’l try,” said Timothy, even though he was

“I’l try,” said Timothy, even though he was

frightened by what Stuart might have to say.

As Mrs. Chen pul ed away from the curb,

Timothy heard the phone ringing inside his

house. Maybe it was his mom, cal ing from the

airport? Since his dad had already gone to

work, Timothy pul ed out his keys, opened the

door, and lifted the receiver.

“Hel o?” he said.

The connection was bad. Static hissed as he

waited for a response.

“Timothy?” The familiar voice on the other

end was soft, ragged, as if it hadn’t been used in

a very long time. The room spun. Timothy

reached out for the wal . He wondered if this

wasn’t some terrible trick. It had to be. There

was no way he could possibly be on the phone

with his brother.

“Yeah?”

“Oh my God, dude,” said the voice. “Don’t

sound so excited to hear me.”

“B-Ben?” Timothy stammered. “Is that you?”

“B-Ben?” Timothy stammered. “Is that you?”

“Sure, it’s me.” Ben laughed. But then the

laugh turned into a cough, which went on for a

long time. “Hold on … Water.” A few seconds

later, he added, “Sorry about that. Not been

feeling too good lately.”

Despite feeling ba ed, Timothy smiled, but

soon he felt tears coming. He didn’t even

bother ghting them. “Ben, are you okay?

Where are you?”

“Some hospital. They tel me I’ve been asleep

for a while?”

“You could say that,” said Timothy. “How

long have you been awake?”

“In and out for the past twelve hours, I think.

Everything’s a blur.”

“Mom’s ying down. She should be there

soon.”

“That’s what my doctors told me. But I real y

wanted to talk with someone I know … and

love. My family. Dad must be on his way to

work, but I thought I’d catch you before school.

God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

Questions ooded Timothy’s brain. Not only

about the at ack. He wanted to ask his big

brother’s advice about nding order in chaos.

The light in the darkness. Even though it sort of

felt sel sh, now might be his only chance for a

while. If you were in my situation … “Are you

in pain?” Timothy said instead.

Ben groaned. “They got me doped up pret y

good. At ached to al sorts of tubes.”

“What do you remember?”

“Not much since before deployment. Weird.

Most everything else is a big blank page. They

say it’s going to take a long time to recover.

Obviously an understatement. It’s like there’s a

huge chunk of my life missing.”

Missing. The word made Timothy cringe. “I

miss you,” he said.

“I was dreaming about you, lit le brother.”

“You were?”

Ben chuckled again. Or coughed. Timothy

couldn’t tel which. “It was a nightmare. Real y

couldn’t tel which. “It was a nightmare. Real y

scary.”

“What was it about?”

“I was walking down a desert road,” said

Ben, struggling. “Sand everywhere. You were

there. Strange thing was, you were holding a

grenade and smiling in a real y weird way.

Your smile just kept growing and growing until

your mouth was bigger than your face.”

A horrible image. Timothy blinked it away.

“That is weird,” he said.

Ben went on. “Then you held the grenade out

to me. You wanted me to take it. And right

before I did, I realized that you’d already

pul ed the pin.” Timothy felt his face ush. He

felt dizzy now. Then, with his voice crackling,

Ben added, “It’s your fault this happened to me.

It’s your fault I’m dead.”

Timothy tried to speak but couldn’t.

Silence hissed from the other end of the line;

then Ben began to laugh. The laughter turned

harsh, sinking into a deep pitch as it grew

louder and louder. It was no longer Ben’s voice.

louder and louder. It was no longer Ben’s voice.

And it was no longer only in the phone. The

laughter surrounded him, bouncing o the

wal s of the foyer, l ing the entire house.

Timothy crouched into a bal and covered his

head to try to block it out.

Suddenly, a siren screamed. He fel against

the wooden bench. Timothy looked at the

receiver in his hand. A busy signal blared at

him through the holes in the plastic. Then a