The Nightmarys (25 page)

view. When the girl waved, taunting him,

strands of cobweb dangled from her arm. She

disappeared down the Dragon Stairs. As he

struggled to run after her, he realized she might

be leading him away from where he needed to

be. But if the Nightmarys traveled in a pack,

maybe this single phantom would lead him to

the rest of the group … and Abigail.

Crossing Edgehil Road, he cal ed Abigail’s

name again. No answer. As he quickly

approached the Dragon Stairs, he realized that

the painting of the Chinese dragon, whose

swirling eyes usual y greeted him at this point

in the road, was gone. Someone had

whitewashed the staircase’s wooden wal s. But

the painting had been there when he’d

fol owed Abigail up the hil from the campus.

Timothy cautiously crossed the sidewalk and

peered into the mouth of the tunnel. As far as

peered into the mouth of the tunnel. As far as

he could see, until the stairwel ’s rst zigzag

turn, the wal s were bare, as if the gra ti had

never existed. He touched the white wal . It

was dry.

The girl had led him here. Why? He turned

around, glancing up the street toward his

house. Was Abigail somewhere back up the

hil ?

In the woods, on the other side of the wal , a

tree branch snapped. When it hit the ground

with a loud thud, Timothy jumped. Then he

froze. He suddenly had a terrible feeling that he

knew what had happened to the Chinese

dragon painting. And worse, he realized why

the phantom girl had lured him here.

With a lump in his throat, Timothy stepped

away from the mouth of the tunnel. Peering

around the wal into the woods, he saw

something large and green slip behind a curve

in the staircase. He took a slow, deep breath.

This can’t real y be happening, he thought.

This must be a dream—a nightmare like the

This must be a dream—a nightmare like the

one he’d had earlier that week when Ben had

crawled out of the giant jar in his closet. In real

life, old men did not place curses on children.

In real life, groups of ghostly girls didn’t kidnap

his friends. In real life, paintings of enormous

monsters didn’t crawl o their canvases to hunt

him.

Quietly, Timothy stepped backward into the

street. The forest grew dark, shadows looming

as the sun nal y set led past the horizon across

the river. He looked for any sign of movement

between the trees, but the woods were stil . Yet

Timothy sensed a presence watching him,

waiting for him to turn his back. The hil

beyond the sidewalk was steep, a good hiding

place for something as large as what Timothy

feared might be there.

This isn’t real, he thought. I’m not scared.

If he could make himself believe this, then it

would be true. That was how the curse worked,

wasn’t it? That was the key.

Bracing himself, Timothy turned around. “I’m

Bracing himself, Timothy turned around. “I’m

just walking home,” he whispered. “This is an

ordinary day. I’m not scared.” He crossed

Edgehil Road, making his way slowly back up

Beech Nut Street toward his house. “Everything

is total y ne.” But your hand is throbbing.

Your knees ache. Abigail is gone. Doesn’t that

mean everything is not ne? Doesn’t that mean

everything that’s happening … is real?

Shut up! Timothy thought at the voice in his

head. He was nearly home now. His front yard

stretched before him, and beyond that was his

front door. Then what?

He’d cal Zilpha. She’d be livid, he knew, but

she was the only one who understood what was

going on here; besides, any worry he had of

get ing yel ed at was outweighed by Abigail’s

disappearance. He couldn’t imagine her fear.

Behind him, an enormous crash shook the

ground, as if one of the great oaks clinging to

Edgehil ’s hil had tumbled down the cli

toward the col ege athletic elds. Timothy

stopped at the bot om of the front steps and

stopped at the bot om of the front steps and

squeezed his eyes shut. Down the block,

something growled—a lower rumble than any

car coming up Edgehil Road with a bad

exhaust pipe could possibly make. Slowly,

Timothy turned around.

Crouching on the shat ered remains of the

Dragon Stairs tunnel was an enormous green

snakelike monster, its long body twisting down

the hil past the bat ered guardrail. Its wide

black eyes spiraled and spun, trying to

hypnotize Timothy, daring him to look away. It

tapped its silver claws on the sidewalk and

began to grin, revealing huge, sharp white

teeth. Two thick orange whiskers swirled and

twirled from its curled top lip, like in the

painting from which they’d come. The

creature’s long red tongue icked from its

mouth, stretching halfway across the road. The

creature didn’t look angry or hungry. Its

expression was more frightening than that—it

reminded Timothy of a cat looking to play with

its dinner. “Delicious,” it whispered in a breezy

gasp of breath.

gasp of breath.

Timothy would be the mouse.

It stepped forward, dragging its long body up

over the cli , onto the street. It must have been

two hundred feet long, with at least half as

many actual feet.

Mesmerized, Timothy couldn’t move. As he’d

come up the street away from Edgehil Road,

he had tried to force the image of the dragon

becoming real out of his imagination. In a way,

it had worked. This wasn’t a real dragon, but

the painting itself. The creature was at, two-

dimensional, as if it had simply peeled o the

wal .

For a brief moment, Timothy’s fear oated

away. A painting could not hurt him. Then the

image of the crushed stairway behind the

dragon brought him back to reality … or at

least back to whatever was pretending to be

reality.

They’l kil you … because I’m terri ed that

they wil .

Not true, Timothy hoped. What if I just close

Not true, Timothy hoped. What if I just close

my eyes and wait for the fear to pass? Can I

risk taking such a dangerous chance?

As the dragon slinked farther up the hil , it

opened its mouth and bleated a high-pitched

burst of laughter. It rat led the windows of his

house and knocked Timothy o his feet. Fal ing

back, he caught his ankle on the bot om step,

and he hit the stairs.

Across the street, Mrs. Mendelson stood at her

mailbox, col ecting her mail. She glanced up at

Timothy and waved. “You al right?” she cal ed,

concerned. “That was quite a tumble.” Could

she not see the creature approaching swiftly up

the hil across her neighbors’ lawns? Of course

not, Timothy thought, ipping over and

crawling up the steps. Lucky woman. She

hadn’t been cursed by an evil lunatic with a

magical jawbone.

It’s not real! Timothy screamed inside his

head, trying desperately to assure himself that if

he glanced over his shoulder, the Dragon Stairs

would be intact, and the only thing racing

would be intact, and the only thing racing

across the damp lawns of Beech Nut Street

would be a cool evening breeze. As he ran

across the porch for the front door, he tried to

come up with an actual solution to defeat the

monster if his brain wouldn’t let him think his

way out of it. Before he grappled with the front

doorknob, another screeching roar shook him,

rustling his hair, his clothes, his bones. Timothy

couldn’t help but turn around.

The dragon had made its way to Timothy’s

house, tapping hundreds of silver claws, the

foremost of which were now inching slowly up

the base of the driveway. Its black eyes spun,

trying to capture his at ention.

Timothy had an idea. He cal ed to Mrs.

Mendelson, who was now crossing her lawn

carrying a smal pile of mail, “Nice day, don’t

you think?”

His neighbor stopped and turned around,

surprised. “Oh, it was lovely,” she said. “I hope

you were able to spend some time outside after

the awful weather we had this week.”

the awful weather we had this week.”

The dragon paused a few feet up the

driveway, confused by their conversation. The

rest of its cartoonlike body wriggled al the way

down the block. At the stop sign, its sharp

green tail icked. The dragon was angry at

being interrupted.

“Yeah, actual y,” said Timothy, trying to

steady his voice, his heart stil thumping so

hard in his chest that it hurt, “I got to do some

serious running around.” He leaned against the

doorknob, trying with his good hand to turn it.

But it was locked. He pressed the doorbel .

Inside, the chimes rang, but that was al . His

dad wasn’t home. Timothy had left his bag

behind and didn’t have his key.

“Wel , good for you,” said Mrs. Mendelson. “I

wish I stil had the energy for running around.

This is the most exercise I’ve got en al week.”

She waved the mail above her head, turned

around, and continued across her front yard.

“Good night, Timothy,” she cal ed over her

shoulder.

shoulder.

The dragon seemed to smile, lowering its

head, resuming its ascent up his driveway.

“Wait!” Timothy answered. The old woman

paused. “Mrs. Mendelson, do you have a key to

my house? I accidental y locked myself out.”

“Hmm,” she said, “that’s a good question.”

She stared at the sky, racking her brain for an

answer. “I know I have some neighborhood

keys, but I don’t think your parents ever gave

—”The dragon was too close now for Timothy to

wait for her response. Its claws click-clacked

their way farther up the pavement, halfway to

the house’s front walk. Its scales glistened with

painted violet highlights. Pu s of white

cartoonish smoke—outlined with thick black

graf iti strokes—wafted from its flared nostrils.

Timothy noticed a dirt- l ed plaster pot that

his mother had recently placed on the front

porch, with the intention of l ing it with

pansies. The planter was heavy, and his injured

hand begged him to stop, but he managed to

hand begged him to stop, but he managed to

lift it, then shu ed toward the bay window in

his mother’s piano room. With a great heave,

Timothy tossed the pot through the window,

shat ering the glass onto the Victorian love seat

just inside. Ignoring Mrs. Mendelson’s shriek,

Timothy leapt through the opening, tearing his

jeans on the jagged bot om edge. He tumbled

onto the oor next to the planter. Without

looking back, he jumped up and barreled into

the foyer, where the phone sat on the side

table. He snatched it from its cradle and

reached into his pocket for the scrap of

envelope with Zilpha’s phone number on it.

His hands shook as he tried to dial her

number. Timothy noticed a splash of green

dash around the side of the house. He spun,

trying to keep it in sight, but it quickly

disappeared. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he

whispered as the phone rang. Then the line

went dead. Timothy fel against the nearest

wal .

Something hit the back of the house. Every

Something hit the back of the house. Every

piece of furniture shifted two inches closer to

the front door. Timothy screamed. He dropped

the phone and crept toward the kitchen.

Through the window above the table, one

great, spiraling eye watched him. Timothy

screamed again. That horrible, laughing screech

roared through the wal s. Then a booming

voice said, “I’m going to eat you, lit le boy.”

Thinking quickly of the game he used to play

with Stuart, Timothy shouted, “But … I’m l ed

with slime. Total y disgusting. You’d hate me!”

Wide-eyed, the dragon screeched again.

“Then I wil only stomp you.” The house shook

again as the dragon slammed itself against the

wal , cracking the plaster and shat ering glass

past the stove. Timothy clutched the doorframe.

As the green monster’s face reeled away from