The Nightmarys (27 page)

Zilpha closed the door behind her. “Calm

down, Timothy,” she said forceful y. She led

him into the dining room and pul ed out a

chair. “Sit. Breathe.” She stared at him for a

moment. “Johnson Harwood did what? Abigail

is where?”

Timothy sat next to her and tried his best to

recount everything that had happened. The

book he’d found. The o ce in the library. The

basebal cards. The house on Ash Tree Lane.

Mr. Harwood’s confession. The Nightmarys.

And final y, the dragon.

Zilpha was stunned. For several seconds after

Timothy nished his story, she opened and

closed her mouth like a sh out of water,

struggling to breathe. “Abigail’s not in New

Jersey?”

Jersey?”

Timothy turned emergency-red as he

admit ed his betrayal. “I spent the entire day

with her. We were locked in the at ic together

when you came to Jack’s house. We shouted

and shouted, but Georgia thought it was his

television.”

For a long time, Zilpha held her hand to her

mouth, staring at the table. Her eyes icked

back and forth slightly. “I should have known

bet er,” she said nal y. She closed her eyes and

took a deep breath. “I thought I had set led

everything when I destroyed Harwood’s trinket

this afternoon. Stupid. I should have realized

who I was dealing with this morning when

Georgia told me he’d been here at the Mayfair.

That he was her boyfriend! Quite a signi cant

coincidence, don’t you think? And I ignored the

biggest clue!” She pounded the table with her

palms. “He knew I was coming,” Zilpha

continued, “and he was prepared. He tricked

me. I destroyed the wrong artifact.” She took

Timothy’s hand, staring into his eyes. “Abigail

is in serious trouble. She is somewhere in New

is in serious trouble. She is somewhere in New

Starkham. We need to figure out where.”

“But how?” said Timothy.

“You’ve solved plenty of clues so far. I trust

there may be some left to uncover?”

“I can’t think of any.”

Zilpha pointed at the desk in the corner of

the room. “Grab a pencil and paper. I always

nd it helpful to make a list.” A few minutes

later, Timothy had writ en out several lists

summarizing everything he thought he knew

and everything he was unsure of, everything

he’d been through and everything he feared

was coming.

Zilpha eyed the list and shook her head. “Can

you think of anything else to narrow al this

down? Anything at al ?”

From outside, the familiar old foghorn cal ed

a lonely cry over the river. The sound struck

Timothy as odd. The weather had been clear al

day.

Timothy glanced over his shoulder toward

Timothy glanced over his shoulder toward

the French doors. Though the sky was now

dark, Timothy watched as strange clouds

obscured a bright moon coming over the

horizon. He rose from his chair and went to the

window. From al directions, the weather

seemed to be gathering, like a hurricane eye,

drawing an ominous target around New

Starkham. “Something’s happening,” said

Timothy. “Look.”

Zilpha joined him at the window. “At what?”

“The clouds. I’ve seen them before, in a

painting at the museum this week.” The

foghorn cried again.

“I don’t see any clouds,” said Zilpha.

Timothy shivered. This must be the curse,

coming for him again. “The Edge of Doom,” he

said.

“The edge of what?”

“That’s the name of the painting. It’s the

jawbone. I’m seeing things.” Timothy

remembered the image: the pit of re, the

glowing sky.

glowing sky.

“For the past few months, whenever I saw

something scary,” said Zilpha, “I tried to gure

out some way to get around it. When the

ceramic monkey my husband gave me on our

fortieth anniversary snarled at me, I smashed

him on the oor, then swept up the pieces.

That’s how I’ve survived these past months—

lit le tricks. How did you get away from the

dragon?”

“Turpentine,” said Timothy. “I washed out

his eyes.”

“Bril iant!” said Zilpha, grabbing his good

hand. “You’ve got to nd something like that to

combat what you’re seeing now.”

“But what’s coming is real y bad,” said

Timothy, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it’s

going to be much bigger than the gra ti

dragon. Jack is trying to stop us. We’re running

out of time.”

“That’s what he thinks,” said the old woman,

twisting the tail of her head wrap around her

wrist. “He’s forgot en who he’s dealing with

wrist. “He’s forgot en who he’s dealing with

here. He hasn’t stopped me yet.”

Timothy opened the door and stepped onto

the roof deck. “Can I?” he asked Zilpha. She

answered by fol owing him. The clouds were

get ing darker, edging closer, surrounding the

city, covering what now appeared to be a ful

moon. The foghorn cried again. Timothy

crossed to the far railing so he could see the

river, the bridge, and beyond that, Rhode

Island. Something ashed at the river’s edge.

The lighthouse was up and running.

Then it hit him: A light in the darkness.

In Hesselius’s abandoned o ce, those words

had been writ en on the mat of the lighthouse

photo on the wal . His brother’s mot o. This

was his order amidst the chaos. In the photo,

the lighthouse had been cal ed Hesselius’s

Il uminarium. The professor had even designed

it. According to the articles Abigail had shown

him at the library, the cults had built their

temples at the convergence of great chaos.

Crossroads. Mountains.

Crossroads. Mountains.

Rivers?

“I know where she is!” said Timothy.

In the elevator, halfway to the ground oor,

Zilpha became ustered. “How are we get ing

there? I don’t think a taxi wil drop us o on

the edge of a cli . I wish Georgia didn’t hate

me right now, or I’d ask her.”

“I’ve got a car,” Timothy blurted.

“Oh, yes,” said Zilpha. “You did mention that,

didn’t you?”

The elevator stopped, the doors slid open.

Timothy crossed slowly through the lobby with

Zilpha. Mario opened the front door. “Good

night, Mrs. Kindred,” he said with a worried

look.

“Thank you, Mario,” she answered with an

emphatic smile. “Good night.” In the garden,

she changed her tone. “I don’t know about this,

Timothy. You shouldn’t be driving at your age,

and at my age, my eyes aren’t very good. We

and at my age, my eyes aren’t very good. We

cancel each other out.”

“My dad owns a garage,” he said. “And I

made it here by myself. We can make it a lit le

farther together, don’t you think?”

41.

Zilpha fussed in her seat as Timothy turned left

at the stop sign. He headed toward the bridge.

More and more, the atmosphere resembled the

painting at the museum. The black clouds now

l ed the entire sky, spiraling slowly like a

whirlpool. Zilpha stil didn’t seem to notice.

Timothy thought about what she’d said: lit le

tricks would end the fear. But what trick might

stop clouds from swirling?

“Watch out!” cried Zilpha as Timothy came

up too quickly at the stoplight. The tra c

whizzed past in both directions.

“Sorry,” said Timothy. “I’m not used to this.”

“I didn’t mean to snap,” she apologized.

“You’re … doing very wel .” The light turned

green, and Timothy jerked the car forward into

the intersection. Out of the corner of his eye, he

noticed Zilpha tightening her seat belt.

noticed Zilpha tightening her seat belt.

Soon they were traveling alongside other

cars, heading west across the river. Timothy

maintained his speed, even as his heart raced.

At the edge of the bridge, Timothy turned the

wheel sharply, forcing his mother’s car o the

highway onto a smal service road. Gravel spun

out from under his tires, and Zilpha held tightly

on to the door handle. Straining to see bet er,

Timothy leaned forward across the steering

wheel. The service road fol owed the edge of

the cli for several hundred yards before

ending abruptly at a guardrail.

A bright light ashed over the side of the

cli . The lighthouse. Timothy noticed a

staircase entrance next to the guardrail. He and

Zilpha both slipped outside. Timothy helped

the old woman across the rocky path.

Final y, they came to a barrier fence and a

cli side sign that read, LITTLE HUSKETOMIC LIGHTHOUSE.

“In the photo, it was cal ed Hesselius’s

Il uminarium,” said Timothy. “Is this the same

lighthouse?”

lighthouse?”

“They must have taken Hesselius’s name of it

after everything that happened,” said Zilpha,

holding on to the nearby railing. “A long time

ago, people wanted to forget.”

Leaning over the precipice, Timothy peered

at the rst step. The staircase descended steeply

along the cli face. Unlike the Dragon Stairs,

these steps hugged the blu in a straight drop,

stopping at a wide outcropping that stretched

out fty feet below. From the stairs’ base, a

narrow path led to the lighthouse itself—a

smal white cone of a building, surrounded by

squat shrubbery, a glass cage perched at the

top, inside which rotated a blinding, iridescent

light.

“Abigail’s down there somewhere,” said

Timothy, staring at the dark stairs. The river

splashed at the rocks below. He quickly

returned to the car; he knew he’d nd a couple

of ashlights in the trunk. He handed one to

Zilpha and kept one for himself. “We’ve got to

hurry,” he said, rushing back to the stairs. He

hurry,” he said, rushing back to the stairs. He

took the rst few steps, but turned around

when he realized Zilpha was not fol owing

him.

“Go ahead,” she said, worried. “I’d only hold

you up. If I rush and fal , you’l have to help

me as wel as Abigail. Right now, she’s what

mat ers.” Zilpha looked down at him, her face

il uminated by another bright, brief turn from

the lighthouse. Her brown eyes were liquid.

“Please … please be careful. I’l be right behind

you, coming at my own pace. If you need

anything … scream.”

Those were not reassuring words, but he

nodded and turned around. Nauseated, he took

one more step down the precipice. The dark

clouds over the city seemed to change. A dim

yel ow light appeared in the sky. A hol ow

rushing sound echoed of the rock.

Timothy realized he was standing on the

actual Edge of Doom. The curse. Dammit. He

grasped the wooden railing that was bolted to

the rock, trying to steady himself. Something

the rock, trying to steady himself. Something

strange was happening to the river. The water,

which had been rushing and lapping the shore

in white waves, receded, leaving the black

rocks to glisten, reflecting the bridge lights from

above. The river was sinking, disappearing into

a deep abyss that now separated the two

shores. A dark chasm had formed beyond the

drop at the left of the stairs. Slowly, as if from