The Nightmarys (34 page)

When Emma Huppert came home from the

beach, she threw her towel onto the back of a

chair in the kitchen. Bil had left the mail on

the table. Lying on top of the pile was a let er.

Emma gasped when she noticed the return

address. She hadn’t spoken to Zilpha Kindred in

years. She quickly tore open the envelope.

Inside was a newspaper clipping—the obituary

of the prosecutor in her sister’s case, along with

a brief note scrawled on a scrap of paper.

Emma, I thought you might nd this to be of

interest. Do with it what you wil . Much love,

Zilpha.

Tears wel ed in Emma’s eyes. Over the past

couple of months, ever since Delia began

couple of months, ever since Delia began

appearing to her, she’d been meaning to cal

the one old friend back in New Starkham who

might understand what the experience meant;

however, she’d been too frightened to even

speak of it to anyone at al .

But recently, Delia had suddenly stopped

“visiting.”

Emma prayed every day that Delia was at

peace now. She knew in her heart that her

sister didn’t blame her for what had happened

long ago. It had been none of their faults. And

despite the horri c vision in the Wal-Mart

dressing room, Emma stil thought about her

sister every time she put on her new bathing

suit and stepped into the cold Atlantic to go for

her now-daily swims. She wished, with her

entire soul, that Delia could have joined her.

On a Tuesday morning at the beginning of May,

Zilpha Kindred’s washing machine nal y died.

By that afternoon, two men had delivered a

By that afternoon, two men had delivered a

brand-new one. Three people were going to be

living in the apartment from now on, and it

would not do to simply keep repairing the old

clunker. Zilpha was no longer wil ing to use

the one in the basement.

Later that evening, with lit le Hepzibah at her

feet, Zilpha decided to test out the contraption.

The nightmare laundry experience of two

months ago seemed like a dream, the memory

of it fading even more quickly than Zilpha had

hoped it would. Thank goodness.

As the old woman loaded the basket and

poured in the detergent, she thought about

Abigail and Timothy and how the surreal

events of the past few weeks might linger in

their memories, or grow, or change. Zilpha was

surprised that the children had been able to get

out of bed that week. She gured that children

must have a natural resilience after these sorts

of things. It’s later, she thought, after time and

trouble and life itself have worn down our

resistance and the ghosts come back to haunt,

resistance and the ghosts come back to haunt,

that we must nd ways of tricking ourselves

into nal y subduing them. It was possible, she

now knew.

Zilpha closed the lid with a bang and

cranked the silver knob. The water ran and the

machine began to hum. “Come on, Hep,” she

said, heading down the hal way toward the

kitchen. “This thing can take care of itself.”

49.

Timothy waited at the edge of the bridge,

watching the tra c cross the river. Cars, packed

with boxes, books, and smal pieces of

furniture, sped through the green light. Down

the hil , on the campus, the ceremony wasn’t

over yet, but the col ege students,

underclassmen mostly, were already leaving

New Starkham. It wasn’t fair. He wished his

own classes ended at the beginning of May. If

the past week had felt like a mil ennium, the

month and a half left before summer break

would be an eternity.

Mr. Crane hadn’t come back to school. Word

had spread that he was “taking a sabbatical” for

the remainder of the year. Timothy didn’t

exactly understand what that meant. People

said the man had had a nervous breakdown.

Timothy knew what had real y happened,

and though he knew it wasn’t his fault Mr.

and though he knew it wasn’t his fault Mr.

Crane had tried to break into his house a week

ago, he felt strangely guilty about it. None of

what happened had been Mr. Crane’s fault

either. When he’d heard Randy and Brian

making fun of their absent teacher during

history class on Friday, Timothy had to keep

his hands under his desk to refrain from

whacking their skul s with his cast. If the boys

knew what any of them had been through, they

wouldn’t have snickered. However, they

quickly changed the subject when the substitute

entered the classroom and reminded the class

that their museum projects were stil due the

next week.

Timothy had glanced at Abigail. They’d

already decided on a di erent artifact than the

painting. Instead, they picked one of the

ancient cow-femur toothbrushes—less creepy.

From her seat two rows away, Abigail had

returned a slight smile.

Carla had raised her hand. “My partner’s

been absent. Maybe I should work with

been absent. Maybe I should work with

someone else.”

The sub smiled. “Stuart Chen wil return next

Monday. You’l stil have time to nish.” Carla

sighed—not the answer she’d been hoping for.

Stuart had come home from the hospital the

previous Sunday, the same day Mr. Crane had

been admit ed. Timothy stopped by the Chens’

a couple of times after school that week. Stuart

didn’t mention any more of what he’d said at

the hospital, and Timothy didn’t ask. Mrs. Chen

doted on the two of them, glad to have her

boys together again. She cooked and chat ed

and asked sil y questions about Timothy’s

feelings and assured him that he could tel her

anything if he needed to. Obviously, Mrs. Chen

had learned about Ben’s injuries. Only a few

weeks earlier, he’d believed that his parents

might be able to keep quiet such a big secret.

Now he knew that some secrets speak

themselves aloud after a while.

“Hey!”

“Hey!”

Timothy was startled out of his daydream.

Across the highway, Abigail waved. He waved

back.

Seeing Abigail gave Timothy goose bumps.

He hadn’t been sure she would show up. On

the phone, when she’d asked him what this was

al about, he’d said he’d rather tel her in

person. She’d got en quiet but, after a moment,

agreed to meet him where he’d asked.

The stoplight changed, and Abigail crossed.

“Hey,” she said again. “You walk al the way

here?”

Timothy nodded. “My dad left to pick up my

mom at the airport. He said they needed some

alone time on the ride home. I don’t blame

them.”

“That’s generous of you,” said Abigail,

crossing her arms and smirking. She added

softly, “Then Ben’s real y awake. He’s coming

home?”

“Eventual y, he wil .” Timothy popped a

huge smile. “At least that’s what they tel me.”

huge smile. “At least that’s what they tel me.”

Abigail gave him a quick hug. “That’s

amazing,” she said. “He’s so lucky.”

“Yeah,” he said. “He is.” The army was

admit ing Ben to a veterans’ hospital in Rhode

Island for rehabilitation, not far from New

Starkham. “It’l be nice to see him. For real.

Final y.” Actual y, Timothy was terri ed at the

prospect.

“So, are we just going to stand here?” Abigail

asked. “Or are you going to tel me what this is

al about?”

Now Timothy was even more terri ed. He

winced as he reached into the pocket of his

jeans with his bandaged right hand, making

sure the smal warm piece of metal against his

leg was stil there. “Let’s walk,” he said.

Abigail seemed surprised when Timothy did

not cross back toward Edgehil Road but turned

toward the bridge instead. Stil , she managed to

fol ow close behind as he trundled along the

broken sidewalk. Several minutes later, they

were halfway across the bridge. “We’re not

were halfway across the bridge. “We’re not

get ing ourselves into another sticky situation,

are we?” Abigail added, “’Cause I’d like to be

prepared….”

Timothy stopped and leaned against the

rusted green railing, staring north, up the river.

The sun had passed the sky’s midpoint. The

wind whipped his hair away from his forehead.

The lighthouse sat below, upon its

outcropping on the western shore, oblivious to

the secrets buried within. The water crashed

against its rough rocks in swirling pools and

white-capped waves. Timothy wondered if a

place was capable of knowing its own history.

Like the people in it, New Starkham stil had

plenty of secrets.

“Timothy?” said Abigail, touching his

shoulder. “It’s over, you know.”

Timothy glanced at her. “That’s the thing I

wanted to tel you…. It’s not.”

“What do you mean, it’s not?” asked Abigail,

clutching the rusted green railing. Now the

wind plastered her black bangs to her forehead.

wind plastered her black bangs to her forehead.

Her light red roots were just barely beginning

to show. “Have you seen something again?”

“No,” said Timothy, glancing at the water.

“Nothing like that.” She waited for him to

speak. “Abigail … I did something last

weekend … something real y horrible. And

now I think I’m paying for it.”

“What did you do?” she said quietly.

Reaching into his pocket, Timothy pul ed out

the black piece of metal. He pinched it

between his thumb and fore nger, holding it

up for Abigail to see. Struggling to speak, he

said, “I lied to you.”

Timothy told Abigail his story—how he’d

taken both bones but switched out Mr.

Harwood’s for the real one. He told her what

he’d meant to do with it. He told her about Mr.

Crane knocking on his front door, and what

happened later when he went back to his room

to destroy the object, how he thought he’d seen

her appear in his bedroom, fol owed by the

Nightmarys, as the jawbone’s curse fought to

Nightmarys, as the jawbone’s curse fought to

protect itself from being broken.

Abigail simply watched him as he spoke, her

face unreadable. When he nished his story, he

thought she might punch him in the eye.

Instead, she plucked the metal shard from his

fingers and examined it more closely.

“It’s not glowing,” she said. Timothy nodded.

“So, it’s over,” she added, with nality.

“Whatever was inside this chip is gone.”

“You real y believe that?” Timothy asked.

“Can’t you feel it?”

“I guess so.”

Abigail handed the piece back to Timothy

and sighed. “I have a confession too,” she said,

staring at him. “At the hospital, I knew you

were lying.”

“You knew I gave you the wrong bone?”

Timothy shook his head in disbelief. Abigail

smiled. “But why’d you let me do it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was the

curse. Maybe not. I guess, deep down, I thought

curse. Maybe not. I guess, deep down, I thought

you needed it for something.”

“I thought I did too,” said Timothy, palming

the tooth. Quickly, he turned his hand over.

The black chip fel , turning and glinting in the

sunlight, until it disappeared into the dark