by Dan Poblocki
At the beginning of September that year, the two Marys began to make their mark at Clifton Middle School. For some reason, they ignored Abigail. Unfortunately, the girls in her class listened when the Marys spoke. The boys with whom Abigail usually played games after school stopped inviting her to join in. Abigail began to feel as invisible as air. Soon she was sitting by herself at lunch and walking home from school alone. Together, the Marys were an entity, the likes of which Abigail had never seen before. She didn’t like it, and she decided she didn’t like them. So Abigail gave them a taste of their own medicine.
She made up a nasty name for the two girls: the Nightmarys, of course. To Abigail’s horror, the girls liked it, and it stuck. They wore it like a badge of honor. Abigail quickly grew tired of the nickname. The Nightmarys request your attention during lunch period, Janet Holm had told Harriet Lincoln during English class. The Nightmarys told me I look pretty today, Beth Reid cooed to herself in the bathroom mirror. The Nightmarys told me to tell you that they’re having a party, and you’re not invited, Mike Swenson had cruelly informed Abigail one Friday afternoon. She’d gone home in tears.
In March of the next year, Abigail learned that she and her mother would leave Clifton for New Starkham. When they arrived at her new home, Abigail realized that she had finally managed to get away from the Nightmarys—something she had wished for the past two years. Despite everything else, she was happy about that.
She had been at Paul Revere Middle School for a week when it started.
One night, while finishing her homework in her bedroom, Abigail saw movement through her window. A blur of white. Outside was a stretch of patio. Something had crossed it. Abigail bolted upright on her mattress. After a few moments of quiet, she dismissed the movement as a seagull. There were plenty of those in New Starkham.
But the next night, it happened again. A little after midnight, she awoke to a soft tapping on glass. Before she even opened her eyes, Abigail feared what she would see at the window—two faces, smiling at her. Instead of looking, Abigail crawled out of bed, shielding her eyes as she made her way to the hallway. She shuffled to her grandmother’s bedroom and slipped under the covers next to her.
Over a bowl of cereal, it was easier to toss off these occurrences as being influenced by the dark and the unfamiliar. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was only nervous that there were “Nightmarys” at her new school. Things would work themselves out if she continued to be invisible, something she was already good at. At school during the day, she stayed by herself, tried to be inconspicuous. At night, she tucked her blanket over her head.
It worked … until the night she awoke to find the two girls standing in the corner of her room near the record player. This time, she could see them much more clearly. They looked like the girls from Clifton, but they were also different, as if half sisters with the creatures from the Nightmarys trading-card collection. Their hair hung limply from their heads. Their feet were bare. They wore matching dirty white lace dresses, which hung from their thin bodies like sacks. Abigail cringed in her bed, too frightened now to even make a sound. The spot where their faces should have been was simply blurry, like a shot of fast motion caught on still film. When Abigail stared too long, she saw things in the blur—things that should not have existed in place of their eyes, nose, and mouth—things too disturbing for her to later recall.
“Don’t shout,” said one. Mary Brown’s voice.
“We want to be your friends,” said the other. Mary White.
“I—I,” Abigail managed to stammer, trying to keep them at bay. “I don’t want any friends. Please, leave me alone.”
The girls laughed as they stepped forward. “But we’re lonely,” said Mary White.
“Remember what that feels like, Abigail?” said Mary Brown. “Come play our game.” Their voices were hypnotizing.
“But it’s the middle of the night. My mom would hear.”
“We’ll take care of your mother … and your grandmother.” The way the girls spoke snapped Abigail wide awake.
She grabbed a book she’d been reading before bed from the nightstand. “Stay away from them,” she shouted, and threw the book at the descending shadows. When the book hit the far wall with a thump, Abigail realized that the girls were no longer there. She quickly turned on the bedside lamp and filled the darkness with light.
Since then, Abigail slept with the lights on. This, however, did not stop the girls from coming back. Again and again. Begging her to follow them into the night. To play their game. To be their friend.
19.
Abigail continued to sit on the edge of the bathtub, flicking the lighter on and off. Her hair hung in front of her face. It was nearly dry now.
Timothy felt a chill as he leaned against the sink.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” Abigail said. Timothy shook his head. She pointed at the crumpled black paper in the bathtub. “I took that picture last night, with Gramma’s camera. The black smudge was where the girls were standing.”
“I didn’t see a smudge,” said Timothy. “I just saw your bedroom.”
“It was right in the center,” said Abigail. “They were there!” She looked at the ash in the tub, as if she now wished she hadn’t burned the photograph.
“I … believe you,” said Timothy, smiling weakly. “There’s got to be a connection between your story and mine. If we’re both not crazy, then someone or something out there is trying to make us feel like we are.”
“I know the connection.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “It’s you.”
“Me?” he said, his voice rising.
Abigail closed the lighter and slipped it into her pocket. “Partly.” All the color had faded from her face. “Last night, the girls knew about what happened at the museum. You know, with the water balloon? They knew I was angry at Stuart for throwing it. And at Mr. Crane for allowing it to happen. And at … well … you.”
“Me? What did I do?” Timothy asked.
“I can’t even remember now.” She blushed. “They said they had helped me. I didn’t understand, and they said that soon I would. They said that since they’d helped me, I should go with them. Play their game. That I owed them.” She was silent for a few seconds. “I didn’t know what to say. I mean, how do you argue with a couple of … whatever they are.”
“You’re not going anywhere with them.”
“Of course not. I didn’t agree to anything.”
“They said that they helped you. How?”
Abigail shrugged, unsure. “Horrible things happened to the three of you.”
“The three of who?”
“Stuart. You. And Mr. Crane.”
“I don’t understand.”
Abigail sighed. “The Nightmarys helped me. What happened to the three of you, happened because of me. You saw that creepy man. Stuart saw the monster in the pool.”
Timothy blinked. “And Mr. Crane saw something scary in those jars.”
“In Nathaniel Olmstead’s book,” said Abigail, “the Nightmarys have the power to frighten people. To make monsters. My Nightmarys made you see what you saw. Even though I didn’t ask for it, the Nightmarys ‘helped’ me. And almost killed Stuart along the way.” Her voice wavered. “When I found out what happened to him, I knew it was my fault. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. Or scared, even. I just wanted to be left alone.”
“Maybe there are no Nightmarys. Maybe you have the power to frighten people,” said Timothy, feeling almost foolish. “Maybe, like, deep down, you were really angry at all of us. So, like, unconsciously or something, you made us all see things … things that weren’t really there.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Abigail shook her head. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Say you could … maybe you didn’t mean to.”
“But Stuart ended up in the hospital. If there was nothing there, if he was just seeing things, how did he get hurt?”
Timothy shook his head. “He believed he saw
a monster. He got scared and inhaled some water.”
“No,” said Abigail, pressing her palms to her temples. “I can’t believe that I did that. I mean, yeah, I was angry at him, but I never wanted any of this to happen.”
“But—”
“No, Timothy. I know I’m right. I’m not anything like that. At first I actually had the same thought.” She smiled weakly. “But now I know this is about something else.”
“How do you know?”
“There are too many other things involved that don’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“Like … that book you found. And the names that were written in it. And, I suppose, most importantly … that it might be about my grandmother.”
Timothy considered that.
“This goes beyond me and my stupid problems,” said Abigail. She grabbed a chunk of her hair and waved it at him. “I mean, before you told me your story, I actually thought I could hide from them. I dyed my hair. I was planning on sleeping on the couch in the living room tonight. I thought maybe they wouldn’t recognize me, and then tomorrow …”
“Tomorrow, what?” said Timothy.
“Tomorrow, I was going to take a bus back to New Jersey. My dad’s waiting for me there.”
“Oh …” Timothy felt as though she’d sucker punched him. He realized how much he didn’t want to go through this alone.
“But I can’t do that anymore. Not now that you’re involved,” she said simply.
Timothy nodded, relieved. “I think the most important thing for us to figure out is who this man is—the one I keep seeing. And the book. If they’re both real, not created, like you said, by … the Nightmarys, they might be the key to what is actually going on here.”
Down the hall, a doorknob rattled. They both jumped.
Abigail leapt from the tub and closed the bathroom door. She opened the mirror cabinet and grabbed a pair of big black scissors.
20.
“Abigail? Honey? Are you home?” a sweet, high voice called from the foyer.
Chunks of her hair rained down upon the floor. Abigail tossed the scissors into the sink and turned around. Her hair now lay in jagged chunks just below her ears, swooping up even shorter in the back.
“How do I look?” Abigail whispered, a smile in her eyes.
“Uh … different,” Timothy managed to say. He couldn’t believe she’d just chopped off her hair like that.
“Perfect.”
“Abigail?” The voice had come halfway down the hall.
“I’m in the bathroom,” Abigail called back. Then she whispered to Timothy, “Now’s your chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To ask my grandmother about the book.”
“But—”
Abigail threw the door open and leapt into the hallway. Her mother screamed, then gasped.
“Abigail? Is that you? What have you done to yourself?”
“You don’t like it?”
“To be perfectly honest,” her mother answered dramatically, “no, I do not like it.”
Timothy cowered in the bathroom. This was happening too fast. What if Abigail’s grandmother freaked out when he asked her about the book? He looked over his shoulder for a way to escape, but all he could see was a tiny pane of fogged glass.
“Mother!” Abigail’s own mother cried. “Come look what Abigail’s done to herself!”
Abigail peeked at Timothy from around the doorframe and waved. “Come on,” she said. Timothy reluctantly followed her down the hall, his heart in his throat. Suddenly, a hunched silhouette shuffled in front of them. They froze where they stood.
“Oh!” the old woman cried. “Abigail, you frightened me.” Mrs. Kindred contemplated the two of them for several seconds, then said, “For a moment, I thought I was looking into a mirror. You can’t imagine how much you look like I did when I was your age. What did you do to yourself?” Abigail’s mother stood next to Mrs. Kindred.
“A cut-and-dye job,” said Abigail sheepishly.
Her mother shook her head. “Honestly …” Then she noticed Timothy. “Who are you?”
“I’m Timothy,” he answered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Timothy July.”
“We’re working on a school project together,” Abigail added.
Mrs. Kindred stepped forward and turned on the hall light. She looked older than she had earlier in the week. Weary. She held on to the wall, as if to steady herself. “You’re the boy from the museum,” she said, squinting at him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Timothy managed. Now he wasn’t worried about her freaking out; instead, he worried she might murder him.
“How nice that you brought home a friend, Abigail,” she said, softening. Timothy was unsure if she was just being polite. “I’m Zilpha.” She glanced at Abigail’s mother. “This is my daughter, Sarah.”
“Nice to meet you,” he whispered.
“Abigail, go clean up, then let’s all sit down,” said Sarah. “Gramma’s had a long day.” She took the old woman’s hand and led her into the next room.
“I can manage, my dear,” said Zilpha. “I’m not dead yet, you know.”
“Can Timothy stay for supper?” Abigail asked.
“Fine with me,” said Sarah. “Is it okay with your parents?”
“Uh … yeah,” he answered, knowing that probably wasn’t true.
Abigail and Timothy set the table as her grandmother sat at the far end of the dining room. When Abigail raised the question about what business her grandmother had at the museum the other day, Zilpha blushed and muttered something about inspiration, then quickly changed the subject to talk about the weather.
They were interrupted when Sarah brought a salad to the table. “Oh, Mom, I forgot to tell you, I finally met Georgia’s new boyfriend.” She turned to Timothy. “Georgia’s our next-door neighbor. She and he were coming up in the elevator together earlier today. I admire her. At her age … It’s never too late to start dating again, you know.”
“Hmm. But where would I find the time, dear?” Zilpha smiled.
Sarah chuckled and turned toward the doorway. “Pasta’s almost ready.”
Silence filled the room. Timothy and Abigail glanced at each other. He waited for her to say something, but she nodded at him conspicuously. “So … uh, we’re working on a book report,” he said, blushing.
Abigail added, “A combination book report–history project. That’s why Mr. Crane brought our class to the museum.”
“How nice,” said Zilpha. “What book are you reading?”
“Oh, you’ve probably never heard of it,” said Timothy, staring at his plate. “It’s really old.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Zilpha, “I’m really old too.”
They all laughed. Timothy quietly added, “It’s called The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse.”
Overcome, the old woman went into a coughing fit for several seconds. After she recovered, she tentatively asked, “Where did you find a book with such a morbid title?”
Timothy glanced at Abigail. “By chance,” Abigail answered for him. “It just sort of came to us.”
“It came to you?”
“I’ve already read about half of it. We’ve started doing some research,” said Timothy, trying to sound more assured. “The author was a lawyer from Boston. Strange.” He thought carefully before adding, “I think his last name was the same as yours.”
The old woman stared at the table now, her mouth set in a grimace. Finally, Zilpha said, “My uncle wrote several books when I was a girl, but under a pseudonym. Oswald Kent? Kentwall? Something like that. I don’t really remember.”
“That’s it,” said Abigail. “Ogden Kentwall.”
“We learned his real last name online. But your last name is still …?” Timothy was unsure how to finish.
“I kept ‘Kindred’ for professional reasons,” she said. “I was a photographer in my youth.”
“Abigail showed me the pictures,” said Tim
othy. “They’re amazing.”
A spark lit up the old woman’s eyes as she looked at him again. “Well … thank you.”
“Gramma,” said Abigail, “do you remember your uncle’s books? They say he based the character on his niece.” She quietly added, “Was it you?”
“I don’t know what my uncle was thinking back then,” said Zilpha. She hesitated before adding, “It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about it.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” asked Timothy.
“I … I don’t remember much.”
“Gramma, please. It’ll really help … our report.”
Zilpha shut her eyes, looking ready to close up entirely.
As one last desperate attempt for an answer, Timothy said, “Have you ever heard these names: Carlton Quigley, Bucky Jenkins, or Leroy Fromm?”
Now Zilpha looked truly confused. “Some stories are best forgotten,” she said, shaking her head with finality. “Why don’t you read something more fun, instead? I’ve heard so much about those Harry Potter 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 Edgehill 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 pulled Timothy into the living room. “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” she said.
“Right,” said Timothy. “Tomorrow.”
Outside, as Abigail’s mother pulled her SUV away from the curb, Timothy noticed someone exiting the building.
A formidable silhouette heading north underneath the nearest streetlight. A tall man in a long overcoat. A small hat was perched on his head.
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.
