by Dan Poblocki
“On or off?” said the driver, rolling his eyes.
“I’m off!” shouted Timothy, leaping onto the curb. The door closed swiftly, and before he could even think, the bus was pulling away into the night, its brake lights blurring red through the mist.
Timothy called out, “Abigail!” He listened for a moment, to see if he could hear her. From the river, the old foghorn wailed. The thunder called again, its voice a low growl. A streetlamp threw a hazy glow across the darkened storefront windows ahead. Timothy thought he could make out the shape of a girl running away from him, her silhouette becoming fainter and fainter as the shadows swallowed her up.
26.
After running half a block, Timothy had lost sight of her. Other than the sound of the growing wind and the continuous rumble of thunder in the distance, the street was quiet. He’d been thinking aloud on the bus, but he hadn’t meant to hurt Abigail’s feelings. He needed to apologize. Maybe he’d find her at the Mayfair? Timothy turned up his collar and began the ascent up the hill. What if she wouldn’t forgive him?
Several blocks ahead, Timothy froze. A dark figure appeared before him, standing underneath a streetlight. At first, Timothy thought it might be the shadow man. Then he realized that this figure was not nearly as tall. He also wasn’t wearing that long overcoat. No, this new figure wore a different kind of outfit. A tight-fitting uniform. As Timothy took another step forward, he noticed that the figure leaned against a crutch. “Ben?” he whispered.
Then the figure turned around and began to walk away.
Remembering the horrible conversation from that morning, Timothy hesitated, but as the figure continued up the hill, he again called out, “Ben!” By the time he reached the next stop sign, the figure was only half a block ahead. When Timothy called out one more time, the figure only continued his silent journey, as if he couldn’t hear his little brother, or didn’t care to respond. The rain began to fall harder now, blurring the night. Timothy wiped at his eyes, but the next time he looked up the street, the figure had disappeared.
Before he knew it, Timothy was standing just down the block from his house. Where had the figure gone? Timothy struggled to breathe, just like after a fast sprint during swim practice. He was too far away from the Mayfair to walk there now. And he certainly didn’t want to be alone. Shivering and afraid, he turned at the corner of Beech Nut, grateful that his house was just up the street.
Suddenly, the figure stepped out from behind a tall evergreen bush, and Timothy nearly tripped over his own feet. Ben grabbed at him, but he swerved out of his grasp.
Now they were face to face, and Timothy suddenly wished they weren’t. Ben didn’t look like Ben. His eyes were milky, his skin blotchy red. In fact, he looked a lot like Timothy’s nightmare that week. Ben opened his mouth, revealing his brown rotting teeth. “This is your fault, Timothy,” he said, his voice gritty. “You shouldn’t have let me leave New Starkham. You should have told me to stay….”
“What are you …?” Timothy began, his voice shaking with disbelief. Were they really talking about this? As bizarre as the whole thing seemed, he couldn’t stop himself from answering. “I shouldn’t have let you leave? What about what you told me? You needed to find some order in all this chaos. What about your light in the darkness?”
Ben blinked, as if he hadn’t heard. “This is your fault, Timothy. Your fault … But I forgive you.” Ben smiled a horrible smile. He held his arms open. The crutch clattered to the sidewalk. “Here, give your brother a hug.”
“You’re not my brother!” said Timothy, pushing at the figure. But when his hands slipped through the figure into nothingness, Timothy realized he was standing alone in the street. Lightning flashed and almost immediately the thunder clapped. Ben was gone.
Timothy closed his eyes for several seconds, too frightened to move.
He didn’t notice the headlights speeding toward him from the opposite direction.
27.
Timothy spun.
The lights blinded him as the car screeched to a stop. When he finally felt his heart restart, the car’s horn nearly knocked him over again. He quickly stepped out of the way, back onto the safety of the curb, ready to raise a particular finger to whomever was driving this hunk of junk. Over the din of the rain hitting the car’s hood, he heard the grinding gear of one of the windows rolling down.
“What the hell are you doing in the middle of the street?” The sound of his father’s voice was nearly as shocking as the car horn moments earlier. “You looking to hitch a ride on the roadkill wagon?” Timothy’s father sounded more worried than angry. Timothy felt so traumatized he couldn’t even answer. “You’re all wet. Get in.” Timothy opened the door and slipped inside.
They sat quietly for a few seconds, listening to the rain drumming against the roof.
“So are you going to tell me what you were doing out there? Or are you going to make me guess?” said Timothy’s father.
How could he tell his father about seeing zombie Ben, especially since Ben had simply disappeared? At best, his father would ignore him. At worst …
“I just walked home. Me and Abigail went to visit Stuart in the hospital.”
“You should’ve called me for a ride. Who’s Abigail?”
“A girl I go to school with.”
“Hmm,” said Timothy’s father, his mind elsewhere. “I need you to do me a favor.” He reached into the glove compartment, grabbed a set of keys, and handed them to Timothy. “Pull your mother’s car into the garage. Keep to the right. I need to park this thing next to it.”
Timothy felt a small rush. His father had never asked him to do this by himself before. It should have been more exciting. “Whose car is this?” Timothy asked, trying to sound peppy.
“I’m doing a favor for a buddy. Said I’d give it a look over the weekend.” His father clicked the garage-door opener. Timothy hopped out of the car, clutching the keys. He’d watched his father do this plenty of times. He’d waited years for this chance. Now his mind was so frantic, he couldn’t even think about enjoying the experience.
Once his father had pulled into the garage beside him, Timothy followed him out into the rain. “Nice job there,” said his father, distracted. “Stuart’s doing better?” His father led the way up the brick path toward the house’s unlit back door.
“That’s the big question,” Timothy said, trailing behind. Lightning flashed again, and the memory of Ben’s face echoed in Timothy’s mind. Suddenly, he remembered there were bigger questions.
THE NIGHTMARYS
INTERLUDE
MARCELLA’S ITALIAN RESTAURANT—
PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND
“Surprise!” shouted the crowd.
Percival Ankh clutched at his chest and screwed up his face into a mad grimace. Everyone gasped, but when Percival smiled, his family understood he was just kidding. Cruel, he knew, but he’d told them for years that he hated surprises. They deserved it. “Oh, Dad,” they said, patting him on the back, wishing him congratulations.
The old man’s family was throwing him a birthday party. He was ninety today, a late-April baby, a typically stubborn Taurus. He’d told his wife he’d never been sure he’d actually wanted to live this long. But now, surrounded by his loved ones, Percival realized what his life had been all about. Sure, there had always been the challenges of working at the library, but finding his family at home at the end of the day provided his true satisfaction.
The food was delicious, and the cake was even better.
Later, when Percival got up to use the restroom, everyone looked nervous. “I do this every day at home by myself,” he said. “I can walk.” Still, his son insisted on accompanying him. Percival waved him away. “How about this instead? If I’m not back in ten minutes, send out a search party.”
After he’d done his business, Percival washed his hands. When he’d first entered the bathroom, an attendant had greeted him, smiling. Now, though, Percival was alone. Strange. He grabbed a to
wel to dry himself, then turned to go.
But the door he’d entered through was no longer there. Somehow, it had been replaced with a solid wall, covered by the dull, gray-striped wallpaper that encompassed the rest of the room, like bars. “What the …?” said Percival, searching the room for a way out. He must have gotten turned around. But as he scanned each wall it seemed as though there actually was no exit.
He was trapped in here. Alone. Impossible. Was this another surprise, another trick planned by his kids to teach him a lesson for messing around earlier?
The old man pounded on the wall where the door should have been. He called out for his son. Boy, his kids were thinking, will Dad be embarrassed when he comes back to the table. Can’t even pee by himself anymore, they’d say. Poor old guy.
He waited, but received no answer.
Then, behind him, one of the stall doors creaked open. Percival turned, chills swarming his body like little red ants. Maybe the attendant he’d seen earlier had been in there the whole time. Maybe he could help.
A man stepped out from the stall, but it was not the attendant. This man’s face was familiar, though Percival hadn’t thought of him in years … especially since the man he was staring at was dead. Percival fell backward against the wall.
The man in the gray overcoat pulled the small wicker basket from the counter between the sinks and held it out. Smiling, he said, “Soap? Lotion? Mint?” Then he began to laugh. Percival turned and pounded harder than ever on the wall behind him.
Where the hell was that search party?
28.
On Saturday morning, Timothy awoke with the sun shining in his eyes. Everything was, and always had been, fine.
Moments later, after a good stretch, Timothy sat up in his bed and realized that everything was not fine. The week’s events came rushing back to him, and despite the revelatory light of the morning, he felt an awful dread, which grew when he heard the phone ringing.
Rushing downstairs, Timothy grabbed the handset from the side table in the front hallway. “Hello?”
“Timothy,” said an old woman’s voice. “This is Zilpha Kindred. Abigail’s grandmother. Sorry to call so early, but I need your help.”
Zilpha explained that the night before, Abigail had arrived home quite late, drenched from the rain. She’d apologized and asked if she could go to sleep early. Later, in bed, Zilpha was restless, so she went to get a glass of water. When she heard a sniffling noise outside the foyer, Zilpha opened the front door and found Abigail slumped against the wall. The elevator button glowed red. Zilpha led her back into the apartment. She asked Abigail what was going on. Breaking down, Abigail had told her everything.
“Everything?” Timothy asked.
“Everything,” Zilpha answered. “And there are a few things you should know too, Timothy.”
The night before, Zilpha had explained to Abigail that these odd occurrences were something they shared—that when Zilpha was young, she tried to stop a bad man from doing a bad thing. His name had been Christian Hesselius—the man Frances May had told them about. Now, somehow the bad man had returned to New Starkham to fulfill some kind of vengeance. The weirdest part? The bad man had died in an institution nearly fifty years ago.
“But how …?” Timothy imagined his shadow man as a ghost, a magician, a demon.
“I’m not exactly sure myself,” said Zilpha.
“Is Abigail okay now?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Timothy. Did she say anything about leaving New Starkham to go back to her father in New Jersey?”
“Yes, actually,” he answered quietly. “She told me she was thinking about it, but then changed her mind.”
“She left a letter on the dining room table this morning. She must have snuck out quite early.” Timothy felt his throat begin to close. “We can’t reach her father. Sarah has already left town to search for her. If you hear anything …”
“Uh-huh,” Timothy murmured, his mind racing with guilt for not following Abigail all the way home.
“I beg you to call.” Zilpha gave him her phone number, which he scribbled on a nearby scrap of paper. “And Timothy … trust me. After today, this will be over. I know everything must seem weird, but please … This is my mess, and I am handling it. Alone. Understand?”
“Okay,” he said. Even though Timothy now had a million more questions, he still managed to hang up.
When he had finally collected his thoughts, Timothy poured himself a bowl of cereal, ate quickly, then packed his swim bag, sticking Zilpha’s phone number in his pocket. If Zilpha didn’t want him thinking about Christian Hesselius, he had to do something else. Saturday-morning practice would be starting in less than a half hour. He left a note on the counter, telling his father where he had gone.
The air outside was brisk, but not cold. As Timothy made his way down the hill toward Edgehill Road and the mouth of the Dragon Stairs, he hoped he could stop worrying about what might be waiting for him in the locker room.
Luckily, when he arrived, several of his team members were still in the dim chamber, putting on their suits, and teasing each other with the threat of rat-tail whips. Timothy changed, then followed the rowdy group through the showers and down the long hallway to the pool.
Timothy tried to follow Thom’s practice to the minute. Whenever he swam toward the deep end, he couldn’t help imagining what Stuart had seen at the bottom of the pool. Under the diving platforms, he kept his eyes closed, and counted his strokes so he could find the wall.
“Nice work,” Thom called out to him, after the first one hundred yards. “I’ve never seen you swim so fast.” Timothy knew why: he’d never before felt like something was chasing him.
The more he thought about Zilpha’s call, the more anxious he became. Maybe if he walked to the Mayfair now, they could talk some more, sort this out together. She was an old woman. Abigail would have wanted him to help her grandmother, wouldn’t she?
From the shallow end, Timothy pushed off the wall, heading into a particularly strong free-style sprint. He had to beat the clock.
Head to Zilpha’s apartment, even though she’d asked him to stay out of it. That’s what he’d do. The route would be easy, up the southern slope, right past the college library—
Timothy felt a jolt, then jerked his body upright. Grabbing on to the closest lane line in the middle of the pool, he fought to keep from going under. The person swimming behind him just missed smacking him in the face with a butterfly upstroke. Timothy didn’t even notice.
The library.
The college had a library too.
Maybe they would have the answers he needed?
This way, Zilpha wouldn’t have to know.
29.
Outside, Timothy walked through the quad. He followed the stone path as it wound between the centuries-old buildings.
The hill rose as Timothy headed south, and suddenly he was standing in front of a tall structure that reminded him of the mansion from The Addams Family. Timothy pulled hard on the handle and slipped inside.
His eyes adjusted slowly to the difference in light. Two wings of the building reached out from a central distribution desk that sat directly in front of the main entrance. A blond girl with large blue eyes stood behind the desk.
“Hey, cutie,” she said. “What can I do for ya?”
“I—I was wondering if I’m allowed to use the library,” he stammered, blushing. “I’ve got to research a school project.”
The girl laughed. “I’m assuming you don’t have a college ID card.”
Timothy shook his head.
“Are you here with that other girl?”
“What other girl?”
“Guess not,” said the blond girl. “We don’t usually have non–college students trying to get into the library on a daily basis. Two in one morning is just strange. You’re lucky I’m not a stickler for the rules. If Gavin was around—”
“There’s a girl here?” Timothy felt his heart start to pound.
“My age?”
She nodded. “Here’s a temporary card. If you need anything, just let me know.” She slipped him a small piece of paper.
“Actually, I’m wondering if you have old copies of New Starkham newspapers. Like, from the 1940s?”
The girl stared at him for a moment, then said, “Okay, that’s weird. The other girl asked me the same thing when she came in an hour ago. I already gave her all that microfiche. You’re going to have to share.” She pointed into the wing on Timothy’s right. “The room is behind the last row of books. Careful. It’s dark back there.”
“Thanks,” said Timothy, heading in the direction the girl had pointed. As he approached the last row of shelves, he knew who he’d find there.
“What are you doing here?” said Abigail when she saw him.
The faint backlight from the microfiche screen threw her face into shadow. Behind her, the projected headline echoed how he felt. Shocker in New Starkham!
“The same thing as you, apparently,” he said. “Tricky. You’ve got your entire family freaking out. Your grandmother called this morning and told me what happened last night when you got home.”
“She did?”
“She was worried about you.”
“Gramma didn’t want me involved.” She blinked, completely closed up. “I had to throw her off.”
“You should call her and tell her you’re safe. Or maybe I should.”
“Please … don’t.” She reached out for his arm, then stopped herself. “If I can figure out all this nonsense before she does, she won’t get hurt. She shouldn’t be worrying about cursed jawbones at her age.”
Timothy sighed, knowing he was about to break his promise to Zilpha. He pulled up a chair next to her. “How did you figure out this place was here?”
“Got up early. Looked out my bedroom window. Saw the campus. Realized the answer was staring me in the face. Oh, and by the way,” she said, “I’m doing this on my own.”
