by Dan Poblocki
Abigail took a deep breath. “Revenge.”
“On who?”
“The people he blamed for his son’s death. Nazis? I don’t know. He never really said.”
Timothy glanced around the room. Certain objects were now filled with new meaning: the photographs, the flags, even the baseball-card collection. “So the jawbone was a weapon.”
“Delia, he claimed, was his first experiment. Hesselius never revealed where he’d taken her. Once he realized that people thought he was totally insane, he never spoke about the ancient sect again. At least not publicly. Then, a few years later, he was gone.”
“So that’s that?” asked Timothy. “The end?”
Abigail raised her hands, gesturing to the room. “Obviously not.”
“You mean …?”
“What you said on the bus last night, Timothy … You were right. All of this … everything that has happened … It all makes sense. Someone has that jawbone and has been using it against us.”
“Why?” said Timothy. “What did we do?”
Abigail closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Timothy stood up, “But, Abigail, if the jawbone is a weapon, then we have our defense.” He wandered to the back of the chair, trying to sort out the situation. She stared at him quizzically. “Your Nightmarys. Stuart’s monster. All of it. Fear. It’s not real.”
“We don’t know that,” said Abigail. “It all seems pretty real!”
Timothy paused to think. “Well, what do we know? Stuart ended up in the hospital. Mr. Crane called me about the specimen jars. You nearly followed those girls out into the rain…. Maybe it doesn’t matter what’s real. Maybe all that matters is what we believe? The jawbone controls fear. And fear controls us.”
“Yes!” Abigail said. “If my grandmother hadn’t shown up at the elevators when she did last night, I’d be in big trouble right about now. It’s not the Nightmarys who want me to follow them. It’s someone else. If the jawbone gives the user the ability to read minds, he’s controlling my fear of them to get me where he wants me.”
“Where would that be?” said Timothy.
Abigail shook her head. “My grandmother said Hesselius wrote her a letter from his cell, promising that someday, she would pay for telling on him.”
“Pay how?”
A cold draft swept past them. The floor creaked slightly. Timothy and Abigail both spun. The plastic tarp outside made a crinkling sound. A tall silhouette stood framed in the opening. Timothy felt the room start to spin. He clutched the back of the leather chair, as Abigail leapt to her feet. A deep voice said, “What are you doing in here?”
33.
“We were—” Timothy began, but the man interrupted with a wave of his hand.
“Save it.” He stepped inside. His dark hair and beard were salted with white. He wore black jeans, an untucked dress shirt, and a dark blazer. “Wendy told me she gave a couple of visitor passes to some middle-school students earlier this morning. I didn’t see anyone downstairs who fit that description, so I thought I’d do a little exploring, and what do I find?” The man smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Trespassers.”
“Um, sir?” Timothy raised his hand. “Technically, we’re not trespassing. There wasn’t a keep-out sign on the door.”
“I guess common sense is a difficult concept for today’s youth,” said the man. “Come on. Time to go.”
“We’re wicked sorry,” said Timothy, heading toward the door. “We didn’t mean any harm.”
“Yeah, totally no harm meant,” Abigail whispered, trailing behind him.
When they reached the door, the man stopped Abigail. “What’s this?” he said, glancing at the framed baseball cards.
“Oh, that’s, um …,” said Abigail, but she wasn’t quick enough.
The man took the frame from her. “I recall these sitting in front of the safe on that bookshelf over there. At least, that’s where they were the last time I checked.”
The safe? thought Timothy. What safe? He glanced at Abigail. She looked as shocked as he was. The man brushed past them, crossed through the room, and slid open a small wood panel in the bookshelf. Inside the cupboard was a metal door, a combination lock plugged into its center. “Locked,” said the man, closing the door and replacing the frame. “Strange, if you ask me,” he continued, “but then again, in my opinion, this whole situation is strange. Beyond strange.” The man ushered Timothy and Abigail out the door, past the plastic curtain, and onto the landing. “You’d think after almost fifty years, the college would have left this room alone,” said the man. “They were the ones who put up this wall in the first place. But no. Now we need space. Space! We cannot waste the space! And I have to deal with the mess.”
“You mean,” Abigail said, following the man down the stairs, “the college put up that wall?”
“One of the old librarians asked them to,” said the man. “Sealed that office right up.”
“But why?” said Timothy.
Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, the man stopped and turned around. “And I’d be telling you for what reason?” He squinted at them.
“Actually,” said Abigail, “it’s kind of weird, but we’re here doing research about the man who used that office.”
“Dr. Hesselius?” said the man. Surprised, the kids nodded. Abigail pulled the microfiche pages from under her arm and handed them to him. The man flipped through them with a curious expression. “Why would you want to know about him?”
A few minutes later, Timothy and Abigail were behind the front desk, helping the man, who’d introduced himself as Gavin Engstrom, load heavy books onto a wobbly cart. Abigail had convinced Gavin to tell them the history of Hesselius’s strange office in exchange for a round of reshelving. He’d sent the blond assistant away for the moment.
Gavin leaned against the desk and folded his arms. “The plans began last year when someone up in the admissions building noticed the window anomaly.” Both Abigail and Timothy stared at him. “There were more windows outside than we could account for on the inside,” Gavin continued. “The Office of Building and Development soon rediscovered the room at the top of the stairs. As I was saying, space is quite a commodity at this institution. Of course, I’ve been fully aware of the room ever since I started here. After the library erected the wall, the abandoned office was secret staff knowledge, passed down through these last few generations, like an heirloom. I had come to the conclusion that the room had actually become invisible.”
Timothy snickered. “Well, that’s just…,” he began. Just what? Silly? A moment later, Timothy realized it wasn’t silly. After everything he’d just learned, it was actually really creepy.
“I’m assuming you know a bit about the former occupant,” Gavin went on, nodding at the pages Abigail had stacked on the book cart. “Scary story, right?” Abigail and Timothy nodded. “Supposedly, the librarians at the time knew Hesselius pretty well. They liked him. Early on, during the trial, there had been talk about whether or not Hesselius might return, so they saved his office for him, just the way he left it. But after the government put him away, no one wanted to go in there. With all the talk, people didn’t know what to believe. I think it was … Percival Ankh, the head librarian at the time, who locked up the office. And so it remained, for several years, a closed door,” said Gavin. “Hesselius died. People said they heard noises in there. Rumors of voices. Cults. Dark magic. No one even used that staircase anymore. Creepy. Mr. Ankh was a superstitious man. I’m pretty sure it was his idea to seal up the room behind the wall too.”
“Did people think Hesselius’s ghost was in there?” Timothy asked. “Did you ever see anything?”
“Me?” Gavin laughed. “No. I’m not the seeing kind.”
Abigail bumped into the cart. It squeaked. “Upstairs, you seemed a little freaked out.”
“Well, yes, I was nervous,” Gavin said. “I heard your voices. I didn’t expect to find a couple of kids up t
here gathering dust.”
“Then why’d you make us give back that frame?” said Timothy.
Gavin laughed. “You wanna know why?” he asked. “First of all, it didn’t belong to you. Second of all … it didn’t belong to you!”
“Then it’s not cursed or anything?” Timothy blushed.
“It very well may be, if you believe in curses,” said Gavin, “but that’s not my concern. Nothing can leave that room. You see, there’s a lawsuit. Turns out, news of the room’s discovery got back to Dr. Hesselius’s relatives. They insist everything in that room belongs to them. No one’s supposed to touch it until the college settles the issue.”
“Who are his relatives?” said Abigail.
“His son, specifically,” said Gavin. “A sweet old guy who still lives in New Starkham. I don’t blame him for trying, the economy being what it is.”
“You’ve met him?” said Timothy.
“Sure,” said Gavin. “Came by the library a couple months ago. He hobbled up those stairs himself. Technically, he wasn’t allowed, but I gave him some time to look around. Unlike some people I know, he left without touching a thing. I actually hope he gets everything he wants, though most of what’s left in there is worthless, in my opinion. Still, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy. Losing his father the way he did.”
“You mean, his father, the child snatcher?” said Abigail, tossing a book onto the cart.
“Hey, careful with that,” said Gavin. He sighed. “Please. You know what I mean. He lost his twin brother too. Imagine how you would have felt if you were him.”
“I don’t think I really want to,” said Abigail quietly, “but thanks anyway.”
Gavin stared at her for several seconds, then shrugged. “People don’t inherit the sins of their parents.”
“Thank God,” said Timothy and Abigail at the same time.
“Let’s go,” said the librarian. “Enough chat.” He pushed the cart from behind the desk toward the bookshelves. The squeaky wheel echoed through the large room. “More action.”
Moments later, Timothy followed Abigail into the Ancient Religions section. “We’ve got to get back up there.”
“Where?” said Abigail. “The office?”
“That hidden safe,” said Timothy. “The baseball-card frame was right in front of it. It’s gotta be a clue. We should check it out.” He pulled a book from the cart, matched up the number on the spine, and shoved it into its place on the shelf. “Besides, after everything we’ve been through, there’s no way I’m leaving those cards up there. I don’t care if Gavin tries to stop us. I’d be willing to do some evasive action to get past him. Whenever we play basketball in gym class, I play pretty good offense.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Abigail, lifting another book from the cart.
Timothy shook his head. “What do you mean, not necessary?”
Abigail placed her book on the shelf. “The evasive action already happened, silly.” She reached into her back pocket. “I doubt we can get back up there without being noticed, but at least we’ve got these.” When she pulled out the three baseball cards, Timothy had to cover his mouth to keep from whooping. She held her finger up to her mouth and said, “Shhh.”
34.
They finished shelving the books and returned the cart to the front desk, where Gavin was hunched over some paperwork.
“Excuse me one last time?” said Abigail. “Say we wanted to … find Dr. Hesselius’s son?”
Gavin looked up, perturbed. “I’ll ask again,” he said. “Why should I be telling you this?” With a tiny smile, Abigail simply waved the microfiche printouts. Gavin rolled his eyes. “Research. Right.” He sighed. “I think I have his contact information in my office. Just a second,” he said. He went through a door behind the front desk. Moments later, he returned with a small white notecard, which he handed to Abigail. “This is all I have. I’m only doing this so you’ll leave me alone and never come back here, at least until the semester is over.” He glared at her. “Deal?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot,” she added quickly.
The two kids casually walked out the library’s front door. By the time they reached the bottom step, they were at a near sprint. They ran, sticking to the campus paths until they found the quad. Hunched over, Timothy stopped, trying to catch his breath. Abigail gasped, hugged the microfiche pages to her chest, then glanced over her shoulder up the hill. “Why were we running like that?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Timothy. “I was following you. I guess I thought we should get out of there before he took the notecard back. What’d he write on it anyway?”
Abigail had clenched the card in her fist. She opened her hand, turned the card over, and said, “Jack.”
Timothy paused. “Jack? As in jack squat? As in nothing?”
“Jack … as in that’s the old man’s name. Hesselius’s son,” said Abigail, showing Timothy the card. “He wrote his address too.”
“Ash Tree Lane?” Timothy read. “That’s just a few blocks from my house.”
“Cool,” said Abigail, “so you can lead the way.”
“Wait,” said Timothy, handing the card back to her. “You actually want to go to the house?”
“What else did you have in mind for the afternoon? A game of Parcheesi with my grandmother?” said Abigail. “This guy has answers. He’s got to know what’s going on. Maybe he can tell us some more about his father. We can ask him about the baseball cards and the safe. Maybe he’ll tell us what’s in it.”
“Yeah, sure.” Timothy nodded. “Or maybe he can kill us.”
Abigail smacked his arm. “He’s old. What can he do?”
“You don’t know how old he is,” said Timothy.
“What are you worried about?” said Abigail. “Gavin said he ‘hobbled.’ I don’t think someone who hobbles has enough strength to hurt us.”
Timothy lowered his voice, like a television announcer, and answered, “She said as he whacked her with his sword cane.”
“People don’t inherit the sins of their parents,” said Abigail. “That’s what Gavin said.”
“Yeah, but—”
“If we don’t check out this address, we’ve hit a dead end. You can either come with me, or you can stand here admiring the view.” She gestured toward the river. The lighthouse had fallen under the bridge’s shadow, as the sun had now moved halfway across the sky. The wind off the water was chilly. Timothy’s stomach growled. The campus was quiet, and they had nowhere else to go.
He figured they could stop by the old man’s house, ring his doorbell, at least check the place out. Maybe this Jack guy wasn’t home. Even if he was home, he might not know jack. They wouldn’t know until they tried.
“Hold on,” said Timothy, racing up the Dragon Stairs after Abigail. “I can’t keep up with you.”
“You? Mr. Swim Team can’t keep up with a girl?” Abigail called over her shoulder, teasing him. The rolled-up microfiche copies wagged from the back pocket of her jeans. Timothy laughed, which slowed him down even more, but then he glanced at the green paint on the wall, thought of the dragon’s eyes, and stepped up his pace.
“The house isn’t going anywhere,” said Timothy.
“It’s not the house I’m worried about,” she said over her shoulder. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Gramma thinks this is all about her, and she’s going to try and stop it. Hesselius promised to return someday. Get his revenge on the little girl who told. After everything we learned at the library, I’m beginning to think maybe she’s on to something.”
“You think Hesselius’s ghost has that jawbone thing?”
“Maybe. If that’s even possible. I don’t know what to think. All I know is I’ve got to keep Gramma safe.”
35.
The house sat on Ash Tree Lane’s last plot of land before the road became woods. A dead-end street. Of course.
“I’ve been here before,” said Timothy, standing with Abigail on the opposite sidewalk. The cement beneath his feet was cracked. “Stuart and me used to come up here sometimes,” he continued. “We’d play catch in the street, because we didn’t have to worry about traffic. We always thought this house was empty.”
“Maybe it was then,” said Abigail, “but it’s not now.”
The house across the street was three stories tall—maybe a hundred fifty years old. Its white paint was chipped and, in some places, peeling in long, thin strips. Four massive wood columns stretched from the stone foundation to the sharp-peaked, triangular roof. Above the deep porch, a small octagonal window stared out over the rest of the neighborhood. The remaining windows, four across each subsequent floor, were darkened. Dangling from the high porch roof, a long black chain swung in the breeze like a hypnotist’s watch. From the end of the chain, a box lamp glowed dimly, defying the afternoon light.
“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Looks like someone’s home.”
A jumble of early-spring weeds filled the deep yard behind the white fence, which separated the house from the street. A weeping willow brushed budding limbs against the right side of the porch. Around the left corner, an ancient black Mercedes was parked in front of a detached, barnlike garage.
Abigail stepped off the curb and started toward the house.
“Wait,” said Timothy. “What’s our plan?” Abigail shrugged and kept walking. He stayed where he was. “But what if he’s a psycho? What if he tries to kill us?”
“We’re just going to ask him some questions. It’ll be quick,” said Abigail. “Besides, at this point, I’m almost positive that whatever is trying to hurt us isn’t human. Hesselius is dead, remember?”
“And that’s a good thing?” he asked. A vengeful ghost? It seemed so silly. But then, life had become quite silly lately, hadn’t it? “How are we supposed to stop a … ghost?”
“Maybe its son will know,” she answered, brushing her short black hair off her forehead. Timothy tripped after her. Abigail swung open the garden gate. They climbed the front steps. Abigail stuck out her finger and pressed the doorbell.
