The Nightmarys

by Dan Poblocki

  Abigail was gone, just like the old man had predicted. But how had she disappeared?

  She hadn’t, Timothy reasoned. Abigail had been inside the mob of girls. The Nightmarys must have surrounded her and ushered her down the stairs right past him. They weren’t coming for him; they were leaving with her. But to where?

  The place where your end will come, the old man had said.

  The temple of the Chaos Tribe. Timothy finally understood. Jack had meant for Abigail to be the next Delia! The battery. The soul-charge for the incomplete corpse of the Daughter of Chaos.

  39.

  By the time Timothy reached the next corner, he felt faint. His hand hurt when he swung his arm. But he had to find Abigail. The thought of what might be happening to her at that moment nearly drove him mad.

  Sure, he could ask a neighbor to call the police, but he felt that would only waste time. Besides, how could he possibly explain everything that was happening without someone locking him in a straitjacket?

  Down the hill, he ran faster than ever toward his house. By the time he reached his front yard, he had to stop and catch his breath. Seconds later, something down the street captured his attention. Near the mouth of the Dragon Stairs on Edgehill Road, a girl stood perfectly still. However, as Timothy squinted into the fading daylight, the figure briefly blurred, like smudged pencil, before solidifying again.

  With his lungs on fire, Timothy slowly crossed in front of his house to get a better view. When the girl waved, taunting him, strands of cobweb dangled from her arm. She disappeared down the Dragon Stairs. As he struggled to run after her, he realized she might be leading him away from where he needed to be. But if the Nightmarys traveled in a pack, maybe this single phantom would lead him to the rest of the group … and Abigail.

  Crossing Edgehill Road, he called Abigail’s name again. No answer. As he quickly approached the Dragon Stairs, he realized that the painting of the Chinese dragon, whose swirling eyes usually greeted him at this point in the road, was gone. Someone had whitewashed the staircase’s wooden walls. But the painting had been there when he’d followed Abigail up the hill from the campus.

  Timothy cautiously crossed the sidewalk and peered into the mouth of the tunnel. As far as he could see, until the stairwell’s first zigzag turn, the walls were bare, as if the graffiti had never existed. He touched the white wall. It was dry.

  The girl had led him here. Why? He turned around, glancing up the street toward his house. Was Abigail somewhere back up the hill?

  In the woods, on the other side of the wall, a tree branch snapped. When it hit the ground with a loud thud, Timothy jumped. Then he froze. He suddenly had a terrible feeling that he knew what had happened to the Chinese dragon painting. And worse, he realized why the phantom girl had lured him here.

  With a lump in his throat, Timothy stepped away from the mouth of the tunnel. Peering around the wall into the woods, he saw something large and green slip behind a curve in the staircase. He took a slow, deep breath.

  This can’t really be happening, he thought. This must be a dream—a nightmare like the one he’d had earlier that week when Ben had crawled out of the giant jar in his closet. In real life, old men did not place curses on children. In real life, groups of ghostly girls didn’t kidnap his friends. In real life, paintings of enormous monsters didn’t crawl off their canvases to hunt him.

  Quietly, Timothy stepped backward into the street. The forest grew dark, shadows looming as the sun finally settled past the horizon across the river. He looked for any sign of movement between the trees, but the woods were still. Yet Timothy sensed a presence watching him, waiting for him to turn his back. The hill beyond the sidewalk was steep, a good hiding place for something as large as what Timothy feared might be there.

  This isn’t real, he thought. I’m not scared.

  If he could make himself believe this, then it would be true. That was how the curse worked, wasn’t it? That was the key.

  Bracing himself, Timothy turned around. “I’m just walking home,” he whispered. “This is an ordinary day. I’m not scared.” He crossed Edgehill Road, making his way slowly back up Beech Nut Street toward his house. “Everything is totally fine.” But your hand is throbbing. Your knees ache. Abigail is gone. Doesn’t that mean everything is not fine? Doesn’t that mean everything that’s happening … is real?

  Shut up! Timothy thought at the voice in his head. He was nearly home now. His front yard stretched before him, and beyond that was his front door. Then what?

  He’d call Zilpha. She’d be livid, he knew, but she was the only one who understood what was going on here; besides, any worry he had of getting yelled at was outweighed by Abigail’s disappearance. He couldn’t imagine her fear.

  Behind him, an enormous crash shook the ground, as if one of the great oaks clinging to Edgehill’s hill had tumbled down the cliff toward the college athletic fields. Timothy stopped at the bottom of the front steps and squeezed his eyes shut. Down the block, something growled—a lower rumble than any car coming up Edgehill Road with a bad exhaust pipe could possibly make. Slowly, Timothy turned around.

  Crouching on the shattered remains of the Dragon Stairs tunnel was an enormous green snakelike monster, its long body twisting down the hill past the battered guardrail. Its wide black eyes spiraled and spun, trying to hypnotize Timothy, daring him to look away. It tapped its silver claws on the sidewalk and began to grin, revealing huge, sharp white teeth. Two thick orange whiskers swirled and twirled from its curled top lip, like in the painting from which they’d come. The creature’s long red tongue flicked from its mouth, stretching halfway across the road. The creature didn’t look angry or hungry. Its expression was more frightening than that—it reminded Timothy of a cat looking to play with its dinner. “Delicious,” it whispered in a breezy gasp of breath.

  Timothy would be the mouse.

  It stepped forward, dragging its long body up over the cliff, onto the street. It must have been two hundred feet long, with at least half as many actual feet.

  Mesmerized, Timothy couldn’t move. As he’d come up the street away from Edgehill Road, he had tried to force the image of the dragon becoming real out of his imagination. In a way, it had worked. This wasn’t a real dragon, but the painting itself. The creature was flat, two-dimensional, as if it had simply peeled off the wall.

  For a brief moment, Timothy’s fear floated away. A painting could not hurt him. Then the image of the crushed stairway behind the dragon brought him back to reality … or at least back to whatever was pretending to be reality.

  They’ll kill you … because I’m terrified that they will.

  Not true, Timothy hoped. What if I just close my eyes and wait for the fear to pass? Can I risk taking such a dangerous chance?

  As the dragon slinked farther up the hill, it opened its mouth and bleated a high-pitched burst of laughter. It rattled the windows of his house and knocked Timothy off his feet. Falling back, he caught his ankle on the bottom step, and he hit the stairs.

  Across the street, Mrs. Mendelson stood at her mailbox, collecting her mail. She glanced up at Timothy and waved. “You all right?” she called, concerned. “That was quite a tumble.” Could she not see the creature approaching swiftly up the hill across her neighbors’ lawns? Of course not, Timothy thought, flipping over and crawling up the steps. Lucky woman. She hadn’t been cursed by an evil lunatic with a magical jawbone.

  It’s not real! Timothy screamed inside his head, trying desperately to assure himself that if he glanced over his shoulder, the Dragon Stairs would be intact, and the only thing racing across the damp lawns of Beech Nut Street would be a cool evening breeze. As he ran across the porch for the front door, he tried to come up with an actual solution to defeat the monster if his brain wouldn’t let him think his way out of it. Before he grappled with the front doorknob, another screeching roar shook him, rustling his hair, his clothes, his bones. Timothy couldn’t help but turn around.

  The dragon
had made its way to Timothy’s house, tapping hundreds of silver claws, the foremost of which were now inching slowly up the base of the driveway. Its black eyes spun, trying to capture his attention.

  Timothy had an idea. He called to Mrs. Mendelson, who was now crossing her lawn carrying a small pile of mail, “Nice day, don’t you think?”

  His neighbor stopped and turned around, surprised. “Oh, it was lovely,” she said. “I hope you were able to spend some time outside after the awful weather we had this week.”

  The dragon paused a few feet up the driveway, confused by their conversation. The rest of its cartoonlike body wriggled all the way down the block. At the stop sign, its sharp green tail flicked. The dragon was angry at being interrupted.

  “Yeah, actually,” said Timothy, trying to steady his voice, his heart still thumping so hard in his chest that it hurt, “I got to do some serious running around.” He leaned against the doorknob, trying with his good hand to turn it. But it was locked. He pressed the doorbell. Inside, the chimes rang, but that was all. His dad wasn’t home. Timothy had left his bag behind and didn’t have his key.

  “Well, good for you,” said Mrs. Mendelson. “I wish I still had the energy for running around. This is the most exercise I’ve gotten all week.” She waved the mail above her head, turned around, and continued across her front yard. “Good night, Timothy,” she called over her shoulder.

  The dragon seemed to smile, lowering its head, resuming its ascent up his driveway.

  “Wait!” Timothy answered. The old woman paused. “Mrs. Mendelson, do you have a key to my house? I accidentally locked myself out.”

  “Hmm,” she said, “that’s a good question.” She stared at the sky, racking her brain for an answer. “I know I have some neighborhood keys, but I don’t think your parents ever gave—”

  The dragon was too close now for Timothy to wait for her response. Its claws click-clacked their way farther up the pavement, halfway to the house’s front walk. Its scales glistened with painted violet highlights. Puffs of white cartoonish smoke—outlined with thick black graffiti strokes—wafted from its flared nostrils.

  Timothy noticed a dirt-filled plaster pot that his mother had recently placed on the front porch, with the intention of filling it with pansies. The planter was heavy, and his injured hand begged him to stop, but he managed to lift it, then shuffled toward the bay window in his mother’s piano room. With a great heave, Timothy tossed the pot through the window, shattering the glass onto the Victorian love seat just inside. Ignoring Mrs. Mendelson’s shriek, Timothy leapt through the opening, tearing his jeans on the jagged bottom edge. He tumbled onto the floor next to the planter. Without looking back, he jumped up and barreled into the foyer, where the phone sat on the side table. He snatched it from its cradle and reached into his pocket for the scrap of envelope with Zilpha’s phone number on it.

  His hands shook as he tried to dial her number. Timothy noticed a splash of green dash around the side of the house. He spun, trying to keep it in sight, but it quickly disappeared. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he whispered as the phone rang. Then the line went dead. Timothy fell against the nearest wall.

  Something hit the back of the house. Every piece of furniture shifted two inches closer to the front door. Timothy screamed. He dropped the phone and crept toward the kitchen. Through the window above the table, one great, spiraling eye watched him. Timothy screamed again. That horrible, laughing screech roared through the walls. Then a booming voice said, “I’m going to eat you, little boy.”

  Thinking quickly of the game he used to play with Stuart, Timothy shouted, “But … I’m filled with slime. Totally disgusting. You’d hate me!”

  Wide-eyed, the dragon screeched again. “Then I will only stomp you.” The house shook again as the dragon slammed itself against the wall, cracking the plaster and shattering glass past the stove. Timothy clutched the doorframe. As the green monster’s face reeled away from the window, cartoon smoke billowed from its nostrils.

  Timothy realized what was coming next but didn’t know what to do. Run upstairs? Hide in the basement? No, he had to get far away from here. Even if he was the only one in his neighborhood who could see this creature, he was afraid that wouldn’t stop the curse.

  Through the window, the dragon flared its nostrils and opened its mouth. Then, like a giant disgusting sneeze, red paint streamed forth from its nose. Timothy ducked into the hallway. The paint splashed past him toward the front door.

  Seconds later, the red paint became animated licks of flame, coloring the floor, walls, and furniture with graffiti fire.

  It’s like a cartoon, thought Timothy. Harmless.

  When he noticed the wallpaper beginning to bubble, turn brown, and peel away from the plaster, he changed his mind. The hallway in which he stood was growing hot. He had no idea how to put out a cartoon fire that was well on its way to burning down his house. Timothy peered around the edge of the door. To his horror, there was a giant hole in the kitchen wall, rimmed by red flickering licks of graffiti paint. Flat white smoke was beginning to fill the small room. The dragon was nowhere to be seen.

  Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Timothy dashed around the corner into the kitchen and leapt over the growing flames. He barreled out the back door and down the steps. The bushes against the house had also been splattered with paint and were burning. He ran into his backyard away from the flames, glancing around for a sign of another attack.

  He heard a creaking sound above him. Looking up, he found the dragon smiling down from the house’s roof. “I have changed my mind,” said the dragon. “I will not stomp you. Instead, I will roast you.” A burst of painted fire bloomed as it shot from the dragon’s mouth. Timothy swiveled and dashed toward the garage, avoiding the splatter of red, which quickly began to smolder and spread, blackening the grass beneath it.

  Without hesitation, Timothy careened through the garage’s side door, pulling it shut behind him. Leaning against the door, he had a terrible realization. From where the dragon sat on the house, it had a perfect shot at this building. There had to be a way to stop this.

  Looking around, he noticed his father’s golf clubs sitting in the far corner, but those wouldn’t help. The dinged-up red lawn mower was propped against the far wall. Mow him down? thought Timothy. I don’t think so.

  Something on a shelf above the mower caught Timothy’s attention: a small tin of turpentine. Paint thinner.

  The ground rocked as the dragon’s long body poured from the roof into the yard. Through the side door’s small window, Timothy saw a sea of swirling green serpent, roiling and rolling like ocean waves.

  Timothy made for the shelves, sliding on his rear end over the hood of his mother’s car. He reached for the canister, but his fingers grazed it, and it clattered to the ground. When he picked up the tin, his heart sank; only a small bit of liquid sloshed around at the bottom.

  “Where did you go, little boy?” said the dragon. “You cannot hide from me.”

  He didn’t see me come in here! thought Timothy. At least I have time to—

  The huge pinwheel of an eye appeared at the small window. Timothy screamed and tripped over the lawn mower.

  “Aha!” chortled the dragon. “Now you die.”

  Timothy clutched the nearly empty canister. Scrambling around his mother’s car, he ran toward the side door. In seconds, the garage would be engulfed in red graffiti flame. Would Timothy burn? He kicked the side door open, so hard it banged against the outside wall. Timothy flicked open the turpentine tin’s cap and held it up toward the dragon’s amused face.

  “No,” Timothy shouted. “I don’t!” Then he squeezed.

  A thin spray shot from the nozzle. The liquid was not much, but Timothy managed to shoot it directly into the monster’s wild eyes. For a few seconds, the creature blinked, as if in shock, then began to wail. It twisted its body into tight coils, writhing in pain. When it opened its eyes again, the black-and-white spirals, which had moments ea
rlier been spinning like a hypnotist’s trick, were melting in tears down the creature’s green face.

  “I cannot see,” cried the dragon. “You are a powerful sorcerer.”

  “Damn straight,” said Timothy. “I’m a powerful …” He immediately regretted saying anything, because the dragon followed his voice and spit buckets of flame in his direction. Timothy spun into the garage again, just missing being drenched in red paint, which hit the clapboard instead. He watched as the garage’s wall went up in flickering curls of red.

  He had an idea. He ran around to the driver’s door of his mother’s car. He opened it and hopped in. The key was still in the ignition from the night before, when he’d moved the car for his father. He turned the key, and the engine sparked to life. Timothy grappled with the gearshift, flipping it into reverse the way his father had often showed him.

  Outside, the dragon flailed, knocking itself against what remained of the house. The sound of splintering wood rang out into the early evening. Screaming in pain, the creature wrapped its tail around the oak tree that separated Timothy’s and Stuart’s yards, then began to pound its weight against the ground in waves.

  It felt as though an earthquake was rattling the hill. Timothy was so shaken he could barely keep his foot aligned with the gas pedal. Still, he managed to slam it to the floor. The tires squealed, and the car shot backward, crashing into the garage door. To Timothy’s surprise, the large wooden door broke away from the frame in several large pieces. Timothy forced the car over the rubble and out of the burning building. His father would have a fit when he came home and saw this mess.

  At the sound of the car squealing into the driveway, the dragon’s head rose high above the yard. Its blind eyes were useless, but it could hear fine. It jolted forward across the small path between the garage and the house. Timothy didn’t wait for the creature to find him—he gunned the gas and flew down the driveway into the street. Swinging the wheel to the right, he pointed the front of the car down the hill. Then he shifted into drive. He pulled away from the spot so quickly he left black marks on the pavement.