The Nightmarys

by Dan Poblocki

  “What took you so long?” he said, rubbing his throat.

  She punched him in the arm. Then she hugged him. When she let go, he slumped to the floor. “Come on,” she said, “stand up. It’ll be back soon, and we need another plan.”

  Leaning against the door, they listened for any movement. To Timothy’s surprise, he thought he heard a noise from the other side of the metal slab.

  “Hello?” Zilpha called out. “Abigail? Timothy?”

  44.

  “In here!” they cried.

  From the darkness where the creature had fallen, bones rattled. Timothy imagined it struggling to rise, shuffling through the pile of its former victim. “Hurry, Zilpha,” he called.

  “There’s this wood plank,” said the old woman. “It’s heavy … but I think if I slide it …”

  Timothy spun around, listening at the darkness, trying to get a sense of where the creature might now be. Both of his hands shrieked in pain, but he swung his arms out in front of him, in case the corpse came too close. Then something clattered to the ground outside. The slab moved toward them. A crack of light appeared, and Zilpha’s worried face peered around the edge of the door.

  “What is going on in there?” she said. Then, as she looked over Abigail’s shoulder, her eyes widened. “Good Lord! Pull!” Timothy and Abigail grabbed the edge of the door. They managed to open it about a foot, wide enough for them to slip into the larger cavern. Once outside, the kids pulled on the L-brackets, trying to shut the door again. It moved, but barely.

  Suddenly, the ground shook. Dirt rained down from the ceiling. “What is that?” Timothy asked. Seconds later, it stopped.

  “Let’s just go,” said Abigail, grabbing her grandmother’s arm, turning back up the tunnel. Zilpha still carried the flashlight Timothy had given her. The other flashlight was gone. Harwood must have taken it. Zilpha’s light bobbled and bounced off the rocks. Timothy followed close behind the other two, watching where Zilpha stepped in case she slipped. To his surprise, with Abigail’s help, the old woman was able to slowly navigate the makeshift stairs.

  The three of them diligently climbed the slope. Every few seconds, Timothy turned around to see if the creature was following, but all he could see behind them was dripping darkness. He didn’t stare too long, though. Even after everything he’d seen that day, he couldn’t bear one more glimpse at the monster’s horrible face.

  As they ascended, Zilpha spoke. “After you left me, Timothy, I slowly made my way down the stairs. Once inside the lighthouse, I found this passage.”

  “Are you okay?” said Timothy. “That staircase was enormous. And this tunnel …”

  “Any discomfort I’m feeling now is nothing compared to what I would have felt if I’d done nothing,” said Zilpha.

  “Did you see Jack?” Timothy asked. “He was down here. He locked me in that room with Abigail.”

  Zilpha shook her head. “Either he’s still down there, or he was hiding up in the lighthouse crow’s nest when I came in. I never saw him come out.”

  “Dammit,” said Abigail.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Timothy.

  Zilpha shined the flashlight on a concrete wall directly ahead. They’d made it to the top of the tunnel, but the spiral staircase was gone. “That shaking we felt,” she said. “Harwood closed the door. He was hiding from you upstairs, Gramma.”

  “What do we do now?” said Timothy.

  “Think,” said Zilpha. “Look around. When he built this place, Hesselius would have planned for some sort of escape.”

  “There,” said Timothy, nodding at the far left side of the wall. “Shine the light.”

  Zilpha found the spot Timothy had mentioned. Where the blond concrete met the black bedrock, a small knob poked out from the wall.

  “What is it?” said Abigail, leaning close.

  “A dial combination,” said Timothy. “Like on my school locker.”

  “Is it the same code from—?”

  “No,” Timothy interrupted Abigail. “Look. There are letters this time.”

  “But what’s the code?” said Abigail. “Ugh, I’m so sick of this!”

  A noise echoed up from the tunnel: the sound of something scraping against the rock.

  Timothy didn’t even have to think. “Righteousness, integrity, and sacrifice,” he answered.

  “If the dial works like our lockers,” said Abigail, “maybe we need three letters. R. I. S.?”

  “Try it,” said Zilpha.

  Abigail leaned forward and spun the dial. A few seconds later, the tunnel began to rumble, and a space appeared at the top of the wall. Soon the spiral staircase had lowered into the ground, revealing the opening to the lighthouse.

  “Open, sesame,” said Zilpha.

  Abigail went first, helping her grandmother take each large step, followed by Timothy. The halogen lamp by the desk lit the lighthouse office with a dim glow. The engine whirred above their heads, and a few seconds later, the rotating light flashed from the hatch in the ceiling.

  “Let’s go,” said Abigail.

  “But we don’t know where Harwood went,” said Timothy.

  “I don’t care,” said Abigail. “I’m not waiting around this place one more second to find out.”

  “We should at least call the police,” said Zilpha, picking up the receiver on the desk. She held the cradle to her ear, then shook her head. “Dead.”

  “Come on,” Abigail begged. Timothy opened the door. They were greeted by a strong, salty breeze. One by one, they crept out into the night. Timothy shut the door behind them. Standing on the gravel path, they glanced all around. The river lapped the rocks at the base of the outcropping behind them.

  The flashing light was a beacon, showing them where they needed to go. “Do you think you can make it back up?” said Timothy, over his shoulder. Zilpha and Abigail followed him along the line of shrubbery in the direction of the cliffside.

  “I’ll try,” said Zilpha.

  “You’ll fail,” said a voice. Timothy turned around and found Jack standing several feet in front of him, blocking the long path that led to the stairs. He’d been waiting for them.

  45.

  To their right, the rock ledge dropped off to the river. To their left was the lighthouse. They had no way around Harwood. One slip, and over the cliff they’d fall.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” said Harwood to Zilpha. “But I should have known. This is how you always beat your nemeses in those silly books.”

  Zilpha shook her head. “Mr. Harwood,” she said evenly, as if to a small child, “those books are fiction. It seems to me that you’ve read them too many times. You’re correct that in popular fiction, the bad guy rarely wins. But this is real life, and I don’t believe that you’re truly bad.”

  “Does that mean you’re not truly good?”

  “I can’t answer that question,” said Zilpha. “But if it helps, in real life, I never hurt anybody.”

  “Except for my father,” said Harwood, adjusting his hat.

  “What are you gonna do?” said Abigail, stepping between the man and her grandmother. “Throw us off the cliff?”

  “Good guess,” said Harwood. “Seems a bit disappointing after all the planning, to have to resort to something so simple. But I suppose I might receive some sort of satisfaction knowing that I handled it myself.” He took another step, forcing them all backward toward the edge of the rock.

  “There is one thing I do not understand, Mr. Harwood,” said Zilpha. Timothy could tell she was trying to stall. “Why not just keep the jawbone to yourself? After you located it down in the crypt that your father built, you could’ve hurt us without putting it in the museum.”

  Jack glared at her. “Four words: Zelda Kite, Youth Sleuth.”

  “But Zelda was just a character in a book,” said Timothy. “Mrs. Kindred isn’t—”

  “Mrs. Kindred did the research. Mrs. Kindred found me. Zelda Kite may have only been a character in a book, but her chara
cteristics were based on Zilpha Kindred’s inhuman interest in finding answers to questions that don’t have answers. I see it runs in the family.” Harwood nodded at Abigail, who grunted angrily at him. “I brought the jawbone to the museum collection because if I didn’t, then how else would Zelda have learned what I was going to do? My plan changed once I learned of Abigail’s existence. Ah, but what would be the point in getting revenge on someone if they had no idea they’d been part of it? A missing granddaughter is a sad story, but to find out that the story has a connection with her own history, well, that changes things, doesn’t it? I knew Zelda would play detective. I let you find out it was me.”

  “What if she’d stopped you?” said Timothy.

  “But she didn’t.” Harwood blinked, his face a total blank. “And she won’t.”

  “You’re ill,” said Zilpha.

  “At least I’m no fool,” he countered. Harwood took another step, forcing them backward, past the lighthouse door to the river, until they were all crowded at the outcropping’s far edge. Timothy glanced around, looking for some other way out. The river rushed past sharp rocks twenty feet below.

  “If we fall, I’ll take you with us,” said Abigail. “I swear.”

  The old man laughed. “The girl’s got sass,” Harwood told Zilpha. “But that hasn’t stopped me yet.” He paused, thinking, then said, “No, that’s not quite how it goes….”

  Timothy heard sirens coming over the Taft Bridge. Seconds later, on the cliff near his mother’s car, flashing lights appeared. The police. His father must have come home to discover his house a disaster, his son missing, and his wife’s car stolen. Surely, he’d alerted the authorities. Or maybe it had been Mrs. Mendelson….

  “You’re too late,” said Timothy. “The police will help us.”

  Harwood shrugged. “They’re awfully far away.” He took another step forward.

  Behind him, the lighthouse door opened. Outlined in the halogen glow, a tall, thin shadow fell across the gravel path. Harwood did not notice, but the rest of them saw it clearly.

  “Would it make any difference if I said I’m sorry?” the old woman asked, rushing. “Because I am. I’m very, very sorry you had to lose your father. That was not my intention.”

  “Sorry?” said Harwood, surprised.

  “Yes,” said Zilpha, frantic. “I feel sorry about what happened every day of my life. To your family. To Delia. To everyone else involved in this whole disaster.”

  “I …” Harwood seemed stunned, as if this was one development he truly had not considered possible. Timothy almost felt sorry for him—in a totally pathetic, “he still deserves everything that’s coming to him” sort of way.

  Behind Harwood, the corpse was headed toward the small group huddled at the cliff edge. Its hair whipped against its face in the wind. Its rags rustled like a tattered flag, raised after a fiery battle. Lifting its arms, the creature shuffled forward along the path. Harwood was oblivious to its approach.

  The creature came closer. If it reached past Harwood for them, Timothy was prepared to leap into the river. We might survive, he thought.

  Harwood came at them. Flashlights arched like shooting stars at the top the stairs. The police. “Down here!” cried Timothy.

  Harwood turned around in surprise.

  Zilpha whispered, “Timothy, no!”

  Before Timothy could respond, Harwood had spun on them, a wicked gleam in his eye. He’d seen the creature, which was less than ten feet away. “Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s awake.” He stepped aside, off the path. Now nothing separated the trio from the shuffling corpse. It opened its mouth.

  The flashlights had begun the long descent down the stairs.

  Zilpha hugged Abigail tightly. “Abigail … Timothy … close your eyes.”

  But Timothy did not close his eyes. The corpse stopped along the path, turned, and faced Mr. Harwood. The old man’s smile dropped away. “What are you doing?” he said. “Get the girl!” The corpse reached for Harwood’s throat. He tried to duck away, but the creature was too quick. It grabbed the old man with its bony fingers, then jerked Harwood’s face close to its own. The corpse attached its mouth to the old man’s in a revolting kiss. Harwood opened his eyes wide as he realized what was happening to him. He struggled to push the thing away, but the corpse lifted the old man off the ground. Harwood emitted a pained howl. Timothy wanted to believe that, if it was Delia’s soul that still faintly charged the corpse, this was her version of revenge.

  A harsh sucking noise came from the direction of the struggle. Timothy watched in revulsion as Harwood’s skin became black and shriveled, as if burning under an invisible flame. The man’s wide eyes sank into their sockets and disappeared. Where his mouth met the corpse, a cold light began to glow. Harwood’s gray overcoat seemed to deflate as, bit by bit, the body inside crumbled to the ground. Terrified, Timothy finally covered his eyes. Something crunched into the bushes near the lighthouse. A few seconds later, the only sound he heard was the rushing of the water against the rocks below. When he looked again, the path appeared to be empty.

  “Follow me,” said Zilpha, stepping toward the lighthouse. Several feet ahead, two piles of bones littered the ground. One pile lay inside the large gray overcoat. The other was barely covered by tattered black rags.

  “Is it over?” Timothy asked.

  “The corpse … fed,” said Abigail quietly.

  46.

  The flashlights finally bobbed at the base of the stairs, a hundred yards away. The police were running toward them.

  “Are you folks all right?” An officer blocked their path, shining her flashlight at them.

  Zilpha swiftly stepped in front of the piles of bones. “We are now,” she answered.

  Zilpha held Abigail’s hand and spoke with the officers. Standing several feet back, Timothy glanced down at what was left of the two bodies.

  In the creature’s skull, something small glimmered much brighter than before. He bent down to get a closer look. Deep inside the jawbone’s single sharp black tooth, a golden light flickered. Remembering the myths of the chaos cult, he imagined that this new glow was the soul of Mr. Harwood. The bone had been charged, its power rejuvenated. If the scary things Timothy had experienced this past week had been the time-weakened results of the corpse’s long-ago last meal, a fresh soul might make the jawbone infinitely more dangerous. Reaching out with his one barely able hand, Timothy poked the jawbone, almost expecting the skull to clamp its mouth shut. But the life had gone out of the monster. He figured it would spark only if the corpse was returned to the crypt, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen.

  Quickly, Timothy plucked the jawbone from the creature. It came away easily. Zilpha would probably still want to destroy it. He shoved it into his jacket pocket for her. Then, staring at the gray remains buried under the nearby overcoat, Timothy had an idea.

  After nearly fifteen minutes of questions, the police finally led Zilpha, Abigail, and Timothy back up the long flight of stairs.

  When it came to their story, Timothy and Abigail had followed Zilpha’s lead. She had explained to the police that Mr. Harwood had kidnapped her granddaughter and held her in the vault underneath the lighthouse. She mentioned that they might find another body down there.

  “Did you see which direction this Mr. Harwood ran?” asked one officer.

  “No,” Zilpha answered, “he simply disappeared.”

  The police examined the bones scattered across the gravel path. Timothy knew it would only be a matter of time before they discovered Harwood’s wallet or car keys or something to identify him. Then the mystery would begin for them.

  As for Timothy, Abigail, and Zilpha, they finally had their answers.

  At the top of the stairs, Timothy found his father pacing. When he noticed Timothy, he raced forward and lifted his son into his arms. He squeezed Timothy so hard that for a second, Timothy couldn’t breathe.

  His father told him that when he’d gotten ho
me from Saturday-evening services at the church, he’d found the front window smashed by the planter, the garage door completely destroyed, and his wife’s car stolen. He’d immediately called the police, worried that Timothy might be in trouble. The police had already received reports of a boy driving a car west across the bridge.

  “What about the rest of the house?” Timothy asked, trying to change the subject.

  “What do you mean?” said his dad. “The rest of the house is fine … isn’t it?”

  “Oh … yeah,” said Timothy. “I was just wondering.” He’d known the jawbone’s curse had created the dragon, but until now, he hadn’t known where the line between fantasy and reality had been drawn. When it came to the curse, the trick lay in telling the difference between the two. The dragon had been imaginary; Timothy driving the car through the garage door, however, had been very real. The Nightmarys at Harwood’s house had been imaginary; the incomplete corpse below the lighthouse had been genuine. But in the moment, Timothy had been helpless to stop his imagination from taking control. He racked his brain, trying to think of what he could tell his father about why he’d taken the car. But before he had a chance to think, his father gasped.

  “Your hand is swollen!”

  “Yeah. It kinda hurts.”

  “Can you move it?”

  Timothy shook his head.

  “We’ve got to get you to the emergency room,” said Mr. July, glancing around for an officer. “What happened down there?”

  “Um … That’s hard to explain.”

  47.

  A few hours later, Timothy sat on his bed, staring out the window. The stars in the sky were beginning to fade as dawn became a faint idea above the city along the eastern horizon. He was exhausted and had tried several times since arriving home from the hospital to lie down and sleep, but his brain raced and kept him awake. Every creak in the house, every popping pipe and boiler hum, made Timothy brace himself for a new strange attack.