by Dan Poblocki
Abigail and Zilpha had accompanied Timothy and his father to the emergency room. While they all waited, Mr. July and Zilpha continued their discussion with the police. Making sure no one was watching, Timothy reached into his pocket and pulled out what he’d taken from the gravel path. He discreetly handed it to Abigail and whispered, “Your grandmother’s been looking for this for such a long time. I didn’t think we should leave it there.”
“Oh my God,” said Abigail. “I was so happy to be out of that place, I forgot.” Tentatively, she took the bone, then gave Timothy a curious look. “She’ll destroy it immediately.”
“I hope so,” said Timothy.
They were silent for a few seconds; then Abigail quickly hugged him. “Thank you,” she said, blushing. “You know … for rescuing me.”
“But we rescued each other,” Timothy answered.
She rolled her eyes. “You are a cheeseball.”
In his bedroom, his hands didn’t hurt so much anymore; the pain medication was strong. The doctors had taken X-rays. A nurse had put a cast on his left hand—the one with the bite. She’d wrapped his right hand tightly in a beige bandage. Using the more flexible of the two, Timothy lifted his pillow.
On the striped blue sheets, beside the bed’s headboard, lay the real jawbone. The single sharp black tooth jutted from the brown horseshoe-shaped object. As he stared at it, the golden glimmer inside the tooth grew brighter, and he was filled with a new sensation, something he couldn’t name. It almost felt like a voice was talking to him through a long-distance phone line. Timothy couldn’t understand the words, but he understood the meaning deep underneath them. This was the reason he’d done what he’d done back at the lighthouse.
Standing on the gravel path, Zilpha and Abigail had been busy speaking with the police. Without thinking, Timothy had bent down and snatched the corpse’s jawbone, making it “incomplete” again, slipping it into his jacket pocket. He was about to stand, when instead, he reached out and took Mr. Harwood’s gray jawbone as well; it had come away from the empty skull with a soft, brittle snap. Clutching a handful of gravel from under his feet, Timothy swiftly sorted through the black stones, found one of appropriate size, and replaced one of Harwood’s teeth with it.
The new jawbone was a fairly convincing fake. Timothy quickly stood and slipped the small piece of Harwood into his opposite pocket.
Harwood’s jaw had been the “relic” he’d handed to Abigail in the emergency room. He was certain, at this point, that Zilpha had done something to make it disappear for good.
Timothy stroked the real jawbone with his exposed left thumb. The bone felt rough, papery, impossibly light. The energy contained inside it gave him a jolt, and he drew away, frightened by what he’d done. He wasn’t even sure what he planned to do with the object; he only knew that he had to have it.
The sky grew brighter. Looking east, Timothy wondered what his mother was doing at the moment. Was she sitting beside Ben, holding his hand, praying? What would Timothy tell her when she arrived home? What would she tell him?
Without warning, Timothy was flooded with anger. He was angry with Stuart for being so cruel. He was angry with his parents for making him keep secrets from his best friend. He was angry with his brother for volunteering for such a dangerous job in the first place. He was especially angry with the people across the ocean who’d planted the explosives along the side of the road—so angry, in fact, that his tears blinded him.
In the past month, Timothy felt like he had given so much of himself away. He’d stood by, done what he’d been told, tried to be a good person, and yet the horrors had continued to unfold, endlessly. Timothy was sick of doing what was right. Wasn’t it about time for someone to pay him back?
The articles in the New Starkham newspaper had revealed that Christian Hesselius had wanted to use the jawbone as a weapon of revenge.
Now Timothy had the power to do the same.
The jawbone seemed so small, unassuming. But the dark tooth was a different story. Looking closer, Timothy understood it was not of this world. Sculpted black metal. Hollow, porous, almost like filigree. Something that might have fallen from space. Like a meteorite. That sparkle of light inside it teased him again.
Do it, said the Chaos voice.
Make them pay.
Put an end to it all.
Ben would thank you.
You’ll be a hero.
Using the exposed fingertips of his left hand, Timothy unraveled the bandage from his right. The skin underneath was black and blue, but when he wiggled his fingers, he felt no pain. He picked up the jawbone. Again, a jolt of energy rushed through his body. But this time, instead of shrinking away, Timothy clutched the bone as if it were a sword.
Names and faces of people he knew raced through his mind. His classmates, his grandparents, the teachers at his school, his swim team. He could hear their thoughts, see their memories. Several of them lingered longer than others, and he felt a question tug at him, somewhere deep inside, during these brief moments. All he would have to do was say yes, and it would be done. But Timothy did not say yes. He waited as more and more identities came at him, until he saw faces of people he had never met. In his head, he heard the strange voice whisper their names. People who lived across an ocean. People who had hurt his brother.
All he had to do was say yes.
It would be done.
Do it, demanded the voice. Do it.
Timothy opened his mouth and began to speak.
The doorbell rang.
Timothy dropped the jawbone.
Immediately, he felt as if a thousand-pound blanket had been removed from his shoulders. He wasn’t quite sure what had been happening. Before he had a chance to think, the doorbell rang again.
Placing the pillow over the jawbone, Timothy slipped out of bed. The hardwood floor was chilly. He opened his bedroom door, glancing down the hall toward the back of the house. His parents’ bedroom door remained closed.
The bell rang again. Who the heck could be here at such an hour? Cautiously, Timothy crept down the hallway, leaning over the banister, trying to catch a glimpse through the front door’s window. Standing at the top of the stairs, he saw a tall, thin silhouette on the other side of the gauzy curtain.
Curious, Timothy tentatively crept halfway down the steps. The doorknob rattled, then the visitor knocked. His heart felt like it might pop, but Timothy continued down the stairs. When he finally reached the bottom step, the visitor smashed the glass.
Timothy screamed and fell backward, landing halfway down the stairs. He watched, paralyzed, as a thin brown arm reached through the broken window for the lock. Its skeletal fingers turned the knob, and slowly, the front door creaked open.
The corpse stood in the entrance, the dawn lighting the sky in the distance. The creature’s white hair lay limp across its skull. The bottom half of its face was missing. Its empty eye sockets were barely visible, but Timothy felt their blackness dig into his chest. The corpse clutched at the wood frame and dragged its feet across the threshold.
“This is your fault,” said the creature, its voice like rags. “You did this to me.”
“I—I didn’t do anything!” Timothy cried, scrambling backward up the steps. “I’ll give it back. I swear.”
The creature shuffled toward him, wrinkling the throw rug on the floor. When it had made it halfway through the foyer, it cried, “Make them stop!”
Timothy shouted, “DAD!”
“Tell them to leave me alone!” said the creature, raising its hands to its face.
“I—I don’t know what you’re—”
Upstairs, a door opened. “Timothy, what’s going on?” Seconds later, Timothy’s father dashed down the stairs to where Timothy was sprawled. Glancing up, his father noticed they weren’t alone. “Who … who are you?” he asked.
Who are you? thought Timothy. Does it matter?
“It’s his fault.” The creature pointed at Timothy. “I told him to throw those jar
s away. But he keeps bringing them back. He sneaks into my house and puts them in my bed. The things inside pretend to be dead, but they’re not. They watch me. He tells them to!”
“Sir, please …”
Jars? thought Timothy. His father was seeing something he was not. This was another illusion. Timothy fought to see through it. The creature rippled, then became solid again.
“Why don’t you sit down?” said Timothy’s father evenly. He stepped over Timothy, cautiously making his way down the rest of the stairs. “Tell me what you want.”
“Dad, don’t get any closer!”
“I know you,” whispered Timothy’s father. “We met at the school.”
“The school …,” said Timothy. It suddenly made sense.
“Isn’t this your teacher?” asked Timothy’s father. “Crane, right?” A moment later, the corpse changed shape and became a sad-looking man wearing purple plaid pajamas.
“Please,” said Mr. Crane, collapsing to the floor, “just tell your son to stop.”
Standing above the man on the rug, Timothy’s father looked up and said, “Call the police.”
48.
Five minutes later, Timothy stood in the house’s front doorway, watching his father comfort his teacher. The two men sat on the porch’s top step. Mr. Crane hung his head and wouldn’t stop crying, even as Timothy’s father awkwardly patted his back.
As soon as Timothy handed the phone over to his father, he realized the mistake he’d made earlier that night. When he’d taken the jawbone from the corpse instead of handing it over to Zilpha to be destroyed, the curse had continued. Everything he’d just seen had been part of it. The incomplete corpse had not come looking for him, but his teacher had. Like Stuart, Mr. Crane had no idea how to control his own fears. For some reason, the teacher blamed Timothy for what was happening to him, just as Stuart had blamed Abigail for the horrors he’d been seeing. Timothy understood now the close relationship that existed between Chaos and Blame. Christian Hesselius’s ancient tribe understood it too. They had exploited the power of their mysterious black metal, and most likely had destroyed themselves because of it. This weapon did more than merely materialize people’s fear; it turned them against each other. It made them blind.
Now Timothy saw what he must do.
Carefully avoiding the broken glass at his feet, Timothy stepped out onto the front porch. The sky had turned purple. The light caught wispy clouds on the horizon and painted them pale pink. It would be another beautiful day. “Mr. Crane?” said Timothy. The man would not look at him. “I just want you to know, those things in the jars won’t be watching you anymore.”
His father turned around and glared at Timothy. “Don’t provoke him,” he whispered. Glancing down the street, he said, almost to himself, “Where is the damn ambulance?” The street was quiet. Everyone in the neighborhood was asleep; Timothy finally felt tired enough to do the same. But there was one thing he needed to complete first.
Climbing down the front steps, Timothy said, “I’ll be right back.” He ran toward the garage. He stepped over pieces of the demolished door. Half a day ago, this building had been on fire. Timothy blinked away the memory and focused on his father’s toolbox, which lay on the floor against the rear wall. Buried at the bottom was a heavy hammer.
As he lifted the tool from the box, Timothy thought of Christian Hesselius and his son Jack. They had been his age once. They’d probably thought of themselves as good people. Maybe they had treasured the same things Timothy did. Family. Friends. Home. But then Christian’s and Jack’s lives had changed dramatically, just as Timothy’s had this month. He realized the power of the jawbone upstairs. He thought of how easily he had almost given into the bliss of its persuasiveness.
It was the bone that had taken control of those men and planted a dark seed in their minds. It was the bone that had turned them into monsters. And it was the bone that needed to be destroyed.
This should do it, Timothy thought, clutching the handle of the hammer. He made his way back to the driveway and was about to cross the small path that led to the back door, when he noticed small, dew-wet footprints going up the back steps. The door was already open a crack. Had someone snuck inside?
Timothy clutched the hammer in his right hand, which had begun to ache. The medication was wearing off. He ignored the pain. Using his elbow, he nudged the door the rest of the way open.
“H-hello?” he called into the house.
Timothy crept into the empty kitchen, listening for an answer.
The curse was still alive. Anything he encountered now might only be an illusion. Even though he’d gotten good at handling it, breaking the illusion still took work.
The ceiling creaked. There was someone upstairs.
Or was there?
Timothy wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He quickly crossed through the kitchen and peered into the hallway. Through the front door, he saw his father still sitting with Mr. Crane on the front steps. Neither of them seemed to notice anything wrong. Timothy climbed the stairs, taking two at a time.
His bedroom door at the front of the house was closed. “Hello?” he called again. After a few seconds, he tightened his grip on the hammer and trudged down the hall. When he was halfway there, his door swung open. Timothy froze. “Abigail?” She stood in his doorway, wearing a sheepish expression. “What are you doing?”
She licked her lips. After a few seconds, she answered. “I think the question is, what are you doing, Timothy?” She shifted the cuff of her sweatshirt sleeve slightly. He noticed what she held in her fist, what she was trying to hide. The jawbone.
His mouth went dry. “I … made a mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry I lied. Yes, so I took the jawbone, but I need to finish this now.” He raised the hammer. “We can do it together.”
Abigail shook her head. “How am I supposed to trust you?”
Timothy blushed. He felt awful.
“This thing is powerful,” said Abigail, glancing at what she held in her fist. “I can feel it now. I don’t know if you’re strong enough to resist what it wants you to do.”
“And what would that be?”
“To use it,” said Abigail. She squinted at him, her eyes like lasers. “You were going to use it, Timothy. I know you were.” Timothy didn’t know what to say. She was right. “After everything we’ve gone through? After everything we’ve seen?”
She stepped toward him, as if she had the power to hurt him, as if she might truly want to. She didn’t look quite right. She’d always been intense, but even when they’d fought, horribly, she’d never appeared to be so … self-righteous.
“I know,” said Timothy. “I came back up here to smash that thing. If you don’t believe me, then do it yourself.” Timothy held out the hammer to Abigail. She took another step toward him but ignored his offering.
“Gramma’s the only one I can trust with this. She’s the one who should destroy it.”
“But … how do I know that you’re strong enough to resist what it wants?” Timothy asked.
Abigail stepped toward him, her mouth pulled up in a strange smile.
He suddenly understood what was happening here. His skin went ice cold. “Abigail, I think you should go,” he whispered. He tried to step past her toward his bedroom. “Go do whatever you need to do.”
She blocked his way. “No,” she spat. She would not let him pass. In fact, she reached behind her and shut his bedroom door. “You’re coming with me.”
“Abigail …” He didn’t know what to think anymore. All he knew was that he needed to get into his bedroom. He had to check under his pillow. The jawbone was still lying there, hiding from him, and was not in fact in Abigail’s fist.
Abigail shouted, then raised her hand as if to strike him. Timothy cringed against the banister, then stumbled backward toward his parents’ bedroom. Abigail didn’t look like herself anymore. Her black hair had grown past her shoulders and had begun to show white. Long strands of it had caught on her f
ace, a soiled veil. Her sweatshirt began to separate, falling into tatters of string toward the floor, looking like dirty pieces of lacy cobweb.
Behind her, Timothy’s bedroom door burst open. Timothy gasped. Girls now crowded at the entry as if trying to catch a glimpse of what was about to happen. The Nightmarys had returned. The upstairs was suddenly filled with their singsong chatter. They watched as Abigail continued her slow approach. Some of the girls scratched at the wooden doorframe with their long fingernails, as if trying to sharpen them.
Abigail’s scream had turned into a siren wail, so loud, Timothy felt as if his eardrums might burst. She came closer and closer. The hammer slipped out of Timothy’s hand as he turned around and dashed toward his parents’ bedroom.
Once inside, he slammed the door shut and locked it. He stared at the dark wood, listening to the scrambling, scratching noises that were coming from the other side, out in the hallway.
Abigail was not here. She was probably at home, in bed. What was happening now was caused by the curse. The jawbone was trying to protect itself. Timothy knew it would do anything to survive—make him see whatever scared him most. And right now, that was losing his friend, having her turn against him.
Again, Abigail’s statement popped into his head: I know they’ll kill you … because I’m terrified that they will. Before, Timothy had believed that wasn’t possible, that the curse had merely created illusions, that the only real danger he’d been in was from himself. But now, if this was to be a battle for survival, Timothy wondered if the jawbone might try to raise the stakes a bit.
Little tricks, he remembered. Zilpha’s advice. If the Nightmarys were what the jawbone had sent to stop him, then he needed to find a way to beat the Nightmarys once and for all.
The door rattled. Screeching, the creatures on the other side sounded like they might just be able to tear it down.
Timothy glanced around for something, anything, that might stop them. But when he turned toward the darkest corner of the room near his parents’ closet, he noticed a tall patch of cobweb. A dark shape shifted behind it. The Nightmarys were finding another way in.
