The Nightmarys

by Dan Poblocki

  Before he could think to stop himself, Timothy leapt at the web. He tore the patch away from the ceiling and the walls. It came away as easily as the spiderwebs that he and Stuart sometimes found stretched across their front porches. Timothy’s arms were now covered with a strange sticky substance, but he quickly brushed most of it off. The long strands fell to the floor in a dingy lump. The dark shifting shape that had been forming behind the web faded away into shadow, then disappeared altogether. Timothy spun but stumbled against the closet door when he saw another patch of web appear across the bedroom next to his parents’ bed.

  Turning toward the closet, Timothy grappled with the knob, then swung the door open. Little tricks. There had to be something in here he could use to stop this. Rows of hanging clothes stared back at him. All useless. Then, way up on the top shelf, something caught his eye. His mother kept cleaning supplies in here. Jumping as high as he could reach, Timothy managed to catch the tip of a feather duster between his bandaged fingers. He turned around.

  One of the creepy girls stood behind him, her screech piercing his eardrums, her claws reaching forward as if to tear him apart.

  Before she came too close, he swiped at her face. Using the duster as if it were a sword, Timothy waved his weapon until her cobweb veil became entangled in the feathers. After a few swipes, all that was left of her head was a cloud of dust motes. Between her collarbone, a black hole coughed and wheezed, and a musty stench burped forth. Disgusted, Timothy covered his mouth. The girl shuddered; then, to Timothy’s surprise, she simply unraveled into longs pieces of string and lace and dirt, which piled at his feet and disappeared.

  Outside, the scratching grew louder. Timothy moved cautiously toward the bedroom door. He counted to three, then managed to swing it open. The girls rushed him the same way they had at the house on Ash Tree Lane, but now Timothy was prepared. He ducked and swung down the landing, smashing and slashing his way past them. The feather duster was his own Excalibur. With each step he took, pieces of the phantom girls piled up on the floor behind him. Every time he took off one of their heads, another girl shrieked in surprise and ducked away. It was as if the curse couldn’t believe he’d figured out a way to beat it.

  He quickly made his way down the landing toward his own bedroom. Slipping inside, he slammed the door shut and moved his desk chair in front of it, locking the rest of the Nightmarys outside. Panting, he turned toward his bed. Clutching the feather duster painfully, he approached his pillow with caution, as if another nightmare might leap out from underneath his sheets to attack him. He managed to lift the pillow away from his mattress. The jawbone still lay inconspicuously underneath. Something inside the black tooth glowed violently, angrily. Timothy was afraid to touch the thing, as if whatever control it had exerted over him earlier might take hold once more. Using his weapon, Timothy simply knocked the small object to the cold wooden floor, where it eventually rattled into stillness beside his nightstand. He dropped the duster. Then, grabbing his thick history textbook from his nearby desk, Timothy knelt down next to the bone. As he raised the book over his head, Timothy thought, This is for you, Ben. Then he brought his arms down as hard as he could.

  GRADUATION DAY

  ENDINGS

  [FROM THE NEW STARKHAM RECORD—OBITUARIES]

  BYRON FLANDERS—FORMER NEW

  STARKHAM DISTRICT ATTORNEY

  … Mr. Flanders had recently suffered a heart attack and passed away at New Starkham Hospital before his surgery … Known best for his unflappable work ethic and strong personality, Flanders strove tirelessly to protect the citizens of New Starkham from those whom he had once referred to as “The Real Monsters.” He is survived by his wife and three children.

  Percival Ankh closed the newspaper with a shudder. He hadn’t thought of his old friend Flanders in quite some time. “Do you want to attend the service?” his wife asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he answered quietly. It had been during a dinner with Flanders many years ago that the topic of Christian Hesselius’s abandoned office had been raised. Flanders had been the prosecutor in the case and had asked if his friend believed in ghosts. That had been the seed that had sparked Percival’s fear of the old professor—and the subsequent raising of the wall that had sealed off the room in the library.

  After the horrible experience at the birthday party several weeks ago, Percival wanted once more to forget the old stories that had haunted him for so long. He had good reason to forget too. At the restaurant, his son had found Ankh lying on the bathroom floor, weeping. The old man never told anyone what he’d seen in there.

  “Are you sure?” asked his wife. “He was your friend.”

  Getting up from the dining room table, he tossed the newspaper onto the floor and said, “I’d rather just stay here with you, my dear.” Carefully bending down, he kissed his wife’s cheek.

  She smiled and patted his head. “Whatever you like,” she answered.

  When Emma Huppert came home from the beach, she threw her towel onto the back of a chair in the kitchen. Bill had left the mail on the table. Lying on top of the pile was a letter. Emma gasped when she noticed the return address. She hadn’t spoken to Zilpha Kindred in years. She quickly tore open the envelope. Inside was a newspaper clipping—the obituary of the prosecutor in her sister’s case, along with a brief note scrawled on a scrap of paper.

  Emma, I thought you might find this to be of interest. Do with it what you will. Much love, Zilpha.

  Tears welled in Emma’s eyes. Over the past couple of months, ever since Delia began appearing to her, she’d been meaning to call the one old friend back in New Starkham who might understand what the experience meant; however, she’d been too frightened to even speak of it to anyone at all.

  But recently, Delia had suddenly stopped “visiting.”

  Emma prayed every day that Delia was at peace now. She knew in her heart that her sister didn’t blame her for what had happened long ago. It had been none of their faults. And despite the horrific vision in the Wal-Mart dressing room, Emma still thought about her sister every time she put on her new bathing suit and stepped into the cold Atlantic to go for her now-daily swims. She wished, with her entire soul, that Delia could have joined her.

  On a Tuesday morning at the beginning of May, Zilpha Kindred’s washing machine finally died. By that afternoon, two men had delivered a brand-new one. Three people were going to be living in the apartment from now on, and it would not do to simply keep repairing the old clunker. Zilpha was no longer willing to use the one in the basement.

  Later that evening, with little Hepzibah at her feet, Zilpha decided to test out the contraption. The nightmare laundry experience of two months ago seemed like a dream, the memory of it fading even more quickly than Zilpha had hoped it would. Thank goodness.

  As the old woman loaded the basket and poured in the detergent, she thought about Abigail and Timothy and how the surreal events of the past few weeks might linger in their memories, or grow, or change. Zilpha was surprised that the children had been able to get out of bed that week. She figured that children must have a natural resilience after these sorts of things. It’s later, she thought, after time and trouble and life itself have worn down our resistance and the ghosts come back to haunt, that we must find ways of tricking ourselves into finally subduing them. It was possible, she now knew.

  Zilpha closed the lid with a bang and cranked the silver knob. The water ran and the machine began to hum. “Come on, Hep,” she said, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen. “This thing can take care of itself.”

  49.

  Timothy waited at the edge of the bridge, watching the traffic cross the river. Cars, packed with boxes, books, and small pieces of furniture, sped through the green light. Down the hill, on the campus, the ceremony wasn’t over yet, but the college students, underclassmen mostly, were already leaving New Starkham. It wasn’t fair. He wished his own classes ended at the beginning of May. If the past week had felt like a millenniu
m, the month and a half left before summer break would be an eternity.

  Mr. Crane hadn’t come back to school. Word had spread that he was “taking a sabbatical” for the remainder of the year. Timothy didn’t exactly understand what that meant. People said the man had had a nervous breakdown.

  Timothy knew what had really happened, and though he knew it wasn’t his fault Mr. Crane had tried to break into his house a week ago, he felt strangely guilty about it. None of what happened had been Mr. Crane’s fault either. When he’d heard Randy and Brian making fun of their absent teacher during history class on Friday, Timothy had to keep his hands under his desk to refrain from whacking their skulls with his cast. If the boys knew what any of them had been through, they wouldn’t have snickered. However, they quickly changed the subject when the substitute entered the classroom and reminded the class that their museum projects were still due the next week.

  Timothy had glanced at Abigail. They’d already decided on a different artifact than the painting. Instead, they picked one of the ancient cow-femur toothbrushes—less creepy. From her seat two rows away, Abigail had returned a slight smile.

  Carla had raised her hand. “My partner’s been absent. Maybe I should work with someone else.”

  The sub smiled. “Stuart Chen will return next Monday. You’ll still have time to finish.” Carla sighed—not the answer she’d been hoping for.

  Stuart had come home from the hospital the previous Sunday, the same day Mr. Crane had been admitted. Timothy stopped by the Chens’ a couple of times after school that week. Stuart didn’t mention any more of what he’d said at the hospital, and Timothy didn’t ask. Mrs. Chen doted on the two of them, glad to have her boys together again. She cooked and chatted and asked silly questions about Timothy’s feelings and assured him that he could tell her anything if he needed to. Obviously, Mrs. Chen had learned about Ben’s injuries. Only a few weeks earlier, he’d believed that his parents might be able to keep quiet such a big secret. Now he knew that some secrets speak themselves aloud after a while.

  “Hey!”

  Timothy was startled out of his daydream. Across the highway, Abigail waved. He waved back.

  Seeing Abigail gave Timothy goose bumps. He hadn’t been sure she would show up. On the phone, when she’d asked him what this was all about, he’d said he’d rather tell her in person. She’d gotten quiet but, after a moment, agreed to meet him where he’d asked.

  The stoplight changed, and Abigail crossed. “Hey,” she said again. “You walk all the way here?”

  Timothy nodded. “My dad left to pick up my mom at the airport. He said they needed some alone time on the ride home. I don’t blame them.”

  “That’s generous of you,” said Abigail, crossing her arms and smirking. She added softly, “Then Ben’s really awake. He’s coming home?”

  “Eventually, he will.” Timothy popped a huge smile. “At least that’s what they tell me.”

  Abigail gave him a quick hug. “That’s amazing,” she said. “He’s so lucky.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “He is.” The army was admitting Ben to a veterans’ hospital in Rhode Island for rehabilitation, not far from New Starkham. “It’ll be nice to see him. For real. Finally.” Actually, Timothy was terrified at the prospect.

  “So, are we just going to stand here?” Abigail asked. “Or are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  Now Timothy was even more terrified. He winced as he reached into the pocket of his jeans with his bandaged right hand, making sure the small warm piece of metal against his leg was still there. “Let’s walk,” he said.

  Abigail seemed surprised when Timothy did not cross back toward Edgehill Road but turned toward the bridge instead. Still, she managed to follow close behind as he trundled along the broken sidewalk. Several minutes later, they were halfway across the bridge. “We’re not getting ourselves into another sticky situation, are we?” Abigail added, “’Cause I’d like to be prepared….”

  Timothy stopped and leaned against the rusted green railing, staring north, up the river. The sun had passed the sky’s midpoint. The wind whipped his hair away from his forehead.

  The lighthouse sat below, upon its outcropping on the western shore, oblivious to the secrets buried within. The water crashed against its rough rocks in swirling pools and white-capped waves. Timothy wondered if a place was capable of knowing its own history. Like the people in it, New Starkham still had plenty of secrets.

  “Timothy?” said Abigail, touching his shoulder. “It’s over, you know.”

  Timothy glanced at her. “That’s the thing I wanted to tell you…. It’s not.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not?” asked Abigail, clutching the rusted green railing. Now the wind plastered her black bangs to her forehead. Her light red roots were just barely beginning to show. “Have you seen something again?”

  “No,” said Timothy, glancing at the water. “Nothing like that.” She waited for him to speak. “Abigail … I did something last weekend … something really horrible. And now I think I’m paying for it.”

  “What did you do?” she said quietly.

  Reaching into his pocket, Timothy pulled out the black piece of metal. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up for Abigail to see. Struggling to speak, he said, “I lied to you.”

  Timothy told Abigail his story—how he’d taken both bones but switched out Mr. Harwood’s for the real one. He told her what he’d meant to do with it. He told her about Mr. Crane knocking on his front door, and what happened later when he went back to his room to destroy the object, how he thought he’d seen her appear in his bedroom, followed by the Nightmarys, as the jawbone’s curse fought to protect itself from being broken.

  Abigail simply watched him as he spoke, her face unreadable. When he finished his story, he thought she might punch him in the eye. Instead, she plucked the metal shard from his fingers and examined it more closely.

  “It’s not glowing,” she said. Timothy nodded. “So, it’s over,” she added, with finality. “Whatever was inside this chip is gone.”

  “You really believe that?” Timothy asked.

  “Can’t you feel it?”

  “I guess so.”

  Abigail handed the piece back to Timothy and sighed. “I have a confession too,” she said, staring at him. “At the hospital, I knew you were lying.”

  “You knew I gave you the wrong bone?” Timothy shook his head in disbelief. Abigail smiled. “But why’d you let me do it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was the curse. Maybe not. I guess, deep down, I thought you needed it for something.”

  “I thought I did too,” said Timothy, palming the tooth. Quickly, he turned his hand over. The black chip fell, turning and glinting in the sunlight, until it disappeared into the dark water beneath them. “But I was wrong.”

  They strolled back toward New Starkham. The cars continued to whiz past. Every now and again, someone honked, a student happy to be leaving. They were almost at the part of the bridge that stretched over the campus parking lot when Abigail froze. She glanced over her shoulder at the lighthouse. “I’ll be back,” she said. “Wait for me.” She turned and ran in the direction from which they’d come. Once she was over the water again, she reached into her back pocket. Something silver glinted in her hand as she waved it over her head. Then, closing her eyes, she threw the lighter as hard as she could. Like the tooth, it faded away, then disappeared into the Little Husketomic.

  When she returned to where Timothy stood, he said, “Hey, I thought you needed that.”

  “I thought I did too,” Abigail echoed. “But I was wrong.”

  Once they reached the intersection at Edgehill Road, she said, “Come over, if you want. Mom said we could order a pizza, and Gramma wants to listen to my grandfather’s records with us.” She shrugged. “I know it sounds kind of boring, compared to everything else we’ve been through….”

  “That doesn’t soun
d boring,” Timothy said, smiling. “Actually, that sounds like fun.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my friends and family who supported this story from the moment I shared my nightmare about those creepy girls in white dresses. Thank you to Charles Beyer for inspiring me with your brilliant Victorian ghost paintings. And to Gary Graham for not only reading parts of an early manuscript, but for the “million-dollar idea” and the subsequent Nightmarys trading-card illustration.

  Thank you also to Nico Medina for being a wonderfully perceptive copy editor and an all-around awesome friend. Thank you to Kathy Gersing and Nick Eliopulos for graciously reading the very long first draft and for not wanting to smack me with it. Thanks to Nic DeStefano for the glamorous photo shoot in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

  Thank you to Katie Cicatelli, Ellice M. Lee, and everyone else at Random House Children’s Books, especially my editor, R. Schuyler Hooke, who adopted this baby and helped me make her even more disturbed than she already was. It must be stated that Barry Goldblatt is a dream agent; I’m so grateful he’s in my corner. Thank you to David Levithan for all you do.

  Thank you to my grandparents, Francis and Wanda Poblocki and Doris and Ray Piehler, for your stories and support. Dad, Maria, Emily, Johnny, Brendan, Amanda, Mom, and Bruce—I love you guys.

  And Ethan, you’re just the best.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In the first nightmare DAN POBLOCKI can remember, giant ants attacked his town. Dan lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he is stalked only by slightly-larger-than-ordinary cockroaches. He is also the author of The Stone Child. Visit him at www.danpoblocki.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.