The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,11

if she were worried that she might be seeing things. Timothy knew the feeling.

The sight of the woman in the entrance had been enough to make Timothy momentarily forget about the shadowy figure in the other door. But when he heard brisk footsteps scuffing away, he turned his head once more to look. The tall man in the long overcoat was gone, but a small book lay on the floor where he had stood.

Had he imagined the whole thing? Was he imagining still?

“My class is here on a field trip today,” said Abigail. “Mom signed the permission slip last week. Remember?” She ran to meet the woman in the doorway, leaving Timothy alone among the glass cases and wide-eyed artifacts.

He could not take his eyes off the book on the floor beyond the rope. He cautiously moved toward it. It lay on the ground a few feet past the door.

“Why, you’re all wet, Abigail,” said her grandmother. “Didn’t you think to bring an umbrella? It’s been raining to end the world for the past few days.”

Abigail stammered as Timothy ducked underneath the velvet rope, “I—I forgot.”

“Well, you can take mine with you when you go. My old raincoat does quite well in weather like this. Of course, the cab picked me up in front of the apartment building, so I didn’t have to walk to the bus stop like you did. Regardless …”

Timothy crawled into the dark administrative hallway. The book lay just out of reach. Beyond it was cold, unblinking darkness. Timothy was terrified to go any farther.

He could make out the cover—something about a corpse. The hallway seemed to close in as he inched forward, his fingers reaching the book.

“Timothy? What are you doing?”

He nearly screamed as he spun around to find Mr. Crane and one of the security guards standing in the doorway next to Abigail and her grandmother. He slid back underneath the velvet rope and struggled to rise, clutching the book behind his back. Slipping it underneath his shirt and into the lip of his pants, he said, “I dropped a penny.”

“Please … come away from there,” said Mr. Crane to Timothy, before noticing the stranger beside Abigail. “Are you …? You’re not a chaperone.”

The old woman shook her head. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Crane, flustered.

“Please don’t be,” she replied. “I’m Abigail’s grandmother. Zilpha Kindred. Funny coincidence meeting like this. If I’d remembered you were planning a trip to the museum, I would have tagged along for the ride. As it is, I took a cab. I have particular business to attend …” She glanced at Abigail, who seemed to have taken an interest in picking a piece of dirt out from underneath her fingernail. “Never mind. Carry on. Pretend I’m invisible.”

Mr. Crane turned his attention to Timothy instead. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

“Me?” said Timothy.

“You’re lucky you didn’t damage that beautiful painting upstairs. Throwing water like that. What could you possibly have been thinking?”

“But I didn’t …”

“It wasn’t Timothy, Mr. Crane,” said Abigail quietly. “It was … someone else.”

“Who?” said Mr. Crane.

The fire in Abigail’s eyes seemed to spark at that. “Not Timothy!” Timothy felt a pang of triumph that she was standing up for him.

The teacher turned red, and his mouth dropped open.

“Abigail,” whispered her grandmother. “Apologize right now.”

She blushed but mumbled, “I’m sorry, Mr. Crane.”

“This is not like you, Abigail,” Zilpha said, placing a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder. She glanced harshly at Timothy, as if it was all his fault.

9.

Timothy and Abigail didn’t tell Mr. Crane who threw the water balloon; they couldn’t prove it.

After they had joined the rest of the class, Zilpha Kindred had kissed her granddaughter goodbye and quietly slipped back downstairs. Mr. Crane forced both Abigail and Timothy to accompany him, as the rest of the students were now free to roam and gather information regarding their projects. As they wandered, silently, Abigail had refused to glance up from the ground, lost once again in her own private world—a world where Timothy, apparently, was not allowed.

On the ride back to school, he sat by himself in the front of the bus, well away from both Stuart and Abigail. By then, he’d nearly dried off and was able to recall what had happened inside the museum. Timothy wondered if he’d momentarily gone bonkers, but he knew that couldn’t be the case, not entirely. He had nearly forgotten the proof of the shadow man, which was currently pressed like