The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,18

had mentioned Stuart’s name. Timothy wouldn’t have listened to them, except that he knew Randy’s mother was a nurse in New Starkham Hospital’s emergency room.

“I overheard my parents last night,” Randy began. “Supposedly, when they brought Stuart in, he was talking really weird.”

“Weird how?” said Brian.

“I think I heard my mom say he thought”—Randy paused—“well … some sort of … monster tried to drown him.”

“Maybe you heard her wrong.”

“Yeah … maybe. I don’t think she wanted me listening. So did you start the history project yet?”

Timothy held his face in his hands. Something strange was going on here. Randy’s story was an echo of Stuart’s claims from the side of the pool last night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Timothy noticed Abigail slinking down the aisle toward her desk in the back of the classroom. Her eyes were puffy. She looked as though she hadn’t slept at all the night before either.

Moments later, Mr. Crane entered. He too looked strange. His button-down shirt was a little wrinkled and his swollen eyes looked worried and anxious, like he wanted the period to be over as quickly as possible.

Mr. Crane began the class by asking the students which artifact from the museum each pair had chosen for their project. Timothy listened as his classmates rattled off their answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at the shelves where the glass specimen jars sat.

Suddenly, Timothy realized something. Mr. Crane had been in the basement of the museum too, just after Timothy had seen the golden idols stare at him. If Timothy had seen some strange things the night before, and Abigail looked like she hadn’t slept as well, maybe something had happened to all of them down there? Something that was keeping them up at night. Making them see things. Just like Stuart.

Timothy heard Abigail call out their chosen artifact from the back of the room. “The Edge of Doom painting,” she said. Mr. Crane half-smiled and moved on to Kimberly Mitchell. But Timothy kept looking at Abigail. Her grandmother had been in the basement with them as well. He wondered if she had been seeing things since then too.

The old woman had a strange name, didn’t she? What was it again? It had been stuck in Timothy’s brain all night long, but now he couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?

No. Not Zelda.

Zilpha.

Zilpha Kindred.

Timothy felt a jolt rush through his body, and he dropped his pencil on the floor. Scrambling to pick it up again, he only kicked it farther into the aisle.

Kindred, he thought. Her last name is Kindred, like the author of The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse.

Obviously, here was the connection. But what did it mean? Could Abigail’s grandmother possibly have something to do with what had happened at the museum yesterday morning and at the gymnasium last night?

“Okay,” said Mr. Crane. “We’ve had enough fun for now.” The class collectively groaned. “Please open your textbooks to chapter seven.” On the board, he wrote Pre-Colonial America.

Timothy tore a piece of paper from his notebook. He quickly jotted a note, folded it up, and turned toward Abigail. He dropped the folded paper on the floor and swiftly kicked it in Abigail’s direction.

Before she had a chance to lean over and pick it up, Mr. Crane said, “Mr. July, would you please bring that to the front of the class?”

As Timothy stood up, his stomach felt like it was filled with a big chunk of ice. Abigail bent over and picked up the note. With a surprising look of pity, she handed it to him.

Mr. Crane folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

Reluctantly, Timothy stepped forward to the large desk in front of the long green chalkboard. “What has come over you these past couple days?” the teacher whispered.

Timothy could feel the eyes of his class whispering across his back. “Dunno,” he mumbled.

“Go on, then.” Mr. Crane nodded at the note in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”

Timothy knew he could just make something up, but if Mr. Crane saw the writing from over his shoulder, everything would be worse, because then the class would know he’d been lying. “Abigail, I really need to talk to you about your grandmother.”

“Ah-ah-ah, Mr. July,” said Mr. Crane. “Slow down. We couldn’t hear you. Again, please.”

Red-faced, Timothy read the note again, this time so everyone could hear. “Abigail, I really need to talk to you about your grandmother.”

The laughter was immediate and overwhelming.

Mr. Crane said, “I’ve got a little project for you. Meet me