The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,20
stood there, he realized that he couldn’t toss the box inside. As disgusting as some of these creatures appeared to be, he felt weird throwing them in the garbage. Besides, the box was simply too heavy. Timothy placed it on the ground, then quickly made the sign of the cross. “May you rest in peace,” he whispered. It seemed right.
With a nod, he turned away and headed toward the address Abigail had scrawled on the piece of paper in his pocket.
16.
The apartment building was sixteen stories tall—the tallest building in the neighborhood. Made of pale blond stone, it stood on the crest of Shutter Avenue, south of the bridge.
Timothy slowly made his way through the front garden, staring up at the building. Lots of windows. Lots of curtains. The front doors were made of black iron lace. Inlaid into the stone over the entrance were dark marble words: THE MAYFAIR. As Timothy reached out to take the handle, the door swung inward. A man stood just inside the lobby. “Mi amigo, who are you here to see?”
“Umm … I’m here for Abigail.”
“Abigail?”
“She’s uh … staying with her grandmother? Mrs. Kindred?”
He was delivered by the elevator to a small hallway with three large black doors, one of which was marked 16B. Abigail’s place.
As he approached, he heard a dog barking. Then came Abigail’s voice: “Hepzibah! No!” Footsteps. The doorknob turned, and there she was, wearing a sad smile and an oversized blue artist smock. At her feet, a small gray dog greeted him, loudly. Timothy bent down to say hello, but the dog backed away into the apartment’s foyer. “Just ignore her. She thinks she runs the place,” said Abigail, glancing at the dog. “Don’t you, little queen?” Hepzibah listened for a second, then began barking again. Abigail rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to stand in the hallway,” she said to Timothy. “She won’t bite.”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Abigail raised an eyebrow. “What are you afraid of, then?”
Timothy felt his face flush. He stammered, “Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not afraid of your dog. That’s all.” He came through the door. “Hepzibah? Strange name. Where’d you come up with it?”
“I didn’t come up with it. My grandmother loves Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hepzibah’s a character in one of his books,” Abigail said. The dog sniffed Timothy’s cuff. He stuck out his palm. Hepzibah considered him, then gave several soft kisses. “See? She likes you.”
“Good. I like her too.” Looking around, Timothy felt small. “Cool place. It’s huge.” Across the foyer, a wide arched entry opened into a sprawling living room filled with antique furniture. Outside, through paneled French doors, was an enormous roof patio. Several of the spires from the college were visible beyond the railing, and beyond those were the river and then the hills of Rhode Island. Through a smaller doorway in the foyer, a long hallway stretched into darkness.
“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Abigail.
“You don’t like it?”
“Well, I didn’t ask to live here.” Suddenly, she looked at him, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, I probably sound like such a little brat. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t.”
“My grandmother is really lucky to have this place. And I’m really lucky to be able to stay until … well, for now. It’s just that at night … it can get a little … creepy.”
“Creepy how?” said Timothy, suddenly noticing the many shadows in the numerous corners.
“Here,” said Abigail, leading him into the dining room, changing the subject. “You can put your stuff down. I’ve already gotten started in the kitchen.”
“Started with what?”
She turned to look at him. With an embarrassed smile, she said, “You’ll see.”
Timothy dropped his coat and bag on a chair at the end of the dining table, then followed Abigail through a series of doors to a narrow, cluttered kitchen. The countertop was scattered with a number of plastic bottles, and on the stove sat a small cardboard box. On the cover, a woman smiled as she ran her hands through her black hair. The words COLOR ME WILD—RAVEN SILK leapt out in white text underneath the woman’s shapely chin.
“You’re going to dye your hair black?”
“Nope,” said Abigail, snatching the box from the stove-top and handing it to him. “You’re going to do it for me.”
Hepzibah came around the corner from the direction of the dining room. She sat in the doorway and looked at him, as if prepared to watch the show.
“You want me to dye your hair?” asked Timothy, appalled.
“You don’t