The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,22

said Timothy. Abigail was staring at him again. Her head was slick with purple goo. She looked funny. He smiled. After a few seconds, he realized that he’d actually finally told someone about his brother. It had been easier than he thought it would be. “So … what is it that you can’t tell anyone?”

Abigail glanced at the floor, her mouth pursed. She actually looked like she was considering the answer, but then said, “Never mind. It’s not important.”

17.

After they cleaned up, Abigail put on a plastic bathing cap and led Timothy down the long hallway to a small room. The dark purple walls were entirely covered with black-and-white photographs in black wooden frames.

“My grandmother was a photographer for a local newspaper. Sometimes she wrote, but mostly she just took pictures.” She pointed at one picture that looked like flowers of light, blossoming in the night sky. “The Fourth of July. Cool, huh?”

Timothy nodded.

Against the far wall was a twin-sized brass trundle bed. They plopped down on the mattress, giggling at the way she looked. Hepzibah leapt onto the bed too, circled a small spot in the corner several times, then lay down.

“Do you want to listen to some music?” said Abigail. In the corner of the room was a low bookcase, on top of which sat an old record player. The shelves below it contained vinyl records.

“Okay.”

“They belonged to my grandfather before he died. Gramma said I could have ’em. Pick out whatever you want,” said Abigail. “We’ve got a half hour before rinse time.”

Timothy slid off the bed. Abigail followed. The record jackets were old and dusty. They’d been arranged in alphabetical order. Lots of country music. Not his favorite—but some of the covers looked interesting. He plucked a record from the shelf. “Gunfighter Ballads,” Timothy read. “Cool title.” He handed it to Abigail. She slipped the disk from its envelope, placed it on the turntable, then lifted the needle. A dark melody began to play.

“So,” said Abigail, sitting down on the bed again. “Now you know that my grandmother was a photographer. What else did you want to know?”

“It’s not that simple,” he said. She stared at him, curious. “I mean … I need to tell you something first. But I don’t know where to start.”

Abigail settled against the wall and folded her hands in her lap, as if preparing for a bedtime story. “It’s always best to start at the beginning.”

By the time the needle reached the center of the record, Timothy had said everything he’d meant to say. The book, the names, the author. The locker room. Stuart’s monster. For the most part, while he spoke, Abigail listened intently, barely reacting when he got to the most outrageous and unbelievable parts of the story. Now she stared at the patchwork quilt underneath her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth pressed tight.

After nearly five seconds of silence, Timothy couldn’t take it anymore.

“What do you think?” he said. “Am I crazy?”

Leaning forward, Abigail reached into her back pocket. She pulled out her silver lighter, flipped open the lid, and brushed her finger against the flint wheel. Flame bloomed in her fist. She stared at it for a few seconds, then said, “If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy too.” What was that supposed to mean?

The flame wicking at the tip of the lighter was hypnotic. “Have you ever seen anything like what I’ve seen?” he said.

To his surprise, Abigail clicked the lighter closed, squeezed her eyes shut, then nodded quickly. But before he could even respond, she exclaimed, “Shoot! I have to rinse this junk out of my hair.” She slid off the bed and raced toward the door. Hepzibah woke up, gave a short bark, and chased her out of the room. A moment later, Timothy followed.

In the bathroom, Abigail had her head underneath the bathtub faucet. When she turned the water off, Timothy asked, “Do you think your gramma has something to do with all of this?” She ignored him, hiding underneath a towel, using it to rub her head dry. “Abigail,” Timothy began again, speaking slowly so she could understand the importance of what he was saying, “I can’t shake this feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I need to do something about it. If you know something, please … tell me.”

She stopped drying her hair. Finally, she pulled the towel away. For a brief moment, Timothy thought he was looking at a brand-new person, someone he’d never met before. Her hair was