The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,24

home in tears.

In March of the next year, Abigail learned that she and her mother would leave Clifton for New Starkham. When they arrived at her new home, Abigail realized that she had finally managed to get away from the Nightmarys—something she had wished for the past two years. Despite everything else, she was happy about that.

She had been at Paul Revere Middle School for a week when it started.

One night, while finishing her homework in her bedroom, Abigail saw movement through her window. A blur of white. Outside was a stretch of patio. Something had crossed it. Abigail bolted upright on her mattress. After a few moments of quiet, she dismissed the movement as a seagull. There were plenty of those in New Starkham.

But the next night, it happened again. A little after midnight, she awoke to a soft tapping on glass. Before she even opened her eyes, Abigail feared what she would see at the window—two faces, smiling at her. Instead of looking, Abigail crawled out of bed, shielding her eyes as she made her way to the hallway. She shuffled to her grandmother’s bedroom and slipped under the covers next to her.

Over a bowl of cereal, it was easier to toss off these occurrences as being influenced by the dark and the unfamiliar. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was only nervous that there were “Nightmarys” at her new school. Things would work themselves out if she continued to be invisible, something she was already good at. At school during the day, she stayed by herself, tried to be inconspicuous. At night, she tucked her blanket over her head.

It worked … until the night she awoke to find the two girls standing in the corner of her room near the record player. This time, she could see them much more clearly. They looked like the girls from Clifton, but they were also different, as if half sisters with the creatures from the Nightmarys trading-card collection. Their hair hung limply from their heads. Their feet were bare. They wore matching dirty white lace dresses, which hung from their thin bodies like sacks. Abigail cringed in her bed, too frightened now to even make a sound. The spot where their faces should have been was simply blurry, like a shot of fast motion caught on still film. When Abigail stared too long, she saw things in the blur—things that should not have existed in place of their eyes, nose, and mouth—things too disturbing for her to later recall.

“Don’t shout,” said one. Mary Brown’s voice.

“We want to be your friends,” said the other. Mary White.

“I—I,” Abigail managed to stammer, trying to keep them at bay. “I don’t want any friends. Please, leave me alone.”

The girls laughed as they stepped forward. “But we’re lonely,” said Mary White.

“Remember what that feels like, Abigail?” said Mary Brown. “Come play our game.” Their voices were hypnotizing.

“But it’s the middle of the night. My mom would hear.”

“We’ll take care of your mother … and your grandmother.” The way the girls spoke snapped Abigail wide awake.

She grabbed a book she’d been reading before bed from the nightstand. “Stay away from them,” she shouted, and threw the book at the descending shadows. When the book hit the far wall with a thump, Abigail realized that the girls were no longer there. She quickly turned on the bedside lamp and filled the darkness with light.

Since then, Abigail slept with the lights on. This, however, did not stop the girls from coming back. Again and again. Begging her to follow them into the night. To play their game. To be their friend.

19.

Abigail continued to sit on the edge of the bathtub, flicking the lighter on and off. Her hair hung in front of her face. It was nearly dry now.

Timothy felt a chill as he leaned against the sink.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Abigail said. Timothy shook his head. She pointed at the crumpled black paper in the bathtub. “I took that picture last night, with Gramma’s camera. The black smudge was where the girls were standing.”

“I didn’t see a smudge,” said Timothy. “I just saw your bedroom.”

“It was right in the center,” said Abigail. “They were there!” She looked at the ash in the tub, as if she now wished she hadn’t burned the photograph.

“I … believe you,” said Timothy, smiling weakly. “There’s got to be a connection between your story and mine. If we’re both not crazy, then someone or something out there is trying