The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,25
to make us feel like we are.”
“I know the connection.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “It’s you.”
“Me?” he said, his voice rising.
Abigail closed the lighter and slipped it into her pocket. “Partly.” All the color had faded from her face. “Last night, the girls knew about what happened at the museum. You know, with the water balloon? They knew I was angry at Stuart for throwing it. And at Mr. Crane for allowing it to happen. And at … well … you.”
“Me? What did I do?” Timothy asked.
“I can’t even remember now.” She blushed. “They said they had helped me. I didn’t understand, and they said that soon I would. They said that since they’d helped me, I should go with them. Play their game. That I owed them.” She was silent for a few seconds. “I didn’t know what to say. I mean, how do you argue with a couple of … whatever they are.”
“You’re not going anywhere with them.”
“Of course not. I didn’t agree to anything.”
“They said that they helped you. How?”
Abigail shrugged, unsure. “Horrible things happened to the three of you.”
“The three of who?”
“Stuart. You. And Mr. Crane.”
“I don’t understand.”
Abigail sighed. “The Nightmarys helped me. What happened to the three of you, happened because of me. You saw that creepy man. Stuart saw the monster in the pool.”
Timothy blinked. “And Mr. Crane saw something scary in those jars.”
“In Nathaniel Olmstead’s book,” said Abigail, “the Nightmarys have the power to frighten people. To make monsters. My Nightmarys made you see what you saw. Even though I didn’t ask for it, the Nightmarys ‘helped’ me. And almost killed Stuart along the way.” Her voice wavered. “When I found out what happened to him, I knew it was my fault. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. Or scared, even. I just wanted to be left alone.”
“Maybe there are no Nightmarys. Maybe you have the power to frighten people,” said Timothy, feeling almost foolish. “Maybe, like, deep down, you were really angry at all of us. So, like, unconsciously or something, you made us all see things … things that weren’t really there.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Abigail shook her head. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Say you could … maybe you didn’t mean to.”
“But Stuart ended up in the hospital. If there was nothing there, if he was just seeing things, how did he get hurt?”
Timothy shook his head. “He believed he saw a monster. He got scared and inhaled some water.”
“No,” said Abigail, pressing her palms to her temples. “I can’t believe that I did that. I mean, yeah, I was angry at him, but I never wanted any of this to happen.”
“But—”
“No, Timothy. I know I’m right. I’m not anything like that. At first I actually had the same thought.” She smiled weakly. “But now I know this is about something else.”
“How do you know?”
“There are too many other things involved that don’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“Like … that book you found. And the names that were written in it. And, I suppose, most importantly … that it might be about my grandmother.”
Timothy considered that.
“This goes beyond me and my stupid problems,” said Abigail. She grabbed a chunk of her hair and waved it at him. “I mean, before you told me your story, I actually thought I could hide from them. I dyed my hair. I was planning on sleeping on the couch in the living room tonight. I thought maybe they wouldn’t recognize me, and then tomorrow …”
“Tomorrow, what?” said Timothy.
“Tomorrow, I was going to take a bus back to New Jersey. My dad’s waiting for me there.”
“Oh …” Timothy felt as though she’d sucker punched him. He realized how much he didn’t want to go through this alone.
“But I can’t do that anymore. Not now that you’re involved,” she said simply.
Timothy nodded, relieved. “I think the most important thing for us to figure out is who this man is—the one I keep seeing. And the book. If they’re both real, not created, like you said, by … the Nightmarys, they might be the key to what is actually going on here.”
Down the hall, a doorknob rattled. They both jumped.
Abigail leapt from the tub and closed the bathroom door. She opened the mirror cabinet and grabbed a pair of big black scissors.
20.
“Abigail? Honey? Are you home?” a sweet, high voice called from the foyer.
Chunks of her hair rained down upon the floor. Abigail tossed the scissors into the sink and turned around. Her hair now lay in jagged chunks just below her