The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,26

ears, swooping up even shorter in the back.

“How do I look?” Abigail whispered, a smile in her eyes.

“Uh … different,” Timothy managed to say. He couldn’t believe she’d just chopped off her hair like that.

“Perfect.”

“Abigail?” The voice had come halfway down the hall.

“I’m in the bathroom,” Abigail called back. Then she whispered to Timothy, “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?”

“To ask my grandmother about the book.”

“But—”

Abigail threw the door open and leapt into the hallway. Her mother screamed, then gasped.

“Abigail? Is that you? What have you done to yourself?”

“You don’t like it?”

“To be perfectly honest,” her mother answered dramatically, “no, I do not like it.”

Timothy cowered in the bathroom. This was happening too fast. What if Abigail’s grandmother freaked out when he asked her about the book? He looked over his shoulder for a way to escape, but all he could see was a tiny pane of fogged glass.

“Mother!” Abigail’s own mother cried. “Come look what Abigail’s done to herself!”

Abigail peeked at Timothy from around the doorframe and waved. “Come on,” she said. Timothy reluctantly followed her down the hall, his heart in his throat. Suddenly, a hunched silhouette shuffled in front of them. They froze where they stood.

“Oh!” the old woman cried. “Abigail, you frightened me.” Mrs. Kindred contemplated the two of them for several seconds, then said, “For a moment, I thought I was looking into a mirror. You can’t imagine how much you look like I did when I was your age. What did you do to yourself?” Abigail’s mother stood next to Mrs. Kindred.

“A cut-and-dye job,” said Abigail sheepishly.

Her mother shook her head. “Honestly …” Then she noticed Timothy. “Who are you?”

“I’m Timothy,” he answered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Timothy July.”

“We’re working on a school project together,” Abigail added.

Mrs. Kindred stepped forward and turned on the hall light. She looked older than she had earlier in the week. Weary. She held on to the wall, as if to steady herself. “You’re the boy from the museum,” she said, squinting at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Timothy managed. Now he wasn’t worried about her freaking out; instead, he worried she might murder him.

“How nice that you brought home a friend, Abigail,” she said, softening. Timothy was unsure if she was just being polite. “I’m Zilpha.” She glanced at Abigail’s mother. “This is my daughter, Sarah.”

“Nice to meet you,” he whispered.

“Abigail, go clean up, then let’s all sit down,” said Sarah. “Gramma’s had a long day.” She took the old woman’s hand and led her into the next room.

“I can manage, my dear,” said Zilpha. “I’m not dead yet, you know.”

“Can Timothy stay for supper?” Abigail asked.

“Fine with me,” said Sarah. “Is it okay with your parents?”

“Uh … yeah,” he answered, knowing that probably wasn’t true.

Abigail and Timothy set the table as her grandmother sat at the far end of the dining room. When Abigail raised the question about what business her grandmother had at the museum the other day, Zilpha blushed and muttered something about inspiration, then quickly changed the subject to talk about the weather.

They were interrupted when Sarah brought a salad to the table. “Oh, Mom, I forgot to tell you, I finally met Georgia’s new boyfriend.” She turned to Timothy. “Georgia’s our next-door neighbor. She and he were coming up in the elevator together earlier today. I admire her. At her age … It’s never too late to start dating again, you know.”

“Hmm. But where would I find the time, dear?” Zilpha smiled.

Sarah chuckled and turned toward the doorway. “Pasta’s almost ready.”

Silence filled the room. Timothy and Abigail glanced at each other. He waited for her to say something, but she nodded at him conspicuously. “So … uh, we’re working on a book report,” he said, blushing.

Abigail added, “A combination book report–history project. That’s why Mr. Crane brought our class to the museum.”

“How nice,” said Zilpha. “What book are you reading?”

“Oh, you’ve probably never heard of it,” said Timothy, staring at his plate. “It’s really old.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Zilpha, “I’m really old too.”

They all laughed. Timothy quietly added, “It’s called The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse.”

Overcome, the old woman went into a coughing fit for several seconds. After she recovered, she tentatively asked, “Where did you find a book with such a morbid title?”

Timothy glanced at Abigail. “By chance,” Abigail answered for him. “It just sort of came to us.”

“It came to you?”

“I’ve already read about half of it. We’ve started doing some research,” said Timothy, trying to sound more assured. “The author