The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,28

the next few days. His mind was swirling with questions. “Have you heard anything about Stuart?”

His mother looked up from a pad of paper she’d been writing on. His father just looked confused.

“Stuart Chen,” said Timothy. “Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “We’ve had too much on our minds. Why don’t you try calling over there? Maybe he’s home now.”

Timothy stood up and went over to the phone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator, but before he had a chance to pick it up, it rang. Surprised, he quickly answered it. “Hello?”

“You little monster.” The voice was familiar, but Timothy was so shocked by the tone that it took him several seconds to place it.

“Mr. Crane?”

“Don’t play all innocent with me, Mr. July,” said Timothy’s teacher. His voice shook, furious. “You know what you’ve done. And I do not appreciate it.”

“Mr. Crane,” Timothy said slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll give you a clue,” said Mr. Crane. “The jars.”

“The what?”

“The jars I requested you throw away after school this afternoon. Where, may I ask, did you throw them, exactly?”

“I took them outside and left them next to the garbage bin. The box was too heavy to lift,” he answered.

“Why then, may I ask you, have they appeared on the front steps of my house?”

Timothy was so astounded he couldn’t speak. The hum of the refrigerator killed the overwhelming silence. He glanced at his parents, who were now staring at him. His father mouthed, Who is that? Timothy turned away and stared at the floral wallpaper.

“I don’t know why, Mr. Crane,” said Timothy. “I didn’t do it.” The Nightmarys had told Abigail they’d helped her. Could this have been part of their game?

“Right. Just like you didn’t throw the water balloon at the museum. Just like you didn’t try to pass a note to Abigail Tremens during class today,” said Mr. Crane. A few seconds later, he added, “Are your parents home?”

“They’re right here,” Timothy answered.

“I’d like to speak with one of them, please.”

In a daze, Timothy held out the phone to his mother, stretching the long cord tight.

Timothy spent the rest of the night in his bedroom, both dreading and looking forward to the next day. He insisted to his parents that he hadn’t pulled the prank on Mr. Crane, and thankfully, they believed him.

Just before he brushed his teeth, he remembered that he still hadn’t called Abigail. He looked at the clock. It was nearly ten now. Much too late. He didn’t want to bother anyone, especially Zilpha, who, according to Abigail’s mother, needed her rest. Besides, the man he’d seen had probably been nobody.

When he turned off his light and got under his covers, Timothy imagined the specter of two girls watching him from the corner of his room. If what Abigail had told him was true, what sort of horror might they make next?

22.

Timothy woke up early the next morning when his mother knocked on his door to say goodbye. He wished he could go with her.

Later, Timothy was standing on the front porch, waiting for the bus, when he heard the Chens’ screen door slam. Timothy rushed to the railing, leaned forward, and called to Stuart’s mom, “How is he?”

She smiled a wan smile. “Technically, he’s okay,” she called back. “I think the whole thing has shaken him up a bit.”

Timothy understood the feeling.

“He could use a friend,” she added, making her way down the driveway toward her car. “Come by the hospital after school, if you can? They said he could have visitors. He’d love to see you.”

“I’ll try,” said Timothy, even though he was frightened by what Stuart might have to say.

As Mrs. Chen pulled away from the curb, Timothy heard the phone ringing inside his house. Maybe it was his mom, calling from the airport? Since his dad had already gone to work, Timothy pulled out his keys, opened the door, and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

The connection was bad. Static hissed as he waited for a response.

“Timothy?” The familiar voice on the other end was soft, ragged, as if it hadn’t been used in a very long time. The room spun. Timothy reached out for the wall. He wondered if this wasn’t some terrible trick. It had to be. There was no way he could possibly be on the phone with his brother.

“Yeah?”

“Oh my God, dude,” said the voice. “Don’t sound so excited to hear me.”

“B-Ben?” Timothy stammered. “Is that you?”

“Sure, it’s me.” Ben laughed. But then