The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,36

Timothy nearly tripped over his own feet. Ben grabbed at him, but he swerved out of his grasp.

Now they were face to face, and Timothy suddenly wished they weren’t. Ben didn’t look like Ben. His eyes were milky, his skin blotchy red. In fact, he looked a lot like Timothy’s nightmare that week. Ben opened his mouth, revealing his brown rotting teeth. “This is your fault, Timothy,” he said, his voice gritty. “You shouldn’t have let me leave New Starkham. You should have told me to stay….”

“What are you …?” Timothy began, his voice shaking with disbelief. Were they really talking about this? As bizarre as the whole thing seemed, he couldn’t stop himself from answering. “I shouldn’t have let you leave? What about what you told me? You needed to find some order in all this chaos. What about your light in the darkness?”

Ben blinked, as if he hadn’t heard. “This is your fault, Timothy. Your fault … But I forgive you.” Ben smiled a horrible smile. He held his arms open. The crutch clattered to the sidewalk. “Here, give your brother a hug.”

“You’re not my brother!” said Timothy, pushing at the figure. But when his hands slipped through the figure into nothingness, Timothy realized he was standing alone in the street. Lightning flashed and almost immediately the thunder clapped. Ben was gone.

Timothy closed his eyes for several seconds, too frightened to move.

He didn’t notice the headlights speeding toward him from the opposite direction.

27.

Timothy spun.

The lights blinded him as the car screeched to a stop. When he finally felt his heart restart, the car’s horn nearly knocked him over again. He quickly stepped out of the way, back onto the safety of the curb, ready to raise a particular finger to whomever was driving this hunk of junk. Over the din of the rain hitting the car’s hood, he heard the grinding gear of one of the windows rolling down.

“What the hell are you doing in the middle of the street?” The sound of his father’s voice was nearly as shocking as the car horn moments earlier. “You looking to hitch a ride on the roadkill wagon?” Timothy’s father sounded more worried than angry. Timothy felt so traumatized he couldn’t even answer. “You’re all wet. Get in.” Timothy opened the door and slipped inside.

They sat quietly for a few seconds, listening to the rain drumming against the roof.

“So are you going to tell me what you were doing out there? Or are you going to make me guess?” said Timothy’s father.

How could he tell his father about seeing zombie Ben, especially since Ben had simply disappeared? At best, his father would ignore him. At worst …

“I just walked home. Me and Abigail went to visit Stuart in the hospital.”

“You should’ve called me for a ride. Who’s Abigail?”

“A girl I go to school with.”

“Hmm,” said Timothy’s father, his mind elsewhere. “I need you to do me a favor.” He reached into the glove compartment, grabbed a set of keys, and handed them to Timothy. “Pull your mother’s car into the garage. Keep to the right. I need to park this thing next to it.”

Timothy felt a small rush. His father had never asked him to do this by himself before. It should have been more exciting. “Whose car is this?” Timothy asked, trying to sound peppy.

“I’m doing a favor for a buddy. Said I’d give it a look over the weekend.” His father clicked the garage-door opener. Timothy hopped out of the car, clutching the keys. He’d watched his father do this plenty of times. He’d waited years for this chance. Now his mind was so frantic, he couldn’t even think about enjoying the experience.

Once his father had pulled into the garage beside him, Timothy followed him out into the rain. “Nice job there,” said his father, distracted. “Stuart’s doing better?” His father led the way up the brick path toward the house’s unlit back door.

“That’s the big question,” Timothy said, trailing behind. Lightning flashed again, and the memory of Ben’s face echoed in Timothy’s mind. Suddenly, he remembered there were bigger questions.

THE NIGHTMARYS

INTERLUDE

MARCELLA’S ITALIAN RESTAURANT—

PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND

“Surprise!” shouted the crowd.

Percival Ankh clutched at his chest and screwed up his face into a mad grimace. Everyone gasped, but when Percival smiled, his family understood he was just kidding. Cruel, he knew, but he’d told them for years that he hated surprises. They deserved it. “Oh, Dad,” they said, patting him on the back, wishing him congratulations.

The old man’s family was