The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,37

throwing him a birthday party. He was ninety today, a late-April baby, a typically stubborn Taurus. He’d told his wife he’d never been sure he’d actually wanted to live this long. But now, surrounded by his loved ones, Percival realized what his life had been all about. Sure, there had always been the challenges of working at the library, but finding his family at home at the end of the day provided his true satisfaction.

The food was delicious, and the cake was even better.

Later, when Percival got up to use the restroom, everyone looked nervous. “I do this every day at home by myself,” he said. “I can walk.” Still, his son insisted on accompanying him. Percival waved him away. “How about this instead? If I’m not back in ten minutes, send out a search party.”

After he’d done his business, Percival washed his hands. When he’d first entered the bathroom, an attendant had greeted him, smiling. Now, though, Percival was alone. Strange. He grabbed a towel to dry himself, then turned to go.

But the door he’d entered through was no longer there. Somehow, it had been replaced with a solid wall, covered by the dull, gray-striped wallpaper that encompassed the rest of the room, like bars. “What the …?” said Percival, searching the room for a way out. He must have gotten turned around. But as he scanned each wall it seemed as though there actually was no exit.

He was trapped in here. Alone. Impossible. Was this another surprise, another trick planned by his kids to teach him a lesson for messing around earlier?

The old man pounded on the wall where the door should have been. He called out for his son. Boy, his kids were thinking, will Dad be embarrassed when he comes back to the table. Can’t even pee by himself anymore, they’d say. Poor old guy.

He waited, but received no answer.

Then, behind him, one of the stall doors creaked open. Percival turned, chills swarming his body like little red ants. Maybe the attendant he’d seen earlier had been in there the whole time. Maybe he could help.

A man stepped out from the stall, but it was not the attendant. This man’s face was familiar, though Percival hadn’t thought of him in years … especially since the man he was staring at was dead. Percival fell backward against the wall.

The man in the gray overcoat pulled the small wicker basket from the counter between the sinks and held it out. Smiling, he said, “Soap? Lotion? Mint?” Then he began to laugh. Percival turned and pounded harder than ever on the wall behind him.

Where the hell was that search party?

28.

On Saturday morning, Timothy awoke with the sun shining in his eyes. Everything was, and always had been, fine.

Moments later, after a good stretch, Timothy sat up in his bed and realized that everything was not fine. The week’s events came rushing back to him, and despite the revelatory light of the morning, he felt an awful dread, which grew when he heard the phone ringing.

Rushing downstairs, Timothy grabbed the handset from the side table in the front hallway. “Hello?”

“Timothy,” said an old woman’s voice. “This is Zilpha Kindred. Abigail’s grandmother. Sorry to call so early, but I need your help.”

Zilpha explained that the night before, Abigail had arrived home quite late, drenched from the rain. She’d apologized and asked if she could go to sleep early. Later, in bed, Zilpha was restless, so she went to get a glass of water. When she heard a sniffling noise outside the foyer, Zilpha opened the front door and found Abigail slumped against the wall. The elevator button glowed red. Zilpha led her back into the apartment. She asked Abigail what was going on. Breaking down, Abigail had told her everything.

“Everything?” Timothy asked.

“Everything,” Zilpha answered. “And there are a few things you should know too, Timothy.”

The night before, Zilpha had explained to Abigail that these odd occurrences were something they shared—that when Zilpha was young, she tried to stop a bad man from doing a bad thing. His name had been Christian Hesselius—the man Frances May had told them about. Now, somehow the bad man had returned to New Starkham to fulfill some kind of vengeance. The weirdest part? The bad man had died in an institution nearly fifty years ago.

“But how …?” Timothy imagined his shadow man as a ghost, a magician, a demon.

“I’m not exactly sure myself,” said Zilpha.

“Is Abigail okay now?”

“That’s why I’m calling, Timothy. Did she say anything