The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,39
a temporary card. If you need anything, just let me know.” She slipped him a small piece of paper.
“Actually, I’m wondering if you have old copies of New Starkham newspapers. Like, from the 1940s?”
The girl stared at him for a moment, then said, “Okay, that’s weird. The other girl asked me the same thing when she came in an hour ago. I already gave her all that microfiche. You’re going to have to share.” She pointed into the wing on Timothy’s right. “The room is behind the last row of books. Careful. It’s dark back there.”
“Thanks,” said Timothy, heading in the direction the girl had pointed. As he approached the last row of shelves, he knew who he’d find there.
“What are you doing here?” said Abigail when she saw him.
The faint backlight from the microfiche screen threw her face into shadow. Behind her, the projected headline echoed how he felt. Shocker in New Starkham!
“The same thing as you, apparently,” he said. “Tricky. You’ve got your entire family freaking out. Your grandmother called this morning and told me what happened last night when you got home.”
“She did?”
“She was worried about you.”
“Gramma didn’t want me involved.” She blinked, completely closed up. “I had to throw her off.”
“You should call her and tell her you’re safe. Or maybe I should.”
“Please … don’t.” She reached out for his arm, then stopped herself. “If I can figure out all this nonsense before she does, she won’t get hurt. She shouldn’t be worrying about cursed jawbones at her age.”
Timothy sighed, knowing he was about to break his promise to Zilpha. He pulled up a chair next to her. “How did you figure out this place was here?”
“Got up early. Looked out my bedroom window. Saw the campus. Realized the answer was staring me in the face. Oh, and by the way,” she said, “I’m doing this on my own.”
“But …”
“I know I sound like a jerk,” she said, “but after last night, I realized that I need to do this alone, or not at all. This is about my family. You shouldn’t be involved, Timothy.”
It took him a moment to catch his breath. “Abigail, what I said to you on the bus was really unfair.”
“You’re right. It was. And that’s fine,” she answered, blushing and turning back to the screen, “but your apology doesn’t change my mind. Besides, this is a small room, and your gym bag sorta stinks.”
“Oh,” said Timothy, getting up and backing toward the door. “Right. Sorry. I’ll just … wait out here until you’re done.”
“Cool,” she said, scrolling through the article on the machine.
At the doorway, Timothy couldn’t help himself. “Abigail, please,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”
She turned to look at him. In the half-light, for just a moment, he could see something in her eyes, something that told him she was sorry too. “You already said that,” she answered, then turned away.
Timothy sat at the bottom of the staircase just outside the microfiche room. The carpet was worn, its threads just barely covering a flight of wooden steps that led upward. Frustrated, Timothy pulled at the weave, loosening it further.
Fine, he thought. Be like that. At least I tried.
Timothy stood up and strolled through the last few rows of books, but he and Abigail were losing precious time. What was she doing in there?
Moments later, distracted, he crept up the stairs. With each step, Timothy grew angrier. He’d only ever tried to be nice to this girl. Right now, she was being meaner than Stuart could ever imagine.
Timothy found himself standing in the middle of a dark landing. A black plastic tarp hung loosely from the ragged wallpaper near the top, covering part of the wall. Renovations? After a moment, Timothy pulled the tarp aside. Behind the black plastic, he found a dark gap, and then an older wall, a foot behind the first one. In the center of this second wall was a door with filthy pebbled glass, so it was impossible to see inside the room.
As Timothy stared at the dirty glass, he saw that there had once been words decaled that had since been scratched off.
Dropping his bag to the landing floor, he went limp. He grabbed on to the knob for support, reading again the impression of the scratched-away words.
DR. CHR TIAN H SSEL S–
PROFES OR OF H ST RY
30.
Timothy turned the knob and the latch clicked. The door wheezed open a crack. A sliver of darkness stared at him. Timothy took a step backward, trying to