The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,47

swung in the breeze like a hypnotist’s watch. From the end of the chain, a box lamp glowed dimly, defying the afternoon light.

“Yeah,” said Timothy. “Looks like someone’s home.”

A jumble of early-spring weeds filled the deep yard behind the white fence, which separated the house from the street. A weeping willow brushed budding limbs against the right side of the porch. Around the left corner, an ancient black Mercedes was parked in front of a detached, barnlike garage.

Abigail stepped off the curb and started toward the house.

“Wait,” said Timothy. “What’s our plan?” Abigail shrugged and kept walking. He stayed where he was. “But what if he’s a psycho? What if he tries to kill us?”

“We’re just going to ask him some questions. It’ll be quick,” said Abigail. “Besides, at this point, I’m almost positive that whatever is trying to hurt us isn’t human. Hesselius is dead, remember?”

“And that’s a good thing?” he asked. A vengeful ghost? It seemed so silly. But then, life had become quite silly lately, hadn’t it? “How are we supposed to stop a … ghost?”

“Maybe its son will know,” she answered, brushing her short black hair off her forehead. Timothy tripped after her. Abigail swung open the garden gate. They climbed the front steps. Abigail stuck out her finger and pressed the doorbell.

Deep inside the house, a buzzer rattled. It was a shocking sound, like a joke-shop handshake trick. After several seconds, they heard someone approach the front door. The doorknob turned, and the door opened. Standing just inside, a stooped man with gnarled knuckles grasped the handles of a silver walker. He seemed barely able to lift his head but managed to look at them with curious eyes. His distorted pupils seemed to spill into the ice-blue rings of his irises. The sight of the man’s grandfatherly outfit—gray slacks, a stained white T-shirt, and fuzzy gray slippers—was a relief. Behind him, the house was filled with daylight. Inside the foyer, a large staircase wound upward to several landings.

“Can I help you?” said the old man, his voice shaking. He managed to smile, looking happy at the prospect of visitors, even if he did not recognize them.

Timothy nudged Abigail. She stepped forward. “Are you … Jack?”

“Jack?” said the man, amused. “Well, yes, I suppose some people call me that.”

“We’re looking for the son of Christian Hesselius,” said Timothy.

The man raised his head, which trembled on his weak neck, and looked at them more closely. “Well, then … you’ve found him.”

“We got your name and address from Gavin Engstrom at the college library,” said Abigail. “Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”

The man seemed confused. “Is this about my father’s office? Because my lawyer told me …”

“No, it’s not … entirely,” said Abigail. She cleared her throat. “We just wanted to talk to you about … the past.”

“The past?” said the old man. His eyes darted between Timothy and Abigail. “Most kids your age aren’t interested in talking about stuff like that.”

“We’re sorry to bother you,” Timothy said, “but it’s important.”

“Ah, well, if it’s important,” the man answered, teasing. He was silent for several seconds. Finally, he moved his walker out of the way and motioned for them to come inside. “Can I get you something to drink? Eat?” He led them through a doorway into the kitchen. “Sorry this place is such a mess. The visiting nurse doesn’t work weekends, and even though it’s not in her job description, she usually helps me clean up after myself. I’ve never been very good at that. Not even when I could lift more than a couple of books at a time.” Across the room, his walker bumped into the oven. He glanced at the kids, who stood in the doorway. “So what’ll it be?”

Timothy was hungry, but he knew that wasn’t what they’d come for. Besides, this place didn’t smell very good.

“Nothing for me, thanks,” said Abigail.

“Please. At least sit down. I get nervous when people stand in doorways.”

The kids came inside and stood next to the table. Jack waited several uncomfortable seconds, until they’d both pulled out chairs and sat down. “So … the past,” he said. “What about it?”

Timothy glanced at Abigail. He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Had she?

“Your father,” said Abigail. “How well did you know him?”

Jack leaned against the oven, facing them directly. “As well as any son knows his parent, I suppose.” When Abigail didn’t immediately answer, he continued, “I think I