The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,51

see are what’s right in front of your face.”

Abigail considered that for a few seconds. “Jack was at the museum during our field trip. Right? You saw him standing in that hallway. He watched everything that happened. Knowing I was angry with each of you, he cursed you and Stuart and Mr. Crane. Since he probably cursed me just after I moved here, he made me think that what was happening to all of you was my fault.”

With all this cursing, the tooth’s battery must be growing weak, thought Timothy.

Abigail continued. “The Nightmarys. If I didn’t go with them, each of you would only get worse and worse. The Nightmarys never came to visit. Jack just wanted me to think they had.” She paused. “What I don’t understand is, how did he know the Nightmarys would have such power over me?”

“You said it yourself back at the library,” Timothy answered. “The jawbone gives the user the ability to read the victim’s mind. He got inside your head, influenced you, pushed the curse in a certain direction.”

“Is Jack doing the same thing to Stuart and Mr. Crane? And you too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s not pushing us so much. The curse seems to work differently on different people, doesn’t it? Maybe it depends on how you handle your fears? Maybe Stuart and Mr. Crane just freeze up, let it get the best of them? I know when I get scared, I have to do something about it. Maybe that’s why I’m not stuck in a psycho ward.”

Abigail lit up. “I can do that too,” she said.

“What? Go to a psycho ward?”

“No, dummy. Handle it. Do something. Jack said something like ‘I fear the place where my end will come.’ And he’s right. I do fear that. But how do I stop it from happening?”

“Maybe if we can figure out the place he’s talking about, it won’t seem so scary?”

Abigail closed her eyes and sighed. “I see a dark place. It’s wet and cold and I’m alone.” She looked at Timothy, distraught. “I don’t know how to not be scared of it.” Timothy took her hand, and she continued, “I wish we could ask my grandmother. She’s always been so good at this kind of thing. And this is all about her. Isn’t it? That’s why she kept calling it her mess. Jack wanted to hurt her, so he came after me.”

“In the Zelda Kite books, though,” said Timothy, “she always beat the bad guy in the end, right?”

“Yeah.” Abigail’s eyes blazed. She leapt to her feet. “I never got a chance to read those books, but I’m pretty sure she kicked his butt.”

Outside, tires crunched on gravel and an engine turned off. Timothy and Abigail glanced at each other, then ran to the octagonal window. At the curb, a champagne-colored Cadillac had parked. As both the driver’s- and passenger’s-side doors opened, Abigail gasped. “What the …?” she said.

“What’s the matter?” said Timothy. “Who is it?”

Abigail turned to look at him. She wore a look of pure horror. “That’s Georgia’s car.”

“Who’s Georgia?” Timothy strained to see.

“My next-door neighbor,” said Abigail. “Oh, no!” At that point, she didn’t need to explain. Wearing a bright purple kimono, Zilpha Kindred had conspicuously climbed out of the passenger door and stood in the middle of Ash Tree Lane, staring curiously up at the house.

37.

“Your grandmother and Georgia?” said Timothy. “What are they doing here?”

“Who cares?” Abigail shouted. “They can help us.” She reached across the desk and pounded on the window. “Gramma!” She screamed as loudly as she could. But the old woman didn’t appear to notice. Abigail turned to Timothy. “Help me break this glass.”

“With what?”

“Anything. It doesn’t matter!” said Abigail, glancing around the room for some object to smash the window.

Timothy jumped onto the desk. He pulled his arm back, then punched his fist as hard as he could against the glass. An explosion of pain burst up his forearm. He fell off the desk and landed on his back in a cloud of dust. After a few seconds, he whispered, “Ouch.”

“Are you okay?” said Abigail, scrambling over to him.

Timothy’s hand was numb and warm, but he knew that soon the pain would begin. “No. I—I think I hurt it bad.”

“We’ll get you help,” said Abigail, frantic. “But first we have to warn my grandmother.” She glanced at the window. “Why didn’t the freakin’ glass break?”

Timothy struggled to sit. He leaned against the desk’s thick wooden leg. “The curse. It makes our fears seem