The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,52

real, right? We’re scared that your grandmother and Georgia won’t hear us scream.” He grunted as his fingers began to throb. “Pound on that window as hard as you want. We can’t pound hard enough.”

Abigail didn’t listen. She leapt onto the desk and slammed both palms against the glass, again and again, but when the doorbell buzzed downstairs, she finally stopped. Abigail slumped off the desk and landed next to Timothy on the floor. “But she’s got to hear us,” she said, panting. She sounded defeated, tired, and in pain. “We have to warn her.”

Timothy waved her quiet as she finally heard what he was hearing. The voices were muffled, but listening closely, Timothy could make out the conversation at the front door.

“Why, hello, Georgie,” said the old man.

“Hi, Johnson,” said Georgia. “I’d like you to meet my dear friend and neighbor, Zilpha Kindred.”

“Johnson?” said Timothy. “I thought his name was Jack Hesselius.”

“He must have changed it or something,” said Abigail. “Didn’t want to be associated with his dad?”

“Ah, the famous Johnson Harwood,” said Abigail’s grandmother. “It is truly a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Georgia has been singing your praises for months now. What a strange coincidence my needing your help like this.”

“Gramma,” Abigail whispered to no one in particular.

Timothy closed his eyes and leaned closer to the floor.

“Georgie’d been telling me we must meet, have dinner, something. But it never happened,” said the old man jovially. “I hear you actually came to the museum looking for me,” he continued, “but I wasn’t around that day.”

“He definitely was there that day,” said Timothy. “Liar.”

“He’s Georgia’s boyfriend?” said Abigail, in shock. “That’s how he knows about me. Eww, that’s so creepy.”

“The museum must keep you quite busy,” Zilpha’s voice came through the floor. “Director is a big job, isn’t it?”

“Never stops,” said the old man.

Abigail grabbed Timothy’s hand. “He’s the museum director?”

Timothy nodded, enraptured by what he was learning. “That’s why he was in the basement during the field trip. He works there. He was watching us. Learning.”

“But I’m here now,” Zilpha continued, “so we can chat and hopefully conduct the business I mentioned earlier.”

“Ah,” said the old man. “The jawbone.”

“Yes,” said Zilpha. “The Record mentioned it in that article about recent donations to the museum. It will be perfect for my project.”

“Jawbone?” said Georgia. “What kind of jawbone?”

“An artifact,” said the old man, “that once belonged to an ancient human. One of our more recent acquisitions.”

“Recent acquisitions!” cried Timothy. “See? Christian didn’t hide the jawbone at the museum. Since Jack is the museum director, he must have used his father’s journal to locate the jawbone. Then he brought it to the museum.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Abigail. Timothy shook his head.

“How morbid!” Georgia cried.

“It’s not morbid. It’s history.” The old man forced a laugh. “I’d taken home the bone earlier this week to examine it more closely. Coincidentally, curious Mrs. Kindred, here, came to the museum looking for it. Come on in, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased!” said Zilpha, her voice becoming clearer. She was now inside the foyer. “Maybe you’ll let me get my hands on it. And do call me Zilpha.”

Abigail and Timothy stared at each other in shock.

There was a pause. Then the old man said, “It’s quite delicate, Zilpha.”

“I understand,” she answered. “I’ll be gentle. Obtaining a tactile sense of the object would be beneficial to the photo project I’m working on. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Timothy whispered, “Your grandmother knows he has the jawbone. She’s trying to get hold of it.”

“Does she know who he is?” asked Abigail.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“But what’s she want with the jawbone? She’s not going to curse him with it.”

There was silence downstairs. Then Jack, or Johnson, or whatever his name was, said, “Please have a seat in the living room. I’ll be back shortly.”

Abigail pounded on the floor and pressed her mouth up to a crack between the boards. “Gramma!” she called. Timothy pounded on the floor too.

Zilpha finally said, “Georgia, do you hear that?”

“Yes,” said Georgia. “Must be the television upstairs? Johnson won’t admit it, but he is hard of hearing.” Timothy and Abigail looked at each other in frustration, then continued to shout. But Georgia went on, “Ooh, is that it?” Jack was back. “So small and disgusting. How old did you say the bone was, Johnson?”

“The tests indicate possibly thousands of years,” said Jack. “That’s why I must ask you to put on these gloves,