The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,54

door?” Abigail whispered.

“I’m not so sure I want to make it to the door now,” said Timothy. “Something on the other side opened it.”

“Yeah, but something on this side wants us to leave.”

Timothy strained his eyes. Small dark shapes shifted beyond the webs, pulling the flimsy curtains away from the walls. Holes grew as the webs stretched to their breaking points. All at once, the dark shapes solidified, became small, childlike bodies. Two figures stepped through the webs, which clung to them like rotting veils. Mary Brown and Mary White? Abigail and Timothy screamed, clutching at each other.

The door swung open. Instead of a tall old man, another girl appeared in the doorway. Her face was a blur. She wore a dress similar to the others’, made of dirty white cobwebs, rags, and lace, tied together with bits of string and knotted twine that dangled past her bare feet. Timothy choked out, “The Nightmarys?” Abigail did not answer, but instead grabbed his arm and stepped forward. None of the girls moved. “How come we’re both seeing them now?”

“Maybe we’re both scared of them now.”

“Get out of here!” Timothy shouted at the girls. “Leave us alone!”

“Shhh,” said the one in the doorway.

Abigail pulled him toward the door. The two figures in the shadows turned like clockwork to watch them move through the room. As Abigail slowly approached the girl who had opened the door, more and more of them appeared behind the patches of web, then stepped through. The room was suddenly crowded, and Timothy was getting claustrophobic. “What … are … we … doing?” Timothy said through a clenched jaw.

“Getting out of here,” Abigail whispered back.

When they were several feet away from the girl in the doorway, she stepped into the hall and held out her hand, as if welcoming them to their doom.

“Should we just walk by?” Timothy asked.

Abigail answered by pulling him forward. Timothy tried not to look as they crept past the creature. He sensed her watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her face shifting, dissolving, and reassembling behind the veil, unable to hold shape, like the figures behind the cobwebs had done before they’d emerged into the room.

Once on the landing, they tried to run toward the stairs, but Timothy lost Abigail’s grip. When he turned around, he realized the figure in the doorway had stepped between them. Remembering how his hands had passed through zombie Ben last night, Timothy wondered how solid the apparitions actually were. He reached out for Abigail, but she slipped away from him. He stumbled, which gave the creature time to block Abigail entirely. But he bolted at the phantom girl anyway. Before he made contact, the rest of the cobwebbed girls rushed through the attic toward the doorway, arms raised, hands reaching, fingers clutching, nails now sharp as talons.

Timothy froze as Abigail screamed, “Stop!” She panted. “They’ll kill you. I know they will, because I’m terrified that they will.” The Nightmarys paused, crowded at the attic door, watching him. Were they only an illusion? They looked so real. “Timothy, run!” Abigail cried.

“I can’t leave you here,” he said.

The girl who was blocking Abigail stepped aside, revealing the small legion of specters waiting beyond the doorframe. The grotesque group broke forward, pushing through the door and onto the landing, immediately separating Timothy from Abigail. Now through their thin cobweb veils he could see their faces, but he couldn’t comprehend what he was looking at, as if his brain wouldn’t let him see. Words couldn’t describe the horror he felt as they raced toward him.

“Get help!” Abigail cried. “Run!”

Inches away, the girls’ claws reached for his throat. Timothy tripped backward down the stairs, caught the railing, and steadied himself. Taking three steps at a time, he made it to the next landing before turning around, but Abigail was gone. In her place, more and more of the wretched creatures streamed from the attic door, barreling down the stairs toward him.

The stairwell filled with the sound of strange chattering, unintelligible static, almost like birdsong, as the Nightmarys communicated to each other in their own secret language. Timothy fell through a doorway behind him: the hall with the closed doors. The mob swiftly approached. Timothy grabbed the nearest knob and turned it. The door swung outward, and he slipped inside a dark closet. He peered around the door but couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs. The chattering came closer, and the floor began to shake as if