The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,57
concerned. “That was quite a tumble.” Could she not see the creature approaching swiftly up the hill across her neighbors’ lawns? Of course not, Timothy thought, flipping over and crawling up the steps. Lucky woman. She hadn’t been cursed by an evil lunatic with a magical jawbone.
It’s not real! Timothy screamed inside his head, trying desperately to assure himself that if he glanced over his shoulder, the Dragon Stairs would be intact, and the only thing racing across the damp lawns of Beech Nut Street would be a cool evening breeze. As he ran across the porch for the front door, he tried to come up with an actual solution to defeat the monster if his brain wouldn’t let him think his way out of it. Before he grappled with the front doorknob, another screeching roar shook him, rustling his hair, his clothes, his bones. Timothy couldn’t help but turn around.
The dragon had made its way to Timothy’s house, tapping hundreds of silver claws, the foremost of which were now inching slowly up the base of the driveway. Its black eyes spun, trying to capture his attention.
Timothy had an idea. He called to Mrs. Mendelson, who was now crossing her lawn carrying a small pile of mail, “Nice day, don’t you think?”
His neighbor stopped and turned around, surprised. “Oh, it was lovely,” she said. “I hope you were able to spend some time outside after the awful weather we had this week.”
The dragon paused a few feet up the driveway, confused by their conversation. The rest of its cartoonlike body wriggled all the way down the block. At the stop sign, its sharp green tail flicked. The dragon was angry at being interrupted.
“Yeah, actually,” said Timothy, trying to steady his voice, his heart still thumping so hard in his chest that it hurt, “I got to do some serious running around.” He leaned against the doorknob, trying with his good hand to turn it. But it was locked. He pressed the doorbell. Inside, the chimes rang, but that was all. His dad wasn’t home. Timothy had left his bag behind and didn’t have his key.
“Well, good for you,” said Mrs. Mendelson. “I wish I still had the energy for running around. This is the most exercise I’ve gotten all week.” She waved the mail above her head, turned around, and continued across her front yard. “Good night, Timothy,” she called over her shoulder.
The dragon seemed to smile, lowering its head, resuming its ascent up his driveway.
“Wait!” Timothy answered. The old woman paused. “Mrs. Mendelson, do you have a key to my house? I accidentally locked myself out.”
“Hmm,” she said, “that’s a good question.” She stared at the sky, racking her brain for an answer. “I know I have some neighborhood keys, but I don’t think your parents ever gave—”
The dragon was too close now for Timothy to wait for her response. Its claws click-clacked their way farther up the pavement, halfway to the house’s front walk. Its scales glistened with painted violet highlights. Puffs of white cartoonish smoke—outlined with thick black graffiti strokes—wafted from its flared nostrils.
Timothy noticed a dirt-filled plaster pot that his mother had recently placed on the front porch, with the intention of filling it with pansies. The planter was heavy, and his injured hand begged him to stop, but he managed to lift it, then shuffled toward the bay window in his mother’s piano room. With a great heave, Timothy tossed the pot through the window, shattering the glass onto the Victorian love seat just inside. Ignoring Mrs. Mendelson’s shriek, Timothy leapt through the opening, tearing his jeans on the jagged bottom edge. He tumbled onto the floor next to the planter. Without looking back, he jumped up and barreled into the foyer, where the phone sat on the side table. He snatched it from its cradle and reached into his pocket for the scrap of envelope with Zilpha’s phone number on it.
His hands shook as he tried to dial her number. Timothy noticed a splash of green dash around the side of the house. He spun, trying to keep it in sight, but it quickly disappeared. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he whispered as the phone rang. Then the line went dead. Timothy fell against the nearest wall.
Something hit the back of the house. Every piece of furniture shifted two inches closer to the front door. Timothy screamed. He dropped the phone and crept toward the kitchen. Through the window above the table, one