The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,58
great, spiraling eye watched him. Timothy screamed again. That horrible, laughing screech roared through the walls. Then a booming voice said, “I’m going to eat you, little boy.”
Thinking quickly of the game he used to play with Stuart, Timothy shouted, “But … I’m filled with slime. Totally disgusting. You’d hate me!”
Wide-eyed, the dragon screeched again. “Then I will only stomp you.” The house shook again as the dragon slammed itself against the wall, cracking the plaster and shattering glass past the stove. Timothy clutched the doorframe. As the green monster’s face reeled away from the window, cartoon smoke billowed from its nostrils.
Timothy realized what was coming next but didn’t know what to do. Run upstairs? Hide in the basement? No, he had to get far away from here. Even if he was the only one in his neighborhood who could see this creature, he was afraid that wouldn’t stop the curse.
Through the window, the dragon flared its nostrils and opened its mouth. Then, like a giant disgusting sneeze, red paint streamed forth from its nose. Timothy ducked into the hallway. The paint splashed past him toward the front door.
Seconds later, the red paint became animated licks of flame, coloring the floor, walls, and furniture with graffiti fire.
It’s like a cartoon, thought Timothy. Harmless.
When he noticed the wallpaper beginning to bubble, turn brown, and peel away from the plaster, he changed his mind. The hallway in which he stood was growing hot. He had no idea how to put out a cartoon fire that was well on its way to burning down his house. Timothy peered around the edge of the door. To his horror, there was a giant hole in the kitchen wall, rimmed by red flickering licks of graffiti paint. Flat white smoke was beginning to fill the small room. The dragon was nowhere to be seen.
Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Timothy dashed around the corner into the kitchen and leapt over the growing flames. He barreled out the back door and down the steps. The bushes against the house had also been splattered with paint and were burning. He ran into his backyard away from the flames, glancing around for a sign of another attack.
He heard a creaking sound above him. Looking up, he found the dragon smiling down from the house’s roof. “I have changed my mind,” said the dragon. “I will not stomp you. Instead, I will roast you.” A burst of painted fire bloomed as it shot from the dragon’s mouth. Timothy swiveled and dashed toward the garage, avoiding the splatter of red, which quickly began to smolder and spread, blackening the grass beneath it.
Without hesitation, Timothy careened through the garage’s side door, pulling it shut behind him. Leaning against the door, he had a terrible realization. From where the dragon sat on the house, it had a perfect shot at this building. There had to be a way to stop this.
Looking around, he noticed his father’s golf clubs sitting in the far corner, but those wouldn’t help. The dinged-up red lawn mower was propped against the far wall. Mow him down? thought Timothy. I don’t think so.
Something on a shelf above the mower caught Timothy’s attention: a small tin of turpentine. Paint thinner.
The ground rocked as the dragon’s long body poured from the roof into the yard. Through the side door’s small window, Timothy saw a sea of swirling green serpent, roiling and rolling like ocean waves.
Timothy made for the shelves, sliding on his rear end over the hood of his mother’s car. He reached for the canister, but his fingers grazed it, and it clattered to the ground. When he picked up the tin, his heart sank; only a small bit of liquid sloshed around at the bottom.
“Where did you go, little boy?” said the dragon. “You cannot hide from me.”
He didn’t see me come in here! thought Timothy. At least I have time to—
The huge pinwheel of an eye appeared at the small window. Timothy screamed and tripped over the lawn mower.
“Aha!” chortled the dragon. “Now you die.”
Timothy clutched the nearly empty canister. Scrambling around his mother’s car, he ran toward the side door. In seconds, the garage would be engulfed in red graffiti flame. Would Timothy burn? He kicked the side door open, so hard it banged against the outside wall. Timothy flicked open the turpentine tin’s cap and held it up toward the dragon’s amused face.
“No,” Timothy shouted. “I don’t!” Then he squeezed.
A thin spray shot from the nozzle.