The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,66

happen to Zilpha on the stairs? Would Jack—Johnson Harwood—find her on his way back up? He wanted to curl into a ball and go to sleep. Dreamless sleep.

Behind him, Abigail began to emit a garbled sound from behind her gag, and that brought him back to reality. “Ack—Ahh—Ket,” she said. He followed her voice in the darkness and nearly tripped over her.

“Oh my gosh, Abigail, are you okay?” He reached out and touched her shoulder. Her arms were yanked backward and her wrists were bound around the wooden pole. “Here, I’ll untie you.” He managed to pull the gag away from her mouth, but the rope around her wrists was stringy and tight. He couldn’t even tell where to begin.

“Back pocket,” Abigail croaked.

“What have you got …?” Then he remembered. Her lighter. The one she’d stolen from her father in New Jersey.

A Light in the Darkness. Of course.

He felt a small square lump tucked snugly into Abigail’s jeans. He reached into her pocket with the index finger of his good hand and scooped the lighter up and out. It clattered to the ground. He blindly sorted through the pile of rubble, pushing the thought of old bones out of his head. He located a warm metallic object and picked it up. “I found it,” he said. “What do I do? If I light it, I’ll burn you!”

“Try,” said Abigail, her voice wavering desperately.

“Okay.” He flipped the lighter’s lid open. Positioning it under Abigail’s wrists, he said, “Pull your arms as far apart as possible.” Then he pressed the flint switch.

A yellow spark lit up the darkness, then went out. From where Timothy sat, in that brief moment, he thought he saw a tall, thin figure standing in the corner of the chamber. A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t mention the sight to Abigail. He simply tried the flint again. It was harder now since his hands were shaking. Another spark, longer this time. Another glimpse of the figure. Now it was closer, maybe fifteen feet away. Timothy was certain he could hear the shuffling of skin against the wet stone.

“Hurry,” said Abigail.

Trembling, Timothy flicked the lighter again. This time, the flame caught hold, and shadows danced all around the room. Now the figure was closer, and Timothy could see it clearly. Its dirty white hair fell across its skeletal face, past its wide shoulders. Sinewy muscle clung to its jutting bones. Ragged robes, mere black tatters, draped the creature’s torso. It seemed to wobble as it shuffled closer to the wooden column. It held its arms toward them, its long fingers tensed, as if anticipating a large meal. Is that Delia? he thought. Abigail groaned. Timothy didn’t know whether she noticed the creature or if the flame was biting her skin. Just a few seconds longer …

The creature continued forward, bringing a horrible stench with it. Finally, Timothy could see its face. Its eye sockets were empty, and its mouth was already open. In its bottom jaw glinted a single sharp black tooth.

No, Timothy now knew, that’s not Delia. I’m crouching on what’s left of Delia. Full moon’s outside. That thing is the Daughter of Chaos….

The cobweb cords snapped, and Abigail leapt to her feet. Timothy dropped the lighter. The room was again pitched into darkness. He imagined the creature slowly closing the distance. He stood up, reaching for Abigail’s arm. She hugged him tightly, then whispered, “Where’s the lighter?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It fell somewhere over here.”

Together, they bent down, sweeping the ground near the column. “Got it,” said Abigail, seconds later. Timothy heard the top flip open, then saw a spark as Abigail once again lit the flame.

“Watch out!” he cried.

The creature was directly behind Abigail, outstretched fingers nearly at her neck. He pulled her away, around the other side of the wooden column. The flame disappeared again. When he took Abigail’s hand, he felt the closed lighter in her palm. Together, they lurched toward the large iron door.

Abigail whispered, sounding frantic. “I remember being surrounded by the Nightmarys. Next thing I knew, I was tied to that column. Mr. Harwood was shining a flashlight into a darker corner of the room. Whatever bone Gramma crushed was a fake. He took the real jawbone out of his pocket, whispered something, and plugged it into that thing’s skull. I was so scared….” Her voice wavered. “I tried to do what you said, handle my fear. But it didn’t work, Timothy.”

“That’s because you were really tied there,”