The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,70

your father. That was not my intention.”

“Sorry?” said Harwood, surprised.

“Yes,” said Zilpha, frantic. “I feel sorry about what happened every day of my life. To your family. To Delia. To everyone else involved in this whole disaster.”

“I …” Harwood seemed stunned, as if this was one development he truly had not considered possible. Timothy almost felt sorry for him—in a totally pathetic, “he still deserves everything that’s coming to him” sort of way.

Behind Harwood, the corpse was headed toward the small group huddled at the cliff edge. Its hair whipped against its face in the wind. Its rags rustled like a tattered flag, raised after a fiery battle. Lifting its arms, the creature shuffled forward along the path. Harwood was oblivious to its approach.

The creature came closer. If it reached past Harwood for them, Timothy was prepared to leap into the river. We might survive, he thought.

Harwood came at them. Flashlights arched like shooting stars at the top the stairs. The police. “Down here!” cried Timothy.

Harwood turned around in surprise.

Zilpha whispered, “Timothy, no!”

Before Timothy could respond, Harwood had spun on them, a wicked gleam in his eye. He’d seen the creature, which was less than ten feet away. “Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s awake.” He stepped aside, off the path. Now nothing separated the trio from the shuffling corpse. It opened its mouth.

The flashlights had begun the long descent down the stairs.

Zilpha hugged Abigail tightly. “Abigail … Timothy … close your eyes.”

But Timothy did not close his eyes. The corpse stopped along the path, turned, and faced Mr. Harwood. The old man’s smile dropped away. “What are you doing?” he said. “Get the girl!” The corpse reached for Harwood’s throat. He tried to duck away, but the creature was too quick. It grabbed the old man with its bony fingers, then jerked Harwood’s face close to its own. The corpse attached its mouth to the old man’s in a revolting kiss. Harwood opened his eyes wide as he realized what was happening to him. He struggled to push the thing away, but the corpse lifted the old man off the ground. Harwood emitted a pained howl. Timothy wanted to believe that, if it was Delia’s soul that still faintly charged the corpse, this was her version of revenge.

A harsh sucking noise came from the direction of the struggle. Timothy watched in revulsion as Harwood’s skin became black and shriveled, as if burning under an invisible flame. The man’s wide eyes sank into their sockets and disappeared. Where his mouth met the corpse, a cold light began to glow. Harwood’s gray overcoat seemed to deflate as, bit by bit, the body inside crumbled to the ground. Terrified, Timothy finally covered his eyes. Something crunched into the bushes near the lighthouse. A few seconds later, the only sound he heard was the rushing of the water against the rocks below. When he looked again, the path appeared to be empty.

“Follow me,” said Zilpha, stepping toward the lighthouse. Several feet ahead, two piles of bones littered the ground. One pile lay inside the large gray overcoat. The other was barely covered by tattered black rags.

“Is it over?” Timothy asked.

“The corpse … fed,” said Abigail quietly.

46.

The flashlights finally bobbed at the base of the stairs, a hundred yards away. The police were running toward them.

“Are you folks all right?” An officer blocked their path, shining her flashlight at them.

Zilpha swiftly stepped in front of the piles of bones. “We are now,” she answered.

Zilpha held Abigail’s hand and spoke with the officers. Standing several feet back, Timothy glanced down at what was left of the two bodies.

In the creature’s skull, something small glimmered much brighter than before. He bent down to get a closer look. Deep inside the jawbone’s single sharp black tooth, a golden light flickered. Remembering the myths of the chaos cult, he imagined that this new glow was the soul of Mr. Harwood. The bone had been charged, its power rejuvenated. If the scary things Timothy had experienced this past week had been the time-weakened results of the corpse’s long-ago last meal, a fresh soul might make the jawbone infinitely more dangerous. Reaching out with his one barely able hand, Timothy poked the jawbone, almost expecting the skull to clamp its mouth shut. But the life had gone out of the monster. He figured it would spark only if the corpse was returned to the crypt, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen.

Quickly, Timothy plucked the jawbone from