The Nightmarys - By Dan Poblocki Page 0,74

other. It made them blind.

Now Timothy saw what he must do.

Carefully avoiding the broken glass at his feet, Timothy stepped out onto the front porch. The sky had turned purple. The light caught wispy clouds on the horizon and painted them pale pink. It would be another beautiful day. “Mr. Crane?” said Timothy. The man would not look at him. “I just want you to know, those things in the jars won’t be watching you anymore.”

His father turned around and glared at Timothy. “Don’t provoke him,” he whispered. Glancing down the street, he said, almost to himself, “Where is the damn ambulance?” The street was quiet. Everyone in the neighborhood was asleep; Timothy finally felt tired enough to do the same. But there was one thing he needed to complete first.

Climbing down the front steps, Timothy said, “I’ll be right back.” He ran toward the garage. He stepped over pieces of the demolished door. Half a day ago, this building had been on fire. Timothy blinked away the memory and focused on his father’s toolbox, which lay on the floor against the rear wall. Buried at the bottom was a heavy hammer.

As he lifted the tool from the box, Timothy thought of Christian Hesselius and his son Jack. They had been his age once. They’d probably thought of themselves as good people. Maybe they had treasured the same things Timothy did. Family. Friends. Home. But then Christian’s and Jack’s lives had changed dramatically, just as Timothy’s had this month. He realized the power of the jawbone upstairs. He thought of how easily he had almost given into the bliss of its persuasiveness.

It was the bone that had taken control of those men and planted a dark seed in their minds. It was the bone that had turned them into monsters. And it was the bone that needed to be destroyed.

This should do it, Timothy thought, clutching the handle of the hammer. He made his way back to the driveway and was about to cross the small path that led to the back door, when he noticed small, dew-wet footprints going up the back steps. The door was already open a crack. Had someone snuck inside?

Timothy clutched the hammer in his right hand, which had begun to ache. The medication was wearing off. He ignored the pain. Using his elbow, he nudged the door the rest of the way open.

“H-hello?” he called into the house.

Timothy crept into the empty kitchen, listening for an answer.

The curse was still alive. Anything he encountered now might only be an illusion. Even though he’d gotten good at handling it, breaking the illusion still took work.

The ceiling creaked. There was someone upstairs.

Or was there?

Timothy wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He quickly crossed through the kitchen and peered into the hallway. Through the front door, he saw his father still sitting with Mr. Crane on the front steps. Neither of them seemed to notice anything wrong. Timothy climbed the stairs, taking two at a time.

His bedroom door at the front of the house was closed. “Hello?” he called again. After a few seconds, he tightened his grip on the hammer and trudged down the hall. When he was halfway there, his door swung open. Timothy froze. “Abigail?” She stood in his doorway, wearing a sheepish expression. “What are you doing?”

She licked her lips. After a few seconds, she answered. “I think the question is, what are you doing, Timothy?” She shifted the cuff of her sweatshirt sleeve slightly. He noticed what she held in her fist, what she was trying to hide. The jawbone.

His mouth went dry. “I … made a mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry I lied. Yes, so I took the jawbone, but I need to finish this now.” He raised the hammer. “We can do it together.”

Abigail shook her head. “How am I supposed to trust you?”

Timothy blushed. He felt awful.

“This thing is powerful,” said Abigail, glancing at what she held in her fist. “I can feel it now. I don’t know if you’re strong enough to resist what it wants you to do.”

“And what would that be?”

“To use it,” said Abigail. She squinted at him, her eyes like lasers. “You were going to use it, Timothy. I know you were.” Timothy didn’t know what to say. She was right. “After everything we’ve gone through? After everything we’ve seen?”

She stepped toward him, as if she had the power to hurt him, as if she might truly want to. She didn’t look quite right. She’d