The Nightmarys (11 page)

part, while he spoke, Abigail listened intently,

barely reacting when he got to the most

outrageous and unbelievable parts of the story.

Now she stared at the patchwork quilt

underneath her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth

pressed tight.

pressed tight.

After nearly ve seconds of silence, Timothy

couldn’t take it anymore.

“What do you think?” he said. “Am I crazy?”

Leaning forward, Abigail reached into her

back pocket. She pul ed out her silver lighter,

ipped open the lid, and brushed her nger

against the int wheel. Flame bloomed in her

st. She stared at it for a few seconds, then said,

“If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy too.” What was

that supposed to mean?

The ame wicking at the tip of the lighter

was hypnotic. “Have you ever seen anything

like what I’ve seen?” he said.

To his surprise, Abigail clicked the lighter

closed, squeezed her eyes shut, then nodded

quickly. But before he could even respond, she

exclaimed, “Shoot! I have to rinse this junk out

of my hair.” She slid o the bed and raced

toward the door. Hepzibah woke up, gave a

short bark, and chased her out of the room. A

moment later, Timothy fol owed.

In the bathroom, Abigail had her head

In the bathroom, Abigail had her head

underneath the bathtub faucet. When she

turned the water o , Timothy asked, “Do you

think your gramma has something to do with

al of this?” She ignored him, hiding

underneath a towel, using it to rub her head

dry. “Abigail,” Timothy began again, speaking

slowly so she could understand the importance

of what he was saying, “I can’t shake this

feeling that something terrible is about to

happen. I need to do something about it. If you

know something, please … tel me.”

She stopped drying her hair. Final y, she

pul ed the towel away. For a brief moment,

Timothy thought he was looking at a brand-

new person, someone he’d never met before.

Her hair was purple-black. It completely

obscured her face, like a ghost in a scary movie,

and when she brushed her hair to the side, she

didn’t look at him. “Wait here,” she said. “I’l

be back.”

A few seconds later, she returned. She

showed him a Polaroid picture of her bedroom.

showed him a Polaroid picture of her bedroom.

“Have you ever heard of an author named

Nathaniel Olmstead?”

“Yeah,” said Timothy, unsure what the author

had to do with the Polaroid. “I’ve read some of

his books. Total y creepy.”

“I used to be obsessed with them. My favorite

was The Revenge of the Nightmarys.”

“I didn’t read that one.”

“It was about this gang of evil ghost girls. The

book was so popular, they came out with

trading cards. I col ected them al .”

“I saw those once at the comic-book store

with Stuart,” said Timothy, handing the photo

back to Abigail. Suddenly, Timothy felt guilty,

like he should be at the hospital. “I think he

actual y bought a pack. What do they have to

do with anything?”

She plopped herself down on the edge of the

bathtub and pul ed the lighter out of her

pocket. She lit it. “My father’s lighter,” she said.

“I wanted him to stop smoking, so I stole it

from him before we left New Jersey. I didn’t

from him before we left New Jersey. I didn’t

actual y think it would change anything. Fire is

one of the easiest things in the world to nd. I

guess it was more of a symbolic gesture?” The

ame ickered as she breathed on it. “Like, if

he realized that I was the one who took it from

him, he might know that I stil think about him

every day, and even though we don’t see each

other anymore, the fact that I stole it would

mat er to him so much that he would stop

smoking altogether…. Stupid.” She held the

ame underneath the Polaroid. The paper

slowly caught re. “The funny thing is, he

hasn’t mentioned that it’s missing.” She tossed

the photograph into the bathtub behind her,

where it curled up, black and dead. Seconds

later, the ame zzled out in a hiss of weak

smoke.

Abigail nal y looked up again. Her newly

black hair hung down at either side of her face.

Her eyes seemed to change, to sharpen. She

smiled, and whispered, “I’m such an idiot.” She

waited a moment, then, as if an afterthought,

hitched a quick breath and added, “I thought I

hitched a quick breath and added, “I thought I

could hide.”

That last sentence gave Timothy chil s.

“Hide?” he said. “From who?”

“That’s the real reason I dyed my hair.”

“You dyed your hair to hide from your

father?”

“No, Timothy. I’m tel ing you something else

now. You told me, and now I’m tel ing you.”

“Tel ing me what?”

“About the Nightmarys.”

18.

Growing up in Clifton, New Jersey, Abigail

Tremens actual y had friends—not many, but

enough to keep busy after school.

Things changed the summer before sixth

grade, when two new girls moved into Abigail’s

neighborhood. They both happened to be

named Mary. Oddly, Mary Brown was white,

and Mary White was black; they were both

beautiful. The two Marys formed an immediate

bond. They liked the same music and food and

clothes. They seemed to know each other’s

thoughts. Abigail had never shared anything

quite like it with any of her friends, and she

wondered what it might feel like to be that

close with someone.

At the beginning of September that year, the

two Marys began to make their mark at Clifton

Middle School. For some reason, they ignored

Abigail. Unfortunately, the girls in her class

Abigail. Unfortunately, the girls in her class

listened when the Marys spoke. The boys with

whom Abigail usual y played games after

school stopped inviting her to join in. Abigail

began to feel as invisible as air. Soon she was

sit ing by herself at lunch and walking home

from school alone. Together, the Marys were an

entity, the likes of which Abigail had never

seen before. She didn’t like it, and she decided

she didn’t like them. So Abigail gave them a

taste of their own medicine.

She made up a nasty name for the two girls:

the Nightmarys, of course. To Abigail’s horror,

the girls liked it, and it stuck. They wore it like

a badge of honor. Abigail quickly grew tired of

the nickname. The Nightmarys request your

at ention during lunch period, Janet Holm had

told Harriet Lincoln during English class. The

Nightmarys told me I look pret y today, Beth

Reid cooed to herself in the bathroom mirror.

The Nightmarys told me to tel you that they’re

having a party, and you’re not invited, Mike

Swenson had cruel y informed Abigail one

Friday afternoon. She’d gone home in tears.

Friday afternoon. She’d gone home in tears.

In March of the next year, Abigail learned

that she and her mother would leave Clifton for

New Starkham. When they arrived at her new

home, Abigail realized that she had nal y

managed to get away from the Nightmarys—

something she had wished for the past two

years. Despite everything else, she was happy

about that.

She had been at Paul Revere Middle School for

a week when it started.

One night, while nishing her homework in

her bedroom, Abigail saw movement through

her window. A blur of white. Outside was a

stretch of patio. Something had crossed it.

Abigail bolted upright on her mat ress. After a

few moments of quiet, she dismissed the

movement as a seagul . There were plenty of

those in New Starkham.

But the next night, it happened again. A lit le

after midnight, she awoke to a soft tapping on

after midnight, she awoke to a soft tapping on

glass. Before she even opened her eyes, Abigail

feared what she would see at the window—two

faces, smiling at her. Instead of looking, Abigail

crawled out of bed, shielding her eyes as she

made her way to the hal way. She shu ed to

her grandmother’s bedroom and slipped under

the covers next to her.

Over a bowl of cereal, it was easier to toss o

these occurrences as being in uenced by the

dark and the unfamiliar. Her mind was playing

tricks on her. She was only nervous that there

were “Nightmarys” at her new school. Things

would work themselves out if she continued to

be invisible, something she was already good

at. At school during the day, she stayed by

herself, tried to be inconspicuous. At night, she

tucked her blanket over her head.

It worked … until the night she awoke to

nd the two girls standing in the corner of her

room near the record player. This time, she

could see them much more clearly. They

looked like the girls from Clifton, but they

looked like the girls from Clifton, but they

were also di erent, as if half sisters with the

creatures from the Nightmarys trading-card

col ection. Their hair hung limply from their

heads. Their feet were bare. They wore

matching dirty white lace dresses, which hung

from their thin bodies like sacks. Abigail

cringed in her bed, too frightened now to even

make a sound. The spot where their faces

should have been was simply blurry, like a shot

of fast motion caught on stil lm. When

Abigail stared too long, she saw things in the

blur—things that should not have existed in

place of their eyes, nose, and mouth—things

too disturbing for her to later recal .

“Don’t shout,” said one. Mary Brown’s voice.

“We want to be your friends,” said the other.

Mary White.

“I—I,” Abigail managed to stammer, trying to

keep them at bay. “I don’t want any friends.

Please, leave me alone.”

The girls laughed as they stepped forward.

“But we’re lonely,” said Mary White.

“But we’re lonely,” said Mary White.

“Remember what that feels like, Abigail?”

said Mary Brown. “Come play our game.” Their

voices were hypnotizing.

“But it’s the middle of the night. My mom

would hear.”

“We’l take care of your mother … and your

grandmother.” The way the girls spoke

snapped Abigail wide awake.

She grabbed a book she’d been reading

before bed from the nightstand. “Stay away

from them,” she shouted, and threw the book at

the descending shadows. When the book hit the

far wal with a thump, Abigail realized that the

girls were no longer there. She quickly turned

on the bedside lamp and l ed the darkness

with light.

Since then, Abigail slept with the lights on.

This, however, did not stop the girls from

coming back. Again and again. Begging her to

fol ow them into the night. To play their game.

To be their friend.

19.

Abigail continued to sit on the edge of the

bathtub, icking the lighter on and o . Her hair

hung in front of her face. It was nearly dry now.

Timothy felt a chil as he leaned against the

sink.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” Abigail said.

Timothy shook his head. She pointed at the

crumpled black paper in the bathtub. “I took

that picture last night, with Gramma’s camera.