The Nightmarys (23 page)

said the cards were a clue his father had given

him years ago. A code. Christian Hesselius had

got en his hands on a copy of the Zelda Kite

Mystery and used it to pass the code to his son.

The writing in the book’s margins might have

been the last message Christian had ever given

to his son. That was why it was so important

that Jack retrieve the book from Timothy’s gym

locker.

“Right,” said Timothy. “A few months ago,

when the col ege opened the wal in the

library, Jack learned that the code opened the

safe in the bookshelf. He nal y had access to

his father’s journal. The journal must have

revealed the location of the jawbone.”

“Wel , we know it was at the museum,”

Abigail said. “Would Christian have donated it

to such an obvious place?”

“Sometimes the hardest things to see are

what’s right in front of your face.”

Abigail considered that for a few seconds.

“Jack was at the museum during our eld trip.

Right? You saw him standing in that hal way.

Right? You saw him standing in that hal way.

He watched everything that happened.

Knowing I was angry with each of you, he

cursed you and Stuart and Mr. Crane. Since he

probably cursed me just after I moved here, he

made me think that what was happening to al

of you was my fault.”

With al this cursing, the tooth’s bat ery must

be growing weak, thought Timothy.

Abigail continued. “The Nightmarys. If I

didn’t go with them, each of you would only

get worse and worse. The Nightmarys never

came to visit. Jack just wanted me to think they

had.” She paused. “What I don’t understand is,

how did he know the Nightmarys would have

such power over me?”

“You said it yourself back at the library,”

Timothy answered. “The jawbone gives the

user the ability to read the victim’s mind. He

got inside your head, in uenced you, pushed

the curse in a certain direction.”

“Is Jack doing the same thing to Stuart and

Mr. Crane? And you too?”

Mr. Crane? And you too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s not pushing us so

much. The curse seems to work di erently on

di erent people, doesn’t it? Maybe it depends

on how you handle your fears? Maybe Stuart

and Mr. Crane just freeze up, let it get the best

of them? I know when I get scared, I have to do

something about it. Maybe that’s why I’m not

stuck in a psycho ward.”

Abigail lit up. “I can do that too,” she said.

“What? Go to a psycho ward?”

“No, dummy. Handle it. Do something. Jack

said something like ‘I fear the place where my

end wil come.’ And he’s right. I do fear that.

But how do I stop it from happening?”

“Maybe if we can gure out the place he’s

talking about, it won’t seem so scary?”

Abigail closed her eyes and sighed. “I see a

dark place. It’s wet and cold and I’m alone.”

She looked at Timothy, distraught. “I don’t

know how to not be scared of it.” Timothy took

her hand, and she continued, “I wish we could

ask my grandmother. She’s always been so

ask my grandmother. She’s always been so

good at this kind of thing. And this is al about

her. Isn’t it? That’s why she kept cal ing it her

mess. Jack wanted to hurt her, so he came after

me.”

“In the Zelda Kite books, though,” said

Timothy, “she always beat the bad guy in the

end, right?”

“Yeah.” Abigail’s eyes blazed. She leapt to

her feet. “I never got a chance to read those

books, but I’m pret y sure she kicked his but .”

Outside, tires crunched on gravel and an

engine turned o . Timothy and Abigail glanced

at each other, then ran to the octagonal

window. At the curb, a champagne-colored

Cadil ac had parked. As both the driver’s- and

passenger’s-side doors opened, Abigail gasped.

“What the …?” she said.

“What’s the mat er?” said Timothy. “Who is

it?”Abigail turned to look at him. She wore a

look of pure horror. “That’s Georgia’s car.”

“Who’s Georgia?” Timothy strained to see.

“Who’s Georgia?” Timothy strained to see.

“My next-door neighbor,” said Abigail. “Oh,

no!” At that point, she didn’t need to explain.

Wearing a bright purple kimono, Zilpha

Kindred had conspicuously climbed out of the

passenger door and stood in the middle of Ash

Tree Lane, staring curiously up at the house.

37.

“Your grandmother and Georgia?” said

Timothy. “What are they doing here?”

“Who cares?” Abigail shouted. “They can

help us.” She reached across the desk and

pounded on the window. “Gramma!” She

screamed as loudly as she could. But the old

woman didn’t appear to notice. Abigail turned

to Timothy. “Help me break this glass.”

“With what?”

“Anything. It doesn’t mat er!” said Abigail,

glancing around the room for some object to

smash the window.

Timothy jumped onto the desk. He pul ed his

arm back, then punched his st as hard as he

could against the glass. An explosion of pain

burst up his forearm. He fel o the desk and

landed on his back in a cloud of dust. After a

few seconds, he whispered, “Ouch.”

few seconds, he whispered, “Ouch.”

“Are you okay?” said Abigail, scrambling

over to him.

Timothy’s hand was numb and warm, but he

knew that soon the pain would begin. “No. I—I

think I hurt it bad.”

“We’l get you help,” said Abigail, frantic.

“But rst we have to warn my grandmother.”

She glanced at the window. “Why didn’t the

freakin’ glass break?”

Timothy struggled to sit. He leaned against

the desk’s thick wooden leg. “The curse. It

makes our fears seem real, right? We’re scared

that your grandmother and Georgia won’t hear

us scream.” He grunted as his ngers began to

throb. “Pound on that window as hard as you

want. We can’t pound hard enough.”

Abigail didn’t listen. She leapt onto the desk

and slammed both palms against the glass,

again and again, but when the doorbel buzzed

downstairs, she nal y stopped. Abigail

slumped o the desk and landed next to

Timothy on the floor. “But she’s got to hear us,”

Timothy on the floor. “But she’s got to hear us,”

she said, panting. She sounded defeated, tired,

and in pain. “We have to warn her.”

Timothy waved her quiet as she nal y heard

what he was hearing. The voices were mu ed,

but listening closely, Timothy could make out

the conversation at the front door.

“Why, hel o, Georgie,” said the old man.

“Hi, Johnson,” said Georgia. “I’d like you to

meet my dear friend and neighbor, Zilpha

Kindred.”

“Johnson?” said Timothy. “I thought his

name was Jack Hesselius.”

“He must have changed it or something,” said

Abigail. “Didn’t want to be associated with his

dad?”

“Ah, the famous Johnson Harwood,” said

Abigail’s grandmother. “It is truly a pleasure to

nal y make your acquaintance. Georgia has

been singing your praises for months now.

What a strange coincidence my needing your

help like this.”

help like this.”

“Gramma,” Abigail whispered to no one in

particular.

Timothy closed his eyes and leaned closer to

the floor.

“Georgie’d been tel ing me we must meet,

have dinner, something. But it never

happened,” said the old man jovial y. “I hear

you actual y came to the museum looking for

me,” he continued, “but I wasn’t around that

day.”

“He de nitely was there that day,” said

Timothy. “Liar.”

“He’s Georgia’s boyfriend?” said Abigail, in

shock. “That’s how he knows about me. Eww,

that’s so creepy.”

“The museum must keep you quite busy,”

Zilpha’s voice came through the oor. “Director

is a big job, isn’t it?”

“Never stops,” said the old man.

Abigail grabbed Timothy’s hand. “He’s the

museum director?”

museum director?”

Timothy nodded, enraptured by what he was

learning. “That’s why he was in the basement

during the eld trip. He works there. He was

watching us. Learning.”

“But I’m here now,” Zilpha continued, “so we

can chat and hopeful y conduct the business I

mentioned earlier.”

“Ah,” said the old man. “The jawbone.”

“Yes,” said Zilpha. “The Record mentioned it

in that article about recent donations to the

museum. It wil be perfect for my project.”

“Jawbone?” said Georgia. “What kind of

jawbone?”

“An artifact,” said the old man, “that once

belonged to an ancient human. One of our

more recent acquisitions.”

“Recent acquisitions!” cried Timothy. “See?

Christian didn’t hide the jawbone at the

museum. Since Jack is the museum director, he

must have used his father’s journal to locate the

jawbone. Then he brought it to the museum.”

jawbone. Then he brought it to the museum.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Abigail.

Timothy shook his head.

“How morbid!” Georgia cried.

“It’s not morbid. It’s history.” The old man

forced a laugh. “I’d taken home the bone

earlier this week to examine it more closely.

Coincidental y, curious Mrs. Kindred, here,

came to the museum looking for it. Come on

in, and I’l tel you everything you need to

know.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased!” said Zilpha, her voice

becoming clearer. She was now inside the

foyer. “Maybe you’l let me get my hands on it.

And do cal me Zilpha.”

Abigail and Timothy stared at each other in

shock.

There was a pause. Then the old man said,

“It’s quite delicate, Zilpha.”

“I understand,” she answered. “I’l be gentle.

Obtaining a tactile sense of the object would be

bene cial to the photo project I’m working on.

If you don’t mind, of course.”

If you don’t mind, of course.”

Timothy whispered, “Your grandmother

knows he has the jawbone. She’s trying to get

hold of it.”

“Does she know who he is?” asked Abigail.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“But what’s she want with the jawbone?

She’s not going to curse him with it.”

There was silence downstairs. Then Jack, or

Johnson, or whatever his name was, said,

“Please have a seat in the living room. I’l be

back shortly.”

Abigail pounded on the oor and pressed her

mouth up to a crack between the boards.

“Gramma!” she cal ed. Timothy pounded on

the floor too.

Zilpha nal y said, “Georgia, do you hear

that?”

“Yes,” said Georgia. “Must be the television

upstairs? Johnson won’t admit it, but he is hard

of hearing.” Timothy and Abigail looked at

each other in frustration, then continued to

each other in frustration, then continued to

shout. But Georgia went on, “Ooh, is that it?”

Jack was back. “So smal and disgusting. How

old did you say the bone was, Johnson?”

“The tests indicate possibly thousands of

years,” said Jack. “That’s why I must ask you to

put on these gloves, Zilpha.”

“He’s just going to give it to her?” Timothy

said.

“Like a doctor’s o ce,” Jack joked. No one

laughed. A few more seconds of silence; then

he said, “And here you go. I hope this helps

your photo—”

Georgia screamed.

The old man cried, “What are you doing?”

“I—I’m sorry,” said Zilpha. “It slipped out of

my hands.”

“But, Zil, your shoe!” said Georgia. “You’re

stepping on it! Stop! You’re crushing it!”

“Oh, my,” said Zilpha dramatical y. “I’m such

a klutz. I’m so sorry, Mr. Harwood.”

“Please!” said the old man, his voice stern.

“Please!” said the old man, his voice stern.

“Don’t move! Maybe I can salvage some of it.”

After a moment, he screamed, “Wait!” He

sounded pained. “Now you’ve pulverized it.”

Abigail turned to Timothy, wearing an

enormous smile of comprehension. “That’s

what she came for,” said Timothy. “To destroy

the jawbone and its link to the metal tooth.”

“If she breaks the talisman, the curse wil be

broken too!” said Abigail. “I was so stupid. She

promised me she would finish this herself.”

“Maybe we should go?” suggested Georgia.