The Nightmarys (26 page)

the window, cartoon smoke bil owed from its

nostrils.

Timothy realized what was coming next but

didn’t know what to do. Run upstairs? Hide in

the basement? No, he had to get far away from

the basement? No, he had to get far away from

here. Even if he was the only one in his

neighborhood who could see this creature, he

was afraid that wouldn’t stop the curse.

Through the window, the dragon ared its

nostrils and opened its mouth. Then, like a

giant disgusting sneeze, red paint streamed

forth from its nose. Timothy ducked into the

hal way. The paint splashed past him toward

the front door.

Seconds later, the red paint became animated

licks of ame, coloring the oor, wal s, and

furniture with graf iti fire.

It’s like a cartoon, thought Timothy.

Harmless.

When he noticed the wal paper beginning to

bubble, turn brown, and peel away from the

plaster, he changed his mind. The hal way in

which he stood was growing hot. He had no

idea how to put out a cartoon re that was

wel on its way to burning down his house.

Timothy peered around the edge of the door.

To his horror, there was a giant hole in the

To his horror, there was a giant hole in the

kitchen wal , rimmed by red ickering licks of

gra ti paint. Flat white smoke was beginning

to fil the smal room. The dragon was nowhere

to be seen.

Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Timothy

dashed around the corner into the kitchen and

leapt over the growing ames. He barreled out

the back door and down the steps. The bushes

against the house had also been splat ered with

paint and were burning. He ran into his

backyard away from the ames, glancing

around for a sign of another at ack.

He heard a creaking sound above him.

Looking up, he found the dragon smiling down

from the house’s roof. “I have changed my

mind,” said the dragon. “I wil not stomp you.

Instead, I wil roast you.” A burst of painted fire

bloomed as it shot from the dragon’s mouth.

Timothy swiveled and dashed toward the

garage, avoiding the splat er of red, which

quickly began to smolder and spread,

blackening the grass beneath it.

blackening the grass beneath it.

Without hesitation, Timothy careened

through the garage’s side door, pul ing it shut

behind him. Leaning against the door, he had a

terrible realization. From where the dragon sat

on the house, it had a perfect shot at this

building. There had to be a way to stop this.

Looking around, he noticed his father’s golf

clubs sit ing in the far corner, but those

wouldn’t help. The dinged-up red lawn mower

was propped against the far wal . Mow him

down? thought Timothy. I don’t think so.

Something on a shelf above the mower

caught Timothy’s at ention: a smal tin of

turpentine. Paint thinner.

The ground rocked as the dragon’s long body

poured from the roof into the yard. Through

the side door’s smal window, Timothy saw a

sea of swirling green serpent, roiling and

rol ing like ocean waves.

Timothy made for the shelves, sliding on his

rear end over the hood of his mother’s car. He

reached for the canister, but his ngers grazed

reached for the canister, but his ngers grazed

it, and it clat ered to the ground. When he

picked up the tin, his heart sank; only a smal

bit of liquid sloshed around at the bot om.

“Where did you go, lit le boy?” said the

dragon. “You cannot hide from me.”

He didn’t see me come in here! thought

Timothy. At least I have time to—

The huge pinwheel of an eye appeared at the

smal window. Timothy screamed and tripped

over the lawn mower.

“Aha!” chortled the dragon. “Now you die.”

Timothy clutched the nearly empty canister.

Scrambling around his mother’s car, he ran

toward the side door. In seconds, the garage

would be engulfed in red gra ti ame. Would

Timothy burn? He kicked the side door open,

so hard it banged against the outside wal .

Timothy icked open the turpentine tin’s cap

and held it up toward the dragon’s amused

face.

“No,” Timothy shouted. “I don’t!” Then he

squeezed.

squeezed.

A thin spray shot from the nozzle. The liquid

was not much, but Timothy managed to shoot

it directly into the monster’s wild eyes. For a

few seconds, the creature blinked, as if in

shock, then began to wail. It twisted its body

into tight coils, writhing in pain. When it

opened its eyes again, the black-and-white

spirals, which had moments earlier been

spinning like a hypnotist’s trick, were melting

in tears down the creature’s green face.

“I cannot see,” cried the dragon. “You are a

powerful sorcerer.”

“Damn straight,” said Timothy. “I’m a

powerful …” He immediately regret ed saying

anything, because the dragon fol owed his voice

and spit buckets of ame in his direction.

Timothy spun into the garage again, just

missing being drenched in red paint, which hit

the clapboard instead. He watched as the

garage’s wal went up in flickering curls of red.

He had an idea. He ran around to the driver’s

door of his mother’s car. He opened it and

door of his mother’s car. He opened it and

hopped in. The key was stil in the ignition

from the night before, when he’d moved the car

for his father. He turned the key, and the

engine sparked to life. Timothy grappled with

the gearshift, ipping it into reverse the way

his father had often showed him.

Outside, the dragon ailed, knocking itself

against what remained of the house. The sound

of splintering wood rang out into the early

evening. Screaming in pain, the creature

wrapped its tail around the oak tree that

separated Timothy’s and Stuart’s yards, then

began to pound its weight against the ground in

waves.

It felt as though an earthquake was rat ling

the hil . Timothy was so shaken he could barely

keep his foot aligned with the gas pedal. Stil ,

he managed to slam it to the oor. The tires

squealed, and the car shot backward, crashing

into the garage door. To Timothy’s surprise, the

large wooden door broke away from the frame

in several large pieces. Timothy forced the car

in several large pieces. Timothy forced the car

over the rubble and out of the burning

building. His father would have a t when he

came home and saw this mess.

At the sound of the car squealing into the

driveway, the dragon’s head rose high above

the yard. Its blind eyes were useless, but it

could hear ne. It jolted forward across the

smal path between the garage and the house.

Timothy didn’t wait for the creature to find him

—he gunned the gas and ew down the

driveway into the street. Swinging the wheel to

the right, he pointed the front of the car down

the hil . Then he shifted into drive. He pul ed

away from the spot so quickly he left black

marks on the pavement.

When Timothy glanced in the rearview

mirror, the smoldering, ruined house shrank

with the distance. He quickly approached the

intersection at Edgehil Road. The smashed

staircase was directly in front of him. If he

didn’t brake soon, he’d simply y over the cli .

Somehow, his foot found its way to the other

Somehow, his foot found its way to the other

pedal, and he managed to pause for a moment

at the stop sign. With another quick glance up

the hil , he saw the creature slithering blindly

into the middle of the road, its mouth open

wide in frustration, its whiskers whipping

wildly.

If he hadn’t almost peed in his pants, he

would have thought that was pret y cool.

40.

Timothy drove quickly, steadily. He kept close

to the guardrail. His brain was so fried, he

couldn’t remember which turn led to his

father’s garage, so he went south on Edgehil

Road toward the col ege’s main campus and the

Taft Bridge, wiping tears and snot from his

upper lip.

It was get ing quite dark out now, so he

ipped on the headlights. Final y, the wooded

slope on the right was replaced by several

smal houses. Then Timothy saw the tal , dark

silhouet e of a building rising beyond the

bridge entrance, across from the campus’s main

gate—the Mayfair.

At the bridge intersection, Timothy drove

through a stoplight. A few cars honked their

horns, and he was shocked back to reality. Now

that he was surrounded by tra c, he was

terri ed that he might smash into someone or

terri ed that he might smash into someone or

something. He took his foot o the gas, and as

the hil began to slope upward, the car slowed.

More vehicles coming o the bridge honked

their horns. Timothy pressed his foot down,

and the car jerked forward.

“Come on,” he said. “Only a lit le farther.”

Steadying the wheel, Timothy drove up the

center of Shut er Avenue, staying clear of the

cars parked on either side of the road. The

Mayfair was on his right.

The street was ful . No room for parking.

Timothy simply stopped next to a smal red

sports car, shoved the gearshift into park, and

turned o the engine. He grabbed the keys

from the ignition. When he opened the driver’s

door, a speeding truck wailed its horn as it

drove by. Timothy waved an apology and

climbed out of the car. Shaking, he stared up at

the tal building, then crossed the sidewalk into

the main garden.

Ahead, the spidery iron door swung open.

Inside stood the uniformed man Timothy had

Inside stood the uniformed man Timothy had

met earlier that week. The man smiled, but as

Timothy limped closer, the man’s expression

changed. “You okay, lit le dude?”

“I—I need to see Mrs. Kindred.”

“Sure,” said the doorman. “Just let me give

her a cal .” He headed toward his desk, but

Timothy didn’t wait. He crossed through the

large empty lobby toward the elevator bank.

“Hey, hold up, kid,” said the doorman. But

Timothy had already hit the but on. The

elevator door immediately opened, so he

slipped inside.

As the car took him swiftly upward, he

worried that Jack might be visiting Zilpha’s

neighbor, Georgia. Or maybe he had returned

for Zilpha herself? Timothy wondered what

he’d do if he found an open door, an empty

apartment, signs of struggle, or worse….

Moments later, at the top oor, Timothy had

to force himself to step out into the smal

hal way. To his relief, there was no gra ti,

cobwebs, or creepy lit le girls waiting for him.

cobwebs, or creepy lit le girls waiting for him.

He crossed quickly to the big black door

marked 16B.

Timothy knocked, quietly at rst, then harder

as he waited. He began to worry that no one

was home. Then deep inside the apartment, he

heard the sound of barking. Long ngernails

clicked against the wood oor. The lit le dog,

Hepzibah, skit ered toward him. She sni ed at

the bot om of the door. Final y, the old

woman’s voice, shaking and tired, said, “Who’s

here, Hep?”

“It’s me,” Timothy cried. “I need your help!”

The old woman opened the door, her brow

crinkled. She wore the same purple kimono

he’d seen her in from the octagonal window on

Ash Tree Lane, now with a green silk scarf tied

around her head. “Come in,” she said

immediately. “Mario said someone was coming

up. But I didn’t expect …” She shook her head

in disbelief. “What happened to you?”

Timothy slinked through the doorway, trying

not to col apse. “Abigail’s gone. Jack …

not to col apse. “Abigail’s gone. Jack …

Johnson Harwood took her. He has the

jawbone. He’s cursed me and her, and probably

you too. He’s planning on using Abigail to

charge the … corpse. We need to nd her

before it’s too late.”