The Nightmarys (31 page)

everything that’s coming to him” sort of way.

Behind Harwood, the corpse was headed

toward the smal group huddled at the cli

edge. Its hair whipped against its face in the

wind. Its rags rustled like a tat ered ag, raised

after a ery bat le. Lifting its arms, the creature

shu ed 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

spun on them, a wicked gleam in his eye. He’d

seen the creature, which was less than ten feet

away. “Wel , wel ,” he said. “Look who’s

awake.” He stepped aside, o the path. Now

nothing separated the trio from the shu ing

corpse. It opened its mouth.

The ashlights 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 ngers, then jerked

Harwood’s face close to its own. The corpse

at ached 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

struggled to push the thing away, but the

corpse lifted the old man o the ground.

Harwood emit ed a pained howl. Timothy

wanted to believe that, if it was Delia’s soul

that stil 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

ame. 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 de ate as,

bit by bit, the body inside crumbled to the

ground. Terri ed, Timothy nal y 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.

“Fol ow me,” said Zilpha, stepping toward

the lighthouse. Several feet ahead, two piles of

the lighthouse. Several feet ahead, two piles of

bones lit ered the ground. One pile lay inside

the large gray overcoat. The other was barely

covered by tat ered black rags.

“Is it over?” Timothy asked.

“The corpse … fed,” said Abigail quietly.

46.

The ashlights nal y bobbed at the base of the

stairs, a hundred yards away. The police were

running toward them.

“Are you folks al right?” An o cer 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

o cers. Standing several feet back, Timothy

glanced down at what was left of the two

bodies.

In the creature’s skul , something smal

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 ickered. Remembering the myths of the

chaos cult, he imagined that this new glow was

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 in nitely more dangerous.

Reaching out with his one barely able hand,

Timothy poked the jawbone, almost expecting

the skul to clamp its mouth shut. But the life

had gone out of the monster. He gured it

would spark only if the corpse was returned to

the crypt, and he was pret y sure that wasn’t

going to happen.

Quickly, Timothy plucked the jawbone from

the creature. It came away easily. Zilpha would

probably stil want to destroy it. He shoved it

into his jacket pocket for her. Then, staring at

the gray remains buried under the nearby

overcoat, Timothy had an idea.

After nearly fteen minutes of questions, the

police nal y led Zilpha, Abigail, and Timothy

police nal y led Zilpha, Abigail, and Timothy

back up the long flight of stairs.

When it came to their story, Timothy and

Abigail had fol owed Zilpha’s lead. She had

explained to the police that Mr. Harwood had

kidnapped her granddaughter and held her in

the vault underneath the lighthouse. She

mentioned that they might nd another body

down there.

“Did you see which direction this Mr.

Harwood ran?” asked one of icer.

“No,” Zilpha answered, “he simply

disappeared.”

The police examined the bones scat ered

across the gravel path. Timothy knew it would

only be a mat er of time before they discovered

Harwood’s wal et or car keys or something to

identify him. Then the mystery would begin for

them.

As for Timothy, Abigail, and Zilpha, they

final y had their answers.

At the top of the stairs, Timothy found his

father pacing. When he noticed Timothy, he

father pacing. When he noticed Timothy, he

raced forward and lifted his son into his arms.

He squeezed Timothy so hard that for a second,

Timothy couldn’t breathe.

His father told him that when he’d got en

home from Saturday-evening services at the

church, he’d found the front window smashed

by the planter, the garage door completely

destroyed, and his wife’s car stolen. He’d

immediately cal ed the police, worried that

Timothy might be in trouble. The police had

already received reports of a boy driving a car

west across the bridge.

“What about the rest of the house?” Timothy

asked, trying to change the subject.

“What do you mean?” said his dad. “The rest

of the house is fine … isn’t it?”

“Oh … yeah,” said Timothy. “I was just

wondering.” He’d known the jawbone’s curse

had created the dragon, but until now, he

hadn’t known where the line between fantasy

and reality had been drawn. When it came to

the curse, the trick lay in tel ing the di erence

the curse, the trick lay in tel ing the di erence

between the two. The dragon had been

imaginary; Timothy driving the car through the

garage door, however, had been very real. The

Nightmarys at Harwood’s house had been

imaginary; the incomplete corpse below the

lighthouse had been genuine. But in the

moment, Timothy had been helpless to stop his

imagination from taking control. He racked his

brain, trying to think of what he could tel his

father about why he’d taken the car. But before

he had a chance to think, his father gasped.

“Your hand is swol en!”

“Yeah. It kinda hurts.”

“Can you move it?”

Timothy shook his head.

“We’ve got to get you to the emergency

room,” said Mr. July, glancing around for an

of icer. “What happened down there?”

“Um … That’s hard to explain.”

47.

A few hours later, Timothy sat on his bed,

staring out the window. The stars in the sky

were beginning to fade as dawn became a faint

idea above the city along the eastern horizon.

He was exhausted and had tried several times

since arriving home from the hospital to lie

down and sleep, but his brain raced and kept

him awake. Every creak in the house, every

popping pipe and boiler hum, made Timothy

brace himself for a new strange at ack.

Abigail and Zilpha had accompanied

Timothy and his father to the emergency room.

While they al waited, Mr. July and Zilpha

continued their discussion with the police.

Making sure no one was watching, Timothy

reached into his pocket and pul ed out what

he’d taken from the gravel path. He discreetly

handed it to Abigail and whispered, “Your

grandmother’s been looking for this for such a

grandmother’s been looking for this for such a

long time. I didn’t think we should leave it

there.”

“Oh my God,” said Abigail. “I was so happy

to be out of that place, I forgot.” Tentatively,

she took the bone, then gave Timothy a curious

look. “She’l destroy it immediately.”

“I hope so,” said Timothy.

They were silent for a few seconds; then

Abigail quickly hugged him. “Thank you,” she

said, blushing. “You know … for rescuing me.”

“But we rescued each other,” Timothy

answered.

She rol ed her eyes. “You are a cheesebal .”

In his bedroom, his hands didn’t hurt so much

anymore; the pain medication was strong. The

doctors had taken X-rays. A nurse had put a cast

on his left hand—the one with the bite. She’d

wrapped his right hand tightly in a beige

bandage. Using the more exible of the two,

Timothy lifted his pil ow.

Timothy lifted his pil ow.

On the striped blue sheets, beside the bed’s

headboard, lay the real jawbone. The single

sharp black tooth jut ed from the brown

horseshoe-shaped object. As he stared at it, the

golden glimmer inside the tooth grew brighter,

and he was l ed with a new sensation,

something he couldn’t name. It almost felt like

a voice was talking to him through a long-

distance phone line. Timothy couldn’t

understand the words, but he understood the

meaning deep underneath them. This was the

reason he’d done what he’d done back at the

lighthouse.

Standing on the gravel path, Zilpha and

Abigail had been busy speaking with the

police. Without thinking, Timothy had bent

down and snatched the corpse’s jawbone,

making it “incomplete” again, slipping it into

his jacket pocket. He was about to stand, when

instead, he reached out and took Mr.

Harwood’s gray jawbone as wel ; it had come

away from the empty skul with a soft, brit le

snap. Clutching a handful of gravel from under

snap. Clutching a handful of gravel from under

his feet, Timothy swiftly sorted through the

black stones, found one of appropriate size,

and replaced one of Harwood’s teeth with it.

The new jawbone was a fairly convincing

fake. Timothy quickly stood and slipped the

smal piece of Harwood into his opposite

pocket.

Harwood’s jaw had been the “relic” he’d

handed to Abigail in the emergency room. He

was certain, at this point, that Zilpha had done

something to make it disappear for good.

Timothy stroked the real jawbone with his

exposed left thumb. The bone felt rough,

papery, impossibly light. The energy contained

inside it gave him a jolt, and he drew away,

frightened by what he’d done. He wasn’t even

sure what he planned to do with the object; he

only knew that he had to have it.

The sky grew brighter. Looking east, Timothy

wondered what his mother was doing at the

moment. Was she sit ing beside Ben, holding

moment. Was she sit ing beside Ben, holding

his hand, praying? What would Timothy tel

her when she arrived home? What would she

tel him?

Without warning, Timothy was ooded with

anger. He was angry with Stuart for being so

cruel. He was angry with his parents for

making him keep secrets from his best friend.

He was angry with his brother for volunteering

for such a dangerous job in the rst place. He