The Nightmarys (32 page)

was especial y angry with the people across the

ocean who’d planted the explosives along the

side of the road—so angry, in fact, that his tears

blinded him.

In the past month, Timothy felt like he had

given so much of himself away. He’d stood by,

done what he’d been told, tried to be a good

person, and yet the horrors had continued to

unfold, endlessly. Timothy was sick of doing

what was right. Wasn’t it about time for

someone to pay him back?

The articles in the New Starkham newspaper

had revealed that Christian Hesselius had

had revealed that Christian Hesselius had

wanted to use the jawbone as a weapon of

revenge.

Now Timothy had the power to do the same.

The jawbone seemed so smal , unassuming.

But the dark tooth was a di erent story.

Looking closer, Timothy understood it was not

of this world. Sculpted black metal. Hol ow,

porous, almost like ligree. Something that

might have fal en from space. Like a meteorite.

That sparkle of light inside it teased him again.

Do it, said the Chaos voice.

Make them pay.

Put an end to it al .

Ben would thank you.

You’l be a hero.

Using the exposed ngertips of his left hand,

Timothy unraveled the bandage from his right.

The skin underneath was black and blue, but

when he wiggled his ngers, he felt no pain.

He picked up the jawbone. Again, a jolt of

energy rushed through his body. But this time,

energy rushed through his body. But this time,

instead of shrinking away, Timothy clutched

the bone as if it were a sword.

Names and faces of people he knew raced

through his mind. His classmates, his

grandparents, the teachers at his school, his

swim team. He could hear their thoughts, see

their memories. Several of them lingered longer

than others, and he felt a question tug at him,

somewhere deep inside, during these brief

moments. Al he would have to do was say yes,

and it would be done. But Timothy did not say

yes. He waited as more and more identities

came at him, until he saw faces of people he

had never met. In his head, he heard the

strange voice whisper their names. People who

lived across an ocean. People who had hurt his

brother.

Al he had to do was say yes.

It would be done.

Do it, demanded the voice. Do it.

Timothy opened his mouth and began to

speak.

speak.

The doorbel rang.

Timothy dropped the jawbone.

Immediately, he felt as if a thousand-pound

blanket had been removed from his shoulders.

He wasn’t quite sure what had been happening.

Before he had a chance to think, the doorbel

rang again.

Placing the pil ow over the jawbone,

Timothy slipped out of bed. The hardwood

oor was chil y. He opened his bedroom door,

glancing down the hal toward the back of the

house. His parents’ bedroom door remained

closed.

The bel rang again. Who the heck could be

here at such an hour? Cautiously, Timothy

crept down the hal way, leaning over the

banister, trying to catch a glimpse through the

front door’s window. Standing at the top of the

stairs, he saw a tal , thin silhouet e on the other

side of the gauzy curtain.

Curious, Timothy tentatively crept halfway

down the steps. The doorknob rat led, then the

down the steps. The doorknob rat led, then the

visitor knocked. His heart felt like it might pop,

but Timothy continued down the stairs. When

he nal y reached the bot om step, the visitor

smashed the glass.

Timothy screamed and fel backward, landing

halfway down the stairs. He watched,

paralyzed, as a thin brown arm reached

through the broken window for the lock. Its

skeletal ngers turned the knob, and slowly,

the front door creaked open.

The corpse stood in the entrance, the dawn

lighting the sky in the distance. The creature’s

white hair lay limp across its skul . The bot om

half of its face was missing. Its empty eye

sockets were barely visible, but Timothy felt

their blackness dig into his chest. The corpse

clutched at the wood frame and dragged its feet

across the threshold.

“This is your fault,” said the creature, its

voice like rags. “You did this to me.”

“I—I didn’t do anything!” Timothy cried,

scrambling backward up the steps. “I’l give it

scrambling backward up the steps. “I’l give it

back. I swear.”

The creature shu ed toward him, wrinkling

the throw rug on the floor. When it had made it

halfway through the foyer, it cried, “Make them

stop!”

Timothy shouted, “DAD!”

“Tel them to leave me alone!” said the

creature, raising its hands to its face.

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

Upstairs, a door opened. “Timothy, what’s

going on?” Seconds later, Timothy’s father

dashed down the stairs to where Timothy was

sprawled. Glancing up, his father noticed they

weren’t alone. “Who … who are you?” he

asked.

Who are you? thought Timothy. Does it

mat er?

“It’s his fault.” The creature pointed at

Timothy. “I told him to throw those jars away.

But he keeps bringing them back. He sneaks

into my house and puts them in my bed. The

into my house and puts them in my bed. The

things inside pretend to be dead, but they’re

not. They watch me. He tel s them to!”

“Sir, please …”

Jars? thought Timothy. His father was seeing

something he was not. This was another

il usion. Timothy fought to see through it. The

creature rippled, then became solid again.

“Why don’t you sit down?” said Timothy’s

father evenly. He stepped over Timothy,

cautiously making his way down the rest of the

stairs. “Tel me what you want.”

“Dad, don’t get any closer!”

“I know you,” whispered Timothy’s father.

“We met at the school.”

“The school …,” said Timothy. It suddenly

made sense.

“Isn’t this your teacher?” asked Timothy’s

father. “Crane, right?” A moment later, the

corpse changed shape and became a sad-

looking man wearing purple plaid pajamas.

“Please,” said Mr. Crane, col apsing to the

“Please,” said Mr. Crane, col apsing to the

floor, “just tel your son to stop.”

Standing above the man on the rug,

Timothy’s father looked up and said, “Cal the

police.”

48.

Five minutes later, Timothy stood in the

house’s front doorway, watching his father

comfort his teacher. The two men sat on the

porch’s top step. Mr. Crane hung his head and

wouldn’t stop crying, even as Timothy’s father

awkwardly pat ed his back.

As soon as Timothy handed the phone over

to his father, he realized the mistake he’d made

earlier that night. When he’d taken the jawbone

from the corpse instead of handing it over to

Zilpha to be destroyed, the curse had

continued. Everything he’d just seen had been

part of it. The incomplete corpse had not come

looking for him, but his teacher had. Like

Stuart, Mr. Crane had no idea how to control

his own fears. For some reason, the teacher

blamed Timothy for what was happening to

him, just as Stuart had blamed Abigail for the

horrors he’d been seeing. Timothy understood

horrors he’d been seeing. Timothy understood

now the close relationship that existed between

Chaos and Blame. Christian Hesselius’s ancient

tribe understood it too. They had exploited the

power of their mysterious black metal, and

most likely had destroyed themselves because

of it. This weapon did more than merely

materialize people’s fear; it turned them against

each other. It made them blind.

Now Timothy saw what he must do.

Careful y 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

himself, “Where is the damn ambulance?” The

street was quiet. Everyone in the neighborhood

was asleep; Timothy nal y 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’l 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 re.

Timothy blinked away the memory and focused

on his father’s toolbox, which lay on the oor

against the rear wal . Buried at the bot om 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 dramatical y, 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

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 smal path that led to the back door, when

he noticed smal , 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 o . He ignored the

pain. Using his elbow, he nudged the door the

rest of the way open.

“H-hel o?” he cal ed into the house.

Timothy crept into the empty kitchen,

listening for an answer.

The curse was stil alive. Anything he

The curse was stil alive. Anything he

encountered now might only be an il usion.

Even though he’d got en good at handling it,

breaking the il usion stil 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 hal way. Through the front door, he

saw his father stil sit ing 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. “Hel o?” he cal ed again. After a

few seconds, he tightened his grip on the

hammer and trudged down the hal . 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

She licked her lips. After a few seconds, she

answered. “I think the question is, what are you

doing, Timothy?” She shifted the cu of her

sweatshirt sleeve slightly. He noticed what she

held in her st, 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 nish 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 st. “I can feel

it now. I don’t know if you’re strong enough to