looked
worried and anxious, like he wanted the period
to be over as quickly as possible.
Mr. Crane began the class by asking the
students which artifact from the museum each
pair had chosen for their project. Timothy
listened as his classmates rat led o their
answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at
answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at
the shelves where the glass specimen jars sat.
Suddenly, Timothy realized something. Mr.
Crane had been in the basement of the museum
too, just after Timothy had seen the golden
idols stare at him. If Timothy had seen some
strange things the night before, and Abigail
looked like she hadn’t slept as wel , maybe
something had happened to al of them down
there? Something that was keeping them up at
night. Making them see things. Just like Stuart.
Timothy heard Abigail cal out their chosen
artifact from the back of the room. “The Edge
of Doom painting,” she said. Mr. Crane half-
smiled and moved on to Kimberly Mitchel . But
Timothy kept looking at Abigail. Her
grandmother had been in the basement with
them as wel . He wondered if she had been
seeing things since then too.
The old woman had a strange name, didn’t
she? What was it again? It had been stuck in
Timothy’s brain al night long, but now he
couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?
couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?
No. Not Zelda.
Zilpha.
Zilpha Kindred.
Timothy felt a jolt rush through his body, and
he dropped his pencil on the oor. Scrambling
to pick it up again, he only kicked it farther
into the aisle.
Kindred, he thought. Her last name is
Kindred, like the author of The Clue of the
Incomplete Corpse.
Obviously, here was the connection. But what
did it mean? Could Abigail’s grandmother
possibly have something to do with what had
happened at the museum yesterday morning
and at the gymnasium last night?
“Okay,” said Mr. Crane. “We’ve had enough
fun for now.” The class col ectively groaned.
“Please open your textbooks to chapter seven.”
On the board, he wrote Pre-Colonial America.
Timothy tore a piece of paper from his
notebook. He quickly jot ed a note, folded it
notebook. He quickly jot ed a note, folded it
up, and turned toward Abigail. He dropped the
folded paper on the oor and swiftly kicked it
in Abigail’s direction.
Before she had a chance to lean over and
pick it up, Mr. Crane said, “Mr. July, would
you please bring that to the front of the class?”
As Timothy stood up, his stomach felt like it
was l ed with a big chunk of ice. Abigail bent
over and picked up the note. With a surprising
look of pity, she handed it to him.
Mr. Crane folded his arms across his chest.
“Wel ?”
Reluctantly, Timothy stepped forward to the
large desk in front of the long green
chalkboard. “What has come over you these
past couple days?” the teacher whispered.
Timothy could feel the eyes of his class
whispering across his back. “Dunno,” he
mumbled.
“Go on, then.” Mr. Crane nodded at the note
in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”
in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”
Timothy knew he could just make something
up, but if Mr. Crane saw the writing from over
his shoulder, everything would be worse,
because then the class would know he’d been
lying. “Abigail, I real y need to talk to you
about your grandmother.”
“Ah-ah-ah, Mr. July,” said Mr. Crane. “Slow
down. We couldn’t hear you. Again, please.”
Red-faced, Timothy read the note again, this
time so everyone could hear. “Abigail, I real y
need to talk to you about your grandmother.”
The laughter was immediate and
overwhelming.
Mr. Crane said, “I’ve got a lit le project for
you. Meet me after school, Mr. July. No later
than ve minutes past the last bel . Right here.”
He glanced nervously at the shelves again.
“Now, class, chapter seven …”
Ashamed, Timothy slipped into his
worried and anxious, like he wanted the period
to be over as quickly as possible.
Mr. Crane began the class by asking the
students which artifact from the museum each
pair had chosen for their project. Timothy
listened as his classmates rat led o their
answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at
answers. Distracted, Mr. Crane kept glancing at
the shelves where the glass specimen jars sat.
Suddenly, Timothy realized something. Mr.
Crane had been in the basement of the museum
too, just after Timothy had seen the golden
idols stare at him. If Timothy had seen some
strange things the night before, and Abigail
looked like she hadn’t slept as wel , maybe
something had happened to al of them down
there? Something that was keeping them up at
night. Making them see things. Just like Stuart.
Timothy heard Abigail cal out their chosen
artifact from the back of the room. “The Edge
of Doom painting,” she said. Mr. Crane half-
smiled and moved on to Kimberly Mitchel . But
Timothy kept looking at Abigail. Her
grandmother had been in the basement with
them as wel . He wondered if she had been
seeing things since then too.
The old woman had a strange name, didn’t
she? What was it again? It had been stuck in
Timothy’s brain al night long, but now he
couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?
couldn’t seem to grasp it. “Z” something. Zelda?
No. Not Zelda.
Zilpha.
Zilpha Kindred.
Timothy felt a jolt rush through his body, and
he dropped his pencil on the oor. Scrambling
to pick it up again, he only kicked it farther
into the aisle.
Kindred, he thought. Her last name is
Kindred, like the author of The Clue of the
Incomplete Corpse.
Obviously, here was the connection. But what
did it mean? Could Abigail’s grandmother
possibly have something to do with what had
happened at the museum yesterday morning
and at the gymnasium last night?
“Okay,” said Mr. Crane. “We’ve had enough
fun for now.” The class col ectively groaned.
“Please open your textbooks to chapter seven.”
On the board, he wrote Pre-Colonial America.
Timothy tore a piece of paper from his
notebook. He quickly jot ed a note, folded it
notebook. He quickly jot ed a note, folded it
up, and turned toward Abigail. He dropped the
folded paper on the oor and swiftly kicked it
in Abigail’s direction.
Before she had a chance to lean over and
pick it up, Mr. Crane said, “Mr. July, would
you please bring that to the front of the class?”
As Timothy stood up, his stomach felt like it
was l ed with a big chunk of ice. Abigail bent
over and picked up the note. With a surprising
look of pity, she handed it to him.
Mr. Crane folded his arms across his chest.
“Wel ?”
Reluctantly, Timothy stepped forward to the
large desk in front of the long green
chalkboard. “What has come over you these
past couple days?” the teacher whispered.
Timothy could feel the eyes of his class
whispering across his back. “Dunno,” he
mumbled.
“Go on, then.” Mr. Crane nodded at the note
in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”
in Timothy’s hand. “Let’s hear it.”
Timothy knew he could just make something
up, but if Mr. Crane saw the writing from over
his shoulder, everything would be worse,
because then the class would know he’d been
lying. “Abigail, I real y need to talk to you
about your grandmother.”
“Ah-ah-ah, Mr. July,” said Mr. Crane. “Slow
down. We couldn’t hear you. Again, please.”
Red-faced, Timothy read the note again, this
time so everyone could hear. “Abigail, I real y
need to talk to you about your grandmother.”
The laughter was immediate and
overwhelming.
Mr. Crane said, “I’ve got a lit le project for
you. Meet me after school, Mr. July. No later
than ve minutes past the last bel . Right here.”
He glanced nervously at the shelves again.
“Now, class, chapter seven …”
Ashamed, Timothy slipped into his
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