Read Online The Nightmarys by Dan Poblocki - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dan Poblocki
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Crane was gone, Timothy dragged the
closest desk toward the wal . He climbed on
top of it and, shuddering, removed the
specimens from the shelves.
In the closet behind Mr. Crane’s desk,
Timothy found an empty cardboard box.
Working quickly, he placed the jars in the box,
looking away every time he found a specimen
looking away every time he found a specimen
that was especial y heavy or clearly visible
through the liquid.
Something in these jars had scared Mr. Crane
yesterday. What had he seen?
There was a connection between al of these
events. Too many pieces of this strange puzzle
had matching edges.
The box was ful . Every jar t inside.
Straining, Timothy lifted the box and headed to
the parking lot. Outside, the garbage bin was as
high as Timothy was tal . The lid was open, but
as Timothy stood there, he realized that he
couldn’t toss the box inside. As disgusting as
some of these creatures appeared to be, he felt
weird throwing them in the garbage. Besides,
the box was simply too heavy. Timothy placed
it on the ground, then quickly made the sign of
the cross. “May you rest in peace,” he
whispered. It seemed right.
With a nod, he turned away and headed
toward the address Abigail had scrawled on the
piece of paper in his pocket.
16.
The apartment building was sixteen stories tal
—the tal est building in the neighborhood.
Made of pale blond stone, it stood on the crest
of Shut er Avenue, south of the bridge.
Timothy slowly made his way through the
front garden, staring up at the building. Lots of
windows. Lots of curtains. The front doors were
made of black iron lace. Inlaid into the stone
over the entrance were dark marble words: THE
MAYFAIR. As Timothy reached out to take the
handle, the door swung inward. A man stood
just inside the lobby. “Mi amigo, who are you
here to see?”
“Umm … I’m here for Abigail.”
“Abigail?”
“She’s uh … staying with her grandmother?
Mrs. Kindred?”
He was delivered by the elevator to a smal
hal way with three large black doors, one of
which was marked 16B. Abigail’s place.
As he approached, he heard a dog barking.
Then came Abigail’s voice: “Hepzibah! No!”
Footsteps. The doorknob turned, and there she
was, wearing a sad smile and an oversized blue
artist smock. At her feet, a smal gray dog
greeted him, loudly. Timothy bent down to say
hel o, but the dog backed away into the
apartment’s foyer. “Just ignore her. She thinks
she runs the place,” said Abigail, glancing at the
dog. “Don’t you, lit le queen?” Hepzibah
listened for a second, then began barking again.
Abigail rol ed her eyes. “You don’t have to
stand in the hal way,” she said to Timothy. “She
won’t bite.”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Abigail raised an eyebrow. “What are you
afraid of, then?”
Timothy felt his face ush. He stammered,
“Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not
“Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not
afraid of your dog. That’s al .” He came through
the door. “Hepzibah? Strange name. Where’d
you come up with it?”
“I didn’t come up with it. My grandmother
loves Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hepzibah’s a
character in one of his books,” Abigail said. The
dog sni ed Timothy’s cu . He stuck out his
palm. Hepzibah considered him, then gave
several soft kisses. “See? She likes you.”
“Good. I like her too.” Looking around,
Timothy felt smal . “Cool place. It’s huge.”
Across the foyer, a wide arched entry opened
into a sprawling living room fil ed with antique
furniture. Outside, through paneled French
doors, was an enormous roof patio. Several of
the spires from the col ege were visible beyond
the railing, and beyond those were the river
and then the hil s of Rhode Island. Through a
smal er doorway in the foyer, a long hal way
stretched into darkness.
“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Abigail.
“You don’t like
closest desk toward the wal . He climbed on
top of it and, shuddering, removed the
specimens from the shelves.
In the closet behind Mr. Crane’s desk,
Timothy found an empty cardboard box.
Working quickly, he placed the jars in the box,
looking away every time he found a specimen
looking away every time he found a specimen
that was especial y heavy or clearly visible
through the liquid.
Something in these jars had scared Mr. Crane
yesterday. What had he seen?
There was a connection between al of these
events. Too many pieces of this strange puzzle
had matching edges.
The box was ful . Every jar t inside.
Straining, Timothy lifted the box and headed to
the parking lot. Outside, the garbage bin was as
high as Timothy was tal . The lid was open, but
as Timothy stood there, he realized that he
couldn’t toss the box inside. As disgusting as
some of these creatures appeared to be, he felt
weird throwing them in the garbage. Besides,
the box was simply too heavy. Timothy placed
it on the ground, then quickly made the sign of
the cross. “May you rest in peace,” he
whispered. It seemed right.
With a nod, he turned away and headed
toward the address Abigail had scrawled on the
piece of paper in his pocket.
16.
The apartment building was sixteen stories tal
—the tal est building in the neighborhood.
Made of pale blond stone, it stood on the crest
of Shut er Avenue, south of the bridge.
Timothy slowly made his way through the
front garden, staring up at the building. Lots of
windows. Lots of curtains. The front doors were
made of black iron lace. Inlaid into the stone
over the entrance were dark marble words: THE
MAYFAIR. As Timothy reached out to take the
handle, the door swung inward. A man stood
just inside the lobby. “Mi amigo, who are you
here to see?”
“Umm … I’m here for Abigail.”
“Abigail?”
“She’s uh … staying with her grandmother?
Mrs. Kindred?”
He was delivered by the elevator to a smal
hal way with three large black doors, one of
which was marked 16B. Abigail’s place.
As he approached, he heard a dog barking.
Then came Abigail’s voice: “Hepzibah! No!”
Footsteps. The doorknob turned, and there she
was, wearing a sad smile and an oversized blue
artist smock. At her feet, a smal gray dog
greeted him, loudly. Timothy bent down to say
hel o, but the dog backed away into the
apartment’s foyer. “Just ignore her. She thinks
she runs the place,” said Abigail, glancing at the
dog. “Don’t you, lit le queen?” Hepzibah
listened for a second, then began barking again.
Abigail rol ed her eyes. “You don’t have to
stand in the hal way,” she said to Timothy. “She
won’t bite.”
“Oh, that’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Abigail raised an eyebrow. “What are you
afraid of, then?”
Timothy felt his face ush. He stammered,
“Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not
“Th-that came out wrong. I meant … I’m not
afraid of your dog. That’s al .” He came through
the door. “Hepzibah? Strange name. Where’d
you come up with it?”
“I didn’t come up with it. My grandmother
loves Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hepzibah’s a
character in one of his books,” Abigail said. The
dog sni ed Timothy’s cu . He stuck out his
palm. Hepzibah considered him, then gave
several soft kisses. “See? She likes you.”
“Good. I like her too.” Looking around,
Timothy felt smal . “Cool place. It’s huge.”
Across the foyer, a wide arched entry opened
into a sprawling living room fil ed with antique
furniture. Outside, through paneled French
doors, was an enormous roof patio. Several of
the spires from the col ege were visible beyond
the railing, and beyond those were the river
and then the hil s of Rhode Island. Through a
smal er doorway in the foyer, a long hal way
stretched into darkness.
“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Abigail.
“You don’t like
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