21.

After dinner, Timothy asked the location of the bus stop, so he could ride back up Edgehill Road to Beech Nut Street. Abigail’s grandmother did not like that idea. “It’s too late,” she said. “Too dark.”

As Sarah put on her coat, Abigail pulled Timothy into the living room. “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” she said.

“Right,” said Timothy. “Tomorrow.”

Outside, as Abigail’s mother pulled her SUV away from the curb, Timothy noticed someone exiting the building.

A formidable silhouette heading north underneath the nearest streetlight. A tall man in a long overcoat. A small hat was perched on his head.

Timothy pressed his face to the window, craning his neck to keep the man in view as the SUV moved up the street. In the brief moment when Sarah paused to make a left onto Andrade Avenue, Timothy thought he saw the man pass into the shadows beyond the building. The sight sent shivers through him. He pressed himself into the passenger seat.

People often wore long coats and hats outside on cool nights. Was it possible that the sight of this man had meant nothing? He decided to call Abigail when he got home, just to be safe.

“Timothy! Where have you been?” his mother shouted at him when he came through the front door. The entire first floor of the house was lit up.

“I was at my friend Abigail’s house,” he said, slipping out of his wet sneakers and kicking them into the front hall closet.

“Why didn’t you call?” said his mother, stepping into the doorway from the kitchen. “We were so worried. Your father was just about to notify the police. Plus, your school phoned that you had detention this afternoon. What is going on with you?”

“It was for passing a note in class,” Timothy explained, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Mr. Crane was being totally unfair.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” his father shouted from the kitchen. “Next time, you’d better call.”

Something was going on here. Timothy could sense a change in the atmosphere; his parents were electrified. Last night, they hadn’t cared that he’d walked home alone from the pool, but now …

“We got a call from your brother’s doctor,” said Timothy’s mother. “They feel that he’s been stabilized enough to transport him to a base in Maryland. He’s on his way there right now.”

Timothy grabbed on to the banister at the base of the stairs to steady himself. “Is he awake?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But there’s hope. I’m flying down first thing tomorrow.”

“Can we all go?”

“They don’t think that’s a good idea, honey. Maybe eventually, but for now, I’m going alone to sort out the situation.”

“What about Dad?”

“He’ll stay here with you,” said his mom. She held open her arms. Timothy came forward, and she hugged him. “You boys will take care of each other.”

Timothy sat at the kitchen table and listened to his parents discuss their plans for the next few days. His mind was swirling with questions. “Have you heard anything about Stuart?”

His mother looked up from a pad of paper she’d been writing on. His father just looked confused.

“Stuart Chen,” said Timothy. “Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “We’ve had too much on our minds. Why don’t you try calling over there? Maybe he’s home now.”

Timothy stood up and went over to the phone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator, but before he had a chance to pick it up, it rang. Surprised, he quickly answered it. “Hello?”

“You little monster.” The voice was familiar, but Timothy was so shocked by the tone that it took him several seconds to place it.

“Mr. Crane?”

“Don’t play all innocent with me, Mr. July,” said Timothy’s teacher. His voice shook, furious. “You know what you’ve done. And I do not appreciate it.”

“Mr. Crane,” Timothy said slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll give you a clue,” said Mr. Crane. “The jars.”

“The what?”

“The jars I requested you throw away after school this afternoon. Where, may I ask, did you throw them, exactly?”

“I took them outside and left them next to the garbage bin. The box was too heavy to lift,” he answered.

“Why then, may I ask you, have they appeared on the front steps of my house?”

Timothy was so astounded he couldn’t speak. The hum of the refrigerator killed the overwhelming silence. He glanced at his parents, who were now staring at him. His father mouthed, Who is that? Timothy turned away and stared at the floral wallpaper.

“I don’t know why, Mr. Crane,” said Timothy. “I didn’t do it.” The Nightmarys had told Abigail they’d helped her. Could this have been part of their game?

“Right. Just like you didn’t throw the water balloon at the museum. Just like you didn’t try to pass a note to Abigail Tremens during class today,” said Mr. Crane. A few seconds later, he added, “Are your parents home?”

“They’re right here,” Timothy answered.

“I’d like to speak with one of them, please.”

In a daze, Timothy held out the phone to his mother, stretching the long cord tight.

Timothy spent the rest of the night in his bedroom, both dreading and looking forward to the next day. He insisted to his parents that he hadn’t pulled the prank on Mr. Crane, and thankfully, they believed him.

Just before he brushed his teeth, he remembered that he still hadn’t called Abigail. He looked at the clock. It was nearly ten now. Much too late. He didn’t want to bother anyone, especially Zilpha, who, according to Abigail’s mother, needed her rest. Besides, the man he’d seen had probably been nobody.

When he turned off his light and got under his covers, Timothy imagined the specter of two girls watching him from the corner of his room. If what Abigail had told him was true, what sort of horror might they make next?