38.

The light in the attic grew dim as the sun moved closer to the western horizon. Blue sky continued to stare at them through the octagonal window, but this clear weather was no comfort; in fact, it made things worse. Jack had left the house and driven away a while ago, leaving Timothy and Abigail alone to worry.

To kill time, Timothy examined the attic door once more. All he learned was that his hand still hurt. The door’s hinges were tight, and the lock felt solid; then again, so had the window when he’d tried to break it. Timothy’s gym bag was down in the kitchen, so the only weapon they had was Johnson Harwood’s ratty copy of The Clue of the Incomplete Corpse, and only if the old man came back could they smack him with it.

“There’s got to be some way out of here,” said Timothy. When Abigail didn’t answer, he looked at her sitting on the desk. She hung her head and hugged her rib cage. “Don’t you think?” She remained silent. Timothy stood. “Come on,” he said. “What happened to us being heroes?”

Abigail laughed, but it was not a happy sound.

“Are you worried that he went after your grandmother?” said Timothy. “Because I have a feeling she can take care of herself.”

“Oh, you do?” said Abigail, tucking her chin closer to her chest. “Then why am I so freaked out?”

Timothy crossed the room. He took both of Abigail’s hands into his own, as best he could. “Abigail,” he whispered. “We can control it. That’s why we’re still okay. We are getting out of here, no matter what.”

“No matter what?” she asked. Then, eyes wide, Abigail suddenly pulled away. “Shhh,” she whispered. “And don’t turn around.” At her word, he froze, goose bumps embracing every inch of him. Then he heard a sound that made everything even worse. The door hinges squeaked, and he couldn’t stop from spinning.

The door had opened a crack. Had it even been locked? The room was filled with violet haze—remnants of the light through the window—but in the darkest corners, thick layers of dirty cobwebs clung from the floor to the sloped walls, wavering in a slight draft.

“Were those there before?” Timothy whispered.

“What do you think?”

“I’m gonna go with … no?”

“How fast do you think we can make it to the door?” Abigail whispered.

“I’m not so sure I want to make it to the door now,” said Timothy. “Something on the other side opened it.”

“Yeah, but something on this side wants us to leave.”

Timothy strained his eyes. Small dark shapes shifted beyond the webs, pulling the flimsy curtains away from the walls. Holes grew as the webs stretched to their breaking points. All at once, the dark shapes solidified, became small, childlike bodies. Two figures stepped through the webs, which clung to them like rotting veils. Mary Brown and Mary White? Abigail and Timothy screamed, clutching at each other.

The door swung open. Instead of a tall old man, another girl appeared in the doorway. Her face was a blur. She wore a dress similar to the others’, made of dirty white cobwebs, rags, and lace, tied together with bits of string and knotted twine that dangled past her bare feet. Timothy choked out, “The Nightmarys?” Abigail did not answer, but instead grabbed his arm and stepped forward. None of the girls moved. “How come we’re both seeing them now?”

“Maybe we’re both scared of them now.”

“Get out of here!” Timothy shouted at the girls. “Leave us alone!”

“Shhh,” said the one in the doorway.

Abigail pulled him toward the door. The two figures in the shadows turned like clockwork to watch them move through the room. As Abigail slowly approached the girl who had opened the door, more and more of them appeared behind the patches of web, then stepped through. The room was suddenly crowded, and Timothy was getting claustrophobic. “What … are … we … doing?” Timothy said through a clenched jaw.

“Getting out of here,” Abigail whispered back.

When they were several feet away from the girl in the doorway, she stepped into the hall and held out her hand, as if welcoming them to their doom.

“Should we just walk by?” Timothy asked.

Abigail answered by pulling him forward. Timothy tried not to look as they crept past the creature. He sensed her watching him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her face shifting, dissolving, and reassembling behind the veil, unable to hold shape, like the figures behind the cobwebs had done before they’d emerged into the room.

Once on the landing, they tried to run toward the stairs, but Timothy lost Abigail’s grip. When he turned around, he realized the figure in the doorway had stepped between them. Remembering how his hands had passed through zombie Ben last night, Timothy wondered how solid the apparitions actually were. He reached out for Abigail, but she slipped away from him. He stumbled, which gave the creature time to block Abigail entirely. But he bolted at the phantom girl anyway. Before he made contact, the rest of the cobwebbed girls rushed through the attic toward the doorway, arms raised, hands reaching, fingers clutching, nails now sharp as talons.

Timothy froze as Abigail screamed, “Stop!” She panted. “They’ll kill you. I know they will, because I’m terrified that they will.” The Nightmarys paused, crowded at the attic door, watching him. Were they only an illusion? They looked so real. “Timothy, run!” Abigail cried.

“I can’t leave you here,” he said.

The girl who was blocking Abigail stepped aside, revealing the small legion of specters waiting beyond the doorframe. The grotesque group broke forward, pushing through the door and onto the landing, immediately separating Timothy from Abigail. Now through their thin cobweb veils he could see their faces, but he couldn’t comprehend what he was looking at, as if his brain wouldn’t let him see. Words couldn’t describe the horror he felt as they raced toward him.

“Get help!” Abigail cried. “Run!”

Inches away, the girls’ claws reached for his throat. Timothy tripped backward down the stairs, caught the railing, and steadied himself. Taking three steps at a time, he made it to the next landing before turning around, but Abigail was gone. In her place, more and more of the wretched creatures streamed from the attic door, barreling down the stairs toward him.

The stairwell filled with the sound of strange chattering, unintelligible static, almost like birdsong, as the Nightmarys communicated to each other in their own secret language. Timothy fell through a doorway behind him: the hall with the closed doors. The mob swiftly approached. Timothy grabbed the nearest knob and turned it. The door swung outward, and he slipped inside a dark closet. He peered around the door but couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs. The chattering came closer, and the floor began to shake as if a stampede of large animals were approaching. As one of the girls peeked in at him, Timothy slammed the door shut. He held the knob as the building shuddered and then settled into silence.

Even though he was terrified to open the door, the absolute darkness inside the small space soon became unbearable. Slowly, with his good hand, he turned the knob. A slice of light appeared. The hallway was empty. Abigail’s voice rang in his memory: They’ll kill you … because I’m terrified that they will. Could these horrors actually kill, or were the cursed only in danger from themselves, like Stuart, who’d inhaled the pool water? Timothy realized that the Nightmarys had never touched him. Sure, his hand hurt, but that was because he’d actually hit the window. That part had been real; he knew the Nightmarys were not.

Abigail had been wrong; they could beat these things, if they could beat their fear.

Through the railing, Timothy glanced into the foyer below. Something slammed the front door, and he froze. After a few seconds of silence, he knew he was alone. He pulled the closet door open and rushed onto the landing. He raced down the stairs. Bursting onto the front porch, he glanced down the street. Except for the waning daylight, everything looked as it had when they’d first arrived. Totally normal.

Abigail was gone, just like the old man had predicted. But how had she disappeared?

She hadn’t, Timothy reasoned. Abigail had been inside the mob of girls. The Nightmarys must have surrounded her and ushered her down the stairs right past him. They weren’t coming for him; they were leaving with her. But to where?

The place where your end will come, the old man had said.

The temple of the Chaos Tribe. Timothy finally understood. Jack had meant for Abigail to be the next Delia! The battery. The soul-charge for the incomplete corpse of the Daughter of Chaos.