41.

Zilpha fussed in her seat as Timothy turned left at the stop sign. He headed toward the bridge. More and more, the atmosphere resembled the painting at the museum. The black clouds now filled the entire sky, spiraling slowly like a whirlpool. Zilpha still didn’t seem to notice. Timothy thought about what she’d said: little tricks would end the fear. But what trick might stop clouds from swirling?

“Watch out!” cried Zilpha as Timothy came up too quickly at the stoplight. The traffic whizzed past in both directions.

“Sorry,” said Timothy. “I’m not used to this.”

“I didn’t mean to snap,” she apologized. “You’re … doing very well.” The light turned green, and Timothy jerked the car forward into the intersection. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Zilpha tightening her seat belt.

Soon they were traveling alongside other cars, heading west across the river. Timothy maintained his speed, even as his heart raced.

At the edge of the bridge, Timothy turned the wheel sharply, forcing his mother’s car off the highway onto a small service road. Gravel spun out from under his tires, and Zilpha held tightly on to the door handle. Straining to see better, Timothy leaned forward across the steering wheel. The service road followed the edge of the cliff for several hundred yards before ending abruptly at a guardrail.

A bright light flashed over the side of the cliff. The lighthouse. Timothy noticed a staircase entrance next to the guardrail. He and Zilpha both slipped outside. Timothy helped the old woman across the rocky path.

Finally, they came to a barrier fence and a cliffside sign that read, LITTLE HUSKETOMIC LIGHTHOUSE. “In the photo, it was called Hesselius’s Illuminarium,” said Timothy. “Is this the same lighthouse?”

“They must have taken Hesselius’s name off it after everything that happened,” said Zilpha, holding on to the nearby railing. “A long time ago, people wanted to forget.”

Leaning over the precipice, Timothy peered at the first step. The staircase descended steeply along the cliff face. Unlike the Dragon Stairs, these steps hugged the bluff in a straight drop, stopping at a wide outcropping that stretched out fifty feet below. From the stairs’ base, a narrow path led to the lighthouse itself—a small white cone of a building, surrounded by squat shrubbery, a glass cage perched at the top, inside which rotated a blinding, iridescent light.

“Abigail’s down there somewhere,” said Timothy, staring at the dark stairs. The river splashed at the rocks below. He quickly returned to the car; he knew he’d find a couple of flashlights in the trunk. He handed one to Zilpha and kept one for himself. “We’ve got to hurry,” he said, rushing back to the stairs. He took the first few steps, but turned around when he realized Zilpha was not following him.

“Go ahead,” she said, worried. “I’d only hold you up. If I rush and fall, you’ll have to help me as well as Abigail. Right now, she’s what matters.” Zilpha looked down at him, her face illuminated by another bright, brief turn from the lighthouse. Her brown eyes were liquid. “Please … please be careful. I’ll be right behind you, coming at my own pace. If you need anything … scream.”

Those were not reassuring words, but he nodded and turned around. Nauseated, he took one more step down the precipice. The dark clouds over the city seemed to change. A dim yellow light appeared in the sky. A hollow rushing sound echoed off the rock.

Timothy realized he was standing on the actual Edge of Doom. The curse. Dammit. He grasped the wooden railing that was bolted to the rock, trying to steady himself. Something strange was happening to the river. The water, which had been rushing and lapping the shore in white waves, receded, leaving the black rocks to glisten, reflecting the bridge lights from above. The river was sinking, disappearing into a deep abyss that now separated the two shores. A dark chasm had formed beyond the drop at the left of the stairs. Slowly, as if from deep within the earth, another light appeared. Lava, magma, or possibly something living and nameless, began to rise, shaking the ground with the speed of its approach.

Timothy shoved his body against the cliff, the railing pressing into his lower spine. He repeated the sentence, “This isn’t happening,” over and over, until finally, he heard Zilpha’s voice calling to him from several steps up.

“Timothy? What’s wrong?”

“The curse … I can’t.”

“Fight it,” she demanded. “Fight it like you fought the dragon.”

How? If this is the Edge of Doom … ? Timothy thought back to the day at the museum when he’d imitated the voice of the robed man on the cliff, when Abigail had thought he was making fun of her. The man in the painting had been chanting a spell or a prayer or something. Maybe Timothy could do the same. He tried to find his voice. “I … Timothy July … master of this … domain … do beseech thee … to leave this place … and return to … wherever the heck you came from.” The ground began to shake. Mammoth red, scaly hands reached up out of the chasm, claws the size of cars grasping at the space just below the Taft Bridge. Fighting back a scream, Timothy clutched at the railing and closed his eyes. Then, angry, he cried as loudly as he could, “IN THE NAME OF CHAOS, GO THE HELL AWAY!”

Everything went still. Timothy listened to his heart beating in his eardrums. When he opened his eyes, the sky had cleared. The red light was gone. And most important, the claws had disappeared. The water splashed against the rocks, and the stars glittered in the sky. There was no Edge of Doom. This was only the edge of the Little Husketomic.

But then he noticed the bright light of the full moon higher up in the sky. This was no illusion. He was running out of time.

“It—it worked,” Timothy stammered, glancing over his shoulder at Zilpha. “I’ll be right back.”

Timothy rushed down the endless stairs, holding on to the railing with his good hand, trying not to slip on the slick boards. He leapt the last two steps onto a gravel path. The sound of the river was deafening, but it was a comfort to hear, as opposed to the horrible rushing sound of the thing that had, moments earlier, been rising from the chasm. As Timothy ran, every few seconds, the path was lit by the light from above, so he was able to quickly follow it to the small clapboard building.

Standing in front of a shiny black metal door, Timothy caught his breath. Glancing back up the cliff, he saw Zilpha sitting on a stair near the top, inching her way slowly down.