“You boys wil 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?”
“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 cal ing
over there? Maybe he’s home now.”
Timothy stood up and went over to the
phone hanging on the wal next to the
refrigerator, but before he had a chance to pick
it up, it rang. Surprised, he quickly answered it.
“Hel o?”
“You lit le 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 al 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’l give you a clue,” said Mr. Crane. “The
jars.”
“The what?”
“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 kil ed 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 wal paper.
“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
bal oon 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
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 pul ed the prank on Mr. Crane, and
thankful y, they believed him.
Just before he brushed his teeth, he
remembered that he stil hadn’t cal ed Abigail.
He looked at the clock. It was nearly ten now.
Much too late. He didn’t want to bother
anyone, especial y Zilpha, who, according to
Abigail’s mother, needed her rest. Besides, the
man he’d seen had probably been nobody.
When he turned o his light and got under
his covers, Timothy imagined the specter of
two girls watching him from the corner of his
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?
22.
Timothy woke up early the next morning when
his mother knocked on his door to say
goodbye. He wished he could go with her.
Later, Timothy was standing on the front
porch, waiting for the bus, when he heard the
Chens’ screen door slam. Timothy rushed to the
railing, leaned forward, and cal ed to Stuart’s
mom, “How is he?”
She smiled a wan smile. “Technical y, he’s
okay,” she cal ed back. “I think the whole thing
has shaken him up a bit.”
Timothy understood the feeling.
“He could use a friend,” she added, making
her way down the driveway toward her car.
“Come by the hospital after school, if you can?
They said he could have
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?”
“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 cal ing
over there? Maybe he’s home now.”
Timothy stood up and went over to the
phone hanging on the wal next to the
refrigerator, but before he had a chance to pick
it up, it rang. Surprised, he quickly answered it.
“Hel o?”
“You lit le 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 al 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’l give you a clue,” said Mr. Crane. “The
jars.”
“The what?”
“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 kil ed 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 wal paper.
“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
bal oon 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
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 pul ed the prank on Mr. Crane, and
thankful y, they believed him.
Just before he brushed his teeth, he
remembered that he stil hadn’t cal ed Abigail.
He looked at the clock. It was nearly ten now.
Much too late. He didn’t want to bother
anyone, especial y Zilpha, who, according to
Abigail’s mother, needed her rest. Besides, the
man he’d seen had probably been nobody.
When he turned o his light and got under
his covers, Timothy imagined the specter of
two girls watching him from the corner of his
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?
22.
Timothy woke up early the next morning when
his mother knocked on his door to say
goodbye. He wished he could go with her.
Later, Timothy was standing on the front
porch, waiting for the bus, when he heard the
Chens’ screen door slam. Timothy rushed to the
railing, leaned forward, and cal ed to Stuart’s
mom, “How is he?”
She smiled a wan smile. “Technical y, he’s
okay,” she cal ed back. “I think the whole thing
has shaken him up a bit.”
Timothy understood the feeling.
“He could use a friend,” she added, making
her way down the driveway toward her car.
“Come by the hospital after school, if you can?
They said he could have
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