sat an old record
player. The shelves below it contained vinyl
records.
“Okay.”
“They belonged to my grandfather before he
died. Gramma said I could have ’em. Pick out
whatever you want,” said Abigail. “We’ve got a
half hour before rinse time.”
Timothy slid o the bed. Abigail fol owed.
The record jackets were old and dusty. They’d
been arranged in alphabetical order. Lots of
country music. Not his favorite—but some of
the covers looked interesting. He plucked a
record from the shelf. “Gun ghter Bal ads,”
Timothy read. “Cool title.” He handed it to
Abigail. She slipped the disk from its envelope,
placed it on the turntable, then lifted the
needle. A dark melody began to play.
“So,” said Abigail, sit ing down on the bed
again. “Now you know that my grandmother
again. “Now you know that my grandmother
was a photographer. What else did you want to
know?”
“It’s not that simple,” he said. She stared at
him, curious. “I mean … I need to tel you
something rst. But I don’t know where to
start.”
Abigail set led against the wal and folded
her hands in her lap, as if preparing for a
bedtime story. “It’s always best to start at the
beginning.”
By the time the needle reached the center of
the record, Timothy had said everything he’d
meant to say. The book, the names, the author.
The locker room. Stuart’s monster. For the most
part, while he spoke, Abigail listened intently,
barely reacting when he got to the most
outrageous and unbelievable parts of the story.
Now she stared at the patchwork quilt
underneath her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth
pressed tight.
pressed tight.
After nearly ve seconds of silence, Timothy
couldn’t take it anymore.
“What do you think?” he said. “Am I crazy?”
Leaning forward, Abigail reached into her
back pocket. She pul ed out her silver lighter,
ipped open the lid, and brushed her nger
against the int wheel. Flame bloomed in her
st. She stared at it for a few seconds, then said,
“If you’re crazy, then I’m crazy too.” What was
that supposed to mean?
The ame wicking at the tip of the lighter
was hypnotic. “Have you ever seen anything
like what I’ve seen?” he said.
To his surprise, Abigail clicked the lighter
closed, squeezed her eyes shut, then nodded
quickly. But before he could even respond, she
exclaimed, “Shoot! I have to rinse this junk out
of my hair.” She slid o the bed and raced
toward the door. Hepzibah woke up, gave a
short bark, and chased her out of the room. A
moment later, Timothy fol owed.
In the bathroom, Abigail had her head
In the bathroom, Abigail had her head
underneath the bathtub faucet. When she
turned the water o , Timothy asked, “Do you
think your gramma has something to do with
al of this?” She ignored him, hiding
underneath a towel, using it to rub her head
dry. “Abigail,” Timothy began again, speaking
slowly so she could understand the importance
of what he was saying, “I can’t shake this
feeling that something terrible is about to
happen. I need to do something about it. If you
know something, please … tel me.”
She stopped drying her hair. Final y, she
pul ed the towel away. For a brief moment,
Timothy thought he was looking at a brand-
new person, someone he’d never met before.
Her hair was purple-black. It completely
obscured her face, like a ghost in a scary movie,
and when she brushed her hair to the side, she
didn’t look at him. “Wait here,” she said. “I’l
be back.”
A few seconds later, she returned. She
showed him a Polaroid picture of her bedroom.
showed him a Polaroid picture of her bedroom.
“Have you ever heard of an author named
Nathaniel Olmstead?”
“Yeah,” said Timothy, unsure what the author
had to do with the Polaroid. “I’ve read some of
his books. Total y creepy.”
“I used to be obsessed with them. My favorite
was The Revenge of the