Free The Nightmarys by Dan Poblocki Page B

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