The Nightmarys by Dan Poblocki Read Free Book Online Page B

like
    old cheese.
    He stopped again. The pool entrance should
    have been directly in front of him. But al
    Timothy could see in both directions was the
    hal way, which was growing darker by the
    second. There were no pool sounds. No
    shouting, no splashing. He could almost hear
    the mold growing in the wal ’s crevices. The
    sound of his heart was pounding in his ears.

    sound of his heart was pounding in his ears.
    Timothy squeezed his eyes shut for a brief
    second and violently shook his head. Snap out
    of it, he told himself. When he opened his eyes
    again, he caught a glimpse of light at the end of
    the hal way behind him. Stainless steel. The
    showers! Timothy bolted. At least now, he
    knew where he was going.
    He burst through the doorway into the
    shower room’s yel ow light. Beyond the
    showerheads was the cavernous locker room.
    He bounded to the last row of lockers. But
    when he peered around the rusted aluminum
    edge, the row was about half as long as usual.
    A T-shaped path veered where an L usual y
    bent. Maybe he was remembering it wrong?
    Without thinking, Timothy dashed forward,
    but when he reached the T, he knew for certain
    that the problem wasn’t his memory.
    His locker was not there.
    Timothy glanced in both directions. The
    shadows were encroaching from the ceiling
    again, the low-hanging globes inching closer to

    again, the low-hanging globes inching closer to
    the ground. How was that possible?
    Though his mind raced, Timothy walked
    slowly, lightly, back toward the showers. His
    feet were cold, and his skin was prickly. He
    made his way to the end of the row and
    peeked around the corner, but the showers
    were no longer there. Instead, the sight of a
    dirty brick wal greeted him, like a slap in the
    face.
    “No,” Timothy groaned. He leaned against
    the locker at the end of the row. The coldness
    of the metal bit into his shoulder, and he leapt
    away from it, holding in a shriek.
    A locker slammed. He jumped. He couldn’t
    tel where the noise had come from.
    Someone was with him, somewhere in this
    big room.
    Timothy shivered. Then he ran. He wasn’t
    sure where he was going. The more he ran, the
    more he realized he was not merely lost—the
    room didn’t look familiar at al anymore. These
    lockers were bashed and bat ered, the doors

    lockers were bashed and bat ered, the doors
    hanging o their hinges. Some of them had
    been painted black; gra ti was scratched into
    their metal surfaces—words much worse than
    the one he’d cal ed Stuart earlier—strange,
    almost alien symbols, horri c faces with slitlike
    feline eyes and gaping needle- l ed mouths.
    Timothy tried not to think that anything could
    be hiding just inside these doors—Stuart’s
    clawed monster, the Aztec idols, the cloudy
    creatures in the specimen jars. Things with
    black watchful eyes. The more Timothy ran, the
    more he realized that if he stopped, he’d regret
    it.He came around a corner and screamed.
    A man stood at the end of the corridor, his
    hand reaching into the nearest open locker. He
    turned to look at Timothy. The shadow from
    the brim of his hat obscured his face. His long
    gray overcoat hung almost al the way to the
    oor, barely covering his black wingtips. For a
    second, Timothy had the feeling he was staring
    at a ghost. Then the man withdrew from the

    at a ghost. Then the man withdrew from the
    locker. In his hand was the book; he used it to
    slam the locker shut.
    Timothy was frozen with fear. He wanted to
    shout, Put it down! But the book didn’t even
    belong to him. If anything, the man was simply
    stealing it back.
    “You shouldn’t take things that don’t belong
    to you,” said the man. His voice was low,
    resonant, a bit scratchy.
    Timothy surprised himself by answering
    lamely, “I’m sorry.”
    “You had the chance to run at the museum
    this morning. Shoulda used it, Timothy. Leave
    her behind.” The man was talking about
    Abigail….
    Slowly, the man raised his other hand—the
    one