The Darkest Night

THE DARKEST NIGHT

  Mike Ramon

  © 2013 M. Ramon

  This work is published under a Creative Commons license (Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0). To view this license:

  https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

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  [email protected]

  Web addresses where you can find my work:

  https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/m_ramon

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Prologue

  1932

  Jerry opened the lid of the small tin container the tiniest bit. The container had a painting of a dog on it, a beagle with bright eyes, its tail stuck mid-wag. Mr. Foyle had given it to him out of the blue one day, for no reason--just because. That was how Mr. Foyle was; he was the nicest person Jerry ever knew. That was before Mr. Foyle went away; no one was sure why he left. A few of the older kids said they heard some of the adults talking about it, and that he had been fired. Still others said that they heard he had quit. It didn’t really matter which it was; either way, he was gone.

  Jerry snaked two thin fingers into the container, and when he withdrew them there was a fruit fly caught between them. The fly struggled to get free, but it was such a small thing. Jerry closed the lid tight. He looked around to see if anybody was watching. He was alone at the table; other kids didn’t like to sit with him because they said he smelled bad. Jerry didn’t think he smelled bad, but the other kids didn’t give his opinion much weight. The other children were bunched around other tables, talking to each other, smiling at each other, shoveling up the slop this place had the gall to call food.

  No one was paying him any mind, and that suited him just fine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small frog he had found three days before. He held the frog in his lap, below the table to avoid attention.

  “Come on, Mr. Green Pants,” Jerry whispered. “It’s time to eat.”

  Jerry held the wriggling fly close to the frog’s mouth. At first Mr. Green Pants sat frozen like a statue, but then his tongue shot out and the fly disappeared. Jerry giggled at the way the tongue felt for the brief instant that it touched his finger. It was smooth and sticky, not rough at all.

  “Yum yum,” Jerry said.

  He slipped the frog back into his pocket and opened the tin again, snagging another fly. He closed the lid and pulled Mr. Green Pans out of his pocket. Again his small amphibian friend flicked his tongue out and swallowed the fly alive. There was a commotion from the other end of the cafeteria, and Jerry turned to see what was happening. All he could see were the backs of a few kids who were gathered around a table and laughing at something.

  When he turned back around he was frozen in place by the unexpected appearance of a forbidding presence; it was the tall, stocky frame of Ms. Stockwell. She stood looking down at Jerry like a predator looks down at its helpless prey, the way the high and powerful always look down on the weak below them. Her face was like a slate of granite, her mouth set in a frown, her thin, badly painted lips pulled into a tight, jagged line so that they looked even thinner. Her eyes were dull, her eyebrows like two dark storm clouds on an ominous day.

  “And what does the thing think it is doing with that animal?” she asked.

  Jerry didn’t have to ask who she was referring to when she said “the thing”. It had been her nickname for him ever since he could remember.

  “Wh-wh-what animal, Ms. Stockwell?”

  As he said this Jerry slipped the frog into his pocket in a weak attempt at subterfuge.

  “Who are you--Stammering Stanley?” Ms. Stockwell asked. “I’m referring to the horrible, slimy thing you’ve hid in your pocket.”

  “But it’s not slimy,” Jerry said quietly, knowing he could not win, that kids like him never won.

  “Come with me, young man.”

  Ms. Stockwell grabbed Jerry by the arm and pulled him out of his seat, dragging him along behind her as she headed for the exit. Jerry looked back at the table, and at the tin box sitting atop it, the tin box that Mr. Foyle had given to him back when he was still around to offer some protection to the children.

  “But what about my box?” Jerry asked.

  “What, no stammering now?” she asked. “What box do you mean?”

  “My tin box, with the dog painted on it. I need to get it.”

  Ms. Stockwell stopped and looked at the table. She let go of Jerry’s arm and walked back to the table, and grabbed his arm again as she headed for the exit. Near the exit there was an open trash can filled with the foul refuse of the day’s meals. As they passed the trash can Ms. Stockwell tossed the tin box into it; it landed with a soft splat on something wet.

  “But that’s my box,” Jerry protested.

  The towering woman squeezed his arm even harder and gave him a vicious tug. It made his teeth clack together painfully. From behind Jerry heard a kid speak loudly:

  “Stinky Jerry is going to get it!”

  A smattering of laughter greeted this pronouncement.

  As Ms. Stockwell led Jerry through the halls they passed a few people along the way. The adults paid no attention, but the kids watched them pass with pity in their eyes. They knew Ms. Stockwell, and they knew this was going to be a bad day for Jerry. These kids, away from the mob of the cafeteria, didn’t feel the need to laugh at him, or to make any jokes.

  Ms. Stockwell led Jerry past the staircase rising up to the second floor, and cut through the lobby. As they passed through the lobby Jerry looked up at the big letters on the wall:

  THE CEDAR FALLS HOME FOR ORPHANED CHILDREN

  Below those words, the Home’s motto:

  MERCY. BENEVOLENCE. FAITH.

  Just how much mercy had been shown within these walls?, he wondered. There had been some--Mr. Foyle had shown mercy--but not much, he reckoned.

  Then they left the lobby behind. Through another hall, and then another. They finally stopped before a closed door. The lettering on the frosted glass:

  Mr. Clyde Forsythe

  Director and Headmaster

  Ms. Stockwell tapped on the glass with a gentleness that was surprising given her size and demeanor. Jerry had expected her to bang the door hard enough to pop its hinges.

  “Yes, what is it?” came a voice from the other side of the door.

  “It’s Ms. Stockwell, Mr. Forsythe. I have a trouble maker who needs correction.”

  There was a moment of silence in which Jerry had enough time to hope that Mr. Forsythe was too busy to deal with an unruly child, that he would tell Ms. Stockwell to just turn the kid loose with a warning. But if the Home had little mercy within its walls, it had even less luck.

  “Come in,” the voice called out.

  Ms. Stockwell opened the door and pulled Jerry into the room with her. Mr. Forsythe sat behind a desk that was too large for such a small office. Ms. Stockwell had to close the door before she could pull a chair out from the desk and take a seat. Je
rry stayed standing, knowing better that to presume to take a seat himself. Mr. Forsythe sat behind the desk, his fingers tented beneath his jowls, his bald head shining with the reflection of the sunlight coming in through the window behind him. His spectacles were too small for his face, and they seemed to pinch his nose painfully. His eyes looked scrunched together; Jerry wasn’t sure if it was just a distortion caused by the think lenses of the spectacles, or if the man just had unfortunate genes.

  “What seems to be the trouble, young man?” Mr. Forsythe asked.

  “Young Master Smith here has seen fit to bring a filthy animal into our midst,” Ms. Stockwell answered for him.

  Jerry knew better than to argue with her inaccurate description of Mr. Green Pants, or her use of the distasteful surname. Smith was the surname that all kids who came to the Home without a proper name were given, and all of them came to hate it eventually.

  Mr. Forsythe cocked his head to the side, looking at Jerry with those strange, close-set eyes of his. He leaned forward on the desk, planting his hands down on it one on top of the other.

  “Hmm. Is this true, Master Smith?” he said, spitting out that last word like it put a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Well, sir, the thing is, I found--”

  “Speak up, child,” Mr. Forsythe said.

  “Yes, sir. I found a frog in the yard when I was outside the other day, and it wasn’t dirty or nothing.”

  “Grammar, grammar,” Mr. Forsythe said.

  “Yes, sir. It wasn’t dirty. It was just sort of sitting there all alone, and I thought that I could make it my pet.”

  “You thought you could make it your pet? Did I hear that correctly, Ms. Stockwell?”

  “You did, Mr. Forsythe,” she said.

  “Do you know the rules about pets here at the Home, young man?” Mr. Forsythe said, turning his attention back to Jerry.

  “Yes, but I didn’t think--”

  “Ah, ah--just answer the question. Do you know the rules about pets?”

  “Yes, sir. Pets aren’t allowed.”

  “Very good. So you see the problem?”

  Jerry looked at Ms. Stockwell. Her lips were spread in a gruesome smile. He looked back at Mr. Forsythe, who looked back at him with boredom.

  “Yes, I see the problem,” Jerry said weakly.

  “Where is this ‘pet’ of yours then?”

  “It’s…I’ll go set it free. Just let me step outside for a minute and I’ll set it free; I promise.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I will dispose of it myself. Where is it?”

  “I can set it free. If you just--”

  “It’s right here!” Ms. Stockwell bellowed.

  She slammed one meaty hand against the pocket where Mr. Green Pants was nestled. Jerry screamed--not in pain, but in shock. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Mr. Green Pants. The frog didn’t move in his hands; it lay limp and lifeless, killed by Ms. Stockwell’s swift blow.

  “Why?” Jerry said, looking at Ms. Stockwell. “I said that I would set it free.”

  “Give the thing to me,” Mr. Forsythe said.

  The man grabbed a wad of tissues from a box on his desk.

  “Give it here.”

  “But…”

  Jerry stopped. Knowing that there was nothing more to say, Jerry handed the lifeless body of the frog to Mr. Forsythe. The headmaster folded the tissues over it and threw it in a small trash can next to the table. Things that Jerry loved had a tendency to end up in the trash.

  “Now that that’s done, we have the matter of punishment to discuss,” Mr. Forsythe said.

  “Punishment?” Jerry asked.

  “Yes, of course. You broke the rules. When rules are broken, there must be a punishment. What do you think would be a fitting punishment for this infraction, Master Smith?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “How about you, Ms. Stockwell? Do you have any ideas?”

  “I think a visit to the Special Room is in order, don’t you think Mr. Forsythe?”

  Jerry stiffened at these words. The Special Room was something that the children only spoke of in whispers. It was the most feared punishment at the Home. Jerry had never been taken there, but he knew a few kids who had. When they came back they were different, more quiet than they had been before. They cried at night when they didn’t think anyone could hear them. Some of them didn’t come back at all.

  “I won’t do it again, I swear,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you won’t,” Mr. Forsythe said.

  The headmaster pushed a button on the side of the desk. A moment later the door opened, banging into the back of Ms. Stockwell’s chair. She stood up and pushed the chair in, and the door opened all the way. A tall man in a crisp white shirt and white pants stood in the doorway. Jerry had seen the man around before; most of the kids we’re afraid of him.

  “Branson, we have a child here that must pay a visit to the Special Room,” Mr. Forsythe said.

  The big man looked down at the scared child who stood before him. There was nothing in Branson’s eyes but utter indifference. Branson grabbed Jerry by the scruff of the neck and pulled him from the room. Ms. Stockwell and the headmaster followed after them as Branson led Jerry to the Special Room. The key ring attached to Branson’s belt jingled and jangled as they walked. The way there was a serpentine one through a maze of halls leading into parts of the building that Jerry had never visited before.

  When they finally stopped at a door, Jerry looked up and saw that the door was unmarked. Branson unhooked the key ring from his belt and found the right key, using it to unlock the door. He opened the door and pushed Jerry inside. Branson followed him into the room, and then Mr. Forsythe and Ms. Stockwell. Jerry looked at the wall. There were a pair of shackles bolted to the wall, and another, slightly larger pair bolted to the floor. In the corner there was a table, on top of which were laid sticks of various sizes and thickness, and a couple of belts.

  “Move to the wall,” Branson said.

  Jerry turned and made a run for the door, but Ms. Stockwell stepped in his path, blocking his exit. Branson grabbed him from behind and yanked him back savagely. Mr. Forsythe closed the door and locked it from the inside.

  Minutes later kids all over the Home heard the faint, hollow sound of screams coming through the air vents in their bedrooms, in the classrooms, even in the cafeteria. Some of them turned their heads to look at the nearest air vent for just a moment before turning away. Most of them pretended that they didn’t hear anything at all.