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    The Darkest Night
    The Darkest Night
    The Darkest Night
    Ebook266 pages4 hours

    The Darkest Night

    By Mike Ramon

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    About this ebook

    On the first day of summer a young girl disappears after climbing through a broken window into an abandoned building that was once an orphanage. Now Frankie, her brother and only witness to her disappearance, Tom, a newspaper reporter and recent widower, and Patricia, a woman with her own connection to the old orphanage, along with three paranormal researchers, will try to untangle the secrets and mysteries of the place they call the Home.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMike Ramon
    Release dateDec 29, 2013
    ISBN9781310560798
    The Darkest Night
    Author

    Mike Ramon

    Born and bred in the Midwest.

    Read more from Mike Ramon

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      Book preview

      The Darkest Night - Mike Ramon

      THE DARKEST NIGHT

      Mike Ramon

      Smashwords Edition

      © 2013 M. Ramon

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

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

      If you wish to contact the author you can send e-mail to:

      storywryter@hotmail.com

      Web addresses where you can find my work:

      http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/mramon

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

      http://www.wattpad.com/user/ZeroTheHero

      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

      I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

      - Lord Byron

      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, saying 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. Small things didn’t stand a chance against big things. 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 earlier. 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 Pants 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 those whom they consider weak. 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 like a red slash. 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 that he would 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 remains 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 cheerful pronouncement.

      They passed a few people along the way as Ms. Stockwell led Jerry through the halls. 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 that led 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.

      He wondered just how much mercy had been shown within these walls. 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. I have a troublemaker with me 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. Jerry stayed standing, knowing better than 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 on Jerry’s behalf.

      Jerry knew better than to argue with her inaccurate description of Mr. Green Pants, or her use of the distasteful surname. Smith was the name given to all the kids who came to the Home without a proper name, and most 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 as if 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 then.

      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 on the floor. 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 so, 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 that 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 so that the new arrival could open the door 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 standing 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 keyring attached to Branson’s belt jingled and jangled as they walked. The way was a serpentine one through a maze of halls leading into parts of the building that were unfamiliar to Jerry.

      They came to a stop at an unmarked door. Branson unhooked the keyring 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 one 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, as well as a couple of belts.

      Move to the wall, Branson commanded.

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

      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.

      Chapter One

      The first say of summer always held a sense of wonderment, with the promise of long days and warm nights ahead. Fireflies, the buzz of grasshoppers, lightning flashing brilliantly from distant thunderheads on hot, muggy nights, as well as the sound of mother’s calling their children in from their shared adventures (or misadventures); these were the things that made up a summer. The summer held secrets that would be remembered by children long after they ceased to be children, when they would meet as old friends or barely remembered strangers, as mothers and fathers, husband, wives and divorcees, and they would say, Remember the time when…?.

      The first day of summer had started out as a good day for Frankie Gardener and his little sister. At twelve years old most boys would resent having their eight-year-old sister tagging along with them all day, but Jessica was pretty cool for a sister, and so he didn’t really mind. Sometimes he gave her a hard time, told her to go away or that she wasn’t old enough to join in whatever fun he and his friends had found to kill the day, but when he did so he was just going through the motions of how a brother was supposed to act toward his little sister in front of his friends, and she always knew that he didn’t really mean it.

      So she took the occasional half-hearted jibes from her brother in stride and stuck around, knowing that in a few minutes the older boys would turn their attention away from the little sister and focus on more important things, like seeing who could climb the highest on mean Mr. Kerch’s apple tree before the old man himself came out to yell at them to stay the hell out of his yard, or figuring out whether it was the second or third down in a pick-up football game. One’s view in these arguments seemed to depend on whether or not one’s team had possession of the ball.

      When Frankie headed out the door that first morning of summer, Jessica followed after him without discussion; it was expected. The siblings joined a loose-knit and shifting group of kids, which grew larger and smaller in turns as the day wore on. At some point Buddy Weaver and a few of his friends joined the flock, which made a few of the kids uneasy, given the boy’s size and unpredictable temper, but he seemed to be in a good mood, and they all breathed a little easier. A game of freeze tag gave way to a half-assed game of baseball that ended when their only ball line-drived straight into some sticker bushes. No one volunteered to search for the ball, and so the group, using that odd groupthink that seemed to settle over gangs of kids just like a colony of ants, decided as one that the next destination would be Sag Creek.

      They used a rope that had been tied around the trunk of a particularly sturdy tree by some earlier generation of kids to swing out to the center of the creek, where they let go and soared for brief moments that felt like forever before crashing gown into the muddy water. They splashed and swam, and spat water at each other in the bruised light of early evening.

      Stop splashing, ya retard! someone called out.

      Joey and his twin brother Jackie took turns doing handstands in the water. One of them would hold the other’s legs, helping him to stay balanced. They seemed proud of their ability to do handstands, and didn’t consider the extra help to be cheating.

      Everything was fine until Buddy Weaver started dunking Jessica under the water. It just looked like typical horseplay at first, but when Jessica shouted that it wasn’t funny anymore and Buddy responded by dunking her under again it took on a note of the casual viciousness that the big boy was capable of at odd times.

      Quit it! Jessica said when she came up again. I mean it, Buddy!

      Buddy dunked her again, and then brought her back up. She gasped for air and started flailing her thin arms against his stocky frame. He laughed at her efforts, sounding eerily like a braying donkey. He pushed her back under the water. A few of the kids laughed along with him, glad to be in on the joke instead of being the joke itself, while others looked on with the quietly disapproving looks of kids who knew better than to vocalize that disapproval to a kid who had an advantage of several inches and about twenty pounds over them. Frankie, seeing what was happening, waded out into the water, heading toward Buddy on the bigger boy’s blind side.

      Buddy let Jessica up and she struck out wildly with one small fist, catching him on the bridge of his nose. He cried out, in surprise more than pain, and shoved her away from him. She lost her footing on the slippery creek bed and went down, going under the water or a moment until she was able to right herself and stand up. Water dripped from her dark blond hair, landing in little droplets into the body of water.

      What’s your problem? Jessica asked.

      I was just playing around, Buddy said. You didn’t have to hit--

      He didn’t see it coming when Frankie, standing to the left and slightly behind Buddy, took a swing, his arm snaking around and his fist landing on Buddy’s jaw. Buddy crumpled to his knees, the water coming up to just below his chin. The way he folded with the force of the blow was almost comical, though no one dared laugh.

      Frankie stood upright in the creek, staring at his fist as if it were some miraculous object that he beheld for the first time. It throbbed with a dull, aching pain, but he couldn’t deny feeling a certain kind of thrill. He had never punched anybody in his life, and he had always secretly believed that if he did it would have little or no effect. Seeing Buddy Weaver fall to his knees after one blow was proof that he

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