The Darkest Night

by Mike Ramon

Chapter Thirteen

  Patricia ate a light breakfast consisting of a small bowl of Special K, a piece of lightly buttered toast and a glass of orange juice, while reading an article on the web about the latest deadlock in Congress. When she had finished her breakfast she did some stretching before changing into a pair of running shorts and a cotton tank top, and slipping on her running shoes over a pair of white ankle socks. She walked out of her house, grateful for another clear blue day after the previous day’s steely grayness.

  As she walked down the stone path leading to the sidewalk she noticed Tom’s car parked at the curb. The car looked empty. Patricia looked around, turning her head left, then right; there was no sign of Tom. She approached the car warily, peering through the front passenger window, finding the front of the car unoccupied. She moved over to the rear passenger window and peered in. Tom was scrunched up into a fetus position on the back seat, asleep. He had on a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and nothing else. Patricia rapped her knuckles on the window, and Tom started, his legs kicking out but fining no room to expand, his feet knocking against the door.

  “Shit!” she heard faintly.

  Tom swung his legs down from the seat and sat up. He looked around blearily, squinting his eyes at the harsh light of morning. He looked surprised when he saw Patricia looking in at him, and they stared at each other wordlessly for a moment. Patricia put her hands up in the air in a what gives? gesture. Tom reached over, and the window lowered with a soft electric whine.

  “Good morning,” he greeted her.

  “Good morning. Can you tell me why you’re sleeping in your car in front of my house, half dressed?”

  “Because the toilet at the diner got to be kind of uncomfortable after a while.”

  “Ooo-kay. Do you want to elaborate, or should I just go ahead and call the boys from the funny farm to come and fetch you?”

  Tom laughed; there was a note of nervous exhaustion in that laugh.

  “Would you care to invite me in?” he asked. “I could explain it to you over a cup of coffee.”

  “I only have instant,” she said.

  “That sounds fine.”

  Patricia led the way, taking Tom into the house. He went to use the toilet while she made the coffee, pouring out two cups.

  “Would you like some creamer in your coffee?” she asked upon his return.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Patricia added a dash to both cups and handed one of the cups to Tom.

  As Tom sipped his coffee he couldn’t help running his eyes over the woman, her tan thighs, her tight shorts. He lifted his gaze to find her staring back at him.

  “I, uh, uh…this is good coffee,” he stammered in embarrassment.

  Patricia laughed.

  “I was about to go for a jog,” she said, explaining her attire. “What about you?”

  Tom looked down at himself. It felt pretty foolish to be standing here in Patricia’s kitchen dressed in boxers and an old, faded t-shirt.

  “Something happened last night,” he said, meeting her gaze again, staring into her chocolate-brown eyes.

  “Another bad dream?”

  “No. It was a nightmare, for sure, but it was no dream. This time I was awake.”

  “Awake?” she said with a note of incredulity.

  “Correct.”

  “Well, that’s something new.”

  She took a drink of coffee, and Tom thought she was taking the news a little too calmly. As he told her all of it, however, her calm chipped away. By the end of the story she was fidgeting nervously and chewing on her bottom lip.

  “And she looked like…like your wife?” she asked.

  “Yes. Sounded like her, too.”

  “I didn’t know that you were married. I’m sorry, for…you know.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Do you mind if I ask how she died?” Patricia asked.

  “Drunk driver. The guy who hit her died in the accident, too. They were the only two cars on the street; no one else was hurt, thankfully.”

  “So there’s no connection between her and the Home?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Hmm.”

  She was quiet for a while, digesting it all.

  “I think we should see what Harry thinks,” she said finally.

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah. Lately we’ve been communicating on a private chat room. It’s easier than e-mailing back and forth. Let me see if I can get him. Wait here a sec.”

  Patricia set her cup on the counter and whisked out of the kitchen. Tom drained his cup and washed it out in the sink before setting it in the dish rack. Patricia reappeared, carrying an open laptop. She placed it on the kitchen table and took a seat.

  “Pull over a chair,” she said.

  Tom moved a chair close to her and sat down. He was sitting close so that he could smell her shampoo, a scent like apples and spices. He watched as Patricia deftly worked the keyboard, signing in to the chat room.

  “Let me see…,” she said. “It looks like he’s logged on.”

  She typed quickly (but accurately, so unlike himself with his thick fingers that insisted on hitting the wrong keys):

  PATGOM: Harry, you there?

  They waited. Tom was beginning to think they weren’t going to get a response when it came:

  PARABNORMAL: I’m here, Trish.

  “He calls you Trish?” Tom asked.

  Patricia rolled her eyes.

  “Shut up,” she said playfully.

  She typed some more:

  PATGOM: New info. Tom is here with me. Last nite he had a vision.

  “A vision?” Tom asked.

  “What else would you call it?”

  “Good point.”

  PARABNORMAL: Lay it on me.

  PATGOM: He left bathroom lite on cuz he’s a fraidy cat.

  Tom groaned, but didn’t say anything. Patricia continued:

  PATGOM: Lite went off. He went 2 check on it, saw wife in tub. She passed away last year. (No connection 2 the Home.)

  “God, you type like a teenaged girl,” Tom said.

  “Get with the times, pops,” Patricia said.

  Tom snickered at that.

  PARABNORMAL: Strange. Even stranger than the library event. Contrary to what some scary films would have you believe, entities rarely manifest themselves in any way beyond the boundaries of their natural habitat, which in this case is the Home. It takes a lot of effort to exert their will beyond that point. And they almost never make appearances disguised as other people. (Again, contrary to what Hollyweird has told you.) They must be pretty riled up.

  “What in the hell did we ever do to them?” Tom asked. “Why are they so pissed at us?”

  Patricia typed his question, and seconds later Harry responded:

  PARABNORMAL: Maybe they sense some danger to them. The same reason could explain the dreams. They fear you, and so they are trying to scare you all off.

  Patricia thought for a second, and then typed:

  PATGOM: Any progress on a theory about nature of entities?

  PARABNORMAL: Been thinking about it a lot. About the lost orphans, and all. I think the entities may in fact be the aural remnants of children who died in the Home.

  PATGOM: Aural remnants?

  PARABNORMAL: Their spirits, if you will. Not quite the same, but close enough for govt. work. Think about it. Those “missing” orphans weren’t just missing, I think you’ve already guessed that. They most likely died at the hands of overzealous staff. Now their remnants--or spirits--are trapped within the walls of the place where they lived out the last days and years of their short, sad lives. Entities in general tend to be tied to the place where they met their end. These kids (or their remnants, rather) are confused and angry, maybe even still in pain. I don’t think there is evidence of true maliciousness on their part. Yes, they have taken people, and yes those people are probably dead (I’m sure you’ve guess that, too, by now). But they are not doing this because
they are “evil” per se. It’s more like when a wounded dog lashes out in anger at anyone it can, even someone it loves.

  Tom was shaking his head.

  “I don’t buy it,” he said. “What that thing did to the old man wasn’t hot anger; it was cold cruelty. It stalked him, like it was playing a game. And appearing as a rotting version of my wife--if that’s not malicious, then I don’t know what is.”

  “Mmm. You make a good point.”

  Patricia typed it, in her shortened form:

  PARABNORMAL: Well, it’s just a theory, of course. I have a friend working on hunting down more info on the Home. Maybe he’ll find something that will bring a new theory to light. Until then, I’m sticking with this one, as I think it makes the most sense.

  PATGOM: Any idea when u will b able to come out here?

  PARABNORMAL: It will be at least a week or two. I’ve already found a couple of volunteers, one of whom has helped me before. They’re young, but I trust them. Right now we are just trying to free up our schedules.

  PATGOM: Good 2 hear. I have a bad feeling like things r starting 2 heat up here (and I’m not talking about the weather).

  PARABNORMAL: Hang in there.

  “That’s easy for him to say,” Tom said. “He’s not the one being paid home visits by these…what did he call them? Remnants?”

  Another message from Harry popped up:

  PARABNORMAL: Another thing. Have either of you looked into other disappearances connected to the Home, other than the Gardener girl and your husband? It would be interesting to get a gauge on how active these particular entities are.

  Patricia looked at Tom.

  “Why didn’t you think of that?” she asked.

  “Hey, even I’m not perfect, as hard as that is to believe. But it’s a good idea. I’ll check the Review’s archives and see what I can find.”

  Patricia tapped at the keys, her fingers deft and swift.

  PATGOM: Tom will check on it.

  PARABNORMAL: Good. Anything else? Time’s kind of tight for me right now.

  PATGOM: That’s all 4 now. Will get back 2 u if anything new comes up. Thanks a million. Bye.

  PARABNORMAL: Adieu, jolie dame.

  “Why did he call you a ‘jolly dame’?” Tom asked.

  “It means ‘pretty lady’,” Patricia said with a snicker.

  She closed the laptop and turned in her seat to face Tom.

  “So, what now?” she asked.

  “Right now I’m going to pay a visit to an old acquaintance of mine.”

  “Does it have anything to do with--you know--all of this?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  She scooted her chair back and stood up, then looked him over. Tom had almost forgotten that he was sitting there in his boxers.

  “You can’t go around looking like that, though,” she said. Give me a minute; I’ll see what I can do.”

  She left him alone in the kitchen for the second time that morning. Tom took the quiet moment to look around the kitchen, taking in the sleek black microwave, the Oster blender, the four-slot toaster, as well as the cream-colored wallpaper and the lacey curtains on the two windows looking out on the side yard and the backyard respectively. Patricia came back into the kitchen carrying a folded pair of khaki trousers.

  “Stand up,” she said.

  Tom complied, pushing his chair in after he stood. Patricia held the pants by the waistband and let gravity do its work, the pants unfurling so that the pant legs were brushing the floor. She lifted them up and brought the waistband level with Tom’s waist.

  “Hold this here,” she said.

  Tom grabbed hold of the pants, holding them against himself. Patricia took a few steps back and eyed him, one arm folded over her chest and one hand pressed to her chin in an inquisitive manner. She stood like that for a second, squinted one eye slightly, and then nodded.

  “Perfect,” she said. “They belonged to James. It looks like a good fit.”

  Tom looked down at the pants.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I can make a stop at my house and pick up a pair of my own pants.”

  “No, no, no. Take these.”

  “All right. Well, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tom put the pants on; he had to admit that they were a good fit. It felt strange to be wearing her husband’s pants, but the look of satisfaction on Patricia’s face went a long way to assuage any feelings of discomfort.

  “Now,” Patricia said. “We just have to do something about those bare feet.”