The Darkest Night

by Mike Ramon

Chapter Twenty

  After dinner Frankie washed the dishes; his mom said he didn’t have to, but he did them anyway. When he had finished washing the plates, cups and silverware, and drying them off with the baby blue dishrag, he stowed them away in their cupboards and drawers.

  He joined his parents in the living room, where they were watching some corny movie on TV about a kid who was having trouble with bullies at school. Frankie had to smile inside at the movie’s version of a school bully, thinking that they would never have a character in a movie that reflected real life bullies. When did the bully in any of those family friendly, watch-and-learn-something-important movies ever try to drown a kid at the public pool?

  Frankie looked at the clock over the TV; it was a quarter to eight, and the sun outside had not quite finished its dip below the horizon, but he figured he needed some time to get ready, so he leaned over on the couch and gave his mom a peck on the cheek.

  “I think I’m gonna go to bed early,” he said.

  “But it’s not even eight o’clock,” she said.

  “I know. Still…”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Actually, I have a bit of a stomach ache. I’m sure it’s nothing. I just want to lie down.”

  “Make we should check your temperature. You might have caught something.”

  “Mary, leave him be,” Henry Gardener said. “If he says he’s okay, then he’s okay.”

  “He didn’t say he was okay,” she protested.

  “Mom, I’m fine,” Frankie cut in. “Really. Good night.”

  “Well, all right then.”

  She looked doubtful, but she let the matter drop.

  “Sweet dreams, Frankie,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good night,” Henry said.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  Frankie went to his room, shutting the door. He thought about it for a second, and then engaged the push-button lock on the doorknob. He had never had any reason to lock his door before, since his parents were good at respecting his privacy, but he thought it was better to be safe than sorry. If they noticed the door was locked he would just tell them that he had accidentally locked it while closing the door. He just hoped that if one of them tried to come into his room and found the door locked, they wouldn’t get overly curious and start banging on the door; then he would have to explain why he hadn’t heard them knocking.

  Frankie went to his closet and pulled out the backpack he had stored there earlier in the day. He had spent the day sneaking supplies into his room a little at a time, and stuffing them into the bag. He set the bag on the bed, unzipped it and looked inside, giving his inventory one last look-see: one heavy-duty flashlight with fresh D batteries; a headlamp, with not-so-fresh double-A batteries (he had searched the kitchen utility drawer for a package of spares, but hadn’t found one); a pair of safety goggles filched from the garage; a whistle attached to a cord (he had debated with himself about the need for a whistle; what finally settled the matter was the fact that the whistle took up almost no room); a package of teriyaki-flavored beef jerky; finally, the gnarly-looking knife that his dad had bought from a flea market in the city. The knife, which was in a battered leather sheath, had a smooth, brown handle and a five-inch blade.

  He zipped the bag up, went over to his desk and got his watch from the top right drawer. The watch was digital, and it had a button that illuminated the face for five seconds when pressed, which Frankie did, testing it to make sure it was working properly.

  Frankie grabbed a light jacket from the closet and put it on, then kneeled down and reached under his bed. For a second, as his hand disappeared into the shadows under the bed, an image blossomed in his head of something grabbing onto his wrist and pulling him under, into the velvet dark, where the shadows would swallow his screams. None of that happened, and he pulled out a pair of shoes. He pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, then slipped the shoes on, tying them tight enough so that he didn’t have to worry about them coming untied at a bad time.

  Frankie checked his watch. It was 8:01. He stood up and grabbed the backpack by one strap, then shut off the light and moved to the window. He opened it, leaned out and dropped the pack to the ground, then climbed out and shut the window. His route of departure was the same one Tom had taken on the day he had come slinking around weeks earlier, only this time the ground was dry, and Frankie didn’t have to fear slipping in the mud. He dropped the bag on the other side of the fence, hopped the fence, and shouldered the bag.

  The night was warm, but a light breeze rustled the leaves of the sycamores and maples along the street. The sun was a burnt orange sliver sticking up over the western horizon. To the east the sky was already starry-black, and the sky straight above Frankie’s head was deep violet.

  He took a long, circuitous route to his destination, as if some part of himself didn’t really want to get there and was hoping against all hope that he would find a reason to stop and turn back. But he had made up his mind, and would not allow his own fears to dissuade him from his course.

  When he finally arrived at his destination, he stood on the street-side of the fence, staring up at the dark, dead eyes of the windows on the second floor of the Home. Most of the windows that he could see on the first floor were dark as well. The windows nearest the front entrance glowed dimly from within, however. The windows were caked with untold years of dust and dirt, and he couldn’t see what was behind them, but he knew. His friends were in there. That was how he thought of them now--his friends, the only people who understood what things had been like for him since the first night of summer. Soon, he would join them.

  He slid the gate open (the busted lock was still lying on the ground where Harry had left it), then slid it closed behind himself. He stood there by the gate for a minute, looking at the cold visage of the building, thinking about all the dreams he had had in which he was being chased within those walls, and the other dreams, where he saw the Special Room, where the “bad” kids were taken all those years ago when the staff of the Home wanted to teach them a lesson. Some of those kids never came out of that room. He took a deep breath, and took one step forward. An old proverb came to him, something about a long journey starting with a single step.

  While Frankie had taken his journey from his house to the Home, lost in his own thoughts, he had failed to notice that he was being followed.