The Darkest Night

by Mike Ramon

Chapter Twenty-Two

  Once upon a time on a warm summer night a young girl crawled through a broken-out window and disappeared. Now her brother climbed through that same window, dropping to the dusty floor before shouldering the backpack he had dropped inside before climbing in. He reached up and pushed a button, and the headlamp he wore came alive, illuminating an empty room.

  Soon Frankie would join the group, and would stay the night no matter what they said, but first he wanted to do some exploring. It was something he felt he had to do, and he was afraid that Tom and Patricia would talk him out of it, or physically stop him if words wouldn’t do.

  His heart was racing, but he forced himself to take slow, even breaths, hoping to convince his wild heart to calm down. As he looked around the room, illuminating the walls and the corners, he recognized the room. He didn’t recognize it so much from the first time he had set foot in the room, on the night his sister was taken; rather, he remembered it from his dreams, in which he had escaped from a dozen rooms just like it.

  He moved to the door, but hesitated before gripping the knob, his breath catching in his throat; he was filled with a strange certainty that when he turned the knob the door would refuse to open, and then he would be stuck in that room, the only means of escape being the window he had entered through. But he wouldn’t make it to that window. The shadows would come alive; they would swallow the meager light of his headlamp and then descend upon him. The group gathered near the Home’s entrance might very well hear his dying screams.

  But the door did open, and he was able to breathe again. He stepped out into a cold, dark hall, which he also recognized from his dreams. The hall led off into perfect darkness in both directions, against which the headlamp barely made a dent. He turned his head first left, then right, the headlamp feebly attempting to illuminate the hall as he tried to decide which way to go. He made up his mind and turned right. He took short, even steps, his nerves buzzing, his pupils dilated, his eyes wide and searching. The walls on both sides were lined with closed doors. He tried a couple of them, but they were locked.

  The walls were dark, the wood rotted in some places. He looked up at the ceiling; there were water stains in spots. His attention was brought back down to the void that opened before him by a sharp noise that clanged from somewhere up ahead. He paused, straining to see something, anything, in the enveloping darkness.

  The headlamp flickered twice before fading out, and the darkness became complete. He tried his best remain calm, to still the wings of panic that threatened to carry him away. Frankie reached up and tapped the headlamp; each tap brought a brief spear of light. He tapped harder, and the light stayed on.

  Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe, he told himself.

  He continued forward, shrugging his shoulders to rearrange the pack he carried on his back. He looked up again and saw a hole in the ceiling, a ragged mouth hanging above him. He lowered his gaze so the headlamp beam was pointing straight ahead.

  From behind there came a low creaking noise, like somebody stepping on a rotted wooden plank. Frankie whipped around, half expecting to see some monstrous thing rushing up at him from behind, but the scant arc of light thrown from the headlamp revealed nothing. He could no longer see the open door he had emerged from. After a moment of indecision Frankie turned back and continued walking.

  Soon a hall opened up to his left. He turned down it and followed it for a while. There were more closed doors, though most of the ones he tried opened, revealing empty, dusty rooms that exhaled smells of damp and mold.

  As he went on a feeling came over him that he was being followed. It was an indescribable feeling, like a tingling at the back of his neck, a feeling that he couldn’t shake. Despite his best efforts to remain calm his chest was thumping with the beat of his heart, and his breathing had become quick and ragged, but backward glances revealed only more blackness behind him. He was beginning to wish he had just walked right through the front door and joined the group.

  This particular hall felt familiar in a menacing way, though it looked no different than the last one, and this feeling only added to Frankie’s sense of unease. He opened another door, and found a small room with a desk pushed up against one wall and two chairs stacked together against the opposite wall. He closed the door softly and moved on.

  The quiet surrounding him seemed to have a weight of its own, and as it pressed down on him he almost wished for some unexplained noise to shatter it. It was quiet enough so that he could hear his rapid pulse as a rushing in his ears, like the sound of some strange tide.

  When Frankie saw the door he knew it at once for what it was, despite the fact that it looked no different than any of the other doors he had passed. The door was on his right, and as got closer to it he moved as far to the left as he could, his shoulder brushing against the opposite wall. He stopped and pressed his back flat against the wall, looking at the door to the room that the kids had called the Special Room. The door itself was black and smooth. As it absorbed the weak light of the headlamp Frankie had the impression that the door was a black hole, perceivable only as a blank space in the midst of visible matter.

  Frankie pushed himself off the wall and propelled himself on uncooperative feet to the door. He looked down at the tarnished brass knob, seeing the reflection of his own headlamp in it. The knob felt cold to the touch when he settled his hand over it, blotting out the light’s reflection. The door had a deadbolt on it, but somehow Frankie knew that it was unlocked. He had a feeling that it had been waiting for him. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. In the brief moment before the headlamp went out he saw two shackles bolted to the far wall. That was all he saw before the light flickered and died. Frankie reached up and tapped the headlamp a few times, but the light refused to shine.

  “Damn it,” he muttered to himself.

  He shrugged off the pack and set it down on the ground, then took a knee. Feeling in the darkness, he unzipped the bag, slipped the headlamp off and toss it inside, and then rooted around inside the bag, trying to find the heavy-duty flashlight. His hand closed on the bag of jerky, then the safety goggles, and he dug down deeper, feeling for the ridged metal handle of the flashlight.

  A light flared in his peripheral vision, and Frankie shut his eyes against it. He turned toward the light, squinting and shielding his eyes with one upraised hand.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  The light pointed away from his face, angling slightly toward the floor, and as the blinding halo of light receded from his vision Frankie saw who it was.

  “Hello, shit lips,” Buddy said through the cold grin on his face.

  Flanking Buddy were Kevin and Kyle, both of whom had been with Buddy that day at the pool. Buddy was holding the flashlight.

  “Look at him,” Kyle said. “He looks like a deer caught in the headlights.”

  Buddy laughed; every shade of meanness was contained in that laugh. Kevin sneered at Frankie, his eyes almost shining.

  “What do you guys want?” Frankie asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

  “We just want to teach you a lesson,” Buddy said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wants to know what I mean, guys,” Buddy told his compatriots. “Why don’t we enlighten him?”

  The three boys moved toward Frankie. He looked down into the open pack and reached down into it. When his hand felt leather he clasped onto it and pulled it out; it was the sheath that held his father’s knife. Frankie tried to pull the knife free of the sheath, but the strap held it in place. He attempted to unbutton the strap, but he was out of time. He felt strong hands grabbing him. A foot connected with the hand holding the sheathed knife, and it fell from his hands, hitting the ground and rolling once, and then Frankie was being dragged into the Special Room.

  “Stop it, you assholes!” Frankie protested.

  “Get a load of the mouth on this kid,” Buddy said.

  He threw Frankie against the floor, and Frank
ie’s jaw connected with bare concrete. Pinpricks of light bloomed and died in Frankie’s field of vision, and he felt a terrible roiling in his stomach.

  Buddy looked about the room, shining his flashlight in one corner, and then another. When he noticed the shackles on the wall he smiled.

  “Get him up there,” Buddy commanded. “Get those things around his wrists. Then we’ll have some real fun with him.”

  Kevin and Kyle, that alliterative pair of underlings, pulled a still-dazed Frankie up to his feet and led him to the wall. Behind them Buddy pulled Frankie’s pack into the room and searched through it with one hand while holding the flashlight more or less steady and aimed at the wall to give his friends light to see by. Kevin and Kyle pushed Frankie up against the wall, but when they each grabbed a hand and began to raise them up to the height of the shackles Frankie started to resist; the worst of the dizziness and confusion brought on by the impact to his jaw had begun to worn off. He managed to shake Kyle off, and he used his freed hand to take a shot at Kevin, missing the boy’s face and hitting him in the shoulder.

  “Damn it, Buddy, give us a hand here!” Kevin pleaded.

  Buddy dropped the pack. The flashlight traced jagged, erratic patterns in the darkness as Buddy rushed over to help his friends. Together the three boys managed to get Frankie’s wrists into the shackles, which they ratcheted closed over them.

  “We were just planning on chucking rocks at your bedroom window, or something,” Buddy said. “Just to screw with you. Then we saw you climbing out your window.”

  Kevin inspected the shackles closely as Frankie bucked and squirmed, trying to pull his wrists free of the rusted cuffs. When Kevin realized that it would take a key to free Frankie from the shackles a worm of unease threaded its way into his gut, and the smile that was plastered on his lips dimmed a little.

  “Hey Buddy, how are we gonna get him out of there?” Kevin asked. “You know, when we’re done messin’ with him.”

  “Shut up,” was Buddy’s terse reply.

  Kyle walked over to the backpack and searched through it as Buddy went back to the doorway, searching the ground with the flashlight.

  “Cool,” Kyle said. “He’s got some beefy jerky in here.”

  Kyle took out the package of jerky, tipped off the top and grabbed out a handful of dried meat, popping it into his mouth. Near the door Buddy had found what he was looking for; he picked it up and walked over to where Frankie was still struggling against the cuffs.

  “Anybody want some of this?” Kyle asked, indicating the jerky. “It’s pretty good.”

  Kevin started to say something in response, but Buddy’s voice cut him off:

  “Shut the hell up, the both of you!”

  Buddy held up the sheathed knife, shining the light on it so that Frankie could see it.

  “What were you planning on doing with this, freak?” Buddy asked.

  Frankie said nothing, though the sight of the knife in Buddy’s hand made him stop his struggling. He looked Buddy in the eyes and saw a frightening blankness there.

  “Did you hear me, asshole?” Buddy asked. “What were you gonna do, stab us all?”

  An overwhelming urge came over Frankie then, and despite the feeling that he would regret it, he spat into Buddy’s face. Buddy flinched back, wiping at his face with one sleeve. Kevin and Kyle exchanged a wary look.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Buddy hissed.

  “Hey, Bud,” Kevin said. “Maybe we should just get out of here, hey?”

  Buddy shot a dark look at Kevin, and Kevin dropped his gaze to the ground.

  “What’s wrong,” Buddy said. “You going pussy on me?”

  Buddy looked at Kyle, who was still on his knees near the backpack.

  “How about you?” Buddy asked. “Do you think we should leave? Should I let this little creep spit in my face and get away with it?”

  “No, Buddy,” Kyle said. “I think…I think you should do whatever you want.”

  Buddy smiled again, his teeth gleaming in the dimness; that was just what he wanted to hear. He could do whatever he wanted to do. Buddy turned back to Frankie, whose eyes were fixed on the leather sheath in Buddy’s hand.

  “Hear that?” Buddy asked him. “I should do whatever I want. And what do I want to do with you?”

  Frankie met Buddy’s eyes, determined not to show his fear.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Frankie said. “I’ll get you, I swear it.”

  “I’m so scared that I think I might just piss in my pants,” Buddy said.

  “Yeah,” Kevin said; he was eager to get back on Buddy’s good side. “You’d better watch your back, Bud.”

  “One of you come here and take the light,” Buddy said.

  The other boys looked at each other for a moment, and it was Kyle who came over, leaving the pack lying on the ground. Buddy handed him the flashlight.

  “What exactly are you gonna do to me, huh?” Buddy asked Frankie.

  Frankie didn’t say anything; he looked at Kevin, and the boy looked away from him, unable to meet Frankie’s gaze.

  “Don’t look at him; look at me,” Buddy said.

  Frankie did so.

  “That’s good,” Buddy said.

  Buddy unsnapped the strap holding the knife in place, and slipped the blade free of its sheath. When Frankie saw the glint of light on the blade he couldn’t keep the panic from his eyes. Buddy watched his captive’s face closely, relishing the fear that he saw there.

  “What’s wrong, Frankie? A tough kid like you doesn’t have anything to be afraid of, right?”

  “Buddy, you need to stop,” Frankie said. “Whatever your planning on doing right now, don’t do it. You won’t get away with it.”

  “Really?”

  “You need to think, Buddy. For once in your life, think about the consequences.”

  Buddy screwed up his eyebrows and looked at the ceiling for a second.

  “Okay, there,” Buddy said. “I’ve thought about them.”

  He dropped the sheath to the floor.

  “Now I’m gonna make you bleed.”

  Buddy raised up the edge of the blade to Frankie’s cheek.

  “Jesus Christ, Buddy,” Kevin whispered from where he stood, and he immediately hoped that Buddy hadn’t heard it.

  “What do you think it’s gonna feel like?” Buddy asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Frankie tried to think of the magic words that would stop this thing, that would make even someone as dull as Buddy see the foolishness in it, when he saw movement behind Buddy and Kyle. He looked into the shadows, and realized that the shadows were not still. A low mewling sound came from Kevin’s throat as he saw what Frankie saw. Kyle looked at his friend, and then he turned slightly, following Kevin’s gaze. When he saw the thing he knew immediately that it was too late to run.

  The flashlight dropped to the floor as Kyle was lifted off of his feet and thrown toward the doorway. His body hit the door, slamming it shut, and when he fell to the door his head connected with the cement with a sickening crunch. Kevin started screaming then, and Buddy took the blade away from Frankie’s smooth cheek, leaving a thin red line of blood from a shallow cut there, and turned to face the mass of writhing blackness that now stood before him.

  “What the hell?” Buddy said with a note of disbelief in his voice.

  The thing came closer. Buddy stabbed at it with the knife, but it was like trying to cut through smoke, and it had no immediate visible effect. The moving shadow (or living shadow, as Frankie had described it that day in his living room once upon a time) made no sound as it moved. It settled its wispy hands on Buddy’s arms and put what passed for its face to Buddy’s face. When Buddy inhaled air to scream he inhaled the shadow itself. His body shook as the thing plunged down his throat. Near the door Kevin was dragging Kyle’s limp form out of the way. He opened the door and ran out of the room, disappearing down the hallway.

  Frankie looked up at the metal shackles holding
his wrists above his head. The two short chains connected to the shackles were each bolted to the wall. The cuffs, chains and the bolts themselves were all heavily rusted, and some far away part of Frankie’s mind wondered if he had ever gotten a tetanus shot in his life. The right cuff was closed tight around that wrist, but the left one was a little looser, and Frankie concentrated on trying to slip his left wrist free.

  Buddy fell to the ground and began writhing around; when Frankie took a moment to look down at him he was reminded of the time when he was eight years old and he saw his cousin Vick have a seizure.

  From the hallway there came a piercing scream. Frankie tried to twist around, but he couldn’t see the door from his position. It sounded like Kevin had met something terrible in the halls.

  Frankie renewed his efforts to free his left wrist as Buddy continued convulsing on the ground. Frankie twisted his hand slowly one way and then the other, pulling even when it became almost unbearably painful to do so. Just when it seemed that he was going to dislocate at least a couple of his fingers if he pulled any harder, his hand slipped through the cuff. Frankie shook the hand out, trying to shake away the cramp that had settled in it.

  On the ground Buddy stopped his crazy horizontal dance, and Frankie watched him. Buddy’s breathing was quick and ragged. He opened his eyes and looked around the room in a daze, then sat up. He worked himself onto his knees and knelt there on the floor, staring at Frankie with a questioning look in his eyes. All the meanness had been sapped from his gaze.

  “What happened?” Buddy slurred.

  That was all he managed to say before his body started rocking. Astonishingly he was able to stay on knees, but his body convulsed violently and repeatedly. Frankie reached up and grabbed the right shackle with his recently freed hand and started pulling on it, trying to pull it free from the wall. Flakes of rust rained down on his face with each tug.

  When Frankie heard a straining, gurgling sound coming from Buddy he spared the boy another look. Buddy was down on all fours, vomiting a pool of blood that shone with the reflected light of the flashlight was lying a few feet away.

  Frankie returned his attention to the task of freeing his right wrist. He gave another tug, putting all of his weight into it. He tugged again, and with the next tug the chain connecting the cuff to the wall snapped, sending Frankie reeling backward, his arms windmilling for balance. His feet hit the forgotten backpack and he went head over feet, landing on his back with a thud.

  Buddy was still retching; it seemed there was nothing left to expel, and he was just dry heaving.

  Frankie got to his knees, grabbed the pack and turned for the door, stepping over Kyle’s body to exit the room. He slung the pack over his shoulders as he tried to recall which direction Kevin had run; he thought the boy had turned left, but he wasn’t certain. He turned to see what was happening to Buddy, and a cold hand gripped his heart as he saw that Buddy had one last thing to expel after all. Buddy was coughing up the shadow, which spewed forth and started taking form. When it was out Buddy collapsed to the floor, lying face down, and then he was still.

  Frankie had a decision to make; he felt pretty sure that Kevin had turned left when he ran from the room, so Frankie turned on the opposite direction and fled. He ran in darkness, not knowing what, if anything, was in front of him. When he came to a bend in the hall he slammed into a wall, bouncing off of it. He turned to the right and continued on, more cautiously this time. He had to fight the urge to look behind him, knowing that in that darkness he wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway.

  He thought about stopping to search the backpack for his remaining flashlight, but didn’t want to risk it. He felt that if he didn’t keep moving he wouldn’t make it out of that building alive; he would be just one more of the missing.

  When he first saw some light up ahead it was so faint that he almost thought it wasn’t really there, that it was just a trick of the eye. But as he got closer he was sure that there was a light source up ahead somewhere. He quickened his pace.

  He turned left at the next corner, and up ahead, at the end of this last hall, bright light was shining. He knew that his friends would be there at the end of the hall, gathered in the light. His heart leapt at the site of that oasis of light, but for a moment he was gripped with a terrible certainty: here, so close to the light and to his friends, he would be grabbed away and carried off onto the darkness.

  He tried to yell, but his throat was tight and no sound escaped from it. He ran forward, nearly stumbling over his own feet. The light came closer. And then he broke out of the hallway and into the open.

  The group gathered in the center of the room didn’t notice him at first; it was Patricia who first saw him.

  “Frankie? Oh God, are you okay?”

  They all turned to stare at the new arrival. Frankie ran up to the group and promptly collapsed to his knees. Then some dam within him broke, and he started crying. Patricia knelt beside him and took him in her arms, and he cried into her shoulder.