The Darkest Night

by Mike Ramon

Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Tom? Tom, are you still there?”

  The only sound was the faint hiss of dead air. Harry put the walkie back in his right front pocket. He looked at the boarded up window; just a few boards stood between him and the sane world. Just a few boards.

  Harry looked at the blank face of his cell phone, contemplating dialing 911. But what would he tell them? That he was trapped inside a haunted orphanage? That the shadows had come to life and were trying to kill him? He had filled Brian in on the situation, but there was nothing Brian could do from halfway across the country.

  He put the phone back in his pocket, retrieved the flashlight from atop the file cabinet, and walked to the open doorway. He leaned into the hallway, looking left and right; the coast was clear (or at least appeared to be). As he stepped out into the hall his arms broke out in gooseflesh as a cold draft brushed against his bare skin. There was a draft where there hadn’t been one before, and he was eager to seek out the source of that draft.

  He lit the way ahead with the flashlight, which flashed off for seconds at a time at random intervals; smacking the light didn’t seem to help any. He proceeded warily, his eyes and ears straining to recognize any danger that might be lurking in the darkness. He passed an open door that stood ajar on the right side of the hall, but when he flashed the light inside he found that it was a small, windowless room; it had probably been a utility closet once upon a time. He kept walking.

  Harry was overcome with the feeling that he was being stalked, but when he turned quickly he saw nothing behind him but the dark, empty hallway. He shivered at the feeling, which he couldn’t shake. He felt he was being watched, and it was terrible not to be able to see what it was that was seeing you. He spun round, flashing his light in every direction, but still he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He continued onward, searching out the source of the draft.

  He felt a dull ache in his chest, and it worried him; was it just his acid reflux acting up, or was it something more serious? After all this, what if his ticker just stopped ticking? What if he managed to escape from the Home and its damned inhabitants, only to be struck down by a heart attack? The thought made him chuckle despite himself.

  He stopped in his tracks when he felt a rush of air coming from the narrow space between the bottom of a door and the floor. He had found the source of the draft. Harry grasped the knob, but pulled his hand away immediately; the knob felt ice cold to the touch. He moved to put his hand back on the knob, but hesitated. He put his ear to the door, listening for any hint of a sound on the other side. All he heard was the soft whooshing sound of wind blowing through an empty room.

  Harry gripped the knob again, again feeling that cold sensation, the cold burning almost like a hot brand. He knew before he opened the door that he should not open it, but he felt like he was no longer in control of his own actions. Some unknowable part of himself had accepted its fate, and rushed to meet it. His hand turned the knob, and he felt it doing so, but he could not stop it. He pushed on the door, swinging it open. A cold gust of wind brushed against his face. The interior of the room was like a perfect velvet painting of a starless sky. The flashlight hung limply at Harry’s side, pointed at the ground; he thought about lifting it to shine into the room, to see what prize had been waiting for him behind the door, but instead he dropped the flashlight to the ground, and it promptly died for good.

  “Oh God in Heaven,” Harry whispered into the dark, and the wind wafting out of the room carried the words away.

  Two dark hands reached out and took hold of him, pulling him into the room. Then the door slammed closed. There were was a moment of silence, and then the hall was filled with the sound of his screams.