Children of the Dark

by Jonathan Janz

  …it would be my fault.

  I pushed up on my knees, the effort awakening terrible pain in the flayed skin of my back.

  Mia put a steadying arm around me. “Will, please—”

  “Is she dead?” I asked.

  Everybody was looking at Officer Kosarich, who, I noticed with black foreboding, wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

  Officer Lopez swallowed thickly, took Peach and Juliet by the hands. “Come on. Let’s get you two dry.”

  Juliet came willingly, but Peach didn’t budge. “What’s wrong with Mommy?” she asked.

  Officer Lopez stood indecisively for a moment, then escorted Juliet toward the house.

  My heart skipped a beat when I realized that Juliet’s parents were dead.

  Were butchered.

  And Juliet had no idea.

  But we didn’t know about Mom, not for sure. Not yet.

  Officer Manalo crouched in front of me. “Look, Will, the rain’s starting to pick up again. We’ve gotta get you to a doctor right away. Plus…” She nodded at the forest. “…that thing might come back.”

  This last remark hardly registered, though Mia tightened visibly at mention of the Children. What did register was the pair of paramedics dashing toward me, a stretcher bouncing between them.

  I glowered at Officer Manalo. “Where’s my mom?”

  Again, one of those thick silences fell. The paramedics had almost reached us, and now there were four other figures moving swiftly in our direction. Two of them were state troopers. The other two were Bill Stuckey and Chris’s mother.

  Oh God, I thought with a fresh pang of grief. Chris.

  “Is he with them?” Mrs. Watkins was asking one of the cops. The man didn’t look at her.

  But Mrs. Watkins had spotted me. “Will!” she said. “Will! Where’s Chris?”

  My throat went dry. I regarded Officer Kosarich, who looked like a man awaiting the firing squad. “Please,” I said. “I need to know if my mom is dead or alive.”

  Kosarich and Manalo glanced at each other. Then Kosarich nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Officer Manalo held out a hand to my sister. “Come here, honey.”

  “Peach,” I said. “Her name is Peach.”

  Officer Manalo nodded. Reluctantly, Peach came over and stood where Officer Manalo was kneeling.

  “What is it?” Mia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Officer Manalo took a deep breath, steeling herself. I knew what would come out of her mouth before she spoke. But that didn’t make it any easier.

  “Officer Stuckey was dispatched to your house at approximately 6:15.”

  I nodded impatiently. “I know that. I was there. He was supposed to get my mom out of that cistern. So did he save her or not?”

  I noticed then that Bill Stuckey was trailing the other cops and Mrs. Watkins by a goodly distance, which I also took for a very bad sign. Stuckey kept his eyes down, seemingly riveted by the sight of my wet, overgrown backyard.

  Mrs. Watkins broke away from the cops. “Where is Chris?” she demanded.

  I stared at Officer Manalo. “Did Mom make it?”

  Officer Manalo sighed, glanced at Peach, then at me. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m sorry. Her words echoed in my brain. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  My mom was dead.

  Gone forever.

  It felt like my heart exploded. No!

  My hands balled into fists. Dammit, I should have gone home the moment I escaped Padgett. If I hadn’t gone with Cavanaugh, I could’ve saved my mom. I imagined her down there in that hole, the water lapping over her chin, her frightened eyes gazing up at me. It had seemed impossible at the time. Ludicrous. How could she drown that way? The water rising, that had seemed like an empty threat from Padgett. Surely it was impossible. Surely this couldn’t be happening.

  But it was. This was real. My mom was dead.

  And it was my fault.

  A sob rose in my throat. I tried to choke it down, but there was no denying it, no suppressing the geyser of heartbreak gushing through my body. Someone touched my shoulder, but I shoved the hand away, dropped to my knees. I was weeping openly, but I didn’t care now. I was the worst person in the world, worse even than those damned monsters. I had failed to save my mother, failed to save the woman who had given me life. I was barely conscious of the voices, barely conscious of anything save my clenched fists, buried in my hair, yanking, jerking until the roots came loose, my teeth bared, the convulsive sobs rocking my body. I knew I should be holding Peach right now, but I couldn’t. Could only hate myself and miss my mom and curse myself for not protecting her.

  I became aware of a loud wail. I looked over, saw my little sister crumpled on the ground, her mouth stretched in a heartbroken bray. Mia was crying too, but her eyes were on me, and what could I say to her? What could I say to Peach? That I was sorry? That I’d screwed up royally, and my mom had perished because of it? That I despised myself and wished that I had died instead? And in some remote corner of my consciousness I was aware of Mrs. Watkins’s jagged voice screaming at me, at the cops, at everyone. Tell me! she screamed. Tell me where Chris is! But Chris was dead. My best friend, my brother. I’d failed him, failed everyone. I was sprawled out on the ground, my body quaking, the dirt under my face turning to mud. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t even breathe. My mom was gone. Forever. And if Mom was dead

  (drowned in that hole)

  that meant I’d lose Peach too. Child Protective Services would swoop in like a carrion crow and

  (the black water closing over her lips, bubbling in her nostrils)

  snatch us and scatter us and then we’d never see each other

  (gasping and sobbing and taking in more water)

  and my sister and I would be strangers and Peach would forget me. Hell, she was only six, and that was

  (and wondering where her son was, wondering if he would save her, her face disappearing in the black water)

  old enough to block most of it out, to move on and have a new life as long as the old pieces, the dark ones, were hidden away, left to rot in cardboard boxes on mildewed shelves and Mom was dead and Peach was leaving me and Jesus Christ why did it have to end this way, why did I have to fail and lose everyone and everything and…and…and…

  Chapter Fifteen

  After

  …and now I’m here. I’ve been in this place over a year now. Thirteen months, to be exact. If this were a novel, I’d talk about the food here (disgusting), how grumpy everyone is (especially most of the workers), how poorly I sleep (many nights not at all), or how I’ve already gotten into fistfights with the other patients (four times). And I might tell you about all that later. If I have time.

  But first I want to tell you about The Great Whitewash. Or at least that’s how I think of it.

  See, I’ve never been much on conspiracy theories. Frankly, they usually strike me as absurd. Just the bizarre ravings of people with too much time on their hands.

  But you know what they did about Savage Hollow? The government?

  Think about how many people died. If you count Padgett’s victims—Kylie Ann Lubeck, Detective David Wood, Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, Brad Ralston, and my mother—there were twenty-two deaths last summer. Twenty-two deaths, and most of them at the hands of the Children.

  But they blamed it all on Carl Padgett.

  Now don’t go thinking I feel bad for the man—I don’t. At all. Padgett was a monster; everything that happened to him, he had coming. In fact, he got off easier than he should have. I know I should be more forgiving than that, but I’m sorry, I’m just not there yet. Who knows if I’ll ever be? If you lost your best friend, your mom, and saw a good many other people butchered, you’d be bitter too.

  But I know what happened. I know what I saw. I was there, dammit, and I know it wasn’t an accident that overturned that utility truck, know it wasn’t Padgett that broke
Mrs. Ralston’s neck on River Road and impaled her husband with a fist.

  I know it wasn’t Padgett who devoured my best friend.

  So I told the police the truth. I told the doctors the truth. I still tell the doctors the truth.

  And for that, they keep me locked up.

  Thirteen months without a visit from Mia. From Barley.

  I don’t even know where Peach is.

  The doctors here acted like I was demented when I told them my story.

  But after what happened last month, some of them are starting to wonder.

  You remember the Peaceful Valley Nature Preserve? The state park that was going to open this summer?

  Well, it did. But before the grand opening ceremony, something happened there. Something horrific.

  Reports are still scattered and conflicting, and I don’t hear much where I am. They don’t let me watch TV or read newspapers, but I still catch bits and pieces from the nurses and orderlies, the few who don’t treat me like I’m about to transform into a werewolf or something.

  They say there was a massacre at Peaceful Valley.

  Over two hundred people slaughtered.

  Most of the bodies are missing, but the ones that have been found are…

  Are not all there.

  Earlier, one of the nurses—a guy named Pierre—was walking me down to the courtyard so I could get some exercise. Pierre, who’s a skinny black man maybe fifty years old, he says, “Will, there’s something you need to know.”

  Side-by-side with Pierre in the long, stark corridor, I say, “Did someone call me?”

  “Wait a minute,” he mutters, looking supremely uncomfortable. He keeps shooting sidelong glances at the black glass orbs protruding from the ceilings, the surveillance cameras that remind me of Orwell’s 1984 and seem to pepper every nook and cranny of this hellhole they call a rehabilitation center.

  Rehabilitation. What a load of crap.

  What this place really is, it’s a sleek-looking landfill where the authorities store their human garbage. A receptacle for problematic people.

  First floor for the elderly.

  Second story for grown men.

  Third floor for grown women.

  Fourth floor for girls.

  Fifth story for boys.

  The troubled boys, we’re the biggest problems for them, so they keep us the farthest from the ground. At least that’s how I see it.

  Maybe I’m just paranoid.

  A guy like Barley, he’d love a place like this. Or rather, he’d love knowing a place like this exists. As for actually living here, he wouldn’t last a week. Hell, I don’t know how I’ve lasted this long. A kid died earlier this year. He killed himself.

  From the government’s perspective, that’s another problem child eliminated.

  Or at least that’s how I see it.

  Pierre pushes the Down button, waits for the elevator.

  He says, “This is a safe place. Listen.”

  I listen. Pierre is one of the few people who doesn’t treat me like a communicable disease.

  “The thing at the state park,” he says. “The thing I told you about?”

  “You mean the massacre?” I ask.

  He makes a face. “Yeah, that. Anyway, that’s got everybody squeamish. They’re thinking you might not be so crazy after all.”

  “Really?”

  He sighs. “But they still think you’re dangerous.”

  Of course they do. My fatal mistake had been telling them not just the story, but the whole story.

  Because that convinced them I was insane. Because that gave them the justification they needed to lock me up and sever all my ties with the outside world.

  We enter the elevator. Pierre pushes the 1 button.

  “So that’s what you needed to tell me?” I say. “That a few of my captors believe my story?”

  Pierre’s eyes, ordinarily warm and jovial, go unusually flinty. “Stop with the self-pity, Will. It doesn’t do any good.”

  I look away, trying not to show how stung I am.

  “I was telling you about the stuff at the park,” Pierre says. “The state police, they’re in a lot of trouble with the Feds. Even the CIA.”

  “How do you know about that?” I ask.

  Pierre glances around uncomfortably. “Man, would you shut up for a minute? Who cares how I know about it? I know, all right?”

  I fall silent. I don’t know how Pierre is connected or who he’s been talking to, but it’s obvious he’s telling the truth. Besides, what does he have to gain by talking to me? Nothing, as far as I can see. But he has a lot to lose.

  “What I’m telling you,” he mutters as we reach the first floor, “is that you’re finally gonna have some leverage.”

  “Leverage?”

  “Push the Hold button,” he says. “I gotta tie my shoe.” He takes a knee beside me.

  I glance down at him. “Your shoes are both tied.”

  He glares at me. “Boy, are you that stupid?”

  I wince. Pierre is trying to stall for more time, I realize. Maybe I really am that stupid.

  “They’re gonna come in here and ask you about what happened last summer. In the woods?”

  I nod.

  He pretends to tie his shoe. “Don’t tell them everything. In fact, hold some stuff back. Let on there’s more you never told the doctors. Or the cops. The more they think you know, the more they’ll be willing to give you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Like what? Another trip to the courtyard every day? Extra helpings of blue Jell-O at supper?”

  He stands abruptly, glowers at me. “Man, don’t you wanna see your sister? Or your friends?”

  “They’ve all forgotten me,” I say, striving and failing to keep the hurt out of my voice.

  “Come on,” he says. “They’ll get suspicious, we don’t get out of this elevator soon.”

  We walk in silence to the courtyard.

  Once outside, I see we’re the only ones here. It’s really sunny, and my eyes ache from the glare. We start walking through the nicely manicured grass, the outside air warm on my skin.

  Pierre doesn’t move his lips much as he talks. His eyes keep darting about, as though a SWAT team might descend on us at any moment.

  I think maybe I’m not the only believer in conspiracy theories.

  Pierre says, “You’re the most popular patient we’ve got.”

  “I like you too, Pierre.”

  He rolls his eyes like I’m a moron. “Not us, Will. I mean the folks who keep trying to get in contact with you.”

  I stare at him, dumbstruck. “I thought no one’s tried to…I mean, the doctors said—”

  “I know what the doctors said,” Pierre snaps. He looks around, then lowers his voice. “I talk to the girls at the front desk. One of them’s my niece. Anita?”

  I have no idea who Anita is because I’ve never seen the front desk. When they brought me here, I was heavily sedated.

  “Anyway, Anita says there’ve been about fifteen hundred calls for you—that’s an actual figure, Will, not an exaggeration—and half as many letters since you arrived.”

  I could only gape.

  “A lot of them have been from that girl you told me about…Mya something?”

  My heartbeat quickened. “Mia Samuels?”

  “That’s the one. And a boy. Someone named—”

  “Barley?”

  “Yeah,” he says and frowns. “What the hell kind of a name is Barley anyway?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “What else?”

  “Anita tells me there’s a little girl, name of Peach, who calls at least three times a day wanting to talk to you.”

  My eyes fill with tears. I can hardly breathe. “That’s my little sister, Pierre. I told you about her.”

  The old kindness returns to his face. In a soft voice, he says, “I know you did, Will. You talk about her all the time.”

  I wipe a tear away, but several more spill over my cheeks. Peach has been trying
to reach me. And here I’d believed she’d forgotten me, was too young to remember her big brother.

  Pierre puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Will.”

  But it isn’t. A sudden anger takes hold of me. I rub a hand over my wet nose. “How long have you known about this?”

  Pierre looks sheepish. “Truthfully?”

  I give him my best What-do-you-think? look.

  He sighs. “I knew she’d been trying to get ahold of you. I just had no idea how much. When Anita told me the Feds were gonna come calling, I asked her some questions about your case. See, even though she’s my niece, we don’t talk that much. I got her the job a few years ago, but then she married this dude—he’s a real loser—and she knows I think he’s a loser, and, well…”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  He sighs. “I probably should have. I just worried what it would do to you. I mean, you’re in here, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Why worry you with things you have no control over? I figured it would drive you crazy.”

  “Feeling forgotten has driven me crazy.”

  Pierre makes a pained face. “I’m sorry, okay? I guess I made a mistake.”

  I take a steadying breath. “What should I do?”

  “Not much, other than hint at big things with the Feds. Get them thinking.”

  We walk through the courtyard in silence. I chew on what Pierre has told me. At length, I say, “So I’m stuck here. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Of course there’s something you can do,” he says. Then he catches himself, wipes a frustrated hand over his mouth. “Okay, Will. I’m gonna tell you one more thing, but if you say something—and I mean anything, to anybody—my ass is gonna be in big trouble.”

  “They’ll fire you?”

  “Fire me?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Hell, that’ll be the easy part. I don’t mind telling you, I don’t relish the idea of losing my pension now, ten years away from retirement. And my wife sure as hell wouldn’t be happy.”