The Darkest Night

Prologue 

1932 

Jerry opened the lid of the small tin container the tiniest bit. The container had a painting of a dog on it, a beagle with bright eyes, its tail stuck mid-wag. Mr. Foyle had given it to him out of the blue one day, for no reason--just because. That was how Mr. Foyle was; he was the nicest person Jerry ever knew. That was before Mr. Foyle went away; no one was sure why he left. A few of the older kids said they heard some of the adults talking about it, and that he had been fired. Still others said that they heard he had quit. It didn't really matter which it was; either way, he was gone. 

Jerry snaked two thin fingers into the container, and when he withdrew them there was a fruit fly caught between them. The fly struggled to get free, but it was such a small thing. Jerry closed the lid tight. He looked around to see if anybody was watching. He was alone at the table; other kids didn't like to sit with him because they said he smelled bad. Jerry didn't think he smelled bad, but the other kids didn't give his opinion much weight. The other children were bunched around other tables, talking to each other, smiling at each other, shoveling up the slop this place had the gall to call food. 

No one was paying him any mind, and that suited him just fine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small frog he had found three days before. He held the frog in his lap, below the table to avoid attention. 

"Come on, Mr. Green Pants," Jerry whispered. "It's time to eat." 

Jerry held the wriggling fly close to the frog's mouth. At first Mr. Green Pants sat frozen like a statue, but then his tongue shot out and the fly disappeared. Jerry giggled at the way the tongue felt for the brief instant that it touched his finger. It was smooth and sticky, not rough at all. 

"Yum yum," Jerry said. 

He slipped the frog back into his pocket and opened the tin again, snagging another fly. He closed the lid and pulled Mr. Green Pans out of his pocket. Again his small amphibian friend flicked his tongue out and swallowed the fly alive. There was a commotion from the other end of the cafeteria, and Jerry turned to see what was happening. All he could see were the backs of a few kids who were gathered around a table and laughing at something. 

When he turned back around he was frozen in place by the unexpected appearance of a forbidding presence; it was the tall, stocky frame of Ms. Stockwell. She stood looking down at Jerry like a predator looks down at its helpless prey, the way the high and powerful always look down on the weak below them. Her face was like a slate of granite, her mouth set in a frown, her thin, badly painted lips pulled into a tight, jagged line so that they looked even thinner. Her eyes were dull, her eyebrows like two dark storm clouds on an ominous day. 

"And what does the thing think it is doing with that animal?" she asked. 

Jerry didn't have to ask who she was referring to when she said "the thing". It had been her nickname for him ever since he could remember. 

"Wh-wh-what animal, Ms. Stockwell?" 

As he said this Jerry slipped the frog into his pocket in a weak attempt at subterfuge. 

"Who are you--Stammering Stanley?" Ms. Stockwell asked. "I'm referring to the horrible, slimy thing you've hid in your pocket." 

"But it's not slimy," Jerry said quietly, knowing he could not win, that kids like him never won. 

"Come with me, young man." 

Ms. Stockwell grabbed Jerry by the arm and pulled him out of his seat, dragging him along behind her as she headed for the exit. Jerry looked back at the table, and at the tin box sitting atop it, the tin box that Mr. Foyle had given to him back when he was still around to offer some protection to the children.