The Midnight Children: Chapters 26–35

Hortense paused her rapid typing and gave Ravani a wry smile, her eyes flashing between him and Virginia.

Well, I did hear an intriguing rumor about the fella who runs the haunted house. Psycho Sammy Sausage, they call him. A wanted serial murderer, with a knack for installing trapdoors. He sees someone who looks enticingly meaty, he pulls the lever, and whoosh. They end up in Sammy’s food stall next door, and not as a customer, if you know what I mean.

“How’s this work?” Colt asked the barker running the booth.
"Nickel gets you three throws,” the man said, holding up a small red plastic ring.

She kissed it, smiled at the surly barker, and then tossed it.

"Bacon bits?” Virginia’s smile faltered, just a tad. She gave Ravani a sidelong look and murmured, “What is it with this town and meat?”

HAUNTED HOUSE OF HORORS was spelled in dripping, Gothic lettering on its plywood front, and all around the words were painted ghastly depictions of ghosts, zombies, and skeletal hands.

HAUNTED HOUSE OF HORORS was spelled in dripping, Gothic lettering on its plywood front, and all around the words were painted ghastly depictions of ghosts, zombies, and skeletal hands.

Ravani’s eyes gaped, lost in utter darkness.

The light was coming through a grimy window in the wall.

They passed another lighted case, this time containing something that was labeled as a 100% REAL WHEREWOLF, but looked more like a sloppily taxidermied wolverine to Ravani.

A mummy stood against one wall—Ravani wouldn’t move until Virginia poked it, proving that this one was a dummy—and the rest of the space was decorated with a jumbled mix of morbid decor. There were some headstones, a few stuffed crows and black cats, a bubbling cauldron, some chains, and an empty coffin leaning against the wall.

Gladys Breckenridge had lived on Sewage Street, in Forge City. It was an atrocious name for a street, but the Hunter wrote it down without judgment.

Right there, beneath where it listed Undertaker under previous occupation, was the space for previous address.

Colt signed in flowing, graceful cursive: Florence Deering. Ravani blinked in disbelief. It was uncanny. The name looked nothing like a thirteen-year-old boy's handwriting.

Sometimes, though, a soul realizes that what it’s always done isn’t necessarily what it always should do.

Ravani picked up the hammer and turned it around and pried out the ruined nail.

“Well she don’t need to talk to you. And she don’t want to.”
Ravani stepped forward, braving the hostility in the older boy’s eyes.

"Every day when I wake up, I’m glad that you’re across the street and in my life, because if my heart could sing a song—”
"Oh for tripe’s sake, Rav,” Virginia interrupted with a scowl. "You want me to play a violin while you make this speech? Geez. You’re trying too hard.”

And then he told her everything. How Donnie had overheard them under the bridge. The blackmail. The money. Other than her eyes getting a little wider with every revelation, she didn’t react.

There was a churning mob of boisterous children and a jumble of boats lined up on a dock jutting out into the water.

There was a churning mob of boisterous children and a jumble of boats lined up on a dock jutting out into the water.

It was Mrs. Grunchly, the perpetually grouchy secretary at Slaughterville School (Home of the Cleavers!) and, apparently, race director.

"No form, no race,” Mrs. Grunchly cut in with curt finality.

“It's just a piece of paper,” Virginia said, voice sullen.

Colt eyed the boat dubiously.
"Don’t lean or nothing. She’ll tip for sure.”

They nearly capsized a couple of times, but stroke by stroke they found balance and dropped into a rhythm.

Ahead of them, the other boats were all bunched at the starting rope, holding on. They were made from a motley assortment of junk and scrap: boards and pallets and barrels and washtubs and logs and tires and rope.

They were made from a motley assortment of junk and scrap: boards and pallets and barrels and washtubs and logs and tires and rope. No coffins, though.

With a cheer, the boats churned into a wild melee of shouting and splashing and paddling and shouting and laughing, Virginia and Ravani and the Creepy Freak right in the middle of it all.

"We're going down!” The kid’s voice was a tremulous whisper.

The kid’s mouth fell open in dismay as his boat slowly sank beneath him.

He snuck a sideways peek at the competition and got a shot of adrenaline: they were way ahead of almost everybody.

"Faster!” Virginia grunted, but there wasn’t any need; Ravani’s heart was singing, his meager muscles straining, his lungs gulping...as were hers.

Ravani shifted, wiggling for better leverage, and felt water lapping around his knees.

Ravani chewed his lip for half a breath and then dropped his oar into the boat and started bailing out the water the best he could using cupped hands.

Ravani’s heart sank down to the dank mud of the river bottom.

A great bubble rose up from the Creepy Freak beneath them, and then that gallant casket could resist no more. It sank once and for all beneath them, disappearing down into the watery darkness.

"What a race! And your boat was so...well, striking!”

Ravani shriveled inside, snared in the man's probing eyes.

He was walking out of the café, talking earnestly to Sheriff Quigley, beady eyes shining.