by: Dan Gemeinhart
Genre: Children’s Fantasy
Release Date: August 30, 2022
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
From Dan Gemeinhart, the acclaimed author of The Remarkable Journey of Coyote Sunrise, comes an extraordinary story about a family of runaways who take up residence in a small town, and the outcast boy who finds his voice and his people—perfect for fans of Katherine Applegate and Kate DiCamillo.
"Dan Gemeinhart’s best yet and that’s saying something." —Padma Venkatraman, Walter Award-winning author of The Bridge Home
In the dead of night, a truck arrives in Slaughterville, a small town curiously named after its windowless slaughterhouse. Seven mysterious kids with suitcases step out of the vehicle and into an abandoned home on a dead-end street, looking over their shoulders to make sure they aren't noticed.
But Ravani Foster covertly witnesses their arrival from his bedroom window. Timid and lonely, Ravani is eager to learn everything he can about his new neighbors: What secrets are they hiding? And most mysterious of all...where are the adults?
Yet amid this shadowy group of children, Ravani finds an unexpected friend in the warm and gutsy Virginia. But with this friendship comes secrets revealed—and danger. When Ravani learns of a threat to his new friends, he must fight to keep them safe, or lose the only person who has ever understood him.
Full of wonder, friendship, and mystery, The Midnight Children explores the meaning of "home," what makes a family, and what it takes to find the courage to believe in yourself.
"Distinctive narration and heart-pounding suspense will carry this kids-outwit-grownups tale deep into your heart to the place where courage is born." -Rosanne Parry, bestselling author of A Wolf Called Wander
"Told in a riveting voice, this is Dan Gemeinhart’s best yet, and that’s saying something." -Padma Venkatraman, Walter Award-winning author of The Bridge Home
"Equal parts Kate DiCamillo and Shirley Jackson, this book is unlike anything else I've ever read—you will love it." -Jonathan Auxier, New York Times-bestselling author of Night Gardener and Sweep: the Story of a Girl and her Monster
"The midnight children might sneak into town quietly, but there’s nothing quiet about this sparkling story. It felt like fireworks in my heart." -New York Times-bestselling author Natalie Lloyd
"[The Midnight Children] is a story to make a soul ache, a story to make a soul heal, a story to make a soul leap." -Dusti Bowling, award-winning author of The Canyon's Edge
"A magical and darkly humorous journey into a world of mysterious children, timeless villains, and the undeniable power of friendship.” -Melanie Conklin, author of A Perfect Mistake and Every Missing Piece
Sometimes—a lot of times, perhaps—there are things happening in a soul’s story that it can’t see and that it doesn’t know about. Other stories, connected to that soul’s story like the gears of a clock, turning and turning, quietly, and far away. And as the clock hands slowly turn, those other stories can become very, very important. They can make the clock’s bell ring. Or they can make the clock stop.
Miles and miles away from Ravani and Slaughterville, a man was sitting in a dark room. He almost never turned on a light. He liked his eyes to be used to the dark, for when he was hunting. And he nearly always hunted at night.
The man was very pale. He had very short, very white hair. His eyes were very blue behind his very round glasses. The man was very.
The man was filing his fingernails. In smooth, deliberate movements. Everything the man did was very smooth and very deliberate.
Critch went the nail file. Critch. Critch. Critch. The man liked his claws to be sharp. Very sharp.
The man did not think of himself, really, as a man. He thought of himself only as a hunter.
The Hunter switched the file from his right hand to his left.
Critch went the nail file again. Critch. Critch. Cri—
Brrrrng!
The telephone interrupted the Hunter’s sharpening. He didn’t jump. The Hunter was always very calm.
He set down the nail file. And he rose from his chair.
Brrrrng!
He walked to where the telephone hung on the wall.
Brrrrng!
He pulled the black earpiece off its cradle. He put his mouth with its very straight and very white teeth very close to the mouth piece.
“Hello,” he said, in a very soft and very smooth voice.
“I have a case for you,” a woman’s voice said from the earpiece. Her voice was deep, and her voice was angry.
“Of,” the Hunter said, “course.”
Because, after all, that was the only reason his phone ever rang.
“They escaped last night. I’d hoped they would turn back up today.”
“How,” the Hunter asked, “many?”
“Seven,” she said. And she said it like it meant something, and it did.
The Hunter blinked. A slow smile stretched his pale lips. “It’s,” he whispered, “them.”
“Yes.”
The Hunter had hunted those seven before. He had caught them, once. And he had missed them, several times.
They were the only prey the Hunter had ever missed.
The Hunter always only chased one kind of prey: people. But that one kind of prey came in many flavors. Children, sometimes . . . runaways, kidnap victims. Grown-ups, too: fugitives, criminals. Escaped prisoners. Scared people who owed bad people money.
The Hunter never hurt his prey, not on purpose. But he often handed them over to people who would. The Hunter did not care why the prey that he chased was wanted, or what happened to them afterward. He only cared about the hunt.
“I’ll pay,” the woman said. “Of course.”
“Mmmm,” the Hunter murmured. He was not thinking about the money. He would take the money, of course, but he did not care about the money. The Hunter loved the hunt.
“I’ll,” he said, “find,” he said, “them.”
He said it like it was very true.
Miles and miles away from Ravani and Slaughterville, a man was sitting in a dark room. He almost never turned on a light. He liked his eyes to be used to the dark, for when he was hunting. And he nearly always hunted at night.
The man was very pale. He had very short, very white hair. His eyes were very blue behind his very round glasses. The man was very.
The man was filing his fingernails. In smooth, deliberate movements. Everything the man did was very smooth and very deliberate.
Critch went the nail file. Critch. Critch. Critch. The man liked his claws to be sharp. Very sharp.
The man did not think of himself, really, as a man. He thought of himself only as a hunter.
The Hunter switched the file from his right hand to his left.
Critch went the nail file again. Critch. Critch. Cri—
Brrrrng!
The telephone interrupted the Hunter’s sharpening. He didn’t jump. The Hunter was always very calm.
He set down the nail file. And he rose from his chair.
Brrrrng!
He walked to where the telephone hung on the wall.
Brrrrng!
He pulled the black earpiece off its cradle. He put his mouth with its very straight and very white teeth very close to the mouth piece.
“Hello,” he said, in a very soft and very smooth voice.
“I have a case for you,” a woman’s voice said from the earpiece. Her voice was deep, and her voice was angry.
“Of,” the Hunter said, “course.”
Because, after all, that was the only reason his phone ever rang.
“They escaped last night. I’d hoped they would turn back up today.”
“How,” the Hunter asked, “many?”
“Seven,” she said. And she said it like it meant something, and it did.
The Hunter blinked. A slow smile stretched his pale lips. “It’s,” he whispered, “them.”
“Yes.”
The Hunter had hunted those seven before. He had caught them, once. And he had missed them, several times.
They were the only prey the Hunter had ever missed.
The Hunter always only chased one kind of prey: people. But that one kind of prey came in many flavors. Children, sometimes . . . runaways, kidnap victims. Grown-ups, too: fugitives, criminals. Escaped prisoners. Scared people who owed bad people money.
The Hunter never hurt his prey, not on purpose. But he often handed them over to people who would. The Hunter did not care why the prey that he chased was wanted, or what happened to them afterward. He only cared about the hunt.
“I’ll pay,” the woman said. “Of course.”
“Mmmm,” the Hunter murmured. He was not thinking about the money. He would take the money, of course, but he did not care about the money. The Hunter loved the hunt.
“I’ll,” he said, “find,” he said, “them.”
He said it like it was very true.
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