The Fourth Closet

by Scott Cawthon

  After a minute, he began to hear words. “Shining?” John whispered. “Shining—something. Silver?” He continued to listen, but he couldn’t make out the rest. John gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, glaring at the stuffed rabbit’s head as it continued to repeat the same incoherent phrase. John drew in a long breath, then let it out, trying to release the tension in his neck, in his jaw, in his back. He sat down on the bed, put the pen and paper down, and closed his eyes once more. Just listen. The sounds repeated, again and again. Suddenly, they resolved, like song lyrics after the thousandth play: John understood.

  “Shining Star? Silver … something. Silver Reef? Shining Star, Silver Reef.”

  “Shining Star, Silver Reef,” Theodore repeated. John got up again, putting his ear to Theodore’s nose, trying to make sure he had it right. “Shining Star, Silver Reef …” the rabbit intoned. John raced back to his car.

  When he reached Clay’s driveway again, John stopped dead: the front door was gaping open, light from inside the house spilling into the yard. He ran up the steps, calling, “Clay! Clay, are you here?” He ran inside, still shouting, and made for Clay’s office just a few steps past the front hall.

  “Clay!”

  John dropped to his knees beside Clay; he was on the floor, one side of his face slick with his own blood, more pooling beneath his head. His eyes were closed. John grabbed his wrist and pressed his fingers against the veins, hoping for a pulse: after a few frantic seconds, he found it, and relief washed through him, but it was momentary. “Clay?” John repeated, jostling him lightly. Clay didn’t respond. John looked around with alarm; the new door, the one Clay had described as “reinforced,” was in pieces. What was left of the door was still hanging in place by the upper hinge. Hastily, John pulled Clay out into the hall as best he could.

  He glanced back toward the office: the chair was overturned, and everything that had been on the desk littered the carpet. He patted Clay’s shoulder. “You’re going to be okay,” he said hoarsely, and he went to the office phone and dialed 911. As he waited for an operator, he looked nervously back at the demolished door. Another surge of wind rushed through the front door and out the open window, seemingly to carry with it whatever horror had happened here.

  The hissing sound continued; there was no place to get away from it. Their pain came at random, for no reason they could discern, and they clung together in their confusion.

  “Hold still,” a voice said, and they trembled with fear, for they knew the terrifying voice well. Frozen like a frightened animal, trying to hide but completely exposed; inner, bloody screams silent to the world. The shadow blotted out the light from above. “Keep wiggling, and I will keep taking the parts of you that wiggle,” the voice growled. The hissing grew louder, and with a sudden snap, and a flash of shocking pain, the shadow withdrew, holding something in his hands. “I’ll be back soon.”

  * * *

  “I was gone for less than an hour,” John said in a low voice, leaning in so Jessica could hear him over the sound of the hospital waiting room’s TV. “I came back, and he was lying there. If I had just stayed with him a little longer …” He trailed off, and Jessica gave him a sympathetic look. He grabbed his backpack off the floor and put it in his lap, touching the front pocket to reassure himself that Theodore’s head was still where he’d stuffed it.

  “Do you think it was just someone with a grudge?” she asked, then flushed. “I don’t mean ‘just,’ like it’s not a big deal, but I mean, I’m sure Clay made his fair share of enemies, being the police chief. It probably didn’t have anything to do with …” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Anything to do with us.”

  John looked down at the backpack in his lap. “The door … was shredded, Jess.”

  Jessica looked nervously down the hallway, like she was worried Clay might hear them. “Well, regardless, it’s not your fault.”

  A heavy silence settled in between them, only punctuated by the half-crazed voices coming from the TV, which was showing a montage of ghastly faced clowns. For a moment, John was distracted, searching for a glimpse of the apparition who had silently passed him in the street, but she was not among the crowd.

  “People are going crazy this weekend,” Jessica said, recalling his attention. “Dressing up in those costumes—did you hear about the kid who got kidnapped?”

  “Yeah,” John said. “Clay told me about it. Actually, when I went to see him—” John broke off as a nurse in blue scrubs walked up purposefully.

  “John, Jessica?” she said as if she already knew the answer.

  “Yeah, that’s us,” Jessica said, with a hint of anxiety.

  The nurse gave her a smile. “Chief Burke wants to see you. I tried to tell him visits are supposed to be immediate family only right now, but, well. Chief’s orders.”

  The room was only a few doors down the hallway, but the bright lights and slick, grayish surfaces were disorienting. John squinted to ward off the offensive glare. Jessica was in front of him, and he bumped into her before he realized she had stopped just short of Clay’s door.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, confused as to why she was standing still.

  She turned around and moved close to whisper: “Can you go in first?”

  “Yeah, of course,” he said, understanding. “He’s not that bad, Jess, I promise.”

  “Still.” She made a concerned face and stepped back so John could approach the doorway.

  The door was open: He could see Clay, apparently asleep. He was in a hospital gown, and with the blood cleaned from his face, his skin looked sallow. A line of black stitches ran from his forehead to his cheekbone, splitting his eyebrow.

  “He almost lost that eye.”

  Jessica jumped. The nurse had apparently followed them.

  “He looks pretty out of it,” John said quietly. “Are you sure he wanted to talk to us?”

  “He’s drifting in and out,” the nurse replied in a normal tone of voice. “Go ahead, it won’t hurt him to talk for a bit.”

  “Hey, Clay,” John said awkwardly as he approached the bed. “Carlton and Marla are on their way. They should be here soon.” Jessica looked sideways at the elderly woman asleep in the other bed, and the nurse stepped past her, closing the curtain between the two patients.

  “Privacy, if you can call it that,” the nurse said drily, and then left, closing the door partway behind her.

  As soon as she was out of the room, Clay’s eyes opened. “Good,” he said. His voice was reedy, and he didn’t lift his head from the pillow, but his eyes were sharp. “Don’t pull any plugs just yet, I’m still here,” Clay said lightly, and John gave him a wry smile.

  “Okay, not yet,” he agreed.

  “How are you feeling?” Jessica asked.

  “Get my jacket,” Clay said, pointing to the enclosure’s only chair, where a dark gray sport coat was draped over the back. Jessica hurried to get it, and Clay fumbled around with it for a minute, finally extracting a long white envelope from the inside breast pocket. He held it out to John, sitting up slightly; John took it and Clay fell back on the pillow, breathing heavily.

  “Take it easy,” John said, alarmed.

  Clay nodded weakly, his eyes closed. “It has to have a range,” he mumbled.

  “What?” Jessica leaned in beside John, and they exchanged a worried look.

  “It has to have a maximum range.” Clay’s head lolled to the side and his breath slowed: he seemed to be drifting out of consciousness again.

  “Should we get the nurse?” Jessica looked to John, who peered at the monitor, then shook his head.

  “His vitals look okay.”

  “You’re not a doctor, John!”

  “Shut the door a little more?” John said, ignoring her. Jessica did as he asked begrudgingly, leaving it a few inches ajar. John turned the envelope over: It was unaddressed, sealed, and heavy. He opened it, and something small fell out: Jessica moved to grab it, and John took out the rest of the cont
ents: It was a stack of photographs, about an inch thick. The top one was of him and Charlie in the restaurant only the night before. It seemed to have been shot from outside the building, through the front window. John continued to browse the photos: Each one tracked through his evening with Charlie until they had parted ways: eating, coming out of the restaurant, and saying good-bye, the pictures all taken from a distance. In some the image was askew, or the figures blurry—the photographer had not been interested in composition. There was a last shot in the sequence: Charlie walking away toward the crowd by the new pizzeria; John could make out the back of his own head in the bottom corner of the photo. He quickly put it behind the others and kept looking. The next sequence showed Jessica and Charlie in a clothing store, coming in and out of a dressing room in various outfits, talking and laughing. The pictures seemed to have been taken from the other side of the store—the edges of some were obscured by fabric, as if someone had been hiding behind a rack of clothes.

  John felt a stab of angry revulsion. The restaurant pictures were bad enough, but this seemed far more intrusive, an invasion of an intimate moment. He glanced at Jessica; she had moved to the window, holding something up to the light, and after a moment John realized that it was a strip of film. He squinted over her shoulder, and she lowered it, turning to face him.

  “All the pictures on this are of us,” she said quietly.

  He held up the stack of pictures. “These, too.”

  Jessica held out a hand silently: He passed her half the stack and they each sorted through their share. The photos covered several more moments in time: there was a set of Jessica and Carlton meeting Charlie at a café; John showed one to Jessica and she nodded. “That’s when Charlie first got back,” she said. Her brow furrowed, and she held up a shot of her, Charlie, and Marla coming out of a building. “This is my apartment complex,” she said, her voice tense. “John, this looks like somebody hired a P.I. to follow all of us around. How did he get these? And why?”

  “I don’t know,” John said slowly, looking back down at the photo in his hands, the last in the stack. The picture had been taken at night, outside, but the figures were clear: He himself was facing the camera, his hands shoved into his pockets. The despair on his face visible even at a distance. Charlie had her back to the camera; she was hugging herself so tightly that he could see her fingers gripping the back of her dress, a contorted, useless comfort. Charlie. His head was too tight, his chest ached. John reflexively bent the photo and put it in his pocket, then turned his head to make sure no one had noticed. Jessica said nothing.

  John cleared his throat. “The reason I went to see Clay was that I wanted to show him something.”

  “What is it?” Jessica stepped closer. John went to the door and peered out, then snuck a glance behind the curtain at the elderly woman. She was still asleep. He took off his backpack and got Theodore out. Jessica yelped, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “Where did you get him?” she demanded. John took a step back, startled by her sudden, searing scrutiny.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

  “It’s weird. I always hated that thing.” Jessica fluttered her hand by her face. “Charlie’s robotics experiments always creeped me out, but it’s kind of nice to see it.”

  “Well, this one has an interesting secret.”

  “Don’t let Charlie see it; she’s been throwing away things like that, anything from her dad. It’s probably some kind of five-step grief-acceptance thing, but still.”

  “No, I’m not going to show her this. This is going to sound crazy, but Theodore’s been … talking to me, and yesterday—” He didn’t have to continue. A garbled, static-filled noise retched from the rabbit’s head, and Jessica winced. Before she could say anything, the sound changed.

  Now that he knew the words, they were perfectly clear; Jessica tilted her head to the side, listening intently. “Is he saying, ‘Silver Reef’?” she asked.

  “Shining Star. Shining Star, Silver Reef.” Theodore was still repeating the phrase, but John shoved him back into his backpack and covered him with a mostly clean T-shirt, muffling the sound. Remembering the pictures, he bundled them back into the envelope and added them to the bag before zipping it back up. “You got it quicker than I did,” he told Jessica. She nodded absently, a faraway look in her eye.

  “Silver Reef,” she repeated.

  “Does it mean anything to you?” he asked with a spark of hope.

  “It’s a town near Hurricane,” she said.

  “Maybe Charlie’s family used to live there?” John said. Jessica shook her head.

  “No. It’s a ghost town. Nobody lives there.”

  “Jessica! John!” Marla’s voice pierced the quiet, and they turned to see Carlton beside her, his face pale and tense. He brushed past the others and went straight to the bed.

  “Dad, are you okay?” He hovered beside Clay, reaching out to touch his hand, then pulling away. “Is he okay?” he glanced back at the others, and Marla hurried forward, examining the monitors.

  “He’s okay, Carlton,” Marla said, putting a hand on his shoulder, and he nodded sharply, not taking his eyes off Clay’s still face.

  “He’ll be fine,” John said, trying to sound confident. “He was just awake, talking. The nurse said he’s going to be okay.”

  “What happened?” Carlton asked quietly, and John shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I got there too late.” Carlton didn’t answer, but pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. He rested his chin on his fist, hunching over.

  “It’ll be okay,” Marla repeated, then glanced around the room with a puzzled expression. “Where did she go?”

  “Who’s with you?” Jessica asked alarmingly, looking to John. John was looking at the door: Charlie had stopped just outside the room.

  “Charlie. Hey, come in,” he spoke loudly, wondering with guilt if she had heard any of the conversation that had taken place. She stepped into the room, but hung back. John glanced at his backpack, on the floor at the foot of Clay’s bed. The noise seemed to have stopped, to his relief. When he looked up, Charlie gave him an embarrassed half smile.

  “I don’t like hospitals very much,” she said softly. “Is he okay?” She didn’t turn her head, and John realized that she was deliberately staying where she couldn’t see Clay.

  “He’s going to be,” he said. “He’s doing okay.” She nodded, but stayed where she was, looking unconvinced.

  “He’s lucky you were there!” Marla exclaimed. “John, you must have saved his life.”

  “Um, maybe,” he said. “I don’t know.” He squeezed her hand, then let go of it. He turned back to Charlie; she gave him a small, tight smile, her arms folded. The nurse came in, and Marla intercepted her, pulling her aside for an update on his condition and Jessica took the opportunity to lean in. “John, I’m going to leave. I’ve got classes this afternoon. Pick me up at seven, don’t be late.”

  “Right,” John whispered. Jessica made her way past everyone and through the door. Charlie watched her until she was out of sight, then she looked at John again, making eye contact for only a moment before turning her attention back to the nurse. John glanced around the room: with Jessica gone, he felt suddenly untethered, less at ease among these people than he already had been. Without another word, he slipped out the door, ignoring the soft sound of Marla calling his name.

  He was only a few feet down the hall when Jessica caught his arm. “John!”

  “Hey!” he protested, then saw there was someone next to her, a slight, blonde woman who looked like she had been crying, her red eyes the only color in her washed-out face. “What’s wrong?” he asked warily.

  “This is Anna,” Jessica said. “Clay … Chief Burke was—is—helping her to …” She cleared her throat. “Her son is missing. Chief Burke was helping.”

  “Oh,” John said awkwardly. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Anna blew her nose into a crumpled tissue.

&n
bsp; “I was just at the station and I overheard … they said Chief Burke was here, and I just needed to know he’s okay. Is he okay?” she asked anxiously.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Jessica said, and Anna nodded, not seeming convinced.

  “When I went to report that Jacob … was missing, the desk sergeant had me fill out paperwork, he asked me about my ex-husband and said he had probably taken Jacob. I told him, that man would never take Jacob, he wouldn’t know what to do with him!”

  “Okay,” John said, shifting uncomfortably. “We don’t work for the police department—”

  “I know that,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t think straight, it’s just I overheard the nurse in the waiting room talking to you before. Chief Burke was there when the sergeant was telling me to call my ex-husband; he took me aside and asked me questions, he said he was going to find my son, and I believed him.”

  “He’s a good officer,” Jessica said softly. “He’s a good person. He’ll find your son.” Anna pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob as she began to cry again.

  “Is he really going to be all right? I heard …” She broke off, and John put a hand on her shoulder.

  “He’s going to be all right,” he said firmly. “We just saw him; he talked to us.” Anna nodded, but didn’t look convinced. Jessica gave John a helpless glance. He racked his brain for something to say. “He will find—Jacob, was it?” he asked, and Anna nodded tearfully.

  “Anna!” An older woman rounded the corner briskly, and Anna turned at the sound of her name.

  “Mom,” she said, the strain in her voice easing slightly. Her mother wrapped her arms around her, and Anna held on tightly, crying into her shoulder.

  “It’ll be all right,” Anna’s mother whispered. Thank you, she mouthed silently to John and Jessica, and they nodded, exchanged a glance, and headed for the hospital entrance.