The Fourth Closet

by Scott Cawthon

  * * *

  John clutched Charlie to his chest, then relaxed his grip anxiously, afraid of hurting her.

  “How are we going to get her out?” Jessica whispered, and he glanced around the room. There was a window, but it was high and narrow: getting all three of them through it would take time.

  “We’ll have to run for it,” he said in a low voice. “Wait until … she leaves.” Jessica met his eyes, her face written over with all the questions he had been asking himself for the last six months.

  A scream ripped through the silence between them, and John came alert. Someone screamed again, and the room shuddered with impact from somewhere in the house. John looked around wildly for an escape, and his eyes lit on a closet door. “There,” he said, nodding toward it. Another bang came, and the wall beside them shook; another scream, and then a scrabbling sound, like an animal scratching at the door. “Hurry,” John whispered, but Jessica was already clearing a path. She moved ahead of him, moving aside boxes as quickly and soundlessly as she could, and he carried Charlie carefully behind, his whole being focused on holding her safe. Jessica shoved coats on hangers aside, making room, and they crammed themselves into the space.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Charlie,” John whispered. Jessica closed the door behind them, then stopped, her hand on the knob.

  “Wait,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  Jessica ran back across the room carelessly, her steps thudding on the wood floor.

  “Jessica, what are you doing?” John hissed, shrinking back farther into the recess of the closet, awkwardly shielding Charlie’s head from hangers and hooks with his elbow. Jessica reached the window, snapped open the lock, and threw it open with a loud bang. John gaped as Jessica raced on tiptoe back to the closet, this time making no noise. She nestled in beside him, leaving the door open just a crack, and rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

  Within an instant, the bedroom door opened, and someone stepped through. The light from the rest of the house filtered in dimly, and through the tiny crack in the door, they could barely make out a silhouette in red, walking purposefully across the room. The figure paused for a moment, looking outside, then with a rush of movement too quick to follow, vanished out the window.

  John stood stock still, his heart pounding, half expecting the mysterious figure to appear again in front of them. Charlie’s unconscious weight was starting to drag on his arms, and he shifted uncomfortably, trying not to jostle her.

  “Come on,” Jessica said. He nodded, though she couldn’t see him. Jessica pushed the door open cautiously, and they were met with silence. They made their way to the hall, and stopped short again: Jen was slumped on the floor, blood spattering the wall behind her like an abstract mural, and pooled beneath her, trickling across the floor in little rivulets. John raised his hand to cover Charlie’s face. There was no doubt that Jen was dead: her eyes glazed and dimmed with the marble stare of death, her stomach laid open.

  “We have to go,” he said hoarsely, and they turned from the grotesque scene and hurried out of the house. They ran headlong down the hill. John stumbled on the uneven gravel, barely catching himself, and Jessica turned back. “Go,” he grunted, and clutched Charlie tighter, slowing his pace just a little.

  At last they reached the car, and Jessica opened the back door and got in, then scooted over to the far side and reached out to help him put Charlie inside. Together they laid her across the back seat, placing her head in Jessica’s lap. John started the car.

  As they sped through the night he kept checking the rearview mirror, reassuring himself: Charlie still slept, as Jessica twined her fingers in her hair, looking down at her face in wonder. John met her eyes in the mirror and saw his own thoughts on her face: She’s here. She’s alive.

  * * *

  Charlie raced down the hill, exhilarated, almost leaping—she felt like if she went fast enough she might take off and fly. Her heart was beating in a new rhythm; the night air was cool and fresh, and all her senses felt heightened: she could see anything, hear anything—do anything.

  She reached the bottom of the hill and took off up the next one—she had parked her car behind it. She smiled into the night, picturing Aunt Jen’s face in the moment it had dawned on her what was about to happen. That smooth, near-impermeable calm had ruptured; the cold-blooded woman had become a soft, frightened animal in the space of an instant. At least she had the dignity not to beg, Charlie thought. Or maybe she just knew it wouldn’t help. She shivered, then shrugged.

  They had been having pleasantries, then Charlie gave Jen a wide, cruel smile, and Jen screamed. Charlie advanced on her, and she screamed again; this time Charlie choked off the noise, grabbing Aunt Jen by the throat. She lifted her off her feet, and slammed her into a door with such force it clattered in its hinges. Her aunt tried to crawl away, and she caught her by her hair, now sticky with blood, and threw her into the wall again. This time she did not try to run, and Charlie crouched beside her and put a hand around her throat again, taking her time now, relishing the feeling of her aunt’s pulse beneath her fingers, and the terrified look in her eyes. Jen opened and closed her mouth, gawping like a fish, and Charlie watched for a moment, considering.

  “Is there something you’d like to say?” she asked mockingly. Jen made a tiny, pained nod, and Charlie leaned in close so she could whisper, keeping an iron grip on her throat. Jen took a thin, rattling breath, and Charlie reluctantly lightened the pressure enough to let her speak.

  Her aunt wheezed for a moment, trying twice to speak before the words made it out. “I’ve always … loved you … Charlie.”

  Charlie pulled back and gave Aunt Jen a calmed look. “I love you, too,” she said softly, and then she ripped open her stomach. “I really do.”

  Charlie reached her car; she was running so fast she ran a few yards past it before she could stop. She wanted to keep running, to keep this feeling alive. She opened and closed her fists; the blood on them was tacky and growing uncomfortable. She started the car and opened the trunk to get the first-aid kit she always carried. Standing in the beam of the headlights, Charlie took out some gauze and hydrogen peroxide and carefully wiped her hands clean finger by finger. When she was done, she examined them and nodded, satisfied; then she got in her car and sped off into the dark.

  John was counting Charlie’s breaths, one-two, three-four, in-out, each intake of air a marker of the time going by: that this was real, that she was not going to vanish. Hours had passed, and the sky outside was lightening, but still he could not take his eyes off her. His bed was narrow; she was curled on her side as she had been in the trunk, her back pressed against the wall, and he was perched on the edge, careful not to touch her. Jessica had taken a brief nap on the couch, and now she was up again, pacing the short length of his bedroom.

  “John, we have to take her to a hospital,” Jessica said for the second time since she awoke, and he shook his head.

  “We don’t even know what’s wrong with her,” he said softly. Jessica made a frustrated noise in her throat.

  “That’s all the more reason to take her to a hospital,” she said, biting the words off individually.

  “I don’t think she’ll be safe.”

  “You think she’s safe here?”

  John didn’t answer. One-two, three-four, in-out—he realized he was counting her breaths again, and he looked away. He could still hear her breathing, though, and the count went on nine-ten, eleven-twelve … He could feel her presence beside him; even though they weren’t touching, he had a constant awareness that she was close by.

  “John?” Jessica prompted, and he looked first at Charlie, then at Jessica.

  “Clay said something,” he said.

  “At the hospital?” Jessica frowned. “Something else?”

  “No, before that. He had Ella at his house.”

  “That creepy doll from Charlie’s bedroom?”

  John hid a smile, remembering. Jessica will like Ella,
Charlie had once confided to John. She dresses like her. But when Charlie had spun the wheel at the end of her bed, the one that made Ella glide out from the closet on her track, proffering her little tea tray, Jessica took one look at the toddler-size doll, screamed, and ran out of the room.

  “Yeah, the creepy doll,” he confirmed, his thoughts returning to the present. Jessica made an exaggerated shudder.

  “I don’t know how she could ever sleep, knowing that thing was in the closet.”

  “It wasn’t the only closet,” John said, furrowing his brow. “There were two more; Ella was in the littlest one.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the location that creeped me out; I’m fine with closets … I take that back, I didn’t like the last one we were in,” Jessica said drily.

  “I wish I could go back to that house—”

  “Charlie’s old house? It collapsed; it’s gone,” Jessica interrupted him, and he sighed.

  “Ella turned up in the wreckage, but Clay said Charlie wasn’t interested in keeping her. It seemed so unlike her; her father made that doll for her.”

  “Yeah.” Jessica stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, letting everything sink in. “You were right, John.” She opened her hands in a helpless gesture. “The other Charlie, she’s an imposter; you were right. So, what do we do?”

  John looked down again at Charlie, who stirred in her sleep. “Charlie?” he whispered.

  She made a plaintive sound, then was still again.

  John glanced thoughtfully at his dresser. After a moment, he went to it and began digging through the top drawer.

  “What are you looking for?” Jessica asked.

  “There was an old photo, one I found when Charlie and I were looking through her dad’s stuff. It was Charlie when she was little. I know it’s in here somewhere.”

  Jessica watched him for a moment, then leaned over as something caught her attention. She crouched beside the dresser and pulled at the corner of something sticking out from underneath. “This?” she asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” John took the picture carefully and studied it.

  “John, I realize you’re having a sentimental moment right now, but we really need to get Charlie to the hospital.” Jessica peered over his shoulder. “What is all of that stuff behind her in the picture? Cups and plates?”

  “She was having a tea party,” John whispered. “I have to go to Clay’s house,” he added after a moment.

  “Clay’s still in the hospital.”

  “I have to go back to his house. Stay here. Take care of Charlie.”

  “What’s going on?” Jessica demanded as John grabbed his car keys from the dresser. “What am I supposed to do if Not-Charlie shows up? You saw what she did to Aunt Jen; she was probably the one who got Clay. And now she’s gonna be after Charlie, too, our Charlie.” John stopped, rubbing his temples with one hand.

  “Don’t let her in,” he said finally. “Bolt the door after me, push the couch across the door. I’ll be back.”

  “John!”

  He left. He waited on the stoop until he heard the deadbolt fall into place, then hurried to his car.

  * * *

  John pulled into Clay Burke’s driveway too fast, slamming on the breaks and skidding onto the lawn. He rang the doorbell and waited long enough to confirm that no one was there, tried the knob and found it locked, then tried to act casual as he strolled around to the back of the house. He didn’t think the neighbors could see through the hedges separating the houses, but there was no reason not to be careful. The back door off the kitchen was closed as well, so he made his way along the outside wall, looking for a window that would open. The living room was where he found it: the window was unlocked, and after a few minutes of fiddling, he was able to get the screen up, then haul himself over the sill, scraping his back against the window frame as he squeezed through.

  He landed in a crouch, and stayed there for a moment, listening. The house had a thick hush, and a closed-up, stale smell; Carlton must have slept at the hospital. John got up and went to Clay’s study, not bothering to be quiet.

  He balked when he saw the wreckage: he hadn’t forgotten the scene: the door smashed, the furniture upturned, and papers scattered over the floor like carpeting, but it was still a shock to see it. There was also a dark stain on the floor where he’d found Clay lying. John stepped over it carefully and went into the office.

  He scanned the room quickly: only one corner remained undisturbed: Ella was standing there almost concealed behind a standing lamp, her tea tray steady in front of her.

  “Hey, Ella,” he said suspiciously. “Do you have something that you want to tell me?” he said as he turned his attention to the clutter in the room. There were three empty cardboard boxes beside the desk, and he went there first: it looked like their contents had been dumped out in one big pile. Sifting through quickly, he saw that they were all related to Freddy Fazbear’s: photographs, papers of incorporation, tax forms, police reports, even menus. “Where do I start?” he murmured. He came to a photograph of Charlie and her father: Charlie was smiling; her father was holding her on his hip, pointing to something in the distance. He set it down and kept looking. Among the papers and photos were other things; the random computer chips and mechanical parts that seemed to turn up everywhere. He checked his watch; he was getting nervous at leaving Jessica alone with Charlie so long. He looked at Ella in the corner. “You know what I’m looking for, don’t you?” he asked the doll, then sighed and went back to the pile.

  On his hands and knees, he surveyed the area, and this time noticed a small cardboard box beneath Clay’s desk. It was only a few inches across, sealed with packing tape, but a corner had ripped open, spilling out part of its contents: John could see a bolt and a small strand of copper wire stuck to the tape on the outside. He crawled under the desk and grabbed it, then ripped the hole wider, not bothering with the tape. He stood and dumped out the rest of it on Clay’s desk; it was filled with more wires and parts. John shook the box and it rattled, and he banged on it until the thing that was stuck came out: a square circuit board attached to a tangle of wires. He studied it for a second before putting it aside and dropped the box, then spread the parts across the desk’s surface in a single layer, then sat down and peered at them one by one, hoping for something familiar.

  It took less than ten seconds to find it: a thin disc about the size of a half-dollar coin. His heart skipped, and he held the thing up, squinting at it until he saw the tiny words engraved along the edge in flowing, old-fashioned script: AFTON ROBOTICS, LLC. He swallowed, remembering the incapacitating nausea the last disc produced in him; he also remembered the more substantial effects the disc was capable of.

  John glanced back at Ella, then stood and approached her. He knelt beside her, holding the disc firmly in his hand, with his thumbnail under the switch on its side. John’s balance wavered. He set his jaw firmly and flipped the switch.

  In an instant, Ella was gone. In her place was a human child, a toddler. She had short, frizzy brown hair and a round face set in a happy smile; her chubby hands gripped the tea tray determinedly. Only her absolute stillness indicated that she was not alive. That, and her vacant eyes, staring sightlessly ahead.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked softly. There was no movement; the little girl was no more responsive than Ella. He reached out to touch her cheek, then pulled his hand back suddenly, revolted: her skin was warm and pliable—alive. He stood and went back to the desk, keeping his eyes on the girl. John clawed at the tiny switch again, flipping it back, and the toddler shimmered and blurred for a second, then the image solidified: Ella stood calmly in her place again, nothing more than a large toy doll. John sat down heavily. “Maximum range,” he muttered to himself, recalling Clay’s brief moment of consciousness at the hospital. But the photographs he’d insisted on giving them hadn’t revealed anything. Or had they?

  He went to Clay’s desk and picked up the phone: There was a dial tone; it had not be
en damaged when the place was ransacked. He dialed his own number. Please pick up, Jessica, he thought.

  “Hello?”

  “Jessica, it’s me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “John!”

  “Right, sorry. I’m a little jumpy. Charlie’s fine—I mean, she’s still asleep; she’s not worse.”

  “Good. That’s not why I called, though. I need you to meet me at the library—bring the envelope Clay gave us, it’s in my backpack.”

  “All the pictures are gone,” Jessica said. “We left them at Jen’s house when we fled for our lives, remember?” she added with a hint of sarcasm.

  “I know. We don’t need the pictures. There was a roll of microfilm in the envelope.”

  There was a pause on the other end, then, “I’ll see you there.”

  John turned to look at Ella, scratching his thumb thoughtfully across the surface of the disc. “And you; you’re coming with me,” he said quietly to Ella. He picked her up gingerly, repelled by what he had seen, but she felt just like the doll she seemed to be. She was large enough to be awkward to carry, so he placed her on his hip like a human child, and left through the front door. He stowed the doll in his trunk, put the picture of Charlie and her father in the visor, and pulled out of Clay’s driveway.

  * * *

  When John got to the library, Jessica was already in conversation with the librarian, a middle-aged man with an irritated expression.

  “If you want to use the microfiche reader, I need you to tell me what you want to look at. Would you like to see the index of our archives?” he asked. It sounded like he had asked the question several times already.

  “No, that’s all right, I just need to use the machine,” Jessica said. The librarian smiled tensely.

  “The reader is for looking at microfilm; what microfilm do you want to look at?” he asked very slowly.

  “I brought my own,” Jessica said breezily.

  The librarian sighed. “Do you know how to use the machine?”