The Fourth Closet

by Scott Cawthon

  “But I’m not dead, right?” She locked eyes with John. “I’m alive, right?” She took his hand, and he grasped hers tightly. He covered her hand in both his own, and she gave him a puzzled smile. “John?” she repeated nervously, and his jaw tightened. He looked on the point of speaking, when Charlie suddenly turned her head toward the window.

  “What is it?” John said with alarm. Charlie put a finger to her lips and tilted her head to listen. There’s someone outside. John watched her face intently, then his eyes widened as he registered the sound, too: the footsteps crunched one last time on gravel outside, then were silent.

  Around back, he mouthed, and Charlie nodded, dropping his hands and steadying herself on the trunk behind her as she stood. John hastened to help her, but she waved him off.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Back door?”

  “I don’t know.” He started to make his way toward the hall, motioning her to follow. “Charlie, hurry.” John had doubled back to her, and was pointing urgently to the door. She shoved the letter into her back pocket, and followed him, picking her way cautiously through the debris of the storage room.

  In the hallway, the thick and musty air hit like a wave, and Charlie swallowed her revulsion, trying not to picture her aunt’s body curled up in the next room. They crept down the hallway toward the front room, and the door, shuffling their feet so as to make no noise. At the end of the hall, John stopped, and Charlie waited, listening. There was only silence, then a wind chime rattled outside the front door, and they pulled back into the recess of the hall. John looked grim. “There.” He nodded to the door opposite the storage room, which was slightly ajar. “Was that open before?”

  “Yes,” Charlie answered. “I mean, I think so.” They made their way slowly toward the open door: Charlie breathed shallowly, trying to register the slightest noise over the pounding of her own heart. As they reached the doorway, she heard a rustling, like someone stepping on soft leaves. John and Charlie split up and stood on either side of the doorway, Charlie by the hinges and John by the knob, and slowly, he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Charlie saw the relief on his face before she saw what was in the room: a bed, a dresser, and absolutely nothing else, not even a closet. There was a window open, and John turned back toward Charlie. “I think we’ve got a way out,” he said. She smiled back shakily. “Stay back while I check,” he whispered, and before she could answer, he had pushed the door farther open into the room, and was moving stealthily toward the open window, keeping in a straight line through the center of the room. Charlie stayed in the hall, pressing the door open so she could see the entirety of the room.

  Charlie watched nervously. Hurry, she urged him silently. Then as she thought it, she felt the door stop against her fingers as though something was blocking the way. Is there something behind the door? Slowly, noiselessly, she leaned to the side and put her eye to the crack in the door, along the hinges. Her heart stopped.

  Another eye was looking back at her.

  Charlie staggered back. The door wavered for a moment, then slammed shut. From inside the room something banged and crashed over and over against the wall. “John!” Charlie cried, and beat against the door. Suddenly, the house went still, and a few moments later the door drifted open and a figure glided out gracefully, stepping into the hall with care as though trying not to wake a sleeping baby. Charlie stared disbelievingly at her duplicate, her mind hazily registering all the tiny differences between them as she struggled for words.

  “You’re not me,” Charlie managed to say, and her own face smiled cruelly back at her.

  “I’m the only you that matters.”

  Is it working?” Marla asked, nervously tapping the device in her ear. Carlton sped up the car.

  “Mine worked,” he said brusquely. He glanced at her; she was kneading her hands together, her knuckles going white. “I mean, you can’t really tell if it’s working until …”

  “Until what?” Marla said.

  “Well, until you’re in danger, and …”

  “And what?” Marla seemed impatient.

  “And you don’t die.” Carlton nodded reassuringly.

  “So how do we know if they’re not working?” Marla’s voice had lost its energy.

  “Well, if it doesn’t work, you won’t have to worry about it for long.” He smiled.

  “Right.” Marla stopped fidgeting with the device and put her hand in her lap.

  “It will work. I rewired yours exactly like mine.”

  “I’m not usually in the thick of this stuff,” Marla said. “I come in afterward with hugs and Band-Aids. If this were a movie, I’d be the lame babysitter, not the action hero.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, and Carlton looked at her, surprised.

  “Carlton, the road!”

  He snapped his attention back to what he was doing and gave the wheel a controlled jerk.

  “Marla, I’ve seen you in the thick of this stuff—remember Freddy’s?”

  She gave a halfhearted nod.

  “And don’t dismiss the power of hugs and Band-Aids,” he added, slowing the car as the restaurant’s sign came into view: CIRCUS BABY’S PIZZA blazed out over the night, casting half the block in garish red light. “Can’t miss this,” Carlton remarked as they pulled into the parking lot. As soon as they were past the neon sign, its brilliant, witchy light faded into the background: the lot was stark and bare.

  “No one’s here. Are you sure about this?” Marla said urgently.

  “No, but I know what I saw.” Carlton drove slowly toward the entrance, pointing toward the clown girl mascot leaning over the entryway sign. “And that is who attacked me.”

  They parked close to the building. Carlton stopped to rummage around in the trunk for a minute, coming up with two small flashlights. He flicked one on and off experimentally, then handed it to Marla.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  They started around the side of the building and Carlton swept his light along the wall, illuminating a row of tall, rectangular windows. The window surfaces were tinted so dark they could not see in, and the frames were smooth black metal, with nowhere to force an opening. Carlton shook his head, and gestured toward the back of the building. Marla nodded, gripping her flashlight like a lifeline.

  There was more parking behind the building, and the back wall was lined with trash cans, two Dumpsters sticking out on either side of a metal door. The only light came from a single, flickering orange bulb, set above the plain door like a decoration.

  “Looks like this is our way in,” Carlton whispered.

  “Look.” Marla shone her light down onto fresh prints in the mud, tracking close to the wall and leading up to the door. “Jessica?” Marla looked to Carlton.

  “Maybe.”

  Marla grabbed the door handle and pulled hard, but it didn’t budge.

  “I don’t think we’ll find another way in,” she whispered, and he grinned.

  “You think I didn’t come prepared?” Carlton said, slipping a flat leather case from his pocket. He held it out to her. “Hold this,” he said, and selected several thin strips of metal as she balanced the case for him.

  “Are those lockpicks?” Marla hissed.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching my dad, it’s that lockpicking can be used for good,” Carlton said solemnly. He bent over the lock, trying to keep his head out of the way of the light, and slowly began to wriggle the lock picks into place.

  “Oh, whatever. You can’t pick a lock … can you? Is it even legal to own these?” Marla asked. He looked back at her; she was holding the kit away from her body as if trying to disassociate herself from it.

  “It’s legal as long as you don’t pick any locks,” he said. “Now be quiet so I can pick this lock.” Marla looked around nervously, but didn’t say anything. He turned his attention back to the door, listening for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place as he carefully made his way through the mechanism.
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  “This is taking forever,” Marla whined.

  “I didn’t say I was good at this,” he said absently. “Got it!” He grinned, triumphant.

  The door opened with a creak, revealing a wide hallway with a gentle upward slope. The hall itself was dark, but a few yards ahead, they could see the dim glow of florescent lights. Marla pulled the door closed behind them, cushioning it with her hand so that it wouldn’t slam. The light was coming from an open door on the left side of the hall: they waited, but no sound came from its direction, and they started to move, hugging the wall. As they got closer, Carlton sniffed the air. “Shh,” Marla hissed, and he jerked his head toward the door.

  “Pizza,” he whispered. “Can’t you smell it?” Marla nodded, and impatiently waved him forward.

  “Of all the smells in this place, that’s the one that catches your attention?” The open door proved to be the kitchen, and they glanced around briefly, then Carlton went to a large refrigerator and pulled it open.

  “Carlton, forget the pizza!” Marla said in dismay, but the refrigerator held only racks of ingredients. Carlton closed the door.

  “You never know who could have been hiding in there,” he said quietly as they exited the kitchen. At the end of the hall was a swinging double door, with small windows just at Carlton’s eye height, and he surveyed what he could see of the next room, then pushed the door open. Marla gasped.

  “Creepy,” Carlton said mildly. The dining room in front of them was lit with the same dim, florescent light, giving the brand-new place an odd dullness. There were tables and chairs at the center, and arcade games and play areas along all the walls, but their eyes were drawn immediately to the small stage at the back corner. Its purple curtain was pulled open, and it was empty, except for a bright yellow rope strung across the front and a sign with a picture of a clock on it. NEXT SHOW: it read in neat, handwritten letters, but the clock had no hands. Marla shivered, and Carlton nudged her. “It’s not the same,” he whispered.

  “It’s exactly the same,” she said. Carlton looked around at the rest of the room, his eyes lighting on a ball pit that stuck out from the front wall in a half circle, a round red plastic awning arcing over it, trimmed with white.

  “Look at the monkey bars.” She pointed. Across the room, three small children steadily climbed the tangled structure of red and yellow bars. Carlton, startled, looked at Marla with surprise, then ran to them.

  “Are you okay? Where are your parents?” he asked breathlessly, then his mouth went dry. The children were not human, or alive. Their animatronic faces were painted like clowns, their features absurdly exaggerated: One had a round, red nose that covered half its face and a white wig of synthetic curls; another had a molded smile on its face and a painted red grimace. The third, a red-cheeked, smiling clown with a rainbow-colored wig, looked almost cute, except for the gigantic spring that replaced the middle of its torso, boinging up and down each time it moved. All of them had black eyes, with no iris or pupil, and they did not appear to see Carlton. He waved his hands, but they did not turn their heads, just kept grasping the bars with their pudgy hands, and pulling themselves along the structure with uncanny precision. All of them emitted a loud whirring sound, as if they were wind-up toys that had been set loose to climb. The child with the spring suddenly flung its top half over the top of the bars, the spring extending into a long, wavy wire, then it grabbed a bar, and its feet shot into the air wildly, and came snapping back into place on the other side.

  “My mistake, you’re not the kids we’re looking for, carry on,” Carlton whispered shakily, as the creatures continued, weaving over and under, back and forth through the structure. “They don’t see us,” Marla whispered, and it took him a moment to register her voice.

  “What?” he said, his eyes still on the clown-children.

  “They don’t see us,” she repeated. “These little things are working.” She tapped her ear.

  “Right, good,” Carlton said, pulling himself away from the scene. Marla was smiling with relief. “We still have to be careful, though,” he warned. “I can’t guarantee it works on everything, and it definitely won’t work on people.”

  Marla shivered, then nodded quickly. “There’s a room past the stage,” she said.

  “Looks like an arcade,” Carlton said grimly.

  Marla slowed by the stage, her hand drifting toward the curtain as if she might try to look behind it. “No.” Carlton grabbed Marla’s hand. “The last thing we want to do is call any attention to ourselves.” Marla nodded in agreement.

  The arcade smelled overpoweringly of new plastic, the games gleaming and scarcely played. There were a dozen or so freestanding arcade cabinets, and two pinball machines, one—predictably, by now—clown-themed, and the other painted with cartoonish snake charmers. Carlton gave them a wide berth. Marla caught his sleeve and gestured to a closed door on the wall to their left, an EXIT sign glowing red above it, and he nodded. They headed for it, creeping past a “test your strength” game, governed by an adult-size clown with a face made of jagged metal plates who nodded continuously, its painted smile maniacal. As they passed Carlton watched it carefully, but its eyes did not seem to track their movements. When they reached the door, Carlton took a deep breath, then gently pushed on the bar. It gave way immediately, and Marla sighed with relief. Carlton pushed the door open, holding it out for her, then froze as the unmistakable clack of servos broke the silence behind them.

  They both spun around; Carlton braced his arm in front of Marla’s chest protectively, his heart racing, but nothing was moving. He scanned the room, then saw it: the clown standing over the game was staring at them, its head cocked to the side. Carlton glanced at Marla, and she nodded minutely: she had seen it, too. Slowly, she backed through the door, as Carlton watched the animatronic, but it showed no further signs of movement. When Marla was safely through the door, Carlton waved his arms, hoping desperately that it would not see him. The clown remained motionless, having apparently returned to stasis. Carlton slipped out of the room and closed the door carefully behind him. He turned, and almost fell over Marla, who was backed up almost to the wall. “Watch it,” he whispered good-naturedly, catching her shoulder for balance.

  Then he looked up, and swayed on his feet, disoriented by a dozen distorted, menacing figures. He took a breath, and the room fell into place: mirrors. Before them was an array of funhouse mirrors, each one distorting the images it reflected. Carlton’s eyes flitted from one to the next—one showed him and Marla as tall as the ceiling; in the next they were blown up like balloons, crowding each other out of the frame; in the next their bodies looked normal, but their heads shrank to stalks an inch wide.

  “Okay, then,” he whispered. “How do we get out of here?”

  As if in answer to his question, two mirrors slowly began to swivel, turning toward each other until they had made a narrow door in the wall of close-set panels. Beyond the small opening lay more mirrors, but Carlton could not tell how many there were, or which way they were directed, as one mirror caught another, doubling the reflections until it was impossible to see what was real and what was not. Marla stepped through the gap and beckoned: there was a gleam in her eye, but Carlton couldn’t tell if it was excitement, or the strange, dim light. He followed her, and as soon as he was through the gap the panels began to pivot again, closing them inside. Carlton glanced around, growing nervous now that their exit had been blocked off. They seemed to be in a narrow corridor that branched off in two directions, the walls made of more floor-to-ceiling mirror panels.

  “It’s a maze,” Marla whispered, and gave him a smile when she saw the look on his face. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’m good at mazes.”

  “You’re good at mazes?” Carlton said with irritation. “What is that supposed to mean? I’m good at mazes.”

  “What’s wrong with saying that? I’ve always been good with mazes.” Marla shook her head.

  “What, like the hay maze? When we were
five? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “I got through it before anyone else did.”

  “You climbed over the top of the bales. You’re not supposed to do that.”

  “Oh, you’re right.” Marla’s face flushed. “I’m not good at mazes.”

  “We will get through this together.” Carlton took her hand, long enough to stop her from having a panic attack, then released it.

  She looked in both directions, thoughtful, then pointed decisively. “Let’s try that way,” she said. They started down the path she had chosen, and Carlton followed, keeping his eyes on her feet in front of him. After only a few steps he heard her sharp intake of breath, and snapped his head up: they were at a dead end.

  “Dead end already?” he said, surprised.

  “No, the panel closed,” she hissed.

  “This way, hay maze,” Carlton said with a hint of amusement. “Back this way.”

  They started back the way they had come, and this time Carlton saw the panels move: as they moved back to the spot where they had come in, a panel swung toward them, cutting off their path. A second later, another panel swung away, opening a new corridor. Marla hesitated, and Carlton stepped up beside her. “No choice, let’s go,” he said. She nodded, and they walked deeper into the maze.

  As soon as they had crossed the new threshold, the panel swung shut. They looked around for the new opening, but there was none: they were enclosed on all sides by mirrors. Carlton walked the small perimeter quickly, beginning to panic.

  “Carlton, just wait, another one will open,” Marla whispered.

  “I kn-ow you’re in h-ere.” An unfamiliar voice rang out. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing like it was bouncing from panel to panel. The sound was mechanical, glitching out midword. They exchanged a glance: Marla’s face was pale with fear.