The Fourth Closet

by Scott Cawthon

  “What are you?” Charlie whispered, mesmerized.

  “Come on,” the other Charlie said, holding out her hand, and Charlie started to reach out to her, then stopped herself, yanking her hand away. She shrank away, stumbling back across the hall and her duplicate closed the distance between them, leaning in so close Charlie should have felt her breathing. A long moment passed, but the other Charlie did not draw breath. “You need to come with me,” she said. “Father wants us to come home.” Charlie startled at the phrase.

  “My father is dead,” she said. She pressed back against the wall, as far from the girl’s face as she could get.

  “Well, would you like to have a live one?” the other Charlie asked, with a mocking edge.

  “There is nothing that you can give me, and certainly not that,” Charlie said shakily, inching backward into the storage room; the duplicate followed her step for step. Charlie glanced past the duplicate and into the open bedroom door; John emerged into the hallway, leaning heavily on the doorframe and gripping his side.

  “Are you okay, Charlie?” he asked in a low, steady voice.

  “Oh, I’m just fine, John!” Charlie’s duplicate said cheerfully.

  “Charlie?” John repeated, ignoring her. Charlie nodded, not daring to take her eyes off the imposter.

  “She says Father wants us to come home,” Charlie said.

  John stepped up behind the other Charlie.

  “Father? Would that be William Afton?” John demanded. He took a few sprinted steps and grabbed a lamp by its base, raising it for attack. The other Charlie smiled again, then swiftly raised her arm and backhanded John across the face. He dropped the lamp and staggered backward, catching himself against the wall, and the duplicate grabbed for Charlie’s hand. Charlie ducked away, running for the hallway with the girl on her heels.

  “Hey! That was just round one!” John shouted, beckoning his assailant to come back. He grabbed the duplicate girl’s arm, yanking her back toward him and away from where Charlie had run. The duplicate allowed John to hold her close, not resisting. John was washed with fear as he stood eye-to-eye with the imposter. Now what do I do?

  “Just like by the old oak tree when we were little, John,” the duplicate whispered. She pulled him close and pressed her lips against his. His eyes widened, and he tried to push her away, but he could not move. When she finally released him and pulled back, she was Charlie, his Charlie, and there was a high, painful ringing in his ears. He covered his ears, but the ringing increased exponentially, and for the few brief seconds before he collapsed to the ground, he saw her face morph into a thousand things. The room spun, and his head hit the ground with a crack.

  * * *

  The girl smiled and glanced at Charlie, then drew back her foot and kicked John in the ribs, knocking him onto his side and against a heavy wooden trunk. Charlie ran toward him, but before she could reach him, the girl grabbed her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. The imposter pulled upward, lifting Charlie several inches off the ground, and then flung her aside. Charlie tried to regain her footing but tripped backward over a cardboard box and slammed hard into the opposite wall, knocking the wind out of her as John got warily to his feet. Charlie climbed to her knees. She dragged in heavy, grinding breaths, watching helplessly as the other Charlie strode toward John.

  He straightened, and without a pause, she punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, and before he could stand, she hit the back of his head with her fist, like it was a hammer and he was a nail.

  John fell forward, catching himself on his hands and knees, and scrambled up. He lunged again at the girl, catching her shoulder with his fist, but the blow glanced off her, and he yelped in pain, clutching his hand like it had hit something harder than flesh and bone. The imposter took him by the shoulders, lifting him off the ground, and carried him across the room, then pressed him against the wall. She released him and let him stand, turning to look at Charlie momentarily, then she placed her open palm against John’s chest.

  Suddenly, John began to gasp for breath, his face turning red. The imposter’s face remained unchanged, her open hand slowly pressing harder against his chest. “I can’t—” John gasped for air. “Can’t breathe.” He clutched at her arm with both hands, but it was no use as she continued to steadily press into him. John slowly began to slide up the wall, inch by inch, the pressure forcing his entire body upward.

  “Stop!” Charlie cried, but the other Charlie didn’t flinch. “Please!” Charlie scrambled to her feet and ran to John’s side, but the other Charlie snapped out her other arm and caught her by the neck without moving her hand from John’s chest. Her fingers closed on Charlie’s throat, closing off her windpipe as she lifted her up onto her toes. Charlie choked, kicking and gasping. The imposter held her there, looking expressionlessly from Charlie to John as she kept them both immobilized and struggling to breathe.

  “Okay,” Charlie wheezed. “I want to talk. Please,” she begged hoarsely. The imposter dropped them both. John fell motionless to the floor. “You’ve hurt him, let me help him.” Charlie coughed, pulling herself up.

  “You’re so attached to something so … easily broken,” she said with amusement. Charlie strained to see past her, anxiously watching John’s chest as it rose and fell. He’s alive. Charlie took a breath, then turned to face the girl who had her face.

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked tightly.

  * * *

  Carlton let the heavy door slam shut behind him and ran on without looking back: there was another door up ahead, and dim light filtered through a small window near the top. The child’s cry echoed again, and Carlton froze, unable to pinpoint its direction. The high-pitched sound pierced the air again, and he grimaced at the sound: it was raw and thin, the scream of a kid who had been screaming for a long time. Carlton peered through the window in the door—it looked deserted, and he opened the door cautiously, then stopped dead. Everything looked the same: every hall, every room. Lights flickered, speakers hummed. One light seemed to be about to burn out, making a high-pitched screech that echoed through the chamber.

  “Kid,” he whispered, but there was no answer, and Carlton was suddenly aware that he may have been chasing echoes and lights for the last ten minutes. He suddenly felt the weight of how alone he was, and it became a physical thing; the air itself seemed to grow heavier around him. His breath slowed, and he dropped to his knees, then fell back to sit. He stared down the empty hallway despairingly, and finally scooted to the side, maneuvering his back against the wall so he could at least see his assailant before he died—whoever—or whatever—his assailant might turn out to be.

  I’ve failed. I’m not going to find him. Tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly. Michael, I’m so sorry. In the days after Michael disappeared, his father had asked him so many questions, going over that one afternoon like he believed together they could re-create it and solve the puzzle. I searched for the missing piece, I promise, I searched. He had gone over every moment of the little party in his mind, desperately trying to find the clue his father needed, the detail that would make everything clear.

  There were so many things he could have done to stop what had happened, if he had known then what he knew now.

  But now I know it all, and there’s still nothing I can do.

  “I failed you, Michael.” Carlton put his hand on his chest, trying to calm himself and not hyperventilate. I failed you, again.

  * * *

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” Charlie repeated. The other Charlie narrowed her eyes.

  “That’s better, a lot better.” The girl smiled, and Charlie leaned back as far away from her as she could. It was unnerving to see her own face glaring back at her, accusatory and petulant.

  “I’ll listen to anything you want to say, just don’t hurt him more,” Charlie pleaded, her hands raised in surrender, her heart fluttering. Charlie’s duplicate flushed with anger.

  “This is why,” she hissed, shaking h
er finger accusingly.

  “What? This is why? I don’t understand,” Charlie cried.

  Charlie’s imposter paced the floor, her anger seeming to have drained as quickly as it came. Charlie took the opportunity to look to John again, who had rolled partially onto his back, holding his side as though in immense pain, his face still red. He needs help.

  “What are you?” Charlie growled, her anger rising at the sight of John.

  “The question isn’t what am I. It’s what are you? And what makes you so special, over and over again?” Charlie’s duplicate approached her with renewed anger, grabbing Charlie by the throat once more and lifting her off the ground. She pinned her to the wall, baring all her teeth.

  The ruse of Charlie’s imposter faded, revealing a painted clown face, somehow looking angrier than the human facade. The white plates of the face opened like a flower, revealing yet another face, made of coils and wires, with bare black eyes and jagged prongs for teeth. Her real face, Charlie thought.

  “Ask again,” she growled.

  “What?” Charlie choked.

  “I said ask me again,” the metal monster snarled.

  “What are you?” Charlie whimpered.

  “I told you, that’s not the right question.” The metal girl held Charlie out at a distance and looked her up and down. “Where did he hide it?” She held Charlie’s throat with one hand and put her other hand on Charlie’s chest, then ran a finger down the length of her breastbone. Then her eyes shot to Charlie’s face, and she grabbed her chin and turned her head forcefully to the side. She seemed lost in thought for only a moment then snapped back. “Ask again.”

  Charlie locked eyes with the metal face. The face plates closed over the tangle of twisted metal, reassembling the face of the clown, with her rosy cheeks and glossy lips. Soon the illusion returned, and Charlie was staring into her own eyes again. Charlie felt herself growing uncannily calm as she began to realize what the right question was.

  “What am I?”

  The imposter loosened her grip, and lowered Charlie so that her feet touched the ground. “You are nothing, Charlie,” the imposter said. “You look at me and you see a soulless monster; how ironic. How twisted. How backward.” She let go of Charlie’s throat and took a step back, her red lips losing their savor for the moment. “How unfair.”

  Charlie was on her knees again, struggling to regain her strength. The imposter approached her and knelt with her, placing her hand over Charlie’s. “I’m not sure how this will work, but let’s give it a try,” she whispered, running her fingers through Charlie’s hair and firmly grasping the back of her neck.

  She was a little girl, holding a piece of paper in her hand, excited and full of joy. A bright gold foil star shimmered on the page, above the glowing words of her kindergarten teacher. Someone gently touched her back, encouraging her to run forward into the room, into the dark. She eagerly ran inside, and there he was, standing by the work desk.

  “How long did I stand there before he shooed me away?” Charlie searched her mind, but the answers didn’t come.

  “He didn’t shoo me away,” Charlie’s other voice answered.

  Her eagerness didn’t fade, she remained patient and joyful. After the first push, she came back to try again. It was only after the second push that she hesitated to go back, but she carefully returned anyway, this time holding the paper into the air. Maybe he didn’t see it.

  “He saw it,” Charlie’s other voice spoke down to her.

  This time it hurt; the ground was cold, and her arm ached where she had fallen on it. She looked for the paper: it was on the floor in front of her, her gold star still shone bright, but he was standing on the page now. She looked up to see if he noticed, tears in her eyes. She knew she should leave it, but she couldn’t. She reached forward to tug at the corner, but it was too far away. She finally crawled to it on her knees, her dress dirty now, and tried to pull the page from under his shoe. It wouldn’t come loose.

  “That’s when he hit me.”

  It was difficult to make out anything in the room after that. The room was a smear of tears and pain and her head was still spinning. But she made out one thing, a shiny metal clown doll. Her father had turned his attention back to it, lovingly polishing her. Suddenly, her pain faded to the background, replaced with fascination, obsession.

  “What is all of this?” Charlie cried.

  Now she was looking at herself in the mirror, holding a stick of lipstick that she’d stolen from her teacher’s purse. But she wasn’t painting her lips with it, she was drawing bright red circles on her cheeks. The lips came next.

  “Are you listening to me?” the doppelganger whispered.

  Night had swept over everything. The rooms were dark, the halls were silent, the lab was still. Her feet made soft pats against the smooth white tiles. A tiny camera in the corner had a red blinking light on it, but it didn’t matter what it saw, it was too late to stop her.

  She pulled the sheet away from the beautiful clown girl, beckoning her to speak. Where was the button, the one he always pressed?

  The eyes lit up first, and then other lights from within. It didn’t take long for the painted face to search the room and find her, greeting her with a sweet smile and soft voice.

  “Then there was screaming.” The illusion was broken, and Charlie pushed herself away. “Then there was screaming,” the imposter repeated. “It was coming from me, but …” She paused and pointed to her own head with a look of curiosity. “But I remember seeing her scream.” She looked thoughtful for a second, and suddenly the illusion dissipated, and she appeared again as the painted clown. “It’s strange to remember the same moment from two pairs of eyes, but then we were one.”

  “I don’t believe that story,” Charlie growled. “I don’t believe that story at all. You aren’t possessed! If you think I will believe for one second that I’m talking to the spirit of a sweet and innocent little girl, then you’re crazy.”

  “I want you to call me Elizabeth,” the girl said softly.

  “Elizabeth?” Charlie answered. “If you were this little girl, Elizabeth, I can’t bring myself to believe that that little girl would be capable of all of this.”

  “The anger isn’t from her,” Elizabeth said, her painted face shifting: she looked like a wounded animal, vulnerable but still poised to attack.

  “Then what?” Charlie cried.

  “My anger is from a different father.” Elizabeth strode to Charlie again, grabbing her neck again and jostling her into a white light and pain, where suddenly all was calm.

  A hand was stroking her hair. The sun was going down over a field of grain. A cluster of birds were fluttering overhead, their calls echoing out over the landscape. “I’m so happy to be here with you,” a kind voice said. She looked up and nestled against him.

  “No, this is mine,” Charlie protested.

  “No,” Elizabeth intruded. “That doesn’t belong to you. Let me show you what does belong to you.”

  Agony erupted, flooding the room with its sound. The walls went black and streams of water poured down from behind the window curtains. A man lay curled on the floor, something cradled tightly in his arms, and when his mouth opened, the room shook with the sound of his anguish.

  “Who is that?” Charlie said anxiously. “What is he holding?”

  “You don’t recognize her?” Elizabeth said. “That’s Ella, of course. It’s all your father had left after you were taken.”

  “What, no, that’s not Ella.” Charlie shook her head.

  “He cried over that cheap store-bought rag doll for two months,” Elizabeth snarled with disbelief. “He cried into it, he bled into it, he poured his grief over it. Very unhealthy. He began to treat it as though he still had a daughter.”

  “That was my memory, me sitting with my dad, watching the sun go down. We were waiting for the stars to come out. That’s my memory,” Charlie said angrily.

  “Look again,” Elizabeth instructed, forcin
g the image upon her once more.

  There was a hand stroking her hair. The sun was going down over a field of grain. A cluster of birds were fluttering overhead, their calls echoing out over the landscape. “I’m so happy to be here with you,” a kind voice said. He gripped the doll tightly, and smiled despite the tears streaming from his face.

  “Of course, he wasn’t content with that, you had to grow up. So, he made more.”

  Her arms hung off the side of the workbench. The joints were stiff enough to carry something lightweight, and her eyes were more realistic than he had ever made them before. He propped her up and extended her arms straight in front of her, carefully balancing a small tray on them, then setting a teacup on the tray. He furrowed his brow with frustration for a moment, turning a brass knob over and over until the room quivered and flashed, then everything stood still, and the little girl looked at him and smiled.

  “That’s MY memory!” Charlie screamed.

  “No, that’s his memory,” Elizabeth corrected.

  “Jen, I swear she is more than another animatronic doll. You should see. She walks, and she talks.”

  “Of course she walks and talks, Henry.” Jen’s voice was angry. “She walks because everything you build can walk, and she talks because everything you build can talk. But the reason why this one seems so real is because you’re destroying your mind with these frequencies and codes.” Jen threw her arms in the air.