* * *
“Can you get the green for me?” a voice called. Carlton blinked. He was sitting upright but felt only half-present, as if he had been daydreaming. “The green,” the tiny voice repeated. “Please?” Carlton cast his eyes around for something green; the floor was black and white, and they were sitting somewhere a little dark. A little boy was hunched over a piece of paper, drawing. Carlton looked up. We’re under a table. Under the table at Freddy’s. There were drawings scattered in front of him on the floor, and a box of crayons spilled out across the tiles. Carlton spotted a green crayon that had rolled up against the wall, and he grabbed it and handed it to the little boy, who took it without looking up.
“Michael,” Carlton said, recognition dawning. Michael continued to draw. “Where … ?” Carlton looked around, but what he saw didn’t make sense to him. The pizzeria was brightly lit, yet Carlton couldn’t see more than five feet away, as though there was a blurry cloud masking everything beyond. He ducked his head out cautiously from under the table, but the bright lights hurt his eyes, and he shielded them with his hand, crawling back under. Michael had not moved; he was drawing steadily, his brow furrowed in concentration. Carlton studied the pictures on the ground with a vague sense that something was wrong. I don’t belong here, he thought, yet part of him felt completely at home.
“What are you doing?” he whispered to Michael, who looked up from his drawing at last.
“I have to put them back together,” Michael explained. “See?” He pointed out from the table, at the pizzeria around them. Carlton squinted into the blurry horizon, seeing nothing at first, then they began to appear: he saw pages and pages of colorful drawings, some on the walls, others blowing through the air. “They’re all in pieces,” Michael said. He shuffled the pages in front of him and found two that showed the same child, then he placed one on top of the other, and began to trace the lines. “These go together,” Michael said, holding up the picture: the two drawings had become one, the separate pages somehow bonded together; the lines were clearer and the colors more vibrant.
“What are you putting back together?” Carlton asked.
“My friends.” Michael pointed to a single picture propped up against the wall. It showed five children: three boys and two girls, standing together in a cheerful pose, with a yellow rabbit standing behind them.
“I know this picture,” Carlton said slowly. His mind was still foggy, and as he tried to grasp at the answer, it only slipped further away. “Who is that?” Carlton whispered, pointing to the rabbit.
“He’s our friend.” Michael smiled, not looking up from his work. “Can you go get more for me?” Carlton looked out into the pizzeria: the space he could see had expanded a little more, and now he could make out the blurs of other children who seemed to be grasping at pages as they flew by, trying to grab the drawings. Carlton got out from under the table and stood up, walking through the midst of the mirage and colors. A boy in a black-and-white-striped shirt came running up, chasing a piece of paper.
“What are you doing?” Carlton asked as the boy grabbed empty air, and the page flew away into the blurry distance.
“My papers blew away,” the boy cried, and hurried off. Carlton turned and saw another boy in the same outfit on the opposite side of the room, chasing other pages. A little girl with long blonde hair ran past him, and he whirled around, recognizing her far away: there were duplicates of each child, all of them chasing different pages.
A single figure stood still amongst the chaos, out of phase with the surroundings. At first it seemed to be a man bent over a table, but as Carlton’s head throbbed with waves of confusion, the man became a yellow rabbit, not standing over a table, but over five children, tied together as one. The second image washed away, and the rabbit became a man again, standing in the dark. The children ran past the man as if they could not see him; as Carlton watched, several children ran straight through him without seeming to notice. Carlton approached the man, and as he got closer, the yellow rabbit appeared again, turning to look at him momentarily before blowing away like smoke, leaving the man underneath.
“This isn’t real,” Carlton gasped, trying to parse the two overlapping realities that seemed to be swirling around him. Three figures seemed to hold fast, while the rest of his surroundings flickered in and out of existence: the man standing at the table, a blond boy in the corner—the only child not running, and not repeated—and a body lying on the floor, curled in a puddle of blood. Is that me? Am I dead?
“No, silly!” a child called. “You’re with us!”
The syringe mechanism recoiled with a loud snap: the man in shadow had taken something from the metal body on the table. Suddenly, another drawing flew into the air, and another ghostly child appeared to chase it.
The little girl with blonde locks of hair and a red ribbon bouncing on her shoulders ran past as well.
“Stop!” Carlton called, and she obeyed, her eyes still locked on the drawings she had been pursuing. “Who is that?” Carlton directed her attention to the yellow rabbit flickering in and out of existence.
“That’s our friend. He helped me find my puppy!” she exclaimed before running off again.
“They don’t know,” Carlton whispered, releasing her as she disappeared into the blur surrounding him. Carlton searched the air as drawings blew by, snatching at the ones with images that seemed familiar.
“What are you doing?” the little boy in the striped shirt asked.
“I’m going to help you put these together,” Carlton said, reaching for another picture as it blew past.
* * *
When she had finally crawled her way to the desk, Charlie reached up and grabbed for the top of it, then pulled herself up, feigning a struggle. She winced as she put weight on her feet, continuing to act weaker than she actually was: in reality she was nearly back to her full strength. She leaned heavily on the desk as if for support, putting one hand directly on the heavy stone paperweight.
“We both know he won’t be able to re-create you, either.” Elizabeth was near. “And the real question would be, would we really want him to? Besides …” Elizabeth approached Charlie from behind, moving faster. “I think I hate you more than I love him.” She raised her hand in attack and Charlie spun around, swinging the rock in a single motion. There was a thunderous crack as it slammed into Elizabeth’s face, and Charlie fell back with the shock, dropping the paperweight. She hit the ground hard, cradling her hand.
Elizabeth staggered backward, holding her hand over her face, but she could not conceal the damage without her illusion. One entire side of her gleaming white jaw had been knocked off her face, revealing the wires beneath. She cocked her head to the side for a moment, as if running a system check; Charlie didn’t wait for the result. She leaped to her feet, pushing past Elizabeth as she ran back the way she’d come. Charlie heard Elizabeth moving, and dove for the hall closet, pulling it shut tight behind her.
“I know it may sound very childish of me,” Elizabeth cried; her voice sounded like she was still at the end of the hall. “But if he doesn’t want me; then he won’t get you, either.”
The footsteps drew closer, and Charlie looked one way and another, hoping desperately for a place to hide in the small closet. Then suddenly, as she turned completely around, she saw a familiar thing. You. The faceless robot wielding its knife, the mannequin, the construct that her father had built for one purpose, to end his life.
“Your dad thought you were so special, your memory was just too precious to let go of.”
The blank face was almost peaceful in the dark. It had been built for one thing; it had completed its duty, and had remained in silence ever since, standing as a memorial to pain, and to loss.
The closet door moved slightly as Elizabeth gripped the knob; Charlie could see her shadow under the door. She grabbed at the clothing hanging behind her, old coats and dresses, and pulled them forward, concealing the construct as best she could. “You can’t overpow
er me,” Elizabeth whispered. “You aren’t like me,” she added with relish. Charlie waited in front of the blank-faced creature, not hiding. Gently, Elizabeth pulled the door open.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Charlie whispered to Elizabeth.
Charlie heard John cough from the room behind them, and relief rushed through her. He’s going to be okay. He’s alive. Elizabeth glanced back as though considering him, then trained her eyes on Charlie and took two deliberate steps forward.
“Charlie!” John called from outside.
“It’s okay, John,” Elizabeth answered, her voice indistinguishable from Charlie’s. “I’ll be right out.” Instantaneously, she looked like Charlie again, not the grown-up Charlie she had been masquerading as, but Charlie as she was really, a mirror reflection. She shifted awkwardly, her eyes darting back toward John for just a moment, then gave Charlie a cruel smile. “How far do you think I could get with him before he noticed?” she whispered.
“You’re right, Elizabeth,” Charlie said. Elizabeth’s smile faded. “I was never supposed to be here.”
“No?” Elizabeth took the last step, closing the distance between them. She gripped Charlie by the neck, pressing up against her.
“Neither of us were.” Charlie gripped the rag doll close to her chest. Elizabeth frowned in confusion, then peered over Charlie’s shoulder, seeing the robot standing directly behind her. Charlie flinched her other hand, which was behind her back, doing something unseen with a quick motion. A metal pulley screamed.
Charlie closed her eyes, hugging the doll, and when the knife went through them, it did not hurt.
Elizabeth gasped as the blade plunged through her, too, sounding almost human. Charlie saw Elizabeth’s face, rigid with shock, then it was gone, replaced by the smooth metal plates of her robotic form. Sparks burst in the air above her as Charlie’s vision began to fade, and the smell of hot plastic came to her from very far away.
“It’s not fair.” Elizabeth’s voice sputtered with static. “I never had a life.”
Charlie struggled to take in a breath, still clutching the rag doll to her chest. She reached for Elizabeth’s dangling hand clumsily and caught it; Elizabeth looked at her confusedly, and Charlie strained to pull her hand up to the rag doll. Fumbling, she closed Elizabeth’s fingers around the doll, then, still holding her hand, Charlie pushed with the last of her strength, sliding the doll across the four-inch stretch of blade between them until it rested against Elizabeth’s chest. Charlie tried to smile, but everything was dark; she had forgotten how to see. Charlie felt her head fall forward, and could not pull it up again. Elizabeth twitched for a moment longer, rattling the blade that pierced them both, then her head slumped forward, too, resting against Charlie’s forehead.
Charlie! John was screaming her name. CHARLIE!
I love you, too. The words didn’t come, and then there was nothing at all.
* * *
“Here, right here!” Carlton called. The little boy in the striped shirt helped align two more pictures, and Michael traced over them, connecting them into a single drawing. A second boy in a striped shirt appeared from the blurry surroundings and sat down on top of the one already sitting with them, merging into him seamlessly. Only Carlton seemed to notice the merging of the two children, not even the boy in the striped shirt himself seemed aware.
Beside them was the little girl with blonde curls: they had found all her drawings and put them together, and now she looked solid and real, no longer ghostly like the others. She was able to speak in full sentences, her cognitive abilities having steadily grown stronger as her drawings were united. Carlton struggled to find matching images for the others: he was keeping track of the three stable figures, the man, the boy in the corner, and the body, and it was clear he was running out of time. The man was making preparations to harm the boy in the corner.
“You said he saved your dog?” Carlton asked the blonde girl, grasping for answers.
“Mommy said that he went to heaven, but I heard Daddy say he was hit by a car. But I knew it wasn’t true, Bonnie told me it wasn’t true; he said that he had found my puppy.” She brushed a lock of hair from her shoulder with her hand.
“And did he take you to your puppy?”
“He took me, but I don’t remember …”
“But it was him who helped you?” Carlton pointed to the yellow bunny in the drawing that showed all five kids.
“Yes! That’s him.” She smiled. “My name is Susie,” she added. “And that’s Cassidy.” A girl with long black hair approached, carrying more pictures in her arms. “And you?”
Carlton looked briefly at a little boy with freckles. “I …” He struggled to speak, and Carlton glanced nervously at the man in the room as he matched two more drawings together.
“There!” Michael exclaimed proudly. Another ghostly image of the freckled boy climbed under the table, and merged with the one who was already there: he instantly became less ghostly, and more whole. “I’m Fritz.” He smiled, suddenly filled with more life.
* * *
William Afton clenched his fists, studying his own hands for a moment then looking toward the medical monitors in the corner. “I feel that my time is running short.” He looked toward Carlton thoughtfully, but Carlton was still lying on the floor, motionless. “That’s unfortunate,” he growled. “I hoped to learn something. But maybe that’s not the problem.” He looked toward the metal table. “Maybe we just need some new life in this mass of metal.” He smiled at the little blond boy, who recoiled and tried to scoot away, though he was already as close to the wall as he could get. “You’ll have to forgive me, though, as I’m not sure how to do that, either.” William took steps toward him. “I can think of a few things to try. At the very least, it will be fun; like old times.” His lips peeled back, revealing two full rows of stained yellow teeth.
The door creaked as it opened, and William’s eyes darted toward it as a tangled metal mess lurched toward him, scraping across the floor. “What are you doing back here?” William asked. The white painted fox head was turned at an alarming angle, clearly not functioning properly. Its limbs were all turned and pivoted, some of them broken and dragging, all inching the remains of the creature into the room. The fox head’s eye spun wildly, searching the ceiling. William pointed to a corner. “You’re no use to me anymore; get out of the way,” he said dismissively, then drew back, surprised: following the fox was another motorcade of broken parts, their wires reaching for one another like vines, pulling each other along and holding themselves together. Mounted on the back of the entanglement was the white-and-purple face of a bear. “I’m heeeere!” a voice came from a speaker somewhere within the mess, cracking and popping with static.
William made a face, unnerved by the wrecked, comingled creatures. “Get back,” he uttered, giving the Freddy face a kick. The mass of parts slid away without resistance, sounding almost disappointed as they came to a stop a few feet away. “What a waste,” he hissed. He turned his attention to the fox again, apparently the most intact. “Bring that boy to me,” he instructed, and the fox turned its eye to the corner.
* * *
“I have to go do something for him,” Susie said cheerfully, getting to her feet.
“Something for who?” Carlton asked with alarm, and took hold of her arm.
“Bonnie.” She smiled, gesturing toward the cheerful yellow rabbit wavering in and out of existence beside the table. “He asked me to do something for him just now. He wants to bring a new friend for us and he needs my help.”
“Bonnie isn’t your friend,” Carlton said, still holding her arm. He gasped at the imminent danger that the little blond boy faced, as the girl struggled to break away.
“He is my friend! He found my puppy!” she cried, and yanked her arm free.
“No, don’t go to him!” Carlton pleaded.
* * *
John.
“Get back!” John screamed and jolted awake, swinging his arms up to block an
attack and jerking back. His head cracked against the cabinet behind him. “Ow.” He groaned, regaining awareness of where he was. He rolled over, holding his side gingerly, then held perfectly still, tilting his head to listen. Silence reverberated through the space, weighing down the room with emptiness. “Charlie,” he whispered, everything that had happened rushing back all at once. The hallway. John pulled himself to his feet with a sick dread, bracing himself against the cabinet door. His right foot gave way as soon as he put weight on it, pain shooting up through his ankle, and he put a hand against the wall for balance, then hopped on his left foot to reach the door.
He crashed hard against the doorframe, wincing as his ribs flared with pain, then squinted, trying to see in the dark. “Charlie!” he called. The closet door was open, and he could see figures inside, but he couldn’t make out anything distinct. He made his way to the closet, leaning on the wall and trying to ignore his throbbing ankle. It was difficult to see through the hanging coats; and he began to shove them aside, then stopped abruptly, scarcely avoiding the blade of a massive knife—almost a sword—pointed directly at him. He blinked as his eyes adjusted: the blade was connected to an extended metal arm—the figure he had first thought was holding the knife had instead been run through with it, and behind that was something else—something familiar. He backed away, bending to look at the inhuman face of the creature impaled on the knife.
He stared for a moment, his face growing hot, then suddenly he turned away and doubled over, overcome with a wave of nausea. He dropped to his knees and retched, his ribs screaming protest as he heaved, but there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. He gasped, trying make it stop, but his stomach clenched and spasmed until he felt like he would be turned inside out.
The Fourth Closet Page 24
