“Went to find the thirteenth.”
Morgan tightened her grip on the phone.
“The thirteenth what?”
“I was hoping you knew.”
“Why would I know?”
“You've apparently spent the afternoon finding doors that shouldn't exist and talking to a seven-year-old who should be twenty-eight by now. At this point, I'm keeping an open mind.”
Morgan looked toward the cellar.
“Fair.”
“Are you coming here?”
She glanced at the locked door.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why did you tell me not to open the red door?”
DC went quiet.
Morgan straightened.
“DC.”
“Because of what I found in the ledger.”
“You could have led with that.”
“You called and immediately told me you'd found the door.”
“And?”
“And I panicked.”
Morgan paused.
That was possibly the most reasonable thing anyone in Bellweather had done all week.
“What else does the ledger say?”
“Come here.”
“Seriously?”
“I need to show you.”
Morgan looked at the cellar door one last time.
“Fine.”
She gathered everything she'd intended to bring before the cellar interrupted her.
The photograph.
The golden leaf.
Kiara's note.
The two bracelets.
Her grandmother's warning.
Both brass keys.
Then Morgan looked at the plastic bin beside the front door.
The purple jacket remained inside.
She considered leaving it.
She considered the fact that it had already survived being burned.
Morgan picked up the bin.
“You're coming too.”
DC had locked the Lantern Room when Morgan arrived.
He opened the side door before she could knock.
“What is that?”
Morgan carried the plastic bin past him.
“A problem.”
“That doesn't narrow it down anymore.”
She set it on the nearest table.
DC looked inside.
“A jacket?”
“The jacket.”
He stared at her.
“The one your grandmother burned?”
“According to Mrs. Bell.”
DC looked into the bin again.
“And it's here because?”
“Apparently fire didn't take.”
“I don't like that.”
“Get in line.”
Morgan took off her coat.
The Lantern Room felt different while closed.
No conversation.
No music.
No glasses clinking behind the bar.
Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the old building settling around them.
A warm scent lingered in the woodwork, tobacco leaf and amber from decades of patrons and polished oak.
DC had spread several old books across the bar.
Morgan recognized the thick ledger immediately.
“Show me.”
DC opened it to a marked page.
October 17, 1978.
Names filled the left column.
Orders filled the center.
Notes occupied a narrow space along the right.
DC pointed.
Thomas Mercer — 6:12 PM
A drink had been recorded beside his name.
Morgan looked at the closing column.
Blank.
Then the note.
Went to find the thirteenth.
“That’s all?”
“In this ledger.”
“You said there was more.”
“There is.”
DC reached beneath the bar and produced a narrow wooden box.
Morgan frowned.
“What is that?”
“My dad called it the dead drawer.”
“That is a terrible name.”
“I didn't name it.”
“What was in it?”
“Stuff people left behind and never came back for.”
Morgan looked at him.
“And your family kept it?”
“Apparently throwing away a dead man's property felt rude.”
He opened the box.
Inside were old receipts, keys, cuff links, coins, photographs, and several envelopes browned with age.
DC removed a small leather tobacco pouch.
The initials T.M. had been stamped into the flap.
Morgan stared.
“Thomas?”
“That's what I'm assuming.”
DC set it on the bar.
“According to my dad, it had been here longer than he had.”
Morgan opened the pouch carefully.
A faint scent of old tobacco remained.
Inside were several folded papers.
One was a receipt.
Another was a small map of Bellweather Orchard.
The third was a note.
Morgan unfolded it.
The handwriting was cramped and uneven.
October 17
Margaret counted thirteen again.
Morgan stopped.
“Mrs. Bell?”
“She would've been young, but yes.”
Morgan continued.
Evelyn says there are only twelve.
I counted twice.
There are thirteen.
Below it:
The last one only appears when nobody is looking directly at her.
Morgan's skin prickled.
“Her.”
DC nodded.
Morgan thought of Kiara's note.
DON'T LET HER COUNT ME AGAIN.
She kept reading.
Margaret thinks it's a woman.
I don't.
I think it wants us to think that.
Morgan looked at DC.
“That's comforting.”
“There’s more.”
She continued.
It has started using voices.
Yesterday it called from the western woods in Evelyn's voice.
Morgan stopped.
The cabin.
She had heard Mrs. Bell calling her from the woods.
Except Mrs. Bell hadn't called.
Morgan read faster.
Never answer unless you can see who is speaking.
Her stomach dropped.
Mrs. Bell had given her the exact same warning.
Morgan looked up.
“She knew.”
“Apparently.”
“She told me to make sure I could see whoever was calling before I answered.”
DC frowned.
“When?”
“When I found the cabin.”
Morgan returned to the note.
The final paragraph had been written darker than the rest.
Thomas had pressed hard enough to leave impressions in the paper.
If there are thirteen, one of them doesn't belong.
Do not let it learn your name.
Do not follow it into the woods.
And if it asks you to count—
The sentence ended.
Morgan turned the paper over.
Nothing.
“That’s it?”
DC nodded.
“The rest is missing.”
Morgan looked through the other papers.
Nothing.
Then she noticed the map.
Bellweather Orchard had been drawn by hand.
The western woods were marked.
So was the old apple tree.
And deeper in the woods, someone had drawn a small square.
Morgan pointed.
“The cabin.”
“You're sure?”
“That's where it should be.”
A line ran from the cabin farther west.
Morgan followed it.
It ended at a small red mark.
No label.
Just a rectangle filled with red ink.
“The door,” Morgan whispered.
DC looked at her.
“What?”
“The red door.”
“In your grandmother's cellar?”
Morgan shook her head.
“No. This map is from 1978.”
She tapped the red mark.
“The door existed before Grandma's cellar.”
DC stared at the map.
“Then why is it in her house?”
“I don't know.”
Something shifted inside the plastic bin.
Both of them turned.
The purple jacket lay exactly where Morgan had placed it.
DC stared.
“Did that move?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Just checking.”
Morgan approached the bin.
The black handprint was still visible across the fabric.
So were the words.
YOU ALREADY DID.
DC's expression changed.
“You can see that?”
Morgan looked at him.
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe it only showed up for me.”
Morgan froze.
“What?”
DC stepped closer.
Morgan pointed at the words.
“Read it.”
He did.
“‘You already did.’”
Morgan's pulse quickened.
“The writing didn't show up when I photographed it.”
DC looked at her.
“But I can see it.”
“Yes.”
For the first time, Morgan realized something she should have considered much sooner.
The impossible things weren't happening only to her.
DC had seen the bourbon disappear.
He could see the writing.
He remembered raising his glass toward the empty chair without knowing why.
Morgan looked back at Thomas' note.
Do not let it learn your name.
Her eyes drifted to the photograph she'd taken of the search record.
One name caught her attention.
Richard Carter.
Morgan looked at DC.
“Who's Richard Carter?”
DC frowned.
“Where did you see that name?”
She turned the phone toward him.
“The 1978 search record.”
DC took the phone.
His expression changed.
“That's my grandfather.”
Morgan looked at him.
“Your grandfather was part of the search party?”
“Apparently.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
Morgan looked toward the old tobacco pouch.
Thomas Mercer had left the Lantern Room to find the thirteenth.
Richard Carter had gone into the woods as part of the search for Thomas.
Twenty-seven years later, Evelyn Bennett had taken Morgan into those same woods.
And now Richard Carter's grandson was standing beside her, reading words that shouldn't exist.
“This isn't just my family.”
“No.”
“It never was.”
DC looked at the ledger.
“Looks like mine volunteered.”
Something tapped against the front window.
Morgan turned.
A woman stood outside.
At least, Morgan thought it was a woman.
The street behind her was dark now, and the Lantern Room's amber lights reflected across the glass.
She couldn't make out the woman's face.
Another tap.
DC moved toward the door.
Morgan caught his arm.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
The woman raised one hand.
Tapped again.
Three gentle touches against the glass.
DC lowered his voice.
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
The woman leaned closer.
Her face remained hidden by the reflection.
Then she spoke.
The glass should have made it impossible to hear her.
It didn't.
“Morgan.”
DC looked at her.
Morgan's blood went cold.
The woman lifted one finger and pointed toward the bar.
Toward Thomas Mercer's tobacco pouch.
Then she smiled.
Morgan couldn't see her face.
But somehow, she could see the smile.
The woman spoke again.
“Count them.”
Morgan didn't move.
Neither did DC.
Outside, the woman slowly raised both hands against the glass.
Morgan counted the fingers before she could stop herself.
Ten.
Then another hand appeared beside them.
Pressed against the window from the same side.
Three more fingers touched the glass.
Morgan stumbled backward.
Thirteen.
The lights inside the Lantern Room went out.
