COME REMEMBER HIM.
Morgan stared at the black photograph.
“Richard Carter.”
Mrs. Bell looked toward her.
“You think that's what it wants?”
“It told us to bring back the name we forgot.”
“The thirteenth searcher,” Thomas said.
Morgan shook her head.
“We don't know that.”
Thomas frowned.
“The erased name.”
“Could be Richard.”
“He came back.”
“Did he?”
Mrs. Bell looked at her.
“Yes.”
Morgan turned.
“You remember that?”
“I remember Richard pulling me through the woods.”
“After you found the black door.”
“Yes.”
“And you remember him after that?”
Mrs. Bell opened her mouth.
Stopped.
Morgan waited.
“I remember…”
Her brow furrowed.
“Margaret?”
“I remember the Carters.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Mrs. Bell looked frustrated.
“Richard was there.”
“In the woods.”
“Yes.”
“Afterward?”
Silence.
Morgan looked at Thomas.
“You said the thirteenth searcher disappeared.”
“That's what Margaret remembered.”
“No. She remembered someone disappearing. She couldn't remember who.”
Thomas glanced toward the photograph.
Morgan continued.
“DC exists. His father exists. Richard could have survived long enough to have a family and still disappeared later.”
Mrs. Bell shook her head.
“No.”
Morgan looked at her.
“Why?”
“I went to Richard's funeral.”
Everyone went quiet.
DC's photograph remained black between Morgan's fingers.
“When?”
Mrs. Bell frowned.
“I don't remember.”
Morgan's stomach tightened.
“You remember going to his funeral but not when?”
“I was there.”
“Where was he buried?”
Mrs. Bell said nothing.
“What did he die from?”
Nothing.
“Who else was there?”
“Morgan.”
“Was there a body?”
Mrs. Bell stared at her.
Morgan lowered the photograph.
“You don't know.”
“No.”
“You remember a funeral because Bellweather gave you a funeral to remember.”
Thomas looked at Mrs. Bell.
“Did Evelyn ever talk about Richard after 1978?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
Mrs. Bell closed her eyes.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then her expression changed.
“She told me not to look for him.”
Morgan straightened.
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Mrs. Bell pressed a hand against her forehead.
“Richard is gone.”
Thomas stepped closer.
“Gone where?”
“She wouldn't tell me.”
Morgan looked at the photograph again.
The white door.
RICHARD CARTER.
“Then that's where we start.”
Thomas shook his head.
“We don't know where DC is.”
“We know he's in the rooms.”
“That doesn't mean we can reach him.”
“You reached the rooms through a door in the woods. Grandma reached them in 2005. There's a red door in my cellar and a black one in my wall.”
Morgan held up the photograph.
“And DC just showed us thirteen more.”
Thomas stared at her.
“You're proposing we open one.”
“I'm proposing we stop standing around while Bellweather erases him.”
Mrs. Bell looked toward the hallway.
“The red door.”
Morgan nodded.
Thomas immediately said, “No.”
Morgan looked at him.
“Do you have a better entrance?”
“No.”
“Then red door.”
The cellar door was still locked.
Morgan stood in front of it.
Thomas beside her.
Mrs. Bell behind them.
The wooden marker box remained upstairs.
Morgan had brought only the door marker.
It now read:
ROOM FORGOTTEN. CLAIMED.
DC's watch was in her pocket.
The impossible 13 remained on its face.
Morgan unlocked the cellar.
Cold air rushed up the stairs.
Thomas stiffened.
“You feel that?”
“Yes.”
Morgan switched on her phone flashlight.
Then stopped.
“No.”
She remembered the lantern.
The cellar had already eaten one person today. She was not giving it an opportunity to eat her phone battery too.
She descended far enough to reach the old camping lantern.
Still hanging from its hook.
Morgan switched it on.
Warm light filled the cellar.
Thomas stared around the room.
“What?”
“This isn't how I remember it.”
“You were here in 1978.”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother owned an impressive number of boxes.”
“Not the boxes.”
He looked toward the far wall.
“The shelves.”
Morgan followed his gaze.
Thirteen bottles remained lined across them.
Including hers.
MORGAN BENNETT.
Thomas approached.
“Don't touch them.”
“I know.”
He read the labels.
Margaret.
Evelyn.
The searchers.
Then Morgan.
His expression tightened.
“These aren't bottles.”
Morgan stared at him.
“They are extremely bottle-shaped.”
“They're markers.”
Mrs. Bell stepped closer.
“Like Evelyn's?”
“No.”
Thomas looked at the labels.
“Not exactly.”
“What are they marking?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Morgan sighed.
Thomas looked at her.
“I've been back less than a day.”
“And yet you've already adopted Bellweather's favorite answer.”
Mrs. Bell almost smiled.
Thomas did not.
Morgan lifted the lantern.
“Red door.”
They moved the shelving unit.
The red door waited behind it.
Same peeling paint.
Same brass keyhole.
Morgan reached into her pocket.
Two keys.
Her own.
Thomas'.
She looked at him.
“Which one?”
Thomas stared at both.
“I don't know.”
“Useful.”
“Morgan.”
“What?”
“I never had that key.”
She looked at the one marked T.M.
“It has your initials.”
“I can see that.”
“It was inside my jacket.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“But you've never seen it?”
“No.”
Morgan held it up.
“Then who made it?”
Thomas looked toward the red door.
“Maybe Evelyn.”
Mrs. Bell shook her head.
“She didn't make keys.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
“You're welcome.”
Morgan looked between them.
“Good. Glad we're enjoying ourselves.”
She held her own key near the lock.
The door shuddered.
Morgan stopped.
Thomas stepped back.
“Apparently it has an opinion.”
She switched keys.
T.M.
The instant the brass approached the lock, something clicked inside.
Morgan didn't insert it.
The door unlocked itself.
“No.”
Thomas stared.
“I didn't touch it.”
“I know.”
The door slowly opened.
Darkness waited beyond.
Not the room Morgan expected.
Stone steps descended beneath them.
Farther down than the cellar floor should allow.
Morgan lifted the lantern.
The light reached only the first several steps.
Thomas looked at her.
“We shouldn't.”
Morgan stared into the darkness.
“DC is down there somewhere.”
“We don't know that.”
She pulled his watch from her pocket.
The hands moved.
For the first time since he'd disappeared.
Both pointed toward the staircase.
Morgan looked at Thomas.
“Now we do.”
The stairs were narrow.
Stone walls pressed close on either side.
Morgan led.
Thomas followed.
Mrs. Bell came last.
Nobody spoke.
The lantern light moved across damp stone.
Down.
And down.
And down.
Morgan stopped.
“What?”
Mrs. Bell nearly walked into Thomas.
Morgan looked upward.
They had descended far enough that the cellar ceiling should have been impossible.
“We're underneath the house.”
Thomas looked around.
“We haven't been underneath the house for a while.”
Morgan decided she hated that sentence.
They continued.
The air smelled of damp earth.
Minerals.
Old wood.
Something darker underneath.
Not rot.
Age.
Eventually, the stairs ended.
Morgan raised the lantern.
A corridor stretched ahead.
Stone walls.
Stone floor.
No windows.
Doors lined either side.
Morgan didn't count them.
Thomas noticed.
“Good.”
“I'm learning.”
They walked.
The first door had no marking.
Neither did the second.
Morgan refused to keep track beyond that.
Then she saw writing on the wall.
Deep scratches carved into the stone.
Morgan lifted the lantern.
DON'T ANSWER YOURSELF.
Mrs. Bell read it.
“What does that mean?”
Thomas shook his head.
Morgan looked at him.
“I swear if you say you don't know…”
“I genuinely don't.”
A voice came from somewhere ahead.
“Morgan?”
Morgan stopped.
Her own voice.
Exactly.
Thomas looked at her.
“Well.”
“Apparently we just found out.”
Her voice came again.
“Morgan, wait.”
She didn't answer.
They continued.
Another carving.
THE ROOMS REMEMBER WHAT PEOPLE DON'T.
Then:
A NAME IS NOT A PERSON.
Morgan slowed.
The next message was longer.
IF YOU FIND YOURSELF, RUN.
Mrs. Bell looked at Morgan.
“Comforting.”
“You're spending too much time with me.”
They reached a fork.
Two corridors.
Morgan pulled out DC's watch.
The hands spun.
Then pointed left.
“Left.”
Thomas looked at it.
“You trust that?”
“No.”
Morgan turned left anyway.
The corridor narrowed.
The doors changed.
Some were wood.
Some metal.
One appeared to be covered in wallpaper.
Morgan recognized the pattern.
Her grandmother's kitchen.
She stopped.
Thomas almost walked into her.
“What?”
Morgan stared.
“I know that wallpaper.”
“Don't open it.”
“I wasn't going to.”
A smell drifted through the door.
Pumpkin.
Brown sugar.
Pecans.
Morgan's chest tightened.
Her grandmother laughed on the other side.
A real laugh.
Not the strange imitation from upstairs.
Morgan knew that laugh.
Then:
“Birdie, breakfast.”
Morgan froze.
Thomas looked at her.
“Is that what she called you?”
Morgan didn't answer.
The doorknob began turning.
Thomas grabbed her arm.
“Morgan.”
She stepped backward.
The door opened an inch.
Warm kitchen light spilled into the corridor.
Her grandmother's voice came again.
“Your waffles are getting cold.”
Morgan wanted to look.
Every part of her wanted to look.
She didn't.
She grabbed Thomas' sleeve.
“Keep moving.”
They did.
The door slowly closed behind them.
Morgan didn't look back.
DC's watch led them deeper.
Eventually, the corridor opened into a large stone room.
Empty.
Almost.
A chair sat in the center.
Morgan raised the lantern.
Someone had carved words into the wall behind it.
Large.
Deep.
Recent.
YOU LEFT HIM HERE.
Morgan stopped.
Mrs. Bell whispered, “Who?”
Thomas didn't answer.
Morgan approached the wall.
Below the sentence were names.
Dozens.
Some readable.
Others scratched away.
She recognized one.
THOMAS MERCER
A line had been carved through it.
Another:
KIARA WALKER
Morgan's breath caught.
“Walker.”
Mrs. Bell stared.
“What?”
“Kiara's last name.”
She hadn't remembered it until she saw it.
Morgan touched neither name.
Then she saw another.
RICHARD CARTER
No line through it.
Morgan stepped closer.
“Richard.”
Mrs. Bell joined her.
Thomas stayed back.
Morgan looked at him.
“What?”
Thomas was staring at the chair.
His face had gone pale.
“Thomas?”
He didn't respond.
Morgan followed his gaze.
The chair was empty.
“What are you seeing?”
Thomas swallowed.
“I remember this room.”
“You've said that about several rooms.”
“No.”
His voice was quieter.
“This one.”
Mrs. Bell looked at him.
“What happened here?”
Thomas approached the chair.
“I wasn't alone.”
Morgan's skin prickled.
“Richard?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
A memory seemed to move across his face.
“I opened a door.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“In 1978?”
“Yes.”
“What was behind it?”
Thomas looked at Richard's name.
“Him.”
Mrs. Bell stepped forward.
“You found Richard?”
“He was looking for me.”
Morgan stared.
“Richard found you inside the rooms?”
“No.”
Thomas shook his head.
“I found him.”
“What happened?”
“He couldn't remember why he was there.”
Mrs. Bell covered her mouth.
Thomas continued.
“He couldn't remember Bellweather.”
“His family?”
“No.”
“Your search party?”
“No.”
“His own name?”
Thomas looked at the wall.
“Not at first.”
Morgan looked at the carving.
RICHARD CARTER.
“What did you do?”
“I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“Everything.”
Thomas' eyes filled.
“His name. Bellweather. Margaret. Evelyn. The Lantern Room.”
Mrs. Bell stepped closer.
“And?”
“He remembered.”
Morgan's stomach tightened.
“That sounds good.”
“It wasn't.”
Thomas looked at her.
“The moment he remembered who he was, the room remembered him too.”
A door slammed somewhere in the corridor.
Then another.
Then another.
Morgan looked toward the entrance.
“What happened to Richard?”
Thomas stared at the empty chair.
“I ran.”
Mrs. Bell went still.
“You left him?”
Thomas didn't answer.
The words on the wall seemed suddenly much more personal.
YOU LEFT HIM HERE.
Morgan looked at Thomas.
“Is Richard still in these rooms?”
“I don't know.”
Mrs. Bell's voice sharpened.
“You left him?”
“I was terrified.”
“He came looking for you.”
“I know.”
“And you left him.”
“I know.”
Forty-eight years of anger filled two words.
Mrs. Bell turned away.
Morgan let the silence sit.
Then DC's watch ticked.
Once.
Morgan pulled it out.
The hands pointed toward Richard's name.
The stone beneath it cracked.
Morgan backed away.
A thin line appeared around the carving.
Down one side.
Across the bottom.
Up the other.
A doorway.
Morgan raised the lantern.
“No.”
Thomas stepped closer.
The stone moved inward.
Cold air rushed through.
Beyond it was a small room.
White walls.
One chair.
And a man sitting with his back to them.
Morgan's heart pounded.
“Richard?”
The man slowly stood.
Mrs. Bell made a sound beside her.
He turned.
Older than Thomas.
Mid-fifties, maybe.
Gray threaded through his hair.
A face worn by something Morgan couldn't put an age to.
But alive.
His eyes moved across them.
Thomas.
Mrs. Bell.
Then Morgan.
“Margaret?”
Mrs. Bell couldn't speak.
Richard smiled faintly.
“You got old.”
Mrs. Bell began crying.
Morgan looked at Thomas.
He looked devastated.
Richard's gaze settled on him.
The smile disappeared.
“Thomas.”
Thomas swallowed.
“Richard.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Richard looked past them.
“Where's my grandson?”
Morgan's breath caught.
“You remember DC?”
Richard frowned.
“Of course I remember Declan.”
Morgan stepped forward.
“Where is he?”
Richard looked toward the corridor.
“He came through here.”
“When?”
“I don't know. Time doesn't work properly down here.”
“Was he okay?”
“Yes.”
Morgan exhaled.
“Where did he go?”
Richard pointed toward another door inside his room.
Morgan hadn't noticed it before.
White.
Across it was written:
DECLAN CARTER
Morgan moved toward it.
Richard caught her wrist.
“Don't.”
She looked at him.
“That's where DC is.”
“No.”
“You just said he went through there.”
“He did.”
“Then I'm following him.”
Richard's grip tightened.
“You don't understand.”
Morgan stared at him.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Richard looked directly into her eyes.
“The room doesn't want Declan.”
Morgan stopped.
“Then why take him?”
Richard looked toward Thomas.
Then Mrs. Bell.
Finally back to Morgan.
“It took him because it knew you would come.”
