It had only remembered two.
Morgan stared at the pear marker in the grass.
The memory had left her with more questions than answers, but one thing was finally clear.
Her grandmother hadn't simply taken Morgan into the woods in 2005.
She had gone there knowing something might happen.
She had brought the bracelets.
She had told Morgan not to count.
And when something went wrong, Evelyn had gone through the red door.
I'm going to make it forget.
Morgan looked toward the house.
“Grandma, what did you do?”
The pear marker offered no answer.
She picked it up carefully.
Nothing happened.
No memory.
No voice.
No impossible message.
Just a small piece of wood, smooth with age.
Morgan carried it inside.
She called DC first.
He answered before the second ring.
“You alive?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“That wasn't sarcasm.”
Morgan looked toward the cellar door.
“Yes. I'm alive.”
“And?”
“There were pears.”
Silence.
“I'm sorry?”
“Pears.”
“I heard you. I was hoping I'd heard you incorrectly.”
Morgan told him what happened.
The tree.
The bracelet.
The marker.
The memory.
When she finished, DC was quiet.
“So your grandmother went through the red door.”
“Yes.”
“And came back.”
“I assume so.”
“You assume?”
“Well, I knew her for another twenty-one years, so unless Bellweather has added replacement grandmothers to its list of problems, yes.”
“Fair.”
Morgan sat at the kitchen table.
“I don't remember what happened next.”
“Maybe that's the point.”
“What?”
“Your grandmother said she was going to make it forget.”
“Whatever it is.”
“Maybe making it forget meant making everyone forget.”
Morgan thought about Kiara.
Mrs. Bell couldn't remember her.
DC couldn't remember her.
Morgan herself had forgotten her.
Photographs had lost her.
Only scattered pieces remained.
Notes.
Bracelets.
A second plate at a kitchen table.
“Then why am I remembering now?”
“I don't know.”
Morgan sighed.
“You've been spending too much time with Mrs. Bell.”
“That's insulting.”
A sound came from the kitchen.
Morgan stopped.
“What?”
“Hold on.”
The sound came again.
A soft metallic click.
Morgan looked toward the waffle iron sitting on the counter.
Her grandmother's old waffle iron.
She hadn't touched it.
The indicator light was glowing.
“Morgan?”
“My waffle iron just turned itself on.”
DC was silent for a moment.
“I'm revising my earlier question.”
“What?”
“Are you going to remain alive?”
Morgan walked toward the counter.
“I'll call you back.”
“Morgan.”
She hung up.
The waffle iron was hot.
Morgan unplugged it.
The light remained on.
“Of course.”
She stepped back.
The kitchen slowly filled with a warm, sweet smell.
Pumpkin.
Brown sugar.
Maple.
Pecans.
Morgan knew that smell.
Sunday breakfast.
Her grandmother made pumpkin pecan waffles every October.
Morgan hadn't thought about them in years.
The waffle iron clicked.
It opened by itself.
Inside sat a perfectly cooked waffle.
Morgan stared at it.
“No.”
Warm maple syrup began seeping into the grooves.
“Definitely no.”
A pecan rolled across the counter.
Then another.
Morgan watched them fall onto the floor.
They formed a trail.
She looked toward the doorway.
“No.”
Another pecan dropped.
Then another.
Across the kitchen.
Into the hallway.
Toward the stairs.
Morgan folded her arms.
“You cannot possibly think I'm following haunted pecans through this house.”
A pecan rolled to a stop against her shoe.
Morgan looked down.
She sighed.
“Apparently you do.”
She followed.
The trail led upstairs.
Past her bedroom.
Past the bathroom.
Into her grandmother's room.
The plastic bin containing the purple jacket remained beside the bed where Morgan had returned it after the Lantern Room.
The pecans continued toward the closet.
Morgan stopped.
“Wonderful.”
She opened the door.
Nothing unusual.
Coats.
Dresses.
Cardigans.
The cedar box remained on the shelf.
One final pecan sat directly beneath it.
Morgan dragged over the chair.
She took down the box.
She had already searched it.
Photographs.
Letters.
Gloves.
Jewelry.
Nothing she hadn't seen.
Morgan removed everything again.
Empty.
She stared.
Then noticed the bottom wasn't sitting flush.
Morgan pressed one corner.
A false panel lifted.
“Seriously?”
Beneath it was an envelope.
Her name was written across the front.
MORGAN
Morgan sat on the bed.
The envelope had been sealed.
She opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Her grandmother's handwriting.
Morgan began reading.
Morgan,
If you are reading this, then Bellweather has started remembering you.
Morgan stopped.
She looked toward the bedroom door.
Nothing.
She continued.
I hoped you would never need this.
What happened when you were seven was my fault. I thought I understood the rules because I had survived them once before.
Morgan's pulse quickened.
Once before.
She kept reading.
I was wrong.
Bellweather does not count people.
Morgan frowned.
It counts places.
She read the sentence again.
Places?
The next line:
Thirteen places. Thirteen names.
When one becomes empty, it chooses another name to fill it.
Morgan thought of the search record.
Twelve readable names.
One erased.
Her name appearing in the empty space.
The bottle in the cellar.
MORGAN BENNETT.
She continued.
Thomas believed the thirteenth was a person. We all did.
That mistake cost him everything.
Morgan swallowed.
In 2005, I realized the truth too late.
The thirteenth place was empty again.
And it chose you.
Morgan stopped reading.
Her hands had begun to shake.
“No.”
She forced herself to continue.
Kiara was never supposed to be part of it.
She followed you because she loved you.
Morgan closed her eyes.
The yellow jacket.
Kiara holding her hand.
Come on.
Where?
The woods.
That memory didn't fit.
Kiara had been the one leading her.
Unless Morgan wasn't remembering everything correctly yet.
She returned to the letter.
When the door opened, Kiara crossed before I could stop her.
It counted her instead.
Morgan's breath caught.
That was the mistake.
It had your name.
It took her place.
Morgan stared at the words.
Kiara's note.
DON'T LET HER COUNT ME AGAIN.
The bracelets.
M.
K.
E.
The memory beneath the pear tree.
Because it counted wrong.
Morgan read on.
I went after her.
I found Kiara.
Morgan sat forward.
Alive?
Dead?
Somewhere else?
Her grandmother's next sentence answered neither.
But bringing her back would have restored the count.
Morgan's stomach turned.
She kept reading.
So I gave it something else.
ME.
Not my body.
My place.
I let Bellweather count me where it had tried to count you.
Morgan stopped.
“No.”
Her grandmother had come back.
Morgan knew she had.
She remembered her.
Twenty-one years of her.
Morgan kept reading.
Not my body.
My place.
I made Bellweather forget what happened that day.
I made it forget Kiara.
And I made it forget that you had ever been chosen.
Morgan's eyes filled.
“Grandma.”
It worked.
For twenty-one years, it worked.
Then:
But forgetting is not the same as destroying.
Morgan stared at the page.
When I die, the place becomes empty again.
Her grandmother had been dead nearly a year.
The house had been empty nearly a year.
Morgan had come home.
The apple had appeared.
The key.
The fireplace.
The photograph.
The jacket.
The bottle.
The red door.
Everything had started after Morgan returned.
She read the final paragraph.
If Bellweather begins remembering, you must not give it another name.
Do not let it count you.
Do not let it count Kiara.
And Morgan, if you see me after I am gone...
The sentence stopped.
Morgan turned the page over.
Nothing.
“No.”
She checked the envelope.
Empty.
“Grandma.”
The smell of waffles drifted into the bedroom.
Morgan looked toward the doorway.
Someone was standing in the hall.
An older woman.
Gray hair.
Soft cardigan.
Morgan couldn't breathe.
“Grandma?”
Evelyn smiled.
Morgan stood so quickly the letter fell from her lap.
For one second, every warning disappeared.
Every strange thing.
Every impossible thing.
Her grandmother was standing ten feet away.
Morgan stepped toward her.
Evelyn's smile widened.
“Morgan.”
Morgan stopped.
The letter lay open on the floor.
The unfinished sentence stared up at her.
And Morgan, if you see me after I am gone...
Evelyn held out her hand.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Morgan's eyes filled.
She wanted to.
More than anything, she wanted to.
Then she remembered Thomas' warning.
Never answer unless you can see who is speaking.
She could see Evelyn.
That wasn't enough anymore.
Morgan stayed where she was.
Her grandmother tilted her head.
“What's wrong?”
Morgan swallowed.
“What did you call me when I was little?”
Evelyn smiled.
“Morgan.”
“No.”
The smile faded slightly.
Morgan's heart pounded.
“You almost never called me Morgan.”
The woman said nothing.
Morgan backed toward the bed.
“What did you call me?”
Evelyn's face changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
The warmth disappeared from her eyes.
“Morgan Bennett.”
Morgan reached for her phone.
The woman took one step forward.
Morgan raised it and opened the camera.
The hallway was empty.
She lowered the phone.
Evelyn stood there.
Morgan's blood went cold.
The woman smiled again.
Then, in her grandmother's voice, she said:
“Bellweather remembered you.”
Downstairs, the waffle iron slammed shut.
