🕯️ What the Dark Kept

Which Thomas was allowed to come home?

Morgan hated the question immediately.

The older man stood beyond the doorway.

Same eyes.

Same face.

Older than the Thomas beside her, but nowhere near forty-eight years older.

Beside Morgan, the younger Thomas hadn't moved.

Richard took a step toward the door.

“Thomas?”

The older man looked at him.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then:

“You came back.”

Richard's face changed.

“You remember me?”

The older Thomas laughed quietly.

“Hard to forget the man who opened the wrong door.”

Richard almost smiled.

Almost.

Mrs. Bell stepped forward.

The older Thomas saw her.

His expression broke.

“Margaret.”

She covered her mouth.

He walked toward her.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As though approaching something that might disappear.

“You got old.”

Mrs. Bell laughed through her tears.

“You have some nerve.”

His mouth twitched.

“Fair.”

Thomas beside Morgan looked away.

Morgan noticed.

She moved closer.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Fair.”

The older Thomas reached the doorway.

Then stopped.

He couldn't cross.

An invisible barrier held him inside.

Mrs. Bell reached toward him.

Her fingers stopped inches from his.

“What is this?”

The older Thomas looked at Morgan.

“It won't let me leave.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“No, actually. Everyone keeps assuming I understand things approximately five minutes before I do.”

His mouth twitched.

“You sound like Evelyn.”

Morgan wasn't sure whether that was a compliment.

“Why can't you leave?”

The older Thomas looked at the younger one.

“Because he already did.”

Silence.

Morgan looked between them.

“Okay.”

She pointed toward the younger Thomas.

“You came out.”

Then toward the older.

“You stayed.”

“Yes.”

“Which one of you is the copy?”

Both answered.

“Me.”

Morgan stared.

DC looked between them.

“Well, that's inconvenient.”

Morgan glanced at him.

“Extremely.”

The older Thomas shook his head.

“You still don't understand what happened.”

“Then please, for the love of every apple in Bellweather, explain it plainly.”

He looked at the younger Thomas.

“The rooms didn't copy me.”

Morgan frowned.

“But Richard said…”

“They learned how later.”

Richard looked at him.

“What happened with me?”

“A copy.”

The older Thomas nodded.

“But I was different.”

Morgan waited.

“When Evelyn and the others opened the room, they didn't find me.”

“You were there.”

“My body was.”

The younger Thomas went still.

The older man continued.

“I had been inside too long. I couldn't remember Bellweather. My family. Myself.”

Morgan thought of Richard.

“The rooms had taken your connections.”

“Yes.”

“Then Evelyn gave them back.”

“She tried.”

Mrs. Bell whispered, “We told you everything.”

“I know.”

“We told you your name.”

“Yes.”

“Your family.”

“Yes.”

“The garage.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Bell's eyes filled.

“Your mother's blackberry pie.”

The older Thomas smiled.

“I remember.”

The younger Thomas looked at her.

“I remember that too.”

Everyone went quiet.

Morgan turned toward him.

“You both remember.”

The older Thomas nodded.

“Because they rebuilt me.”

Morgan frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“Every memory they gave me became part of the room.”

The younger Thomas stared at him.

The older Thomas continued.

“The more they reminded me who I was, the more of me the room held.”

Morgan slowly understood.

“Until there were enough pieces for two.”

“Yes.”

“Not a copy.”

“No.”

“A split.”

The older Thomas looked at the younger one.

“Two halves built from the same person.”

Morgan stared.

That changed everything.

“So neither of you is fake.”

“No.”

The younger Thomas finally spoke.

“Then what am I?”

The older Thomas looked at him.

“Someone Bellweather made wearing my life.”

Younger Thomas went still.

“That's not an answer.”

“It's the only one I have.”

Silence.

Mrs. Bell wiped her face.

“That is terribly unfair.”

The older Thomas smiled faintly.

“Bellweather has never been particularly concerned with fairness.”

Morgan looked toward the darkness.

The question had been wrong.

Of course it had.

The rooms had been doing this the entire time.

Offering choices that weren't really choices.

One name for another.

One person for another.

Real or false.

Remember or forget.

Thirteen or nothing.

Morgan looked at DC.

“The alibi.”

He nodded.

“Another false choice.”

“Exactly.”

The darkness around them shifted.

Words appeared.

ONE MAY LEAVE.

Morgan stared.

“No.”

The words disappeared.

Then:

CHOOSE THOMAS MERCER.

“No.”

The older Thomas looked at her.

“Morgan.”

“No.”

“You may not have another option.”

She turned.

“That is exactly what it wants us to think.”

The younger Thomas looked at the words.

“What if it's telling the truth?”

Morgan stared at him.

“Has that worked particularly well for us?”

“No.”

“Then stop volunteering yourself.”

His mouth closed.

DC stepped beside Morgan.

“So what's the third option?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Excellent.”

“I'm thinking.”

The darkness pulsed.

Another message appeared.

ONE NAME.

Morgan ignored it.

She looked at the two Thomases.

Same beginning.

Same memories.

Different experiences.

One had lived outside the rooms.

One had remained inside.

Whatever Bellweather had done, neither man was less real.

“What's your earliest memory?”

Both frowned.

Morgan pointed.

“Younger Thomas first.”

He thought.

“My mother singing in the kitchen.”

Older Thomas nodded.

“Mine too.”

“What song?”

Both answered with the same title.

Morgan continued.

“First car?”

Same answer.

“First person you kissed?”

Mrs. Bell cleared her throat.

Morgan looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Morgan slowly turned back toward the Thomases.

Older Thomas smiled.

Younger Thomas looked suddenly fascinated by the floor.

Morgan's eyebrows rose.

“Interesting.”

“Continue,” Mrs. Bell said.

DC was fighting a smile.

Morgan allowed that mystery to live.

“For now.”

Mrs. Bell gave her a look.

Morgan continued.

“When do your memories stop matching?”

Neither Thomas answered immediately.

Then the younger one said:

“The red door.”

The older nodded.

Morgan looked between them.

“After you entered?”

“Yes.”

“What do you remember?”

The younger Thomas spoke first.

“Walking through rooms.”

The older Thomas shook his head.

“I remember sitting.”

“Where?”

“In the first room.”

Morgan frowned.

“You never left?”

“Not physically.”

“Then how did he?”

The older Thomas looked at the younger man.

“I don't know.”

The younger Thomas stared at him.

“You don't know?”

“No.”

“Then what do you know?”

The older Thomas hesitated.

“I know Evelyn and the others opened the room looking for me.”

“And they found him,” Morgan said.

“They found someone who looked like me. Remembered what I remembered. Knew the life they were trying to give back to me.”

The younger Thomas' expression tightened.

“So a copy.”

“No.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you aren't one.”

Morgan looked between them.

“Then what happened?”

The older Thomas looked toward the surrounding darkness.

“Bellweather happened.”

Morgan's brain was beginning to object to Bellweather on philosophical grounds.

DC apparently reached the same point.

“So Bellweather somehow took everything it knew about Thomas Mercer and made another Thomas Mercer.”

“That's the best explanation I have.”

DC nodded slowly.

“I miss when this was about an apple.”

Morgan looked at him.

“Deeply.”

Richard had been quiet.

Morgan noticed.

“What?”

He looked toward the older Thomas.

“If Bellweather could create another you…”

“Yes?”

Richard had been quiet.

Morgan noticed.

“What?”

He looked toward the older Thomas.

“If both can exist…”

“Yes?”

“Then why couldn't my copy?”

Thomas looked at him.

“It could.”

Richard's expression changed.

Morgan's stomach tightened.

“Could?”

Older Thomas looked toward the darkness.

“You assumed the other Richard disappeared.”

Richard stared.

“I never saw him again.”

“That doesn't mean he stopped existing.”

DC looked at his grandfather.

“So somewhere in here there could be another you.”

“Possibly.”

“Wonderful.”

Richard rubbed his face.

“I've been reunited with my grandson for less than an hour and already have to explain there might be two of me.”

DC shrugged.

“I've had worse family conversations.”

The darkness moved.

A door appeared.

Black.

Then another.

Yellow.

Then white.

Morgan didn't count.

More doors formed around them.

Older Thomas backed away from the threshold.

“It's changing.”

“Why?”

“Because you're not choosing.”

“Good.”

“No.”

His expression sharpened.

“Morgan, when it can't get a choice, it creates one.”

The doors opened.

People stood behind them.

Morgan saw herself.

DC.

Mrs. Bell.

Richard.

Both Thomases.

Kiara.

Evelyn.

Some faces she didn't recognize.

Others were blurred.

Copies.

Memories.

Possibilities.

Morgan couldn't tell anymore.

The gold door behind them disappeared.

DC turned.

“Our exit is gone.”

“Wasn't an exit.”

“Still don't like it.”

A little girl stepped from one of the doorways.

Yellow jacket.

Morgan froze.

Kiara.

Again.

Thomas moved in front of Morgan.

“Don't.”

The child looked at him.

“I'm not talking to you.”

Morgan stared.

Kiara's eyes found hers.

“Morgan.”

She said nothing.

Kiara raised her wrist.

Purple and yellow bracelet.

“You remembered my last name.”

Morgan's heart pounded.

That meant nothing.

The rooms knew it now too.

“Prove you're you.”

Kiara looked sad.

“I can't.”

Morgan hadn't expected that.

“What?”

“You don't remember enough.”

The words hurt more than Morgan expected.

Kiara continued.

“If I tell you something, you won't know whether it's true.”

Morgan thought of DC.

Facts weren't enough.

The rooms learned facts.

“What do you want?”

“To go home.”

Morgan swallowed.

“Where is home?”

Kiara looked around.

“I don't know anymore.”

Morgan's chest tightened.

The younger Thomas whispered, “Don't trust her.”

Kiara looked at him.

“You don't trust yourself.”

He went quiet.

Fair point.

Morgan looked back at Kiara.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“How long have you been here?”

Kiara shook her head.

“I don't know.”

“Do you remember 2005?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Kiara looked toward the older Thomas.

Then the younger.

Then Morgan.

“You opened the red door.”

Morgan's pulse quickened.

“I know.”

“No.”

Kiara stepped closer.

“You don't.”

Morgan stayed still.

“What don't I remember?”

“You didn't find the door.”

Morgan frowned.

“Then how did I open it?”

Kiara pointed toward Morgan.

“You brought it.”

Silence.

Morgan stared at her.

“What?”

“The key.”

“My key?”

Kiara nodded.

“You already had it.”

Morgan reached into her pocket.

The brass key marked MORGAN.

“No. Grandma buried this in 1978.”

“I know.”

“Then how did I have it in 2005?”

Kiara looked at her.

“You dug it up.”

Morgan's stomach dropped.

“I was seven.”

“You heard someone calling.”

“Who?”

Kiara's face changed.

“Me.”

Morgan went cold.

“That doesn't make sense.”

“I know.”

“You were with me.”

“I know.”

“Then how could I hear you in the woods?”

Kiara's eyes filled.

“Because I was already inside.”

Morgan stared.

“No.”

The child standing before her shook her head.

“The girl who went into the woods with you wasn't me.”

DC whispered, “Morgan.”

She barely heard him.

The memory.

Yellow jacket.

Kiara leading her.

Come on.

Where?

The woods.

Morgan looked at the child.

“Then who was she?”

Kiara looked toward the doors.

“Something that knew you'd follow me.”

Morgan felt sick.

“Where were you?”

“Behind the red door.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

“You had to get there somehow.”

“I don't remember.”

The child looked down.

“The first thing I remember is knocking.”

Morgan's skin prickled.

Three knocks.

Again and again.

“Were you knocking from the fireplace?”

Kiara shook her head.

“The doors.”

“Which door?”

“All of them.”

Morgan looked around.

Every doorway.

Every false voice.

Every knock.

Some of them might not have been the thing trying to get in.

Some might have been Kiara trying to get out.

Morgan looked at the older Thomas.

“Can someone inside the rooms knock through different doors?”

“Yes.”

Thomas beside her nodded.

“I did.”

Morgan's stomach sank.

“How do we know which knocks were hers?”

“We don't.”

Kiara stepped closer.

Morgan held her ground.

“You found me in 2005.”

“What happened?”

“You opened the door.”

“And?”

“You saw me.”

Morgan waited.

“You counted.”

Her blood went cold.

“What did I count?”

Kiara lifted both hands.

Ten fingers.

Morgan remembered the woman outside the Lantern Room.

The impossible hands against the glass.

Thirteen.

“I don't understand.”

“You counted my fingers.”

“How many?”

Kiara's voice became very quiet.

“Ten.”

Morgan frowned.

“That isn't thirteen.”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“You counted yours.”

Ten.

Morgan had already remembered counting her own fingers.

“And then?”

Kiara looked toward the darkness.

“You counted hers.”

Morgan stopped.

“Whose?”

Kiara pointed behind Morgan.

Nobody wanted to turn around.

Morgan did.

A woman stood several feet away.

Long coat.

Face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

The woman from the Lantern Room window.

Morgan stared.

The woman slowly raised one hand.

Six fingers.

Then the other.

Seven.

Thirteen.

Morgan backed away.

Kiara whispered:

“You didn't finish the count because you counted thirteen.”

Morgan's memory shifted.

Seven years old.

Cold woods.

Purple jacket.

Her own hands.

Ten fingers.

Kiara crying.

A woman standing beside the red door.

Morgan heard her younger voice.

Ten.

Then another child's hands.

Ten.

Then the woman.

One.

Two.

Three.

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut.

“No.”

The memory kept coming.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

The woman had smiled.

Then asked:

“Which one doesn't belong?”

Morgan opened her eyes.

The woman still stood there.

Thirteen fingers.

Motionless.

Waiting.

DC stepped closer to Morgan.

“Don't answer.”

“I wasn't going to.”

The woman tilted her head.

“You did before.”

Morgan's stomach dropped.

“What did I say?”

The woman smiled.

Morgan suddenly remembered.

Seven-year-old Morgan had looked at the hands.

Then at Kiara.

Then at herself.

Three people.

Thirty-three fingers.

Except there should have been thirty.

She had pointed.

Not at the woman.

At Kiara.

Morgan's breath caught.

“No.”

Kiara began crying.

The woman spoke softly.

“You chose.”

Morgan looked at Kiara.

“I didn't know.”

“I know.”

“I was seven.”

“I know.”

Morgan's eyes burned.

“What happened?”

Kiara looked at the woman.

“She took me.”

The woman smiled.

“And Evelyn came after you.”

“Yes.”

Morgan finally understood her grandmother's letter.

It counted her instead.

Not because Kiara had simply crossed the door.

Because Morgan had identified her as the one who didn't belong.

The rooms had turned a child's counting game into a choice.

Morgan looked at the woman.

“You tricked me.”

The woman said nothing.

“You made me choose Kiara.”

The smile widened.

Morgan stepped forward.

DC caught her arm.

She stopped.

The woman raised her thirteen fingers.

“Choose again.”

Doors opened all around them.

Behind each stood someone Morgan cared about.

Evelyn.

Mrs. Bell.

DC.

Kiara.

Thomas.

Richard.

Then people Morgan didn't recognize.

Faces Bellweather had forgotten.

The woman's voice filled the room.

“One does not belong.”

Morgan looked around.

This was the rule.

The choice.

The mechanism.

Maybe the entire thing.

Find the extra.

Name the wrong one.

Give the rooms someone to take.

Morgan looked at Kiara.

Twenty-one years ago, she'd played.

Not now.

“No.”

The woman's smile faded.

“Choose.”

“No.”

The room shook.

Doors slammed.

Morgan raised her voice.

“You want the one who doesn't belong?”

The woman stared.

Morgan looked at DC.

Then Mrs. Bell.

Richard.

Both Thomases.

Kiara.

Every forgotten face.

Every person the rooms had tried to reduce to a name or a place.

Morgan finally looked back at the woman.

“I found her.”

DC whispered, “Morgan.”

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Morgan pointed.

At the woman.

“You.”

Everything went silent.

For the first time, the woman looked afraid.