Five Nights at Freddy's: The Silver Eyes(58)

Suddenly his attention was called upward, and his face lit up as he pointed.

“Your big-girl closet! It’s open!” He exclaimed, getting back to his feet and approached the tallest of the three closets which was hanging open slightly. He pulled it open all the way, then leaned in, finding it empty.

“So what was in it all those years?” He asked.

“Not sure.” Charlie shrugged. “I sort of remember Aunt Jen bringing me back at some point, but I could be wrong. Maybe it was full of clothes that I was finally big enough to wear. Aunt Jen was always thrifty, why spend money on new clothes if you don’t have to, right?” She smiled.

John glanced briefly at the smaller closets, but left them alone.

“I’m going to see if I can find any photo albums, or paperwork,” Charlie said, and she nodded absently as Stanley rattled back to his starting point. As she left the room she heard him starting up again, making another round on the track.

The room that had been her father’s was next to Charlie’s. It was at the back of the house, and had too many windows: in the summer it was too hot, and in the winter the cold dribbled in like a persistent leak, but Charlie had known without being told why he used it. From here you could see the garage, and his workshop. It had always made sense to Charlie: that was his place, like a part of himself always lived there, and he did not like to be too far away from his touchstone. A wave from her dream came to her for a moment, not even an image, just a strange, evocative gesture of memory, and she frowned, looking out the window at the closed, silent garage door.

Or maybe he just wanted to be sure nothing got out, she thought. She broke away from the window, shrugging her shoulders up and down and shaking her hands, sloughing off the feeling. She looked around the room. Like her own, it was all but untouched; she did not open the drawers to his dresser, but for all she knew it might still have been filled with shirts and socks, clean and folded and ready to wear. His bed was made crisply, covered in the plaid blanket he used as a bedspread after Charlie’s mother left, and there was no one to insist on white linen. There was a large bookcase against one wall, and it was still stuffed with books: Charlie went over and began scanning the shelves. Many were textbooks, engineering tomes whose titles meant nothing to Charlie, and the rest were nonfiction, a collection that would have seemed eclectic to anyone who did not know the man.

There were books of biology and anatomy, some on human beings and others on animals; there were books about the history of the traveling carnival and of the circus. There were books about child development, about myths and legends, and about sewing patterns and techniques. There were volumes that claimed to be about trickster gods, about quilting bees and about football cheering squads and their mascots. On the very top shelf were stacks of file folders, and the bottom shelf was empty except for a single volume: a photo album, leather-bound and as pristine as time and dust could allow. Charlie grabbed it, and it stuck for a moment, almost too tall for the low shelf it had been given. After a minute it came free, and she headed back to her bedroom, leaving the door open with the sudden sense that if it closed, she might never get back in.

John was sitting on the bed when she returned, looking at Stanley with his head tilted to the side.

“What?” Charlie said, and he looked up, still pensive.

“I was wondering if he’s been lonely,” he said, then shrugged.

“He’s got Theodore,” Charlie said, and pointed at the stuffed rabbit, then smiled. “It’s Ella that’s all alone in the closet. Watch.” She placed the album beside John on the bed and went to its foot, then turned the wheel that set Ella on her track. She sat down beside him, and they watched together, spellbound as of old, as the little doll came out in her crisp, clean dress to blankly offer tea. Neither of them spoke until the smallest closet door closed behind her. John cleared his throat.

“So, what’s in the books?”

“Photos,” Charlie said. “I haven’t looked at them yet.” She picked one up and opened it at random. The top picture was of her mother holding a baby, maybe a year old. She was holding the child above her head, flying it like an airplane, her head thrown back in the midst of a laugh, her long brown hair swinging out in an arc behind her. The baby’s eyes were wide, its mouth open in delight. John smiled at her.

“You look so happy,” he said, and she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I must have been.” If that’s me, she did not add aloud. She opened to another page, where the only picture was a large family portrait, stiffly posed at a studio. They were dressed formally: Charlie’s father was wearing a suit, her mother was in a bright pink dress with padding that lifted her shoulders almost to her ears, and her brown hair was straightened flat in place. Each of them was holding a baby, one in a white frilly dress and one in a sailor suit, and Charlie’s heart skipped. Beside her, she heard John take a sharp quick breath. She looked at him with a feeling like the floor was dropping away beneath them.

“It was real,” she said. “I didn’t imagine him.” John said nothing in response, just nodded. He put a hand on her shoulder briefly, and then they turned back to the photo album.

“We all looked so happy,” Charlie said softly.

“I think you were,” John said. “Look, you had such a goofy smile.” He pointed, and Charlie laughed