Chapter 37 - The House That Wasn't Ours
We left the underground facility through an emergency tunnel.
Nobody trusted the roads.
Nobody trusted phones.
Nobody trusted the government.
By sunrise, my father would be a wanted man.
And according to Thomas, so would I.
We reached the old Hale property just after midnight.
The house looked abandoned.
Windows boarded.
Grass waist-high.
The porch sagging.
My mother stared at it from the car.
“I haven't been here since the night Elias disappeared.”
I looked at her.
“You remember leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember coming back?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
That answer frightened me more than anything.
Dad unlocked the front door with a key he had carried for years.
Inside, everything smelled like dust.
Ethan carried Noah upstairs.
Leah went directly toward the basement.
Elias remained near the entrance.
I walked through the hallway.
Pictures covered the walls.
Family birthdays.
Christmas.
School portraits.
But one section had been removed.
Empty frames.
I touched the wall.
“What was here?”
Dad didn't answer.
Mom did.
“Your first year.”
“Why are the pictures gone?”
“Thomas took them.”
“Why?”
“To build your behavioral profile.”
I turned.
“How could pictures tell him how I behave?”
“They weren't just pictures.”
Mom's hands shook.
“They recorded your reactions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every smile. Every fear. Every time you reached for me. Every time you looked at your father.”
I felt sick.
“You studied me.”
“We were trying to protect you.”
“Everyone says that.”
I walked away.
Downstairs, Leah called out.
“Found it!”
We rushed into the basement.
She had pulled away a section of wooden wall.
Behind it was a metal cabinet.
Inside were dozens of tapes.
Cassette recordings.
Medical reports.
Photographs.
A child's drawing.
I picked it up.
It was two stick figures holding hands.
One labeled BIRDIE.
The other labeled E.
My eyes blurred.
Elias took the drawing from me.
“I drew that.”
“You remember?”
“I remember making it.”
Mom whispered, “You were four.”
Elias looked at her.
“You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
Dad stepped closer.
“What else is in there?”
Leah pulled out a small black notebook.
“No markings.”
I opened it.
The first page read:
CARTER IS NOT THE ENEMY.
I frowned.
The second:
CARTER IS THE LOCK.
Third:
THE FAMILY IS THE KEY.
I looked at Mom.
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Elias took the notebook.
He flipped several pages.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He showed me.
A diagram.
Four circles.
C-00.
C-14.
N-01.
And one blank.
Below them:
ONE FAMILY.
ONE CHOICE.
ONE SURVIVOR.
Noah came down the stairs.
He was holding something.
“Mom.”
I knelt.
“What is it?”
He gave me a photograph.
I looked at it.
My stomach dropped.
It showed me at about six years old.
Standing beside an older man.
Thomas.
And beside us—
Noah.
No.
That was impossible.
Noah wasn't even born.
I turned the photograph over.
A date was written.
Seven years before Noah's birth.
I stared.
“Who took this?”
Noah shrugged.
“I found it in the room upstairs.”
Dad snatched it from my hand.
“This isn't possible.”
Mom began crying.
Elias took the photograph.
“It's not Noah.”
I looked at him.
“Look.”
He pointed.
“Same face.”
I shook my head.
“That's my son.”
“No.”
“Then who is it?”
“A behavioral predecessor.”
Leah leaned over the photograph.
“There were multiple anchor candidates.”
I looked at her.
“You said Carter only had one.”
“I was wrong.”
“How many?”
She swallowed.
“According to this?”
She pointed to the blank circle.
“At least four.”
My heart pounded.
“What happened to the others?”
Elias answered.
“They died.”
Noah heard him.
His face changed.
“Mom?”
I pulled him close.
“We're okay.”
He stared at the photograph.
“I've seen him before.”
Everyone went still.
“Who?”
“The boy.”
He pointed at the picture.
“He talks to me in my dreams.”
My stomach turned.
“What does he say?”
Noah looked down.
“He says he was supposed to be you.”
I couldn't breathe.
Dad dropped the photograph.
Then every phone in the basement rang at once.
Not our phones.
Old phones.
Phones embedded in the wall.
Leah stared.
“They haven't had power in twenty years.”
All four phones rang.
Then stopped.
One rang again.
Dad answered.
Nobody spoke.
A child whispered:
“C-14.”
Dad hung up.
Another phone rang.
Then another.
One by one.
Until the entire basement was ringing.
Elias stared at me.
“They found us.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Not Carter.”
“Then who?”
May you like
He looked at Noah.
“The children.”
