Chapter 5: The Baby Under the Seat
“That isn't Tommy.”
Michael's words barely left his mouth before the crying stopped.
The truck became completely silent.
I stared beneath the passenger seat.
Nothing moved.
Lily was awake now, clutching my arm so tightly her fingernails dug into my skin.
“Daddy…”
“Stay behind me.”
I reached for the flashlight on my phone.
Michael grabbed my wrist.
“Wait.”
“That's my son.”
“We don't know what that is.”
I looked at him.
“It's crying like a baby.”
“That's exactly why I'm telling you to wait.”
A soft whimper came from beneath the seat.
Then another.
“Daddy…”
The voice was unmistakably Tommy's.
My son's voice.
The same tiny sound he made when he wanted me to pick him up.
I pulled my arm free.
“I don't care what you think. I'm checking.”
I crouched down.
The flashlight beam slid underneath the seat.
A blue blanket.
My son's blue blanket.
I reached for it.
My fingers touched the fabric.
Then something grabbed my wrist.
I screamed.
Michael yanked me backward.
A tiny hand emerged from beneath the seat.
Five fingers.
Pale.
Too pale.
The fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
Lily screamed.
“Daddy!”
Michael raised his gun.
“Back away!”
The tiny hand disappeared.
Then the crying started again.
But this time it wasn't coming from beneath the seat.
It was coming from behind us.
I turned.
Lily's eyes were wide.
She was pointing at the back window.
A figure stood in the middle of the road.
A woman.
Long white hair.
White dress.
Bare feet.
She stared directly at us.
I knew her face.
I had seen it in old photographs.
My mother.
Michael whispered:
“Don't look at her.”
Too late.
The woman raised one hand.
Then smiled.
The truck engine suddenly died.
Every light went out.
The woman disappeared.
I turned toward Michael.
“What just happened?”
He didn't answer.
“Michael!”
He stared at the dashboard.
Then at me.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out of the truck.”
“Why?”
“Because the engine didn't die.”
He pointed toward the ignition.
The key was missing.
I looked at my hand.
I wasn't holding it.
Neither was Michael.
Then we heard a click.
The truck doors locked.
All four of them.
Lily began crying.
“Daddy!”
“It's okay.”
I pulled the handle.
Nothing.
Michael tried his door.
Locked.
Then the radio turned on.
Static filled the cabin.
A woman's voice came through.
“Daniel.”
I froze.
It was the same voice from the phone.
My mother's voice.
“I'm sorry.”
Michael shouted:
“Stop!”
The radio continued.
“You were never supposed to remember.”
I looked at my brother.
“Remember what?”
Static.
Then a sentence.
“The night you killed your father.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Michael turned toward me.
“She's lying.”
The radio crackled.
“You were seven years old.”
A flash of memory hit me.
A hallway.
Blood.
A woman screaming.
A man falling.
My hands covered in red.
I gasped.
“No…”
Michael grabbed my shoulders.
“Daniel, look at me.”
I couldn't.
The memory was getting stronger.
I saw a little boy.
Me.
Seven years old.
Standing in a kitchen.
My father was shouting.
My mother was crying.
Someone else was there.
A teenage boy.
Michael.
Then my father raised something.
A gun.
My mother screamed.
The memory shattered.
I returned to the truck, gasping for air.
Michael was staring at me.
“You remembered.”
I looked at him.
“What happened?”
He didn't answer.
“Tell me!”
“You killed no one.”
“Then why did I see blood?”
“Because you were holding the gun.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“You were seven. Your father put the gun in your hand.”
“Why?”
“To make you look guilty.”
I stared at him.
“Guilty of what?”
Michael's eyes filled with tears.
“Your father wanted to erase your mother.”
“Why?”
“Because she found out what he was doing.”
“What was he doing?”
Michael looked toward Lily.
Then away.
“Children.”
I frowned.
“What about children?”
“He wasn't raising families.”
I waited.
“He was creating them.”
My blood ran cold.
“What does that mean?”
Michael swallowed.
“Tommy isn't your son.”
I stared at him.
“You already said that.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain it!”
Michael's voice cracked.
“Tommy was created to replace someone.”
“Who?”
Michael looked directly at me.
“You.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What?”
“When you were seven, your father tried to make another version of you.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It doesn't have to.”
He pointed toward the truck floor.
“That's why Tommy looks different from other babies.”
I shook my head.
“Tommy looks like a baby.”
“No.”
Michael's expression was grim.
“Tommy looks like you did.”
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“He has your birthmark.”
I froze.
I looked down.
I had never noticed.
Tommy had a small dark mark behind his left ear.
The same mark I had.
I touched the back of my own ear.
Michael continued.
“Your father believed certain traits could be repeated.”
“That is insane.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the locked doors.
“But your father wasn't the only one.”
I remembered Claire.
Her fear.
The locked room.
The medical equipment.
The photographs.
The messages.
“Claire knew.”
Michael nodded.
“She discovered everything after Tommy was born.”
“Then why didn't she tell me?”
“She tried.”
“When?”
“Every time she wanted to.”
I stared at him.
“Why didn't she?”
“Because your mother was watching.”
I looked at the radio.
The static had stopped.
My mother's voice returned.
“Daniel…”
I slowly turned toward the speaker.
“Where is my son?”
A pause.
Then:
“Which one?”
My blood froze.
I gripped the radio.
“Tommy.”
She laughed softly.
“That's not his name.”
“What is his name?”
Silence.
Then:
“Number Seven.”
I felt sick.
“What does that mean?”
“The seventh attempt.”
I looked at Michael.
He had tears in his eyes.
“Your father tried six times before Tommy.”
“What happened to them?”
Michael whispered:
“They died.”
Lily suddenly screamed.
“Daddy!”
I turned.
She was pointing underneath the seat.
The blue blanket was moving.
Something was crawling out.
I reached for her.
“Stay back!”
The blanket slid forward.
A tiny face appeared.
Tommy.
My son.
Alive.
His eyes were open.
He was staring directly at me.
I nearly collapsed.
“Tommy!”
I reached for him.
Michael shouted:
“Wait!”
I ignored him.
I pulled Tommy into my arms.
He was warm.
Breathing.
Alive.
I kissed his forehead.
“I'm here.”
Tommy looked at me.
Then smiled.
Relief flooded through me.
“See?” I said to Michael. “He's real.”
Michael didn't move.
He was staring at Tommy.
“What?”
Michael's face had gone completely white.
“Daniel…”
“What?”
“Look at his eyes.”
I did.
Tommy's eyes were open.
But something was wrong.
His pupils were fixed.
He wasn't looking at me.
He was looking past me.
Toward the back window.
I slowly turned.
My mother was standing there.
Only a few feet away.
She placed one hand against the glass.
I couldn't move.
She mouthed four words.
“He isn't your son.”
Then she disappeared.
Tommy suddenly grabbed my shirt.
His tiny fingers tightened.
And for the first time, he spoke clearly.
Not a cry.
Not a babble.
Words.
“Daddy…”
I looked at him.
“Yes?”
He smiled.
Then whispered:
“Mommy is under the house.”
I froze.
Michael stared at him.
“That's impossible.”
Tommy pointed toward the road.
Then toward the old house in the distance.
“Mommy is cold.”
I felt my blood turn to ice.
Claire was dead.
Or so everyone had told me.
But Tommy had just said she was under the house.
Alive.
I looked at Michael.
“We're going back.”
Michael shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if Claire is under that house…”
He looked terrified.
“…then the woman we saw wasn't your mother.”
“Who was she?”
Michael looked at Tommy.
Then at me.
“The woman who raised you.”
The truck radio suddenly turned on again.
A recording played.
Claire's voice.
Weak.
Terrified.
“Daniel, if you're hearing this…”
Static interrupted her.
Then her voice returned.
“…don't come looking for me.”
I leaned closer.
“Why?”
A long silence.
Then Claire whispered:
“Because I'm not alone.”
A loud bang exploded from the back of the truck.
Tommy screamed.
Michael raised his gun.
Another bang.
Then another.
Something was inside the truck bed.
Something heavy.
Something moving toward us.
I held Tommy against my chest.
Lily screamed.
Michael pointed his weapon behind us.
Then the rear window cracked.
A hand pressed against the glass.
A woman's hand.
Wearing Claire's wedding ring.
Michael stared at it.
“Daniel…”
“What?”
“That ring belonged to Claire.”
I looked at the hand.
The fingers slowly curled.
Then the woman outside whispered:
“Daniel…”
It was Claire's voice.
“Please…”
I rushed toward the back door.
Michael grabbed me.
“Don't open it.”
“That's my wife!”
“No.”
“Let go!”
Michael's grip tightened.
“Daniel, listen to me!”
I turned.
His eyes were full of terror.
“Claire died on Tuesday.”
“Then who is behind that glass?”
Michael looked at the hand.
And whispered:
“I don't know.”
The hand suddenly disappeared.
Silence.
Then Lily pointed beneath my seat.
“Daddy…”
I looked down.
A folded photograph had appeared on the floor.
I picked it up.
It showed Claire.
Standing outside a hospital.
Holding a newborn baby.
On the back, someone had written:
TUESDAY, 11:43 P.M.
Underneath was one final sentence.
May you like
Claire didn't die on Tuesday.
She gave birth.
