Part Two: The Room Behind the Wall

Part Two: The Room Behind the Wall By noon, I had convinced myself to leave. The strange knocking, the voice, the photograph, the words written on its back—there had to be an explanation for all of it. Old houses made noises. Old photographs could be misleading. And grief could make a person hear things that weren't really there. At least, that was what I told myself. I packed my suitcase and carried it downstairs. I was almost at the front door when I noticed something. My car keys were gone. I searched my pockets. Nothing. I went back upstairs. Nothing. Then I remembered placing them on the library table the night before. I returned to the library. The keys were there. But they were not where I had left them. They were lying in the middle of the floor. I stared at them. For a moment, I simply stood there. Then I picked them up. “I'm leaving,” I said aloud. The house gave no answer. I stepped outside. The sky was clear now. The rain had stopped, and sunlight glittered on the wet trees. The world looked completely normal. I got into the car and turned the key. Nothing. I tried again. The engine coughed once and died. “Come on.” Again. Nothing. I lifted the hood. Everything looked fine. I returned to the house to get my phone. No signal. I walked to the road. Still nothing. I had never believed in haunted houses. But standing alone beside that road, I suddenly understood why people did. I went back inside. The front door slammed shut behind me. I jumped. “Wind,” I whispered. I locked it. Then I remembered the journals. My mother's journals. If there was an explanation for what had happened, it might be hidden somewhere in those pages. I went into the study. The room smelled of dust and old paper. My mother's desk stood exactly where I remembered it. The curtains were faded. A dead plant sat beside the window. On the wall hung a clock that had stopped at 2:17. I opened the desk. Empty. I opened the drawers. Nothing. Then I noticed a small keyhole beneath the desk. I searched through the drawers again. At the very back of the lowest drawer, my fingers touched something. A key. I pulled it out. It was tiny and black with age. I tried it in the lock. Click. A hidden compartment opened. Inside were several notebooks. I recognized my mother's handwriting immediately. My hands began to tremble. I opened the first notebook. The early entries were ordinary. Shopping lists. Appointments. Notes about the weather. Then the writing changed. The first strange entry was dated fifteen years ago. October 14 Daniel asked about his brother again. I told him he never had one. I stared at the sentence. Daniel. My name. And brother? I turned the page. October 16 He remembers the fire. I told him there was no fire. Another page. October 18 The treatment appears to be working. His memories are becoming less resistant. I stopped reading. Treatment? What treatment? I turned the page. October 21 Daniel keeps asking about Thomas. I cannot allow him to remember. The room suddenly felt colder. Thomas. The name meant nothing to me. And yet, when I read it, something moved inside my mind. A flash. A boy running through a hallway. A red sweater. Laughter. Then darkness. I closed my eyes. The memory disappeared. I opened them again. The journal was still in my hands. I kept reading. November 3 Thomas is still alive. My heart began pounding. November 4 He knows what happened. November 6 He says he will tell Daniel everything. November 8 I cannot let him. The next three pages had been ripped out. I turned the remaining pages. The writing became increasingly frantic. November 12 Daniel is changing. November 13 Thomas will not stop asking questions. November 14 I have made arrangements. Then nothing. The notebook ended. I reached for another. On its cover, written in black ink, was one word: EXPERIMENT I opened it. There were diagrams inside. Medical charts. Photographs. Descriptions of neurological procedures. At the top of one page were the words: Memory transfer — Subject A to Subject B. I stared at it. “That isn't possible.” I kept reading. Objective: Replace traumatic memory with reconstructed identity. My stomach tightened. There were two subjects. A and B. The names had been crossed out. But underneath, I could still make out two letters. D. T. Daniel. Thomas. I dropped the notebook. A loud sound came from upstairs. Bang. I froze. Another sound. Footsteps. Slow footsteps. Someone was walking across the third floor. I picked up the flashlight. “Who's there?” No answer. I climbed the stairs. The second floor was colder than before. The door to the third floor stood at the end of the hallway. Locked. I had checked it that morning. Now it was open. I stared at the black doorway. “Hello?” Silence. I stepped forward. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet. The third floor smelled of smoke. Not old smoke. Fresh smoke. I walked down the corridor. There were several doors. Most were locked. At the end stood a small bedroom. Its door was open. I pushed it wider. A child's room. A small bed. A wooden desk. A broken toy train. And dozens of drawings taped to the walls. I stepped inside. The drawings were all made by children. Two boys appeared in almost every picture. They were holding hands. Sometimes they stood beside a house. Sometimes they stood beside a fire. One drawing showed the two boys sleeping. Another showed one boy standing behind bars. I moved closer to the drawings. Then I saw the words beneath one picture. Mummy says Daniel must forget. I felt a chill run through me. Another drawing said: Thomas knows the truth. Then another: Don't let Daniel remember. I backed away. My foot struck something. A wooden box. I opened it. Inside was a child's red sweater. I recognized it immediately. It was the same sweater from the photograph. I touched it. A memory exploded inside my head. Fire. Smoke. Screaming. A boy shouting my name. I fell against the wall. “Thomas!” Someone was screaming. I couldn't tell whether it was me or someone else. Then the memory vanished. I opened my eyes. The room was silent. I looked at the wall. Something had been scratched into the wood. Four words. HE IS NOT DANIEL. I stared at them. My mouth went dry. “What does that mean?” A whisper came from behind me. “Did you hear that?” I spun around. Nobody. I searched the room. Under the bed. Inside the wardrobe. Behind the curtains. Nothing. Then I noticed the wooden panel beside the bed. It was slightly open. I pulled it. The panel came loose. Behind it was a narrow passage. I shone the flashlight inside. The passage disappeared into darkness. I should have walked away. Instead, I crawled inside. The tunnel was barely wide enough for my shoulders. Dust covered the walls. Spiderwebs clung to my face. I kept moving. After several meters, the passage opened into a hidden room. I stepped inside. There was a chair in the center. An old tape recorder sat on a table beside it. And on the wall was a single photograph. Two boys. One was me. The other was my brother. I stared at their faces. For the first time, I remembered his name without reading it. “Thomas.” The tape recorder suddenly clicked. I hadn't touched it. The PLAY button moved downward. Static filled the room. Then my mother's voice came through. “If you're hearing this, Daniel, then I'm dead.” I stopped breathing. The tape continued. “I am sorry.” There was a long pause. “You have spent your entire life believing you are Daniel.” I stepped backward. “But you are not.” My heart began racing. “You are Thomas.” I shook my head. “No.” “Daniel died in the fire.” I couldn't breathe. “The boy who survived was Thomas.” I looked at the photograph again. The boy in the red sweater. Thomas. Me. The tape continued. “After the fire, you remembered everything. You remembered that Daniel had started it. You remembered that I had locked the bedroom door.” I closed my eyes. A memory surfaced. Two boys. A match. Smoke. Daniel laughing. Thomas crying. Then my mother's voice: “I could not allow you to live with the truth.” I opened my eyes. The recorder crackled. “I changed your memories.” I stared at the machine. “I made you believe you were Daniel.” The tape stopped. For several seconds there was only silence. Then the recorder clicked again. A final message played. “I did it because I wanted my son back.” The tape ended. I stood completely still. The room seemed to spin. I wasn't Daniel. I was Thomas. I had spent fifteen years living inside someone else's identity. But why? Why would my mother do that? Then I heard a sound behind me. Breathing. Slow. Heavy. I turned. A man stood in the doorway. He was tall and thin. His face was pale. And he was wearing a red sweater. The same red sweater from the photograph. My flashlight shook in my hand. The man's eyes met mine. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he smiled. “Hello, brother.” My heart stopped