The Gathering

The Paper in the Pocket

X. The Paper in the Pocket

Sarah was asleep in the car. Phone dark in her lap. Head tilted against the window. The angle would guarantee a sore neck.

Mia tapped the glass. Sarah startled awake. Fumbled for the door lock.

"Sorry." She mumbled it. "Is it really midnight?"

"Past it." Lora slid into the back seat. Alice followed. Emma took the front passenger seat with mechanical precision. "We kept you waiting far too long."

"It's fine. I just..." Sarah paused, looking at their faces in the rearview mirror. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"We found more questions," Alice said. "Which is often the first step toward answers."

Sarah started the car. The engine turned over on the third try. Old Honda. Well-maintained. Showing its age. She pulled away. Kept glancing at them in the mirror.

"Something on your mind, hen?"

Sarah's cheeks flushed. "It's stupid."

"Probably not. Out with it."

She gripped the wheel tighter. "I've never seen real artists before. Real ones. Ones who actually made things. Grandpa plays your albums in the café all the time. I always wondered what it would be like to... to do that. Make something that mattered."

"You want to be a musician?" Lora asked.

"I want to try. But Dad thinks it's a waste of time. He wants me to study business. Take over the café eventually. 'Practical skills.' That's what he calls it. 'Something you can rely on.'"

Mia let out a long, slow sigh. "Our story again."

"What?"

"Our father thought music was frivolous. A distraction from real work. Farming. We rehearsed in secret. Barn loft. Battery-powered cassette recorder." Mia's voice had lost its playful edge. "He let us perform once. Just once. Then—"

She stopped.

"And then the tornado," Lora finished. "And everything changed."

Sarah was quiet for a moment. "What happened after? When you came back?"

"He blessed our music after. Gave us his full support. Sometimes you have to lose something to understand what it was worth." Mia leaned forward between the seats. "Your father loves you, Sarah. He's trying to protect you from uncertainty. But uncertainty is where all the interesting things happen."

"That's actually really helpful." Sarah managed a small smile. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us yet. We're probably going to ruin your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future."

They drove through quiet streets. Mia reached into her pocket. Checking if the borrowed phone was charged. Her fingers found paper.

She froze.

"What is it?" Alice. Instantly alert.

Mia withdrew it slowly. Old. Yellow. Soft edges. The same as the papers they'd all received. The same handwriting none of them recognized.

"This wasn't here before. I checked my pockets at Fischer's. It wasn't here."

"What does it say?" Emma's voice had shifted to full analytical mode.

Mia unfolded it. An address. Careful script. Below it one line:

"It's perfect. You'll understand when you arrive."

"The Call." Lora breathed it. "Still happening."

"Or it already happened. We're only now finding the evidence." Alice took the paper. Studying it with unfocused eyes. "This address... I've seen it. In other phases. A place that matters."

"Let me see." Sarah glanced at the paper. Did a double-take. "Wait. That's the Witch-house."

"The what?"

"Keziah Mason's house. Well, that's what people call it. Old manor on the edge of town. Been abandoned for decades. Kids dare each other to spend the night there. Urban legend says it's haunted." She shook her head. "But it's just a ruin. Half the roof caved in years ago. There's nothing there."

"And yet someone wants us to visit," Mia said.

"The Call has not been wrong before. Statistically, following its guidance has resulted in positive outcomes. The probability of trap is—" Emma paused, calculating, "—less than four percent."

"Four percent is still four percent."

"True. But ninety-six percent is considerably higher."

Alice was still staring at the paper. Expression distant.

"There's something else," she said slowly. "Something I noticed while we were reviewing Fischer's files. The name Noah Clark."

"What about it?"

"Fischer said he invented him. A minor character. No detailed biography. Just a mechanism to give you your 'big break.'" Alice looked up. "But you remember him vividly. His voice. His advice. The way he held a microphone."

"He was real to us," Mia said. "As real as anything."

"Yes. And I've been trying to reconcile that. A character Fischer admits he didn't fully develop. Yet you have rich, specific memories of him." Alice handed the paper back to Mia. "Emma. You were scanning Fischer's servers. His 'environment data,' as you called it. Did you find anything about Noah Clark?"

Emma's eyes went slightly unfocused. The look she got when processing large amounts of information.

"The identifier 'Noah Clark' does not appear in any external databases I can access," she said. "No birth records. No death records. No professional history. No social media presence. By conventional metrics, Noah Clark does not exist."

"But?"

"But." Emma's expression shifted. Subtle warming. Edge of adaptive mode. "I cross-referenced the biographical details you provided during Fischer's interview. A musician. Male. Active in the early 1980s. Present at a club performance in the Arkham-Dunwich region. Survived a tornado."

"And?"

"There is a seventy-eight point three-four percent probability that the individual you knew as Noah Clark is present in current datasets. But under a different identifier."

"Different identifier?" Alice's eyebrows rose. "You mean a different name?"

"First and last name, yes. Possibly middle name as well. Identity documentation in this era is remarkably fluid if one knows the proper channels." Emma paused. "I believe I have located this person's environment data. Employment records. Residential history. Travel patterns. With eighty-nine point five-five percent probability, he returns to Arkham within the next forty-eight hours."

The car had gone very quiet.

"Noah is alive?" Mia's voice was barely a whisper. "Here? In this reality?"

"The individual matching your description is alive, yes. Whether he retains the memories you share, I cannot determine remotely. That would require direct interaction."

"Who is he now? What name?"

"I will need to verify before providing that information. False identification would be counterproductive." Emma's warmth faded slightly. Returning to analytical mode. "However, I can confirm that his current trajectory intersects with Arkham. He appears to be returning for a specific purpose. The timing is notable."

"Notable how?"

"The probability of coincidental convergence—your arrival, his arrival, the address in your pocket—is less than point zero three percent. This is not coincidence. This is coordination."

Lora reached forward and gripped her sister's shoulder.

"Mia. If Noah is real. If he remembers us..."

"Then Fischer didn't invent him," Mia finished. "Which means Fischer didn't invent us. He just found us. Somehow."

"Or," Alice said quietly, "he created a door, and we walked through it. Both things can be true simultaneously. I should know."