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After another minute of silence, Charlie allows herself to exhale.
After two minutes, she moves.
And after five minutes, each second counted off in her head, she slides out from under the kitchen island.
Charlie rises into a kneeling position, intending to peer over the island at the rest of the kitchen.
The first thing she sees are a pair of sneakers, one stained with blood.
Charlie looks up to see Marge smiling down at her from her perch on the kitchen island. In her hands are a pair of pliers, dripping blood.
“Found you,” she says.
Charlie screams, backs away, slams into another counter.
As a fresh wave of pain courses through her, she sees that the kitchen island is empty.
There’s no Marge.
There’s no anyone.
“No,” Charlie mutters to herself. “No, no, no, no. Not now. Please not now.”
But it’s too late.
It’s already happening.
At the worst possible moment, the movies in her mind have returned.
INT. BALLROOM—NIGHT
Charlie bursts through the doors on the other side of the kitchen.
She’s in a ballroom now.
Maybe.
She sees mirrored walls, gilt trim, polished floor under a chandelier festooned with cobwebs, fully aware that none of it could be real. Including a set of French doors on the other side of the room that appears to lead outside.
Charlie hurries toward them, watching, waiting, wondering if it’s all going to disappear and change into something else.
When she reaches the center of the dance floor, directly beneath the chandelier, Charlie catches her reflection in one of the mirrored panes on the wall.
A mirror on the other side of the room picks it up.
A reflection of a reflection.
Which is caught on the original wall again, bouncing yet another version of herself onto the mirror across from it.
Charlie stares at dozens of different versions of herself. Doingexactly what she’s doing. Mimicking her motions. Spinning under the chandelier like tops.
She stops moving.
The other Charlies do the same.
Because Marge has also entered the ballroom.
Charlie sees her in the mirrors. Not just one Marge but many, all pointing that dainty, retro pistol right at her.