Page 31 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

Disappointed in myself and even more worried about Wren, I fetched the bottle of Pinot Noir from the kitchen before returning to the spot where she had been sitting.

I refilled my glass and took a long swallow before leaning back against the cushion, remembering her warning me not to touch her.

She’d made me promise that I wouldn’t, but I’d given in to my passion instead, and I wondered whether she was disappointed in me, too.

Paulie seemed to know I was upset, and she jumped up onto the loveseat.

I scratched her cheeks and ran my hand over her back, feeling it arch beneath my touch.

I set my glass back on the table. Uncertain how long the power would be out, I got up and added another log to the fire, replaying those charged final moments with Wren.

Outside, the storm was strengthening. As I brooded, time seemed to slip away, and I barely registered the strobe-like flashes of lightning and crashing peals of thunder.

I’m not sure how long I’d been sitting there when I was startled by a sharp knock at the door.

Pulling it open, I saw Louise and Reece, both in black slickers; in Reece’s hand was a large, dented metal toolbox.

Louise was holding a packet of table candles, along with a book of matches.

“We’re sorry to disturb you,” she began, “but we noticed that your power was out. Ours went out a little while ago.”

“I’m not sure why,” Reece explained, “but I’m guessing a lightning strike hit a little too close to the house.”

No, I thought, it was because I tried to kiss Wren.

“Did you try resetting the main breaker?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” I admitted.

“There’s a flashlight in the pantry, but I brought candles just in case you need them,” Louise told me. “Why didn’t you call or come get us?”

“I didn’t think of it,” I said. “But please, come in.”

I held the door open while they removed their slickers, draping them over the porch railings.

Once inside, Reece immediately headed for the kitchen, leaving Louise and me in the foyer.

She set the candles on the side table along with the matches before her eyes took in the parlor, shifting from the games to the fire, and finally to the open bottle of wine and glass.

Her nostrils flared as she registered the aroma drifting out of the kitchen and she looked at me with surprise.

“Are you cooking beef bourguignon?”

“I am,” I answered.

“Wren used to make that.”

I said nothing. When she realized a response would not be forthcoming, she moved away, pausing at the gaming table, where I’d left my purchases.

“She loved games, too.”

Again, I remained silent, observing as she shifted from one foot to the other.

“Did you really see her?” she blurted out.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go into it with her, but because I’d already admitted that I had, I saw no point in denying it. “I did,” I said.

“Doing yoga and putting together a puzzle?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, pacing stiffly toward the sofa before turning back. I could see her assessing the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir, wondering if I was a poor soul drinking alone in the middle of the day, or if I really hadn’t been alone. She crossed her arms tight against her chest.

“You saw her today, too, didn’t you?”

Though I didn’t answer, I didn’t have to. She already knew the answer, and a pained expression crossed her features. “I don’t understand why this is happening. Neither Reece nor I have seen or heard anything, and we’ve probably spent more time in the house than anyone.”

She walked to the window and watched the storm as she continued, her voice strangely distant.

“I’m not sure if you know, but Wren died in the hallway bathroom upstairs.

After the police concluded their investigation, there were issues with the trust, and in the end, Mr. Aldrich thought it best to close the bed-and-breakfast.” She turned, her expression a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“Do you think that’s the reason you’re seeing her?

Because you’re the first one to stay here since she died? ”

I didn’t know, so instead of answering, I asked: “What did the police say happened to Wren?”

“Accidental drowning.” Though her delivery was flat, I had the sense she was reliving the painful event.

“She’d been drinking that night. I’m not saying she was drunk, but the police concluded that it might have been enough to affect her balance.

They said she fell and hit her head on the faucet.

Her skull was fractured, and she was probably unconscious when she slipped under the water. ”

I flashed to the memory of Nighttime Wren repeatedly smashing the back of her head into the faucet, the image now making sense.

Louise’s voice was unsteady as she continued.

“I was the one who found her, and I still have nightmares about it. The whole thing was devastating. I hadn’t seen her that weekend, but I didn’t think anything of it, and Reece didn’t realize anything was wrong either.

I didn’t find her until Monday, when I came in to clean the rooms. She’d been in the water more than two days by then. ”

I couldn’t help picturing Nighttime Wren and now understood her ghastly appearance.

“That must have been terrible.”

“It was devastating.” She sighed before turning toward me. “Can I ask what you and Wren talk about?”

“She wants me to help her.”

Louise looked startled. “How?”

Before I could answer, our conversation was interrupted by a sparking noise and a sudden blaze of light from the lamps. Static hummed as the house came back to life, and a minute later Reece entered the parlor, toolbox in hand.

“One of the breakers is fried,” he announced. “I’ve rigged it for now, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. I’ll try to find the parts I need, but I might have to order them. The system is old, so they might not be in stock.”

“And if the power goes out again?” I asked.

When he didn’t answer, I heard Louise clear her throat. “Maybe,” she said, “you should consider finding another place to stay.”

It was the last thing I wanted to do, and realizing that I wasn’t about to leave, she reluctantly lowered her gaze. They left without another word.

· · ·

Once they were gone, the house was quiet, but I felt restless.

I walked from the parlor to the dining room and then to the kitchen, waiting in each location for Wren to appear, but she never showed.

To keep my mind occupied, I worked on the drawing of Oscar and Lorena’s house, losing myself in whimsical details and adding textures and colors, pleased with the way it finally turned out.

Because the power had been off, I took a guess and added an extra half hour to the kitchen timer.

I also watched a video on how to make mashed potatoes and followed the directions before finding the recipe by Julia Child that Wren had mentioned.

I carefully worked through the remainder of the recipe and tossed the French bread in the oven right before the end.

The meal was savory and filling, the best I’d had in a long time.

Perhaps a few cooking lessons would be worthwhile, I reflected as I cleaned up and put away the leftovers.

When the kitchen was tidy, I meandered over to the bookshelves, pulling down a book of poetry at random.

I flipped through the pages, stopping on a page with a highlighted stanza.

When all that we know, or feel, or see,

Shall pass like an unreal mystery.

When I read the title of the poem, I nearly dropped the book.

It was “On Death” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

I wondered if these words described Wren’s confusion at everything that had happened—and was still happening—to her.

Had she wanted me to find it, even led me to it?

As I readied myself for bed, I longed to unravel the mystery of what Wren knew and what she didn’t.

I wondered whether she would ever be able to tell me herself.

· · ·

I spent the night in the hallway again. It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep, but almost by habit, I awakened a few hours later.

Holding my phone, I crept to the bathroom but found it empty.

Just as I’d returned to my makeshift bed, however, I heard the squeak of a faucet and the groaning of pipes, followed by the sound of water splashing into the bathtub.

I steadied my breathing and got the phone ready; I again reminded myself to expect the unexpected.

At the threshold, in the dim light of my phone I saw Wren seated in the bathtub, her head pressed against her knees.

Her wet hair curtained her face, but I was able to see the deep wound in the back of her head, the blood gleaming thickly, like oil.

Her skin looked like a monstrous, greenish casing.

She’d been in the water more than two days…

Only then did I realize she was crying. I crept into the bathroom, straining to make out what she was mumbling.

“I…couldn’t…get…away…”

“What can I do to help you?” I asked.

The crying continued, but there was otherwise no response. Uncertain whether she was even aware of my presence, I tried another approach.

“My name is Tate.”

She suddenly went silent, and I watched as she shuddered before slowly lifting her head.

“Who?” she croaked in a sandpapery whisper.

“I’m Tate,” I said again. “And your name is Wren.”

She was silent. After what felt like an eternity, she spoke, the sound barely audible. “Wren,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“I…died,” she said.

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“In…the…bathtub.”

“Yes. You slipped and hit your head.”

She convulsed before going silent again, her body completely still. “No,” she finally said.

Her response caught me off guard. “You didn’t slip?”

Her breathing sped up as she began to rock back and forth, chanting under her breath as she gripped her knees close to her chest.

“Help me…help me…help me…”

“Wren!” I called out. “If you didn’t slip, what happened to you?”

She went still for a long moment before I heard her voice again.

“Murdered.”

Oh my God—

I flashed on our previous encounters in the bathroom; Wren’s back suddenly arching backward as though being yanked by her hair; the way she’d stumbled as though pulled.

The back of her head slamming into the faucet over and over, the action unnatural and terrifying…

her screams, demanding to know who I was, demanding that I get out…

Like she’d been fighting someone…

“Who was it?” I asked. “Who did this to you? Was it Griffin? Or Nash?”

She convulsed again. “I don’t know.”

“Or maybe it was Dax?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” she cried.

She began to rise then; in the next instant, she was wrapped in a towel and standing before me, her face and skin nearly unrecognizable.

She tilted her head to the left then the right; her mouth opened, then closed.

Then, as though recalling my encounter with Daytime Wren that evening, she raised her hand to my face, her fingers close to my skin as she traced my jaw and my lips.

I tried hard not to flinch; her beautiful face was gruesome.

“Tate.”

Her voice was that of her daytime self, the difference jarring and wrong in this version of her. Dizzy, I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Wren was standing farther away and she’d begun to cry again, her shoulders heaving. I watched as she banged her fist against her chest.

“I couldn’t get away,” she choked out.

“Wren!” I called to her.

She stared at me in terror.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m…”

I couldn’t finish. Her arm shot out, her palm extended. Though she didn’t touch me, I felt the force like a blow, and I tumbled backward out of the bathroom. As before, I landed on my back just as the bathroom door slammed shut.

Though I was certain she was gone, I scrambled to my feet and threw open the door, looking for her anyway. The room was empty.