Page 47 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

The house was still dark as I pulled up the drive.

I’d lost sight of the flickering when I reached the main road, but when I climbed out of the car, I noticed an intermittent glimmer dancing above the house, more motion than light.

Turning toward the blank windows and empty porch, I felt a prickle of foreboding.

Had Reece come by to check the fuse box and been unable to repair it?

Was he even aware that the house had lost power?

In my frantic haste, I had forgotten to tell him, and the lights were on at the cottage, so perhaps not.

I checked my watch, noting that it was eight-thirty. Wren had arrived home at this exact hour on the first night of the festival two years earlier, and it felt like an omen.

Limping to the door, I unlocked it and groped around on the table in the foyer for the candles and matches Louise had left there.

I tore open the package, shoving two candles into my back pocket and lighting the third.

The flame cast long shadows as I circled the parlor, turning the normally cheery room into a silent, desolate stage.

“Wren?” I called out.

Only one version of her had ever appeared in darkness, and I didn’t expect to see her outside the bathroom but wanted to make sure.

Holding the burning candle before me, I carefully inspected each of the main-floor rooms. Pausing in the kitchen, I thought about removing the lid of the Dutch oven on the stove and fanning the aroma.

Earlier today, the scent had been enough to lure Wren to my side, but because the meal had been unrefrigerated, I wasn’t sure whether it had gone bad, so the lid remained in place.

I opened the cellar door and thought again about trying to rescue my phone.

But the candle’s weak light barely penetrated the inky depths of the stairwell.

When I peered down, the complete darkness beneath the house evoked a gaping hole, and for a moment, I couldn’t summon the courage I needed to descend.

I jumped as something brushed my leg, but it was only Paulie, purring as she rubbed against me.

I reached down to stroke her, wincing as my knee bent.

Forget it, I said to myself. I’ll look for the phone later.

Besides, I needed to save my strength to get upstairs, where I had a feeling the answers I was seeking would be found.

I closed the cellar door and hobbled out to the main staircase.

Leaning on the railing with my elbow while trying to hold the candle, I winced with every step.

At the top, I slowly navigated the hall, stopping before the hallway bathroom.

Finding it empty, I went to my room and alternately pushed and pulled the bench into the hallway, indifferent to the scratches I was no doubt leaving on the wooden plank floors.

After maneuvering it into place, I collapsed on the bench.

I dripped wax onto the floor and set the candle in the puddle until it hardened into a makeshift holder.

Paulie watched with interest, then jumped up on the bench beside me.

I tried to reconstruct Wren’s time line that night. How long after her return had she lingered downstairs before coming up to take her bath?

I absently stroked Paulie’s back, waiting and watching. Finally, I let out a long exhale and closed my eyes. “I’m here, Wren,” I whispered into the dark. “Tell me how to help.”

The house creaked and settled around me, its timbers cracking like human joints. There was still no sound from the bathroom. I waited and watched some more.

Then, after what felt like hours but was probably only several minutes, I heard the squeak of hinges. The sign hanging on the doorknob tapped against the wood as the door swung open, and the pipes began to squeal.

Suddenly, I heard water starting to fill the tub.

· · ·

I freed the candle and held it before me as I limped to the bathroom, steeling myself for whatever might happen next.

Like the light on my camera, the candle’s illumination dimmed in the suffocating dark.

I pulled out the second candle and lit that one with the first, but it did little to make the bathroom brighter.

I held one candle in each fist as I circled the room, feeling the hairs on my neck rise when I slowly began to approach the tub.

Wren was dead. She was naked, lying face up in a shallow pool of water that was murky with bodily fluids.

Her skin was gray and swollen, encasing her like a grotesque wrapper; her eyes were open but cloudy and blank.

When I glanced at the faucet, I saw dried blood encrusted with fragments of flesh and hair.

I felt bile rise in my throat as I wondered why this was being shown to me.

At the same time, I could see why the medical examiner had labeled the death suspicious.

The scene just didn’t make sense. The faucet was too low, protruding into the hollow of the tub and making it impossible to lie with one’s head at that end.

What the medical examiner and Dugan didn’t know, but I did, was that Wren had been using a towel that night; I’d seen one wrapped around her.

But there was no towel on the floor near the tub, nor was it draped over the side of the tub.

So where was it?

Swinging the candles around, I located a stack of folded towels on the shelf beneath the sink.

But now, there was a tall glass of wine on one side of the sink and a pile of clothes on the other.

A pair of sandals was on the floor. I assumed I was looking at the scene when Wren had been discovered by Louise, but if that was true, the question came again: why was I meant to see it?

I forced myself to look over at the tub a second time.

Seeing Wren in this state felt especially cruel after the afternoon we’d just spent together, and I didn’t want to remember her like this.

I understood why Louise had said she’d never forget finding Wren this way, and I closed my eyes, knowing that it would be impossible for me to forget as well.

It was then that I heard the faint sound of humming and realized someone was coming up the stairs. When I turned toward the tub again, Wren had vanished, and the bathtub was dry. The wineglass, clothes, and sandals near the sink were gone as well.

As the humming grew louder, I recognized the tune I’d heard from the kitchen on my first day in the house.

I knew it was Wren even before she entered the bathroom, and though she automatically hit the light switch, she didn’t seem to notice when it didn’t come on.

Nor did she see me; instead, her eyes swept over me without registering any sign of my presence.

In that instant, I understood I would be only a spectator to all that would happen next.

I immediately recognized her outfit: she was wearing the same faded jeans, green top, and glittery sandals I’d seen earlier, the same clothing she’d worn to the festival two years ago.

I noticed the same gold hoop earrings and the distressed, heart-shaped locket around her neck.

In her hand, she held a glass of white wine.

Setting it on the counter next to the sink, she crossed to the tub and bent over to start the flow of water.

She ran her hand under the water, testing the temperature before inserting the old-fashioned rubber plug to seal the drain.

She crossed the room to close and lock the door.

Then, standing in front of the sink, she took a sip of wine and stared at herself in the mirror.

She made a series of funny faces—puffing out her cheeks, crossing her eyes, and puckering up her lips in an exaggerated kiss—before heaving a sigh and looking away.

I felt uncomfortable spying on her private moment, but she looked so vibrant in her spontaneity that I couldn’t turn away.

She stepped out of her sandals before unbuttoning her jeans and pulling them down over her hips, then all the way off. I watched as she casually folded and set them on the counter; she then removed her blouse, folded it in quarters, and set it on top of her jeans. Her bra and panties came off last.

Looking in the mirror, she removed her earrings, laying them on top of her clothing.

I thought she’d take off the locket next.

Instead, she fiddled briefly with the clasp before deciding to leave it on.

She took another sip from her glass and peered over at the tub to check on the water level.

Humming under her breath, she reached below the sink for a towel to wrap around her before taking a seat on the side of the tub.

She seemed lost in a daydream, one foot swinging to an imaginary beat as the tub continued to fill. Suddenly she turned toward the door, an expression of annoyance forming on her face. Following her gaze, I saw the doorknob turning.

“I’m in here,” she called out. “And I’ll probably be here for a while!”

Though there was no answer, the knob stopped turning. After a moment she relaxed, leaning down to run her hand through the water in the tub. Standing, she reached over to turn off the faucet.

Her back was still to the door when it suddenly burst open.

She jumped—I did, too, almost dropping the candles—as a shadowlike figure rushed toward her.

In the chaos that ensued, I couldn’t make out much about the blurry figure except for the mask; it was a cheap plastic model of a happy face emoji.

She shouted the words I’d heard Nighttime Wren scream before:

What are you doing in here?

Who are you?

Get out, get out, get out, get out…

But he was on her fast, seizing a chunk of her hair and yanking her head back and forth as he pulled backward.

One more violent jerk, then her feet went out from under her and the towel flew off.

As she scrambled to stand again, he dragged her closer to the tub.

With a final heave, he jerked her head hard toward the faucet, her lower body slamming against the tub in the same moment.

I heard a sickening crunch as her skull punched the ornate faucet, and all at once she ceased moving.

The killer stood panting over Wren’s body. She lay half in the tub, her legs splayed awkwardly on the floor, her body bent at an unnatural angle. I watched as he lifted her legs and tipped them into the water with a splash.

I blinked and saw that there were now two figures standing over the tub.

Trembling, I raised the candles higher, straining to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, but the two distinct figures remained in place.

They each took a seat on the lip of the tub, and I watched as the first, larger figure bent over, using both hands to push Wren’s body beneath the water.

The second figure joined in, both holding fast for what felt like an agonizing eternity.

Eventually they both leaned back. For a moment they sat silent on the edge of the tub, breathing heavily.

Then the smaller figure reached into the tub with both hands a second time.

This person seemed to be fiddling with something, and then all at once, the figures were gone, and so was the discarded towel.

The air in the bathroom grew cold. In my shaking hands, the candles’ flames diminished, casting a yellow, eerie glow. I knew instinctively that Wren had died, but I slowly crept to the side of the tub.

She stared up at me with unseeing eyes, a cloud of blood blossoming in the water near her head, but otherwise looking exactly like the Wren I’d come to know. This, I knew, was how she’d looked only moments after her death.

I forced myself to draw a breath. Think, I told myself. Wren wanted me to see this for a reason.

Gazing at her figure, I had to choke back a sob as I tried to figure it out.

I flashed back to the faces she’d made in the mirror; in my mind, the scene continued to unfold, and I saw her undress and remove her earrings.

I remembered, too, the way she’d fiddled with the clasp on the chain that held the locket—

I froze, my breath strangled as if I’d been punched in the stomach.

She’d been wearing the locket when she was attacked.

Focusing on her unmoving shape, I confirmed what I already knew: the chain and locket were gone.

I searched the floor around the tub, then aimed the candles’ sparse light into each corner of the room, thinking the necklace might have been torn off and skidded away in the struggle. But it was nowhere to be seen.

And then, like something dreadful arising from the depths of a murky lake, I remembered the second figure reaching into the tub with both hands and seeming to fiddle with something, the truth hitting me with a force I hadn’t expected.

I knew then that one of the killers had taken the locket from Wren. And with chilling clarity, I also recalled where I had seen it before. Not on Wren, but on someone else.

In shock, I pushed the bathroom door open and staggered toward the stairs. But just as I reached them, I heard the scuff of footsteps behind me. Turning, I glimpsed a familiar face looming out of the darkness.

“You—” I started to say, before something struck the side of my head with blinding force, and for a split second, I felt myself falling and tumbling before the world went dark.