Charlie stops, regroups, takes in surroundings that are barely visible in the pale light coming from the doors across the room.
She’s in a kitchen. A big one. Like in a restaurant. There’s a wide stovetop, a stack of ovens, a fridge big enough to fit three people standing up.
The thing she collided with is an island in the middle of the room. Her fear-warmed hands leave palm prints on the stainless-steel surface. Charlie’s watching them disappear when she hears a noise.
Nearby.
Footsteps.
Moving purposefully toward the door Charlie just came through.
She knows it’s Marge. It has to be. She’s come looking for her like Charlie should have known she would. She feels suddenly foolish for thinking she could escape so easily.
Charlie drops to the floor and slides under the kitchen island. Holding her breath, she listens as Marge enters the kitchen, the soles of her shoes squeaking on the floor.
Squeak.
She’s closer now.
Squeak.
Closer still.
Squeak.
Marge’s shoes come into view. White sneakers. Sensible waitress shoes. The toe of the left one is spattered with blood.
Charlie stays completely still, even though her body begs her to run. If she remains silent and motionless, maybe Marge will think the room is empty. Maybe she’ll go away. Maybe Charlie can escape.
But Marge takes another step.
Squeak.
And two more.
Squeak, squeak.
She’s right beside Charlie now, the blood-spattered sneaker inches from her nose. Flat on her stomach with one cheek against the floor, Charlie’s heart thunders in her chest so hard she can feel it reverberate through the cold tile beneath her.
She fears Marge can sense it, too, because the sneakers don’t move. They remain where they are. So terrifyingly close.
Charlie doesn’t move.
She doesn’t breathe.
She stays that way until the sneakers move on.
Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak.
Then . . . nothing.
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. Doing exactly 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.
All the Marges pull their triggers.
One of the Charlies shatters into a hundred pieces.
Another shot rings out, this time across the ballroom, and a second Charlie is hit, a spiderweb of cracks covering her face.
Then another is shattered.
And another.
Charlie moves to the French doors.
Fast.
Panting.
She pushes through the doors and out of the ballroom.
EXT. ALLEY—NIGHT
Charlie staggers outside, trips, tumbles hard onto cold asphalt.
Before climbing to her feet, she peeks through the French doors into the ballroom she’s just vacated.
Marge isn’t inside.
The room is empty.
All the mirrors are intact.
A movie. Just like she thought.
But then Charlie stands, turns away from the ballroom, and her heart stops.
She’s outside, but it’s not the kind of outside she thought it would be.
Instead of in the lush woodlands that surround the lodge, Charlie finds herself outside the bar she was at the night Maddy was killed. It’s exactly the same, from the beer and puke smell outside to the Cure cover band inside.
And there, right in the middle of the alley, is Maddy, looking the way she did the last time Charlie saw her.
Standing with a dark figure.
Bathed in slanting white light.
Head lowered as she lights a cigarette.
This time, though, she casts a glance Charlie’s way, over the shadowy man’s shoulder, looking straight at her.
Then she smiles.
Such a glorious smile.
She could have been a star, Charlie knows. She had the looks for it. Her beauty was unconventional, incandescent—perfect for the big screen. But it was Maddy’s personality that would have sealed the deal. She was badgering and blunt, charming and chaotic. People who admired such traits—people like Charlie—would have adored her.