Survive the Night

by Riley Sager

  Although she manages to remain upright, the lantern in her hand falls from her grip and smashes onto the floor.

  Kerosene spills from the toppled lantern. A quicksilver stream that twists across the canvas.

  It makes it all the way to the drapes at the windows before the fire arrives. At first, it’s a streak of blue flames rushing over the path laid out by the kerosene. The fire starts to glow orange as it digs into the canvas, forging its own path over the drop cloth and, soon, the drapes.

  They ignite in an instant, the flames climbing the fabric toward the ceiling. Within seconds, all the drapes are engulfed. One set falls away, dropping to the floor in a flutter of fire, smoke, and ash.

  A new fire springs up where it lands, spreading across the drop cloth. Once it’s chewed its way to the edge of the canvas, it gets to work on the parquet floor.

  When another section of drapes falls, a third patch of fire forms, with the same result.

  Charlie knows it’ll just keep happening until that whole area and beyond are engulfed in flame. And when the fire reaches the other kerosene lantern, the situation will go from bad to worse.

  Looking to Josh, Charlie sees a growing wall of fire rolling his way.

  “Help us!” she yells to Marge, who’s backed away from the flames, stunned.

  Lost in a daze, Marge either doesn’t hear her or refuses to listen.

  Charlie pulls the final bit of rope from her legs and goes to Josh, who remains silent and motionless. Without thinking, she grabs him by the ankles and begins to drag him away from the fire. Their progress is marked by a streak of blood on the canvas that’s quickly devoured by the flames trailing them.

  Soon they’re off the drop cloth and sliding across the lobby’s parquet floor. Not safe from the flames. Far from it. But away, which is all that matters right now.

  Marge has also made her way toward the front of the lobby, staring at the growing fire with an agonized look. The pistol’s still in her hand, still extended, and for a surreal moment Charlie thinks she’s going to try to shoot at the flames. But then Marge swivels, aiming the gun right at her.

  Charlie raises her hands.

  “Please,” she says. “Please don’t do this. He needs help.”

  Off to the side, the fire gets larger. Both the chair and the stool now burn, flames leaping from the spot where Charlie had been sitting minutes earlier. All but one set of drapes has fallen away from the windows, revealing more flames reflected in the glass and making the blaze seem even bigger. Smoke spirals toward the ceiling, accumulating at the peaked roof and exposed beams.

  Charlie sees all that wood above and thinks one thing: this fire is only going to continue to grow.

  “Please,” she tells Marge. “Let me go. Let us both go.”

  Charlie thinks she might be getting through to her. Marge looks genuinely torn over what to do. She even starts to lower her arm, the gun barrel tilting toward the floor.

  But then the last of the drapes falls, taking the curtain rod with it. An end of the rod smashes through the window, and the sound of shattered glass makes Marge change her mind. Again, Charlie sees it. Another internal snap.

  She raises the pistol.

  As Marge pulls the trigger, Charlie feels a hand wrap around her ankle, jerking her downward. She hits the floor as the bullet passes overhead, inches away. Beside her is Josh.

  Still alive.

  Eyes open.

  Mouth opening to form a single word.

  “Run.”

  INT. LODGE—NIGHT

  Charlie sprints toward the first place she sees: one of the lodge’s unlit wings, the entrance hazy with smoke. She hurtles through it, hacking out a cough before throwing herself into the unknown black void of the hallway.

  Once there, she hurries through the darkness, still twisted up in rope. A length of it clings to her waist and flaps behind her as she runs. She doesn’t know what’s down this hallway. Away from the fiery lobby, she can’t see a thing. She lets instinct be her guide, hoping it doesn’t fail her.

  The wall of windows continues here, their curtains shut tight. Charlie senses them rustling in her wake as she moves. And although they’re still intact for now, she knows it’s just a matter of time before the flames also reach them.

  The whole lodge is going to burn.

  There’s no doubt about that.

  For Charlie, the only question is if she can find a way out before it does.

  Or before Marge catches up to her.

  Charlie didn’t stick around to see if Marge followed her down this part of the lodge. She doesn’t think so. She assumes she’d sense a presence.

  So she runs.

  Blind.

  Arms thrust out in front of her, fingertips brushing the walls, feeling for a door.

  She finds one where the hallway makes a sudden ninety-degree turn, veering off in another direction as Charlie keeps moving straight ahead, colliding not with a wall but with a swinging door.

  Not knowing where else to go, Charlie pushes through it, into another room. Thin gray light trickles through a set of doors at the other end of the room. Charlie bolts toward it, managing three long strides before colliding with something cloaked in shadow in the middle of the room. She slams into it with her hip, pain rushing up her side.

  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.

  Now none of it will happen, and Charlie can’t help but feel sorry for those who missed out. Most of the world never got to experience Madeline Forrester.

  But Charlie did.

  She experienced it and loved it and misses it dearly.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, even though she knows Maddy isn’t really there. Her appearance is just another movie in her mind. It doesn’t matter. Charlie still feels compelled to say it. The last words she wishes she had uttered when Maddy was still alive. “You weren’t an awful friend. I’m sorry I said that. I didn’t mean it. You were an amazing friend. You made me feel—”

  “Alive?” Maddy says.

  “Yes,” Charlie says.

  And not just alive. In-a-movie alive, which is far superior in every way.

  “I know,” Maddy says. “I’ve always known. Right until the end.”

  The man standing with her remains frozen in time, still unknowable with his turned back, bowed head, hand cupped around the lighter’s flame. Charlie knows that even if she steps closer, like a director entering the frame, she won’t be able to see what he looks like. He’ll be a shadow no matter how close she gets.

  So it’s Maddy she looks at, sparkling in the spotlight. She’s so bright that the shadowy figure in the fedora fades away. Darkness banished by light.

  Maddy stands alone now, ridiculously tall in her high heels and clutching a Virginia Slim.

  “Do you miss me?” she says.

  Charlie nods, holding back a tear in the process. “Of course.”

  “Then stay.”

  Charlie would like that. If she could, she’d live in this movie for as long as possible. But she knows she can’t.

  “You’re not real,” she says to Maddy. “You’re just a movie in my mind.”

  “But isn’t that better than real life?”

  “It is. But I need to live in the real world.”

  “Even if it’s scary?” Maddy says.

  “Especially if it’s scary.”

  Right now, she needs complete knowledge of her surroundings. Not only where she is but who might be nearby.

  Clarity.

  That’s what the situation requires. Her life depends on it.

  “But this might be the last time you ever see me,” Maddy says.

  Charlie feels more tears coming. She keeps them at bay, determined to make this make-believe goodbye the complete opposite of the real-life version.

  No anger.

  No tears.

  Only love and joy and appreciation.

  “Then make it memorable,” she says.

  Maddy strikes a pose, standing in profile, one hand on her hip, the other elegantly extended as the smoke curls from the cigarette between her fingers. It is, Charlie thinks, perfect.

  “What a dump!” Maddy says.

  Charlie smiles and closes her eyes, knowing that when she opens them, Maddy will be gone for good.

  “I think I adore you,” she says.

  EXT. LODGE VERANDA—NIGHT

  Just as she suspected, Maddy is gone when Charlie opens her eyes. Instead of in the alley, she finds herself on a stone walkway outside the Mountain Oasis Lodge. Cold night air slaps her face, bringing much-needed clarity.

  The movies in her mind are over.

  Possibly for good.

  Because of the fieldstone beneath her feet, Charlie suspects she’s near the veranda behind the lodge. She saw a similar walkway earlier when trying to escape through the French doors in the lobby. Further cementing her theory are dark plumes of smoke drifting toward her from around a corner of the building. With them are the snap, crackle, and pop of something burning.

  She rushes down the walkway and rounds the corner, the smoke getting thicker and the sound of
burning louder. Soon Charlie’s at the same pool area she spotted earlier, although now it looks much different.

  Smoke rolls through the area, streaming in from the nearby lobby. Through the throat-choking haze, Charlie gets undulating glimpses of the wall of windows. Just behind them, large tongues of flame lick at the air. From what she can see, she thinks the blaze has expanded to the rest of the lobby. Flames crawl along the front desk and scale the support timbers rising to the ceiling. Inside, a piece of the roof breaks free and crashes to the floor, sending up a cloud of sparks. A wall of heat hits her, making Charlie take several steps back.

  That’s when she notices the French doors.

  They’re not just broken, like most of the windows.

  They’ve been opened.

  And while Charlie hopes it was Josh who did it, she suspects it was someone else.

  Marge.

  Outside.

  With her.

  Charlie moves backward through the smoke, her sneakers shuffling over the stone walkway until, suddenly, it drops away.

  She spends a moment teetering on the lip of a concrete ledge, her arms pinwheeling in a desperate fight to keep balance.

  One of her feet slips, flying out from under her.

  A scream escapes Charlie’s lips as she topples, clawing at the air, falling into what she now realizes is the empty swimming pool. She closes her eyes, bracing for impact against the bottom, but instead of her body slamming against cold concrete, Charlie lands in several feet of rainwater that’s gathered at the bottom of the pool. The water—black with dirt, slick with algae—consumes her.

  For a moment, Charlie’s lost, unsure if she’s still falling or now floating. Her eyes are open, but all is dark. Caught mid-scream, her mouth is filled with water and slime and filth. Some trickles down her throat, choking her.

  She stands, emerging from the swill, coughing up the parts of it that made it to her lungs.

  Then she looks around.

  She’s in the deep end, standing in about four feet of water. On the other side of the pool, a ladder clings to the concrete, rusted yet usable.

  Charlie wades toward it, moving through water that’s akin to primordial ooze. Rotting leaves float on the surface. Nearby, a dead mouse does the same.