On-screen, the shower curtain tears open. The shriek of violins rips through the theater as Norman’s “mother” raises the knife. Marion Crane’s cavernous howl fills the room. And as it does, my eyes sting with sudden tears. I can’t stop imagining Mom in her place—not in a shower, but on the lake, the storm lashing around her, a hand pressing her face beneath the black water until her lungs couldn’t stand the lack of oxygen any longer.
I must be rocking, trembling, something—because Rory’s face gets close to mine.
“Hey, hey,” he whispers. “Let me take you home.”
The next minutes blur. Rory ushers me out into the night an hour too early, leaving behind only our untouched snacks spilled across the soda-sticky floor.
In the parking lot, I fold into his chest. He wraps his arms around me, solid and unyielding, smelling of that cedar cologne and the cold air. In his embrace, I am cocooned.
“She wasn’t supposed to die that night,” Rory murmurs against my hair.
My body stiffens. I peel myself from his grasp, tears halting in their path.
“What do you mean?” My voice is serrated.
Rory’s jaw flexes. “I just mean…” He exhales.
Like a TV finale cliff-hanger, I’m frozen, pining for more.
“Whether she drowned, or someonewaswith her, it was too soon. A horrible, freak thing.” His words falter, careful, as though he’s choosing them wisely. Whether that’s for his benefit or mine, I can’t tell. “But if you think something happened—that someone could be involved—you should tell the police.”
I wipe my cheeks, my throat raw.
“But listen,” he presses, softer. “Either way, she’s gone. And I don’t want you to kill yourself trying to make sense of it.”
His words land with good intention, but they don’t soothe me—or stop my mind from wandering to the dark places it’s already found.
Without a word, I slide into the passenger seat, wanting nothing but to be swaddled in bed until morning comes. Because when I wake, I know exactly what I need to do.
15
The doors to Imogen’s and Amelia’s bedrooms are closed. The house is hushed, with the only intelligible sounds being the hum of the refrigerator, and the minute snores that escape from the mouths of the three sleeping individuals in their designated quarters.
The man waited patiently until they all fell asleep, confirmed by the absence of noise and the late hour, before he made his way into the hallway, into Imogen’s bedroom. He creeps ever so silently inside, inching the bedroom door open, ensuring that she hadn’t heard his light padding across the home’s hardwood floors—or the security system’s notification. He takes his time with each step as he always does in the Bly house. It’s the only way he’s been able to go—mostly—undetected thus far.
Relief passes through him when he sees the fan in the corner of Imogen’s room, moving side to side noisily. The television across her bed casts a low light, playingSabrina the Teenage Witch. Both idyllically add noise to the space, covering his sound, creating a shield he counts on.
The clock at her bedside glares red: 3:15. Imogen lies on her side, white duvet rising and falling with each breath, her hair spilled over the pillow. Her lips are parted slightly, damp with sleep. The sight ofher pulls his breath faster, deeper, as though the act of watching is its own intoxication.
He hovers in the center of her room, drinking her in. She takes the wall side of the bed, leaving a hollow stretch beside her. A space he imagines himself filling.
Not tonight. Not yet.
He knows he can’t linger. A creak of the floor, Amelia shifting down the hall, Imogen suddenly sensing him, and it’s over.
Instead, he forces the image to memory—to the gallery of his mind.
His gaze then moves to her duffel bag. To a bra sitting atop rumpled clothes. Without thought, quietly, he moves toward it, gripping the bra in his fingers. He squeezes it, smells it—thrilled by its flowery vanilla scent. And quickly, he folds it into his jacket pocket.
With a final look, he slides back through the door, the room still humming with TV glow and fan whir, while she sleeps, unaware he’s been there, rehearsing the moment he’ll finally claim her.
16
IMOGEN
I?’m pulled out of a deep sleep by the smell of coffee dancing down the hallway, tugging me out of bed. The clock beside me shows 9:52—later than I’ve been sleeping all week. I can’t remember my dreams, but I know The Nightmare didn’t come. For the first time in weeks, I feel rested. I hardly care that I misplaced my favorite bra.
Staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth, I’m reminded of how my night ended with Rory. We’d made small talk as he drove me home, and I’d tried to keep my mood light so as not to ruin the evening entirely.
