Survive the Night by Riley Sager
INT. LODGE LOBBY—NIGHT
Inside the lodge, all is dark. Charlie can only see what’s immediately beyond the rectangle of pale moonlight spilling through the open door. Still, she can tell the lobby is as big as the lodge’s exterior suggests. Every footfall on the parquet floor echoes to the ceiling high above.
The whole place reeks of neglect, the odors inside heightened by the darkness. The smell of dust is thick and overpowering. There are other scents, too. Mold. Damp. Traces of animals that have gotten inside. Charlie’s nose twitches. She tries to scratch it, but her range of motion is useless thanks to the rope around her wrists.
Behind her, Marge rustles through the satchel, never pointing the pistol away from Charlie. Eventually, she pulls out a large flashlight and flicks it on. As the light sweeps across the lobby, Charlie catches quick glances of dust-streaked floor, unadorned walls, support timbers vanishing into the gloom above them.
Marge nudges the pistol into Charlie’s back, moving them toward the rear of the lobby. There’s another entrance there—a set of French doors flanked by rows of tall windows. The glass on the French doors is opaque with dirt on both sides. Drapes cover the windows next to the French doors, pulled completely shut, their fabric turned gray and fuzzy by dust. The result is such a scarcity of light that it might as well be another wall.
The area has already been prepared for their arrival. In the glow of the flashlight, Charlie sees a large canvas drop cloth spread over the floor. Atop it sit a wooden chair, a stool, and two kerosene lanterns.
Marge drops the satchel on the floor, does more shuffling through the contents inside, and pulls out a box of matches, which she uses to light the two lanterns. Their combined glow brightens the lobby considerably, revealing a massive space made all the more cavernous by how empty it is. What Charlie assumes had once been filled with armchairs, potted plants, and guests bustling about is now a wide expanse of nothing.
To the right, the front desk sits dust-covered and unused. Behind it are bare patches on the wall where paintings had once hung. A lounge sits to the left, now empty save for an oak bar and emerald-colored lighting fixtures that hang over spaces where tables must have been.
Closer to the back of the lobby, the front desk and lounge give way to wide halls that lead to the lodge’s two wings, one on each side. Charlie tries to look down each one, searching for a means of escape, but she can’t see beyond their entrances. Even with the flickering glow of the lanterns, they’re nothing but tunnels of darkness.
Marge, apparently tired of rifling through the satchel, dumps its remaining contents into a clattering pile on the canvas drop cloth.
There’s the bottle of chloroform, of course, and the rag already used to apply it.
What’s worse are the other items now spread out on the floor.
A knife.
Bigger than the one Charlie had used on Josh.
A carving knife.
Marge removes it from its leather sheath, exposing a wide blade and an edge so sharp it looks like it could slice bone.
She sets it down next to a pair of slip-joint pliers.
Charlie’s body clenches at the sight of them, her muscles sparking with the urge to run.
She doesn’t care that Marge still holds the gun and that running is impossible and that she doesn’t know where to run even if she could.
All Charlie and her twitching body and racing brain care about is getting away.
Now.
Right now.
She makes a break for it as Marge still kneels on the floor, heading toward the nearest exit.
The French doors.
Charlie jackrabbits toward them, hoping they’re unlocked, prepared to smash through them if they’re not. When she slams into them, the doors rattle but don’t open. She rams a shoulder into them. A pane of glass pops out and shatters to the ground outside.
Through the open square it left behind, Charlie sees a stone walkway, a drained swimming pool, lounge chairs stacked like firewood. She doesn’t know if the walkway leads to another part of the lodge, but she doesn’t care. Anywhere is better than here.
Charlie tries to throw herself into the door again, but Marge is upon her before she gets the chance. She tugs on the collar of Charlie’s coat, pulling her backward, yanking her to the floor.
A slap of pain hits Charlie as her head bounces off the canvas-covered floor. White spots float across her vision, obscuring the sight of Marge climbing on top of her, surprisingly strong and shockingly heavy.
Through the white spots, Charlie sees Marge tip the chloroform bottle against the rag before clamping it over her nose and mouth.
More white spots.
Gathering.
Growing.
Soon Charlie can see nothing but white as the chloroform casts its spell. Marge doesn’t keep the cloth over her face long enough to knock her out completely. It only makes her weak. A rag doll being dragged across the floor.
Charlie feels her body being lifted into the chair. More rope is wound around her torso and the back of the chair, holding her in place. The white spots start to fade one by one, like stars at dawn. By the time Charlie can see clearly again, she’s been completely bound to the chair.
Marge stands in front of her, the pistol replaced by the pliers.
Fear spreads like lava in Charlie’s chest.
“Who are you, and why are you doing this?”
“I told you,” Marge says. “We’re here to talk.”
“About what?”
Marge lowers herself onto the stool in front of Charlie. There’s a hardness to her that goes beyond her spindly body. It’s in the set of her jaw and the frown etched on her lips and the darkness of her eyes.
“I want to talk,” she says, “about my granddaughter.”
