Survive the Night by Riley Sager

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.