Page 71 of The Unknown

That Heather’s character is the second to vanish makes it strange that she decided not to sleep in the main house when Violet suggested it after a dinner that none of us had any appetite for.

“There’s safety in numbers,” she said.

“It’s true,” Ronan agreed. “Lindy is less likely to get to us if we’re all together with the doors and windows locked.”

“That’s assuming it is Lindy behind this,” Heather said. “For all I know, it’s still one of you. I’ll take my chances on my own.”

Only Julianne ended up going to the main house, moving into a room on the second floor. I chose to sleep in my cottage with the door locked and a chair tilted against the knob for good measure. A move I regret, especially now that my exhaustion appears unconquerable, no matter how many times I pace the cottage, slap my cheeks, and go to the washroom to splash rusty-smelling water onto my face. Eventually I end up back in bed, splayed atop the covers, drifting off to sleep.

When I wake, it’s with a startled yelp as a familiar sound echoes through the cottage.

Thwump.

I sit up, look around. The lamp extinguished itself as I slept, leaving the cottage oppressively dark. I peer through the murk, seeing nothing.

Yet I’m not alone. I can feel the presence of someone else as clearly as I heard the thwump.

My gaze settles on the window opposite the bed, and I suck in a rattling breath.

Someone is there.

Just outside.

At first, I think it might be Lindy, which makes no sense yet all the sense in the world. If she did something to Susie, then it’s logical to assume she’ll try again with the rest of us. Now she’s roaming the villageatop the island, peering into cottages, trying to figure out who’s where and in what order they vanish from Ronan’s script.

But when the figure at the window doesn’t move, I realize with nerve-jangling fear who it really is.

Molly.

Standing.

Staring.

Dripping.

I shrink against the headboard, trying to make myself as small as possible. As small as my five-year-old self. Any notion that this might be a nightmare or hallucination or my imagination is countered by the fact that I am awake. Wide awake and cowering and watching my dead sister watch me as a pair of questions screams through my skull.

What does she want? Why is she here?

I’d ask her if I could talk, which I can’t. Terror has taken hold of my throat, strangling all sound. All I can do is clench my eyes shut and think the words I’d whispered as a little girl.

You’re not real.

Because of course she’s not.

You don’t exist.

Because of course she doesn’t.

Please be gone.

Because of course she’ll go.

Yet when I cover my face with my hands and peek between my fingers, Molly is still there, still staring, still dripping.

Somehow I find enough voice to whisper the words.

“You’re not real. You don’t exist. Please be gone.”