The Woman Who Woke Up

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Woman Who Woke Up

The first thing I heard was my own voice screaming.

The second was Adrian calling my name.

And the third was a woman laughing.

Not the woman standing across from me.

Not the woman wearing my face.

The laughter came from somewhere behind the walls, soft and distant, as though someone were listening to us from the other side of a locked door.

Adrian still held the knife.

The blade trembled in his hand.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

I couldn’t tell which of us he was speaking to.

The other Elena stood beneath the chandelier, her white dress immaculate, her dark hair falling over her shoulders in exactly the same way mine did. Even the tiny scar beneath her left eye was there.

A scar I had carried since childhood.

A scar I had never told Adrian about.

She smiled at him.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“Be quiet.”

“You always do that,” she continued, ignoring him. “You tell people to be quiet when they’re about to say something you don’t want to hear.”

“Shut up.”

“Is that what you told me the last time?”

Something changed in his face.

It was slight, almost imperceptible, but I saw it. The faintest flicker of recognition, followed by a terror so profound that my stomach twisted.

The other Elena noticed it too.

“Oh,” she whispered. “You remember.”

I took a step backward.

“What is she talking about?”

Neither of them answered.

“Adrian.”

His eyes remained fixed on her.

I reached for his arm, but he recoiled so violently that I stumbled.

“Don’t touch me!”

The words struck harder than they should have.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Adrian looked at me, and something like regret crossed his face.

“Elena, I need you to listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“No matter what she says, you mustn’t believe her.”

The woman laughed again.

“Still protecting her from the truth. How noble.”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

She turned toward me.

For the first time since she had appeared, her expression lost its amusement.

She looked at me with something almost resembling pity.

“You really don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“The night you died.”

My lungs stopped working.

Adrian moved between us.

“That’s enough!”

But I was no longer looking at him.

I was looking at her.

The room seemed to tilt around me. The candle flames stretched into long, wavering lines, and the walls appeared to breathe. Somewhere in the distance, a clock began to strike.

One.

Two.

Three.

The sound echoed through my skull.

I pressed my hands against my ears.

“No.”

Four.

Five.

“Stop it.”

Six.

The woman stepped closer.

“You were wearing a blue dress,” she whispered. “You were crying. There was blood on the staircase.”

Seven.

My knees weakened.

Eight.

“And Adrian was there.”

Nine.

A flash of white.

A staircase.

A hand slipping from mine.

Ten.

I saw a face.

Not Adrian’s.

A man’s face, half-hidden in darkness, his mouth moving as he said something I couldn’t hear.

Then a terrible impact.

Eleven.

I screamed.

Twelve.

The clock stopped.

And suddenly, I remembered the smell of roses.

I woke on the floor.

My cheek was pressed against cold marble, and the taste of iron coated my tongue. For several seconds, I couldn’t understand why I was lying there or why my hands were shaking.

Then I saw Adrian kneeling beside me.

The knife was gone.

“Look at me,” he said urgently. “Elena, look at me.”

I tried to push him away.

He caught my shoulders.

“Please. You need to stay with me.”

“Don’t touch me!”

He released me immediately.

I scrambled backward until my spine struck the leg of a chair.

The other woman was gone.

Only the empty space where she had stood remained.

But something had changed in the room.

The candles had gone out. The chandelier swung gently overhead, although every window was closed. And the enormous mirror behind Adrian had developed a crack that ran from its upper edge to the floor.

I stared at it.

My reflection stared back.

For one terrifying moment, I thought it was smiling.

Then I blinked, and the expression disappeared.

Adrian followed my gaze.

“We have to leave.”

I laughed, although nothing about the situation was remotely funny.

“Leave? You expect me to walk out of here with you?”

“Elena—”

“You knew her.”

His mouth closed.

“You knew that woman.”

“I can explain.”

“Then explain!”

My voice broke on the final word.

I hated that. I hated the trembling in my hands, the tears gathering in my eyes, and the way he looked at me as though I were something fragile that might shatter if he spoke too loudly.

I didn’t want his pity.

I wanted the truth.

“Who was she?” I asked again.

Adrian looked at the broken mirror.

When he finally answered, his voice was barely audible.

“She was my wife.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“She was my wife.”

“You’re married?”

“No. Not anymore.”

I shook my head, trying to make the words fit together.

“You told me you had never been married.”

“I know.”

“You told me there had never been anyone else.”

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

He looked down.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of his answer was worse than any excuse.

I pushed myself to my feet.

“How long?”

He didn’t answer.

“How long were you married to her?”

“Three years.”

Three years.

I thought of every conversation we’d had, every moment I’d spent wondering why he sometimes watched me with an expression that looked suspiciously like grief.

I remembered the way he had held me the first time I woke from a nightmare.

The way he had whispered that he would never let anything happen to me.

Had he been comforting me?

Or had he been trying to convince himself that he could do better the second time?

“What happened to her?” I asked.

His eyes lifted to mine.

“She died.”

The word settled between us.

I glanced toward the mirror.

“Then who was standing here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me again!”

“I’m not lying!”

His voice thundered through the room.

For the first time, I saw anger break through his fear.

“You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to see her face again?”

He stopped.

Too late.

I had heard the words.

“Again,” I repeated.

Adrian looked away.

My stomach twisted.

“You’ve seen her before.”

He said nothing.

“How many times?”

“Elena, please.”

“How many times have you seen her?”

He closed his eyes.

“Since the night you came back.”

The room went silent.

I couldn’t breathe.

“The night I came back from where?”

He opened his eyes, and I saw something in them that I had never seen before.

Not anger.

Not guilt.

Fear of me.

“From the place where you were buried.”

I left him standing in the room.

I don’t remember crossing the corridor. I don’t remember opening the door or descending the stairs. I only remember the cold beneath my bare feet and the desperate need to get away from the man who had just told me that I had been buried.

The house seemed unfamiliar now.

Portraits lined the hallway, their painted faces watching me as I passed. The grandfather clock near the staircase had stopped at midnight. A vase lay shattered on the floor, its roses scattered across the marble.

And beneath the staircase, there was a dark stain.

I stopped.

My heart began to pound.

The stain wasn’t large. It could have been spilled wine or something else entirely.

But the moment I looked at it, I smelled roses.

My vision blurred.

A woman’s voice whispered inside my head.

Don’t let him take me downstairs.

I gripped the banister.

Another voice answered.

It’s already too late.

I staggered backward.

“No.”

The memories came in fragments.

A hand gripping my wrist.

A ring catching the light.

The sound of a door slamming.

And a woman crying my name.

Not Elena.

Not Adrian.

A different name.

A name I couldn’t quite grasp.

I pressed my palms against my temples.

“Remember,” I whispered to myself. “Remember.”

Something cold brushed the back of my neck.

I spun around.

Nobody stood behind me.

But the front door was open.

Beyond it, the night stretched across the gardens, and the rain had stopped. Moonlight spilled over the gravel path leading toward the iron gates.

I ran.

I didn’t stop until I reached the old garden shed at the edge of the property.

I had never been inside it before.

At least, I didn’t think I had.

The door stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

The smell hit me immediately.

Damp earth.

Rust.

And roses.

Inside, beneath a layer of dust, stood a small wooden table. On it lay a rusted key, a silver-framed photograph, and a folded piece of paper.

I reached for the photograph first.

Two women stood beside a fountain.

One was Adrian’s dead wife.

The other was me.

Not a woman who looked like me.

Not a stranger wearing my face.

Me.

I recognized the small scar beneath my left eye. I recognized the silver ring on my finger.

And I recognized the expression on my face.

I was smiling.

The woman beside me had one hand resting on my shoulder. Her head leaned against mine, and her eyes were bright with laughter.

On the back of the photograph, someone had written a date.

Twenty years ago.

I dropped it.

That was impossible.

I had been a child twenty years ago.

Unless

My gaze returned to the picture.

A chill crept through my body as I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.

The woman standing beside me was wearing a necklace.

A delicate silver chain with a small black stone hanging from it.

I had seen that necklace before.

It was in my bedroom.

Inside the locked drawer of the dressing table.

The same necklace Adrian had warned me never to wear.

I snatched up the folded paper.

The handwriting was hurried, the ink faded in places.

If you’re reading this, then he has brought you back again.

My fingers tightened around the page.

You must not trust Adrian.

I swallowed.

You must not trust the woman in the mirror.

A gust of wind rattled the shed.

I turned toward the door.

The final line had been written in darker ink, as though the person who wrote it had pressed the pen so hard that it nearly tore through the paper.

And whatever you do, do not let him discover that you remember who killed you.

A sound came from behind me.

The soft click of a lock.

I turned.

The shed door had closed.

I rushed toward it and pulled the handle.

It wouldn’t move.

“No. No, no, no.”

I threw my weight against the wood.

“Open the door!”

A voice answered from the other side.

“I’m sorry, Elena.”

Adrian.

I slammed my fists against the door.

“Let me out!”

“I can’t.”

“Adrian, open this door!”

Silence.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning.

I stepped away from the door.

My breath caught in my throat.

The key I’d found on the table was gone.

I looked down.

My fingers were empty.

The photograph lay on the floor, faceup.

But the women in it had changed.

The woman beside me was no longer smiling.

She was looking directly at the camera, her expression solemn.

And behind us, standing in the shadow of the fountain, was Adrian.

He was holding a knife.

I stumbled backward.

The photograph slid across the floor as though pushed by an invisible hand.

Then the lights went out.

I screamed.

Something moved in the darkness.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

I heard the scrape of a chair, followed by the faint rustle of fabric.

Then a woman’s voice spoke directly beside my ear.

“You finally found us.”

I couldn’t move.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

A cold hand closed around mine.

The fingers felt exactly like my own.

“You already know.”

A match struck.

For one brief second, the shed filled with light.

And I saw her.

The other Elena stood in front of me, her white dress stained with earth, her hair tangled around her face.

But this time, she wasn’t smiling.

She looked exhausted.

Terrified.

Dead.

She lifted her free hand and pointed toward the floor.

I followed her gaze.

A trapdoor lay beneath my feet.

Its wooden surface was covered in scratches.

Scratches that looked horribly like fingernail marks.

The woman leaned closer.

“That’s where he put us.”

My throat tightened.

“Us?”

She nodded.

Then she whispered the words that shattered whatever remained of my sanity.

“You weren’t his second wife, Elena.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“You were his first.”

The trapdoor rattled beneath us.

Something on the other side began to knock.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The other Elena squeezed my hand.

“Don’t open it,” she whispered.

The knocking grew louder.

And from beneath the floorboards, a man’s voice called my name.

Not Adrian’s.

A voice I had heard before.

A voice I had spent twenty years trying to forget.

“Sweetheart,” it said.

“It’s time to come home.”