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, playing Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Both idyllically add noise to the space, covering his sound, creating a shield he counts on.
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.