Wren Ashby

Delete It

The porch light was in the third photograph. I almost missed it.

Nathan and Owen were standing on the porch with beers in their hands while Lena leaned between them, smiling at whoever had the camera. It was getting dark, but there was still enough light to see the fixture above Nathan’s head. White glass. Black metal. Crooked. One side hung lower than the other like someone had hit it with something and decided fixing it could wait.

I opened Chapter One. I remember the porch light that never worked.

“Come on.”

A picture couldn’t tell me whether the damn thing actually worked. I knew that. But now I had the bracelet, the chipped blue mug, the red blanket, the house name, and a crooked porch light that I’d somehow written into a story before remembering any of them.

At some point coincidence starts looking a little stupid.

I picked up my phone and opened the message again. Now look at the porch light.

I typed back. Who are you?

Nothing. Then: How do you know what’s in these pictures?

Still nothing. I waited, refreshed the page once, then twice. Nothing. Finally I typed: Were you there?

No response.

“Fuck you.”

I tossed the phone onto the bed. A few seconds later, it buzzed. Of course it did. I grabbed it. New private message from @LenaLived.

I opened it. Keep looking.

That was it.

“Very helpful.”

I called Claire. She didn’t answer. I called again. Voicemail. By the third call I was pacing the guest room with the photograph still in my hand.

She finally picked up. “Jesus, Mara.”

“Blackwater was real.”

Silence. Not confusion. Not what are you talking about? Just silence.

I stopped walking. “Claire?”

“Of course it was real.”

That wasn’t the answer I expected. “What?”

“The house.”

“You knew it was called Blackwater?”

“Yes.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You knew.”

“Mara, we were there.”

“No, I mean you knew that was the name.”

“Yes.”

“And when I named my story The Last Night at Blackwater, you didn’t think that was weird?”

“I assumed you remembered.”

“I didn’t.”

She let out a breath. “So you forgot the name of a house we stayed in twenty years ago.”

“It’s not just the name.” I looked down at the pictures all over the floor. “The blue mug was there. The red blanket. The porch light. Lena’s bracelet.”

Claire didn’t say anything.

“All of it is in these pictures.”

“So?”

I stood back up because apparently sitting still was no longer an option. “So I wrote all of it before I opened this box.”

“They’re your pictures, Mara.”

“I know they’re my pictures.”

“Then you’ve seen them before.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

I opened my mouth and then shut it again. Because honestly? I had no idea. I didn’t know if I was accusing my own brain of lying to me or Claire of hiding something or some random internet creep of knowing way too much. All I knew was that none of it felt good.

“I don’t remember remembering any of this,” I finally said.

Claire sighed. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

“Apparently my brain likes surprises.”

“Mara.”

“What?”

There was a pause. Then she said, “Delete the story.”

I went still. “What?”

“Delete Blackwater.“

I actually laughed. Not because it was funny. More because that felt like one hell of a jump. “You’ve been reading it every week.”

“I know.”

“You said you liked it.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Since yesterday?”

“Since you started calling me three times in a row because of a porch light.”

“That’s not why I called.”

“It’s exactly why you called.”

I looked back at the message. Keep looking.

“They knew about it.”

“And you don’t know how.”

“Exactly.”

“Which means you’re going to tear your house apart trying to figure it out.”

“Probably.”

“That’s my point.”

I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see me. “Very supportive.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Her voice dropped a little. “Nothing good is going to come from digging through that weekend again.”

That got my attention. “Why?”

“Because it was awful.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Mara.”

“Is there something you haven’t told me?”

The line went quiet. Long enough that I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure we were still connected.

“Claire?”

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I cannot believe we’re doing this again.”

“Doing what?”

“This. Lena. That night. The police. All the questions.”

I looked down at the picture in my hand. Five of us smiling at a camera. Lena right in the middle.

“Why did we tell the police she wandered off?”

Claire didn’t answer right away.

“Because that’s what we thought happened.”

I frowned. “Thought?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Mara.”

“Did we actually see her leave?”

Another pause. “What?”

“Did any of us see Lena walk out of that house?”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“I’m asking one question.”

“One the police asked twenty years ago.”

“Yeah, well, my memory of that night is complete shit, so humor me.”

Nothing. I sat back down. “I remember the police station,” I said. “I remember the searches. I remember Lena’s dad. I remember us saying she’d been drinking.” That part was easy. Too easy sometimes. “But I don’t remember seeing her leave.”

Claire stayed quiet.

“Do you?”

“No.”

Finally.

“Did Nathan?”

“I don’t know.”

“Owen?”

“I don’t know.”

“So who saw her leave?”

“Mara.”

“Who?”

Claire’s voice changed. Not much. Just enough.

“Delete the story.”

A chill moved over my arms. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because this is messing with your head.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer I’m giving you.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You can be both.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why do you care if I keep writing?”

“Because you’re remembering.”

Everything in me stopped. “What?”

Claire inhaled. “I said you’re remembering things. The mug, the blanket, whatever else. Obviously that’s where the story is coming from.”

I stared at the carpet. “That’s not how you meant it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh my God, Mara.”

“You said it like—”

“Like what?”

I didn’t know. Like a warning. Like we’d had this conversation before.

I closed my eyes. And suddenly Claire wasn’t forty anymore. She was nineteen. Her hand was wrapped around my wrist. Too tight. Dark polish on her nails, chipped at the edges. Her face close to mine.

Stop crying.

My eyes opened. I stared down at my wrist. Nothing there. Of course there wasn’t.

“Mara?”

I couldn’t answer.

“Mara.”

“I have to go.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Go quiet and then hang up.”

I almost laughed. “You just told me to delete my story.”

“Because it’s fucking with your head.”

“Maybe.”

“It is.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Mara, wait—”

I hung up.

For the next hour I tried to remember Claire grabbing my wrist. The real Claire. Not the one in Blackwater. The image had been clear. Her fingers around me. Dark nail polish. Stop crying. But there was nothing attached to it. No room. No reason I was crying. No idea what happened before or after. Just that one little piece.

Which was super fucking useful.

I knew better than to trust one flash of memory. Give your brain one detail and it can build an entire scene around it without asking permission. I’d basically made a career out of doing that.

So I stopped. For almost three hours. Honestly, that felt like progress.

Then I opened Chapter Four of The Last Night at Blackwater.

Claire was the first one to realize Emily was gone.

At least, that’s what she told the police.

I believed her for twenty years.

Now I’m not sure I believe anything Claire said that morning.

I stared at the paragraph. Deleted it. Typed it again. Then sat there looking at Claire’s name.

She wasn’t supposed to still be Claire. When I’d started writing Blackwater, I’d used a few real names as placeholders because sometimes naming fictional people was somehow harder than deciding how to murder them. Everyone else’s name eventually changed.

Claire’s didn’t.

I’d tried. More than once. I highlighted it and typed:

Rachel.

Rachel was the first one to realize Emily was gone.

“Nope.”

It sounded wrong. I changed it back.

Claire.

Better. Which was a little annoying. I left it and kept writing.

The police asked about the argument.

Claire told them there hadn’t been one.

That was the first lie.

There had been an argument. I heard it from upstairs.

Emily’s voice came first.

“You don’t get to decide what happens to me.”

Claire answered, but too quietly for me to hear.

I came halfway down the stairs.

Emily saw me. Claire didn’t.

“Tell her,” Emily said.

I had no idea what she meant.

Claire turned. When she saw me, her face changed.

“Go back upstairs.”

I should have stayed. Instead, I went back to my room.

Twenty minutes later, Emily was gone.

I stopped typing. My heart was beating way too fast for someone sitting at a desk doing absolutely nothing.

It wasn’t the scene. It was that line.

You don’t get to decide what happens to me.

I knew it. Not in a hey, that’s a pretty good sentence way. I knew the damn sentence.

I pushed away from the desk so fast the chair rolled backward.

“No.”

I went into the kitchen and filled a glass with wine because apparently wine was going to solve this. My hand shook enough that half of it ended up on the counter.

You don’t get to decide what happens to me.

Lena’s voice. Angry. Crying. Maybe both.

I closed my eyes and tried to see more. Nothing. No face. No room. No idea who she was talking to. Just her voice.

“Great.”

I’d spent days thinking about Lena. Looking at pictures. Reading old articles. Claire had gotten into my head, and @LenaLived had definitely gotten into my head. Of course my brain was doing weird shit.

Perfectly reasonable. Totally normal.

I went back to the laptop and deleted the sentence. Then stared at the blank space. It bothered me.

I tried: Stay out of it.

No. Deleted.

Leave me alone.

Worse. I deleted that too.

Then put the original back.

You don’t get to decide what happens to me.

There. Right. I hated that it felt right.

I published Chapter Four Thursday at six. By 6:04, readers had decided Claire killed Emily. By 6:07, someone had created #ClaireDidIt.

Honestly, I respected the speed.

At 6:12, another comment appeared. WAIT. Why is Claire the only character whose name you didn’t change from the real group??

I stared at it. Well. There it was.

Someone replied underneath. OMG I DIDN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT THAT

Then another: Mara blink twice if we should be scared of Claire 😂

A week ago, that would’ve made me laugh. Tonight, not so much.

I closed the blog. My phone rang ten minutes later. Claire. I watched it ring until it stopped. Then came a text.

You published it.

I didn’t answer.

Another one came through. After our conversation, you actually published that.

I typed: It’s fiction. Remember?

The typing dots appeared. Stopped. Then: Call me.

I didn’t.

Instead, I opened the blog again. Nothing from @LenaLived. I refreshed. Still nothing.

Maybe Claire was right. Maybe this person had already gotten exactly what they wanted. I was digging through old pictures, questioning my own memory, ignoring Claire’s calls, and basically doing all the work for them.

Pretty successful week on their end.

I was about to close the laptop when a private-message notification popped up. @LenaLived.

I opened it. For once there was no number. No instruction. Just one sentence.

She always did tell you what to do.

I read it again. She. No name. They didn’t need one.

I looked at the chapter I’d just published. Claire telling Emily what to do. Claire sending Anna upstairs. Claire deciding when the conversation was over.

Then I looked at my phone. Call me. Same Claire who’d spent the last two weeks telling me to block the account, stop digging, delete the story, and now call her.

The memory flashed again. Claire’s fingers around my wrist. Dark polish. Too tight.

Stop crying.

Then nothing.

I picked up my phone. Not to call Claire. I opened my contacts.

Nathan Cole. I hadn’t spoken to him in years.

Owen Mercer. Same.

Then Claire Donovan.

Three people besides me had been inside that house with Lena. Three people who might remember the things I didn’t. 12:17. The argument. Who saw Lena leave.

And maybe I’d spent too much time asking Claire what she remembered.

I looked at Nathan’s name. Then Owen’s.

Maybe it was time to ask someone else.