Chapter 4 "Candlelight"
EMBER
Monday morning arrived with the kind of grey, oppressive sky that promised rain but never delivered. Ember woke with a headache that had nothing to do with Friday night she'd slept most of Saturday and all of Sunday, her body demanding rest she couldn't refuse.
Now, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she looked almost normal. The dark circles under her eyes had faded. The queasiness in her stomach had settled. Even the strange tenderness in her body had dulled to something she could ignore.
"You ready?" Maya called from their room. "We've got Morrison's lecture in twenty minutes, and you know he locks the door if you're late."
Ember grabbed her toothbrush. "Almost."
She'd decided not to think about Friday night. There was nothing to think about, really. She'd gotten drunk embarrassingly, stupidly drunk and passed out somewhere at the party. Maya had found her and brought her home. End of story.
The gaps in her memory were just that gaps. Alcohol induced blackouts were normal, weren't they? Everyone had stories about nights they couldn't quite remember.
So why did her hands shake every time she tried to recall where she'd been?
"Em, seriously, we need to go!"
"Coming!"
Ember grabbed her backpack and followed Maya out of their dorm. The campus was already bustling with students rushing to Monday morning classes, coffee cups in hand, earbuds blocking out the world. Everything looked painfully normal.
They were halfway across the quad when they noticed the crowd.
At least fifty students clustered near the fountain in front of the student union, their voices low and urgent. More were joining every minute, phones out, heads bent together.
"What's going on?" Maya asked, frowning.
A girl Ember recognized from her sociology class turned toward them, her face pale. "You guys haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Tyler Brett died. They found him dead in his room early Saturday morning."
The world tilted slightly. Ember grabbed Maya's arm to steady herself.
"Wait, what?" Maya's voice rose. "Tyler Brett from Delta Sigma?"
"Yeah. I don't know all the details, but apparently it was sudden. Like, really sudden. He was fine at the party Friday night, and then..." The girl made a helpless gesture.
Other voices chimed in:
"I heard it was a heart attack"
"No way, he was an athlete, totally healthy"
"My roommate said it was drugs. Like, an overdose or something"
"That doesn't make sense, Tyler didn't do drugs"
Ember felt like she was underwater again, sounds muffled and distant. Tyler Brett. The name echoed in her head, familiar but disconnected. Had she met him Friday night? She couldn't remember meeting anyone, really. Just fragments the cup Sienna had given her, the bathroom, the hallway
"Em? You okay?" Maya was staring at her. "You look like you're going to pass out."
"I'm fine. Just, that's horrible. He was our age."
"Twenty years old," someone else said. "Can you imagine? His parents must be devastated."
The crowd continued to grow, phones buzzing with incoming texts and social media updates. Ember caught glimpses of screens photos of Tyler in his basketball uniform, screenshots of his Instagram, messages of disbelief and grief.
"The university is holding a vigil tonight," the sociology girl said. "Candlelight memorial at the fountain. Seven PM."
Maya pulled Ember away from the crowd, toward the humanities building where their lecture waited. "That's so fucked up," she muttered. "I mean, I didn't know him well, but still. Twenty years old."
"Yeah," Ember whispered.
She should feel something, shouldn't she? Shock? Sadness? But all she felt was a strange, creeping unease she couldn't name.
They made it to Morrison's lecture with thirty seconds to spare. The professor was already at the podium, arranging his notes, but even he seemed distracted. Half the class was missing probably still gathered at the fountain, processing the news.
"Before we begin," Professor Morrison said, his voice heavy, "I want to acknowledge the loss our community suffered this weekend. For those who knew Tyler Brett, counseling services are available. For everyone else take care of each other. These tragedies remind us how fragile life can be."
He paused, cleared his throat, and opened his textbook. "Now, let's turn to chapter seven. The role of collective trauma in shaping cultural narratives..."
Ember tried to focus, she really did. But the words blurred together, meaningless. Her pen hovered over her notebook, not writing anything. Beside her, Maya was actually taking notes, but her handwriting was messier than usual.
Tyler Brett was dead.
A student who'd been at the same party she'd been at.
A student who'd been alive Friday night and dead by Saturday morning.
Stop it, Ember told herself. People die. It's horrible, but it happens. It has nothing to do with you.
But the unease remained, settling in her stomach like a stone.
CATHERINE BRETT
Catherine Brett hadn't slept since the phone call.
Saturday morning, 5:47 AM. She'd been in the kitchen, making coffee, thinking about the errands she needed to run that day. And then her phone had rung, and a calm, professional voice had shattered her entire world.
Mrs. Brett? This is Detective Sarah Monroe with the Hollow Creek Police Department. I'm calling about your son, Tyler...
The rest was fragments. Words like "deceased" and "unexpected" and "so sorry for your loss." Catherine had dropped her coffee mug. It had shattered on the tile floor, but she hadn't moved to clean it up. She'd just stood there, phone pressed to her ear, while her husband David came running.
Now, Monday morning, they sat in the police station waiting room, holding hands like they might drown if they let go.
"Mr. and Mrs. Brett?"
Detective Monroe was younger than Catherine had expected late thirties, with sharp eyes and a kind face. She shook their hands with a firm grip.
"Thank you for coming in. I know this is incredibly difficult, but we need to ask you some questions about Tyler. And..." She hesitated. "I need to prepare you. Viewing the body can be traumatic, even under the best circumstances."
"We need to see him," David said, his voice rough. "We need to know it's really"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Detective Monroe nodded. "I understand. Before we go down, can you tell me about Tyler's health? Any pre existing conditions? Heart problems, allergies, medications?"
"Nothing," Catherine said. "He was perfectly healthy. Athletic. He had a physical last year for basketball everything was fine."
"Any history of drug use?"
"No." David's voice was firm. "Tyler didn't do drugs. He barely drank. He was serious about basketball, about his future."
"What about his mental health? Any depression, anxiety, stress?"
Catherine shook her head, though something twisted in her chest. When was the last time she'd really talked to Tyler? Really asked how he was doing? He'd seemed fine at Thanksgiving. Busy with school, excited about the basketball season. But had she missed something? Had there been signs?
"He seemed happy," she whispered. "He loved school."
Detective Monroe made notes. "One more question, and I apologize for asking, but we have to be thorough. Was Tyler sexually active?"
Catherine blinked. "I, I don't know. Probably? He's twenty years old, he's in college. Why does that matter?"
"Just covering all bases." Monroe closed her notebook. "If you're ready, I'll take you to the medical examiner's office."
The morgue was in the basement cold, sterile, smelling of chemicals that made Catherine's eyes water. A woman in scrubs met them at the door, introducing herself as Dr. Patricia waters, the medical examiner.
"I want to warn you," Dr. Waters said gently, "Tyler's body shows some unusual characteristics. We're still determining the cause of death, but there are visual elements that may be distressing."
"We don't care," David said. "We need to see our son."
Dr. Waters led them into a room with a single examination table. A white sheet covered a human shaped form.
Catherine's knees went weak. David's arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her upright.
"Whenever you're ready," Dr. Waters said softly.
David nodded.
The doctor pulled back the sheet, revealing Tyler's face.
Catherine's breath caught. It was him her son, her baby boy but wrong. So wrong. His skin was too pale, almost grey. His eyes were closed, but she could see the dark circles beneath them. His mouth was slightly open, as if he'd been trying to say something.
"Oh, Tyler," she whispered, reaching out to touch his cold cheek. "Oh, my baby."
David made a sound like a wounded animal. His whole body shook.
"What happened to him?" Catherine demanded, her voice breaking. "He looks like he was in pain. Was he in pain?"
"We believe the end came quickly," Dr. Waters said, which wasn't really an answer.
Catherine's eyes traveled down to Tyler's chest, his arms and stopped at his forehead.
"What is that?"
A mark, vivid red against his pale skin, marred his forehead just above his eyebrows. It was perfectly circular, with an intricate pattern inside almost like a flower, with petals and thorns extending outward.
"We're not certain," Dr. Waters admitted. "It appeared post mortem, or possibly during the acute event that caused his death. It's not a burn, exactly, though it resembles one. And it's still" She paused. "It's still warm to the touch, which is highly unusual."
Catherine leaned closer, studying the mark. Something about it nagged at her, a memory hovering just out of reach.
A circle. A flower. Thorns.
Where had she seen this before?
And then it hit her not a memory of seeing, but of hearing. A story her grandmother used to tell, back when Catherine was a little girl visiting her in this very town. Back when Hollow Creek had been smaller, quieter, before the university brought all these students.
The Scarlet Woman, her grandmother had called it. A cautionary tale about a woman who'd been cursed for her sins, who'd brought death to any man who touched her. Catherine had been terrified of that story as a child, had hidden under her blankets afterward.
But it had just been a story. A folk tale. Something to scare children into behaving.
Hadn't it?
Catherine stared at the mark on her son's forehead, and for just a moment, she could hear her grandmother's voice: "They say you can always tell the Scarlet Woman's victims by the mark she leaves behind. A rose blooming in blood..."
"Mrs. Brett?"
Catherine jerked back to the present. Detective Monroe was watching her with concern.
"Sorry, I just" She shook her head. "It reminded me of something. An old story. But it's nothing. Just a coincidence."
"What kind of story?" Monroe asked, her detective instincts clearly piqued.
"Just an old folk tale my grandmother used to tell. About a woman who was cursed centuries ago. It's not real, obviously. Just superstition."
But even as she said it, doubt crept in. Because that mark was exactly as her grandmother had described it. Exactly.
David hadn't noticed the exchange. He was bent over their son's body, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Catherine turned back to him, to Tyler, and forced the superstitious thoughts away.
Her son was dead. That was the only reality that mattered.
The how and why those were questions for doctors and detectives.
Not folk tales.