The Painted Flame

Steam rises off Carrie’s chai as she sits back and takes in the scene around her. A barista pops in and out of view as he mixes drinks behind the counter. A musician sporting a flatbill and Hawaiian shirt clasps shut a guitar case dense with stickers. And six feet away, James grins through his scholarly glasses. His smile stretches into words.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“You’re beautiful,” she smiles back.

Carrie’s pencil traces the outline of his broad shoulders against the couch that someone bought hoping it would someday be described as “rustic.” She bites the eraser and gazes at her husband’s smile, now staring back at her from behind the blue bars confining him to the pages of her notepad. The real, flesh and blood James pushes a pen across a crossword puzzle with a pleased smirk. “Zenith. Four letters… apex,” he whispers to himself.

“They look good on you,” she says, still looking at the page.

“What?”

“Your glasses,” looking up, “I feel like I’m married to a professor.”

He blushes. “I thought you hated them?”

“Ok first off, I never hated them! I just didn’t think they were you! But, I was wrong. They’ve grown on me.”

“Ok,” he laughs, accepting her answer. “Maybe if I was a professor, I could figure out this clue,” he sighs, tapping the crossword with his pen. “This one’s more in your field.”

“Oh yeah? You need my help?” she teases.

He raises his eyes and reads “French Impressionist. Six letters.”

She thinks for all of three seconds. “Renoir.”

Back to sketching. A middle-aged man and a younger man lean over black coffee at a table against the wall. Their muffled tones sound serious. The young man’s collar is mirrored on Carrie’s pad.

“Father and son?” she whispers. Conspiracy blooms in James’s face as he sneaks a glance.

“No way. Mentor,” he replies.

“Interesting! Why do you think that?”

“The younger guy isn’t missing a single word. That means he expects to learn something.”

“You didn’t learn anything from your father?”

“Sure I did, some. But dads just give you advice whether you want it or not.” He tilts his head toward the pair. “That looks solicited.”

“Maybe he’s just a good listener,” she reasons. Her phone buzzes.

“Capital of Grand Canyon State… Phoenix,” James narrates. But Carrie is too caught up in the text to hear him.

“Honey?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember Liam?”

James’s face flattens slightly. He remembers Liam. “Yeah, sure, I remember. Your, uh, your friend from WashU?”

“Right. He’s back in town.”

“Oh.” His face twists with the news. “He’s from here? I thought he was from St. Louis since he stayed there after college.”

“No, he stayed to be with Sarah. But he’s saying he just moved back because they broke up. Poor Liam! He’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, poor Liam,” James says, a little thinly.

“We should take him to dinner, babe.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes! Liam needs friends right now. He needs support. That’s why he moved back. I need to be there for him.”

“And I need to be there for you.”

Her lips tighten. “Yes, babe. You do.”

“Right, of course! Liam’s having a rough time, let’s get dinner with Liam. Fine by me!”

“I know he’s not really your kind of person, but he’s hurting deeply. He needs me to be his friend right now.”

Straight-faced, he looks her in the eyes. “I understand, Cair-Bear. Let’s get dinner with him.”

The waitress sets a glass of wine in front of Liam. “Thank you,” he says with a genuine look of gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” the waitress responds.

Liam looks like he belongs here. His dark beard and black denim jacket fit the modern minimalist décor of the restaurant so well, he might have walked out of a catalogue.

“So, Liam,” James says, tabling his IPA, “I didn’t realize you’re actually from Tulsa. Somehow I thought you were from Missouri?”

“Nope! From the 918! Went to Edison, actually. I just went to WashU because they have such a good art program. But I don’t have to tell you it’s a good art school, since you married one of its best students!” Liam says, tossing his eyes toward Carrie.

“C’mon Liam!” she protests jokingly.

“Edison, huh? Did you like it?” James continues.

“I mean, it was high school, but sure, I liked it. What about you? Where did you go?”

James’s shoulders shift a little. “Cascia,” he says. He almost hides being proud of the answer. Liam nods his recognition, then looks off to the side.

“Are you ok, Liam?” Carrie asks, tenderly.

He sighs. “I… I will be. I just didn’t expect this. Not this,” he says, to no one in particular. “We were talking about kids and stuff, you know? And then it just… man, it came out of nowhere.”

Carrie hangs on every word. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. James nods his agreement automatically.

“Thanks,” Liam says, a smile re-emerging. “I figured, after all that, I need to get back to my roots. That whole city just reminds me of her. Everywhere I go, there’s a memory of us together. That’s why I’m back. And hey, maybe this will open up new opportunities! Maybe it was all meant to be.”

“I hope so!” says Carrie, placing her hand on his.

“So what’s your plan for right now? Are you looking for a job?” James asks.

“Not right away. I’m going to take some time to center myself, enjoy the city, see friends. Just… restoration time, you know?”

“Yeah, makes sense.”

“Plus, it will give me time to paint.”

“Yes! Painting!” Carrie exclaims. “I haven’t painted in so long! Do you still have the one I did of you?”

“I do!” says Liam, echoing her excitement, “Sarah wouldn’t let me keep it around since you and me used to date. But I can bring it out now!”

“Yes! You should!”

“You’ve never painted a picture of me!” James grumbles, trying to sound playful.

“Oh babe, I draw you all the time! I will paint you someday, I promise.”

He smiles at her, she smiles back, and they share a kiss.

“I can’t believe you’re not painting, Carrie,” says Liam. “You were always so good.”

“Well, I keep it alive. Sure, graphic design doesn’t quite scratch that itch, but it’s still art. And I sketch all the time.”

“All the time,” James adds, half-joking.

“But you’re right. I guess at some point I let life get in the way of my passion.”

“Don’t,” urges Liam. “That happens to too many of us. Honestly, I think it happened to Sarah. Passion is what makes us alive. The day you let it go, you start dying, bit by bit, on the inside. You start caring too much about stocks and calendars, you get bitter, and before you know it, you’re no fun anymore. Don’t let that happen to you, Carrie. To either of you.” He looks back and forth at the two of them, pleadingly.

“You’re right,” Carrie nods. “Babe, what are you passionate about?”

James thinks for a second, and then a mischievous grin breaks out across his face. “Beer?” Carrie puts her hand on James’s thigh as they all laugh and take sips from their glasses.

Arriving home, still laughing, Carrie kicks her shoes off just inside the door. James follows and closes it behind him. Carrie heads to the bedroom, shedding her cardigan as she goes. As James hangs his jacket, he calls “You wanna watch something, babe?”

“Yeah!” She calls back.

“Great.” He turns on a lamp. “What about The Witcher?”

“I’m feeling Stranger Things,” she says from behind the half-closed bedroom door. “Could you do Stranger Things?”

“I can do Stranger Things.”

“Let’s watch that then!”

“Cool,” he says. He heads for the kitchen, where he cracks open a bottle of Michelob and takes a sip. A moment later, Carrie emerges from the bedroom wearing a t-shirt and cheer shorts, her hair in a loose bun. “Well, it sounds like Liam’s gonna be okay,” James says, his eyes roving over the contents of the open fridge.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s really terrible how Sarah treated him though.”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” James says as he opens a container. The food inside doesn’t interest him. “He, uh, he didn’t deserve that.”

“Not at all,” Carrie says, concern etching her face.

“You gotta admit though, that speech about ‘passion’ was kind of cheesy,” he says, smirking at the memory as he closes the fridge door. “Is he like that all the time?”

“It wasn’t cheesy! You’re not being sensitive!” Carrie objects. James stops in place, standing in the doorframe between kitchen and living room.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not taking Liam seriously. His pain is real.”

“I never said I wasn’t taking him seriously.”

“Well, are you?”

James clenches his jaw. “Of course I am. It totally sucks to lose the person most important in the world to you. I feel for Liam. I really do. Sorry if it sounded like I didn’t.”

Carrie considers his answer for a moment. “That’s ok. I believe you.”

“Great,” James responds.

“So… ice cream?” Carrie suggests.

“Sure! I’ll grab us some bowls.”

“Thank you, love!”

James turns back to the kitchen, taking a big drink. His beer is nearly empty. “Give me a second. I’m going to take this bottle out to the recycling,” he calls.

“Okay!”

He throws open the back door and descends the steps. It’s colder outside than he remembered. A neighbor’s dog barks loudly nearby. James strolls to the blue can and finishes off the bottle in a single swig. He grabs the can’s lid, but pauses. For a few seconds, he stares at the lid, thoughts racing through his head. Suddenly he hurls the bottle against the wall with all his strength. The bottle explodes into shards of glass and droplets of suds. He stands, breathing heavily, surveying the damage, then notices a streak of red. His hand is bleeding. He regains control of himself and goes back inside.

After quickly rinsing the wound, he scoops Edy’s into a couple bowls and returns to the living room. As he approaches the couch, Carrie looks up from her phone.

“Hey, I’m sorry I jumped all over you, babe,” she says. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

“Oh, no, it’s ok!” he says, his tone suggesting he hasn’t given the matter a second thought.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, handing her a bowl.

“Ok, good.” She smiles. She takes a spoonful of ice cream. After enjoying the bite, she notices the line of bright red on James’s hand as he lifts the spoon to his lips. “What’s this?” she says, taking his hand in hers to examine it. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m fine. Let’s watch Stranger Things.”

“Okay, let’s!” She nestles herself against his shoulder as he raises the remote and their eyes turn to the screen.

Carrie straightens pillows and picks up dishes, tidying up the living room. The front door opens to reveal James, sweaty and breathing heavy from his morning run.

“Can I help you with that?” James offers.

“No, I’ve got it.”

James distractedly walks to the bedroom to take off his running shoes. After stowing his airpods, he returns to the living room, determined to help. He walks in just in time to see Carrie, satisfaction filling her face, lighting a candle on the coffee table, capping off her cleaning job as if she’s just served a birthday cake. “Ahhh… all done!” She announces, smelling the candle.

“Nice, babe. You’d never know we stayed up eating ice cream and fell asleep on the couch. This place is ready for a visit from the Queen.”

She laughs, accepting the flattery. “Oh, she’s coming! Any minute now, one of those palace guards is going to knock on the door, and there she’ll be!”

“I’d better take a shower then! I’m gross!”

“Yeah, you’re pretty gross,” she says, looking him up and down in mock appraisal. He walks back to the bathroom, chuckling. Carrie settles down on the couch with a book of poems and pushes her hair back over her ear. James turns the water on and checks the temperature before stripping off his shirt. He turns on some tunes. Carrie hears the music, but isn’t distracted from her reading. That is, not until her phone buzzes. Her eyes narrow as she reads the text and considers how to respond, then puts her fingers to work.

“Hey babe?” she calls, as she finishes typing. “Babe?” No response. “James?”

“Yeah!” The music stops.

Her face appears in the bathroom. “I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Ok, cool. Where you going?”

“The Philbrook.”

“Cool. It’s a great day to check out the gardens.”

“Or look at the art!”

“Right, of course. Have fun!” He says, turning the water back on.

“Thanks!” She turns to leave.

“Oh hey, you going with anybody?” he calls after her.

“Going with Liam! See you, my love!” The door closes.

“Did… did you say Liam? Carrie?” He yells. But she is gone. He stares through the cloudy shower door for a moment, then shakes his head. “Damn it.”

In her haste to meet with Liam, Carrie forgot to blow out the candle.

Patches of sunlight break up the rich carpeted halls at the museum as Carrie and Liam meander from room to room. The museum was built as an Italian-style villa, and classical sculptures dotting its interior make the place feel timeless, or like it exists in all times all at once.

“I’ve missed the Philbrook,” says Liam. “I never appreciated it as a kid, but I remember coming here on a field trip in 10th grade and seeing it with new eyes.”

“I know, it was the same with me,” says Carrie. They stop to admire a statue of a young woman dancing in a fountain. “I remember feeling a connection with her. She’s so free. She enjoys life so much. You can see it in how high she’s jumping, arms in the air, not a care in the world.”

“Makes you want to jump in with her.”

“Yeah, it does.” A beat passes. Liam keeps looking at the statue, but Carrie’s eyes fall to Liam. “So, do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” He grins, knowingly.

“Come on, Liam! I’m trying to be helpful here!” She laughs, lightly smacking his shoulder with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry!” He laughs back. “But no, not really. It’s okay that you asked, but I think I got it all out at dinner.”

“Fair,” she responds. They leave the frolicking statue behind and enter the next room.

“What about you? We’ve talked about my life plenty. Are you doing alright?”

“Oh yes. Work’s going well, I love the city, and James is a dream.” She thinks for a second. “I hope he didn’t seem stand-offish at dinner yesterday.”

“What? No.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely! James is great.”

“Ok. It’s just, I know he can be kind of aloof sometimes. But he really cares and he means well.”

“I’m sure he does. Like I said, I didn’t notice anything weird. I like James! You don’t need to apologize for him.”

“I know I don’t. I just want to sometimes. I know sometimes he can be hard to read. I guess I just want everyone to love him as much as I love him.”

Liam nods slightly. “I know what you mean.” They arrive at a medieval painting of a monk. Blood trickles from a wound in his chest where a knife is protruding. Another knife rests lodged in his skull. The monk, apparently fully alive and conscious, wears a surprised, slightly cross-eyed expression on his face, making the painting bizarrely humorous.

“This guy is having a rough day,” jokes Carrie.

“This is pretty much how I felt when Sarah dumped me,” Liam laughs.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it!” Carrie scolds him with a smile.

“Yeah, but that guy knows how I feel!” Their laughter relaxes as they approach The Shepherdess, the prize of the museum’s collection. A provincial French girl in her early teens, barefoot, gazes deeply back at them from beyond her frame, from a world of idyllic happiness.

“So serene. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as peaceful as her, but I can imagine what it would be like when I look in her eyes,” Liam muses.

“I feel like I know her,” Carrie responds, peering into the other world. “There’s just so much spirit and personality in her face.”

“That’s what I really love about painting. The style, the bush strokes, the theory, that’s all great, but they’re all in service of the same thing. The true power of art.”

“And what is ‘the true power of art’?”

His mouth falls open as he considers how to phrase it. “It’s like… a painting doesn’t just capture someone’s appearance. In a way, it captures their soul too.” Carrie looks at him for a moment, dwelling on the words, then turns back to the girl in the painted world. As Carrie looks into the innocent face, she can’t help but think that Liam is right.

On her way home, Carrie decides to stop for some groceries. She texts James: “Need anything from the store?” By the time she parks, he hasn’t responded. Twenty minutes later, as she heads for the checkout, she checks her phone again. No new messages.

As Carrie pulls out of the parking lot, she decides to call. “Hey, this is James! Sorry I missed yo—” She hangs up. As she makes the turn into the neighborhood, a turn she’s made a thousand times before, red and blue lights seize her attention. Fire trucks. Firemen. They’re in front of her house—

The house is gone.

Carrie slams the brakes and almost hits her head on the windshield before spilling out of the car and running towards the scene. Neighbors gape at her, and she hears herself screaming “James! James!” The few remaining walls and the black smoke are all she can see. It takes her a moment to realize she’s being gripped by strong arms, held back at the waist by a firefighter, then two firefighters, their faces smeared black with soot and sweat.

“James! James!”

“Ma’am! Hold on a second! Can you hear me?”

“James!” She stretches her arms towards the billowing smoke. If she could just reach…

“Ma’am, listen! You can’t go in there!”

“Where is my husband?! Is James okay?”

“Ma’am, I need you to look at me. Can you look at me?” Carrie looks at the fire captain, her eyes filled with terror and confusion. “You need to brace yourself for some bad news.”

She pants, her mouth hanging open, her fists clenching the firefighters’ jackets. This can’t be happening. She struggles to break free of them again as she screams “No!!!”

The cause of the blaze was never discovered. Not a living soul knows that a single candle, forgotten on the coffee table, was to blame.

Months pass. Carrie comes home to her new apartment, where there is no one to greet her after a long day at work. The only sound is the distant noise of the city outside. She drops her keys in the bowl and dumps her bag on the floor in her bedroom, where she changes into leggings and a sweatshirt. Her next stop is the kitchen, where she emerges from the fridge with a box of Chinese takeout.

Sinking into the couch, she blankly checks her texts. “How are you doing?” “Are you ok?” “Hey, me and Dan are going out for dinner tonight. You should come!!” She responds to none of them. She drops the chopsticks back in her Lo Mein, then hesitates for a moment. She opens the photos app. Pictures of James, laughing and happy, fill her photo roll. Standing out against the dim room, the phone’s light dances on her face as she scrolls compulsively. Then she stops chewing. On her phone, the screen is filled with a picture of James cracking up as Carrie tries to feed him with chopsticks.

She sits, staring at the picture, unaware of anything else in the world. After several seconds, she musters the will to scroll past it. The next picture on the roll shows James in front of a painting, pretending to be its subject. And she remembers.

An aisle full of blank canvases of various sizes and aspect ratios present themselves to Carrie, waiting to be filled with meaning and color. She paces to the right, arms folded, before selecting one from the shelf. She looks it over, then turns for the counter before being halted by a familiar voice.

“Carrie?”

“Liam!” They hug. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you too!”

“I didn’t know you worked here!”

“Yeah, I started about a month ago. Got tired of not having money, you know.”

“Right.” “You haven’t answered my texts! I’ve been worried.”

“I haven’t been answering anyone’s texts. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s alright. I’m just glad you’re ok… are you ok?”

“Ok enough.”

“I see you’re painting.” He points at the canvas.

“Yeah,” she glances at the floor. “I was thinking yesterday about the night before the fire, when we all got dinner together. I promised I would do a painting of him. Do you remember that?”

He searches. “Yeah, that rings a bell.”

“Well, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to keep my last promise to him.”

“That’s beautiful, Carrie.”

“Thanks.” They smile comfortingly at each other.

“What are you going to use as a model?”

“Well, that is a bit of a problem. All our wedding photos and my sketches were lost in the fire, so I don’t have any pictures left of him except on my phone. But I know his face so well, I think I can paint him from memory.”

“If anyone can, you can.”

“Thanks, Liam.” She looks around, unsure what to say. “Well, this is all I came for…”

“Ah, well don’t let me keep you.”

“Ok. Glad I bumped into you!”

“Me too,” he says as she turns to leave. “And hey, Carrie?” She faces him. “If you need anything, you can always call me.”

She smiles. “Thanks, Liam. I really appreciate that.”

The canvas sits on the easel, still blank. Carrie stands, arms crossed, studying the easel from a few paces away. She taps her lip with her forefinger pensively, then turns and leaves the room. The canvas will remain unmarked for yet another day.

The next morning, she jumps out of bed the moment her alarm sounds, turning it off with unmistakable purpose. At the gym after work, she rides the stationary bike as hard as she ever has. She can’t wait to get home. By the time her keys splash in the bowl, she’s already reached the art room. She covers the desk with brushes and cans of paint. It’s time for the canvas to come to life.

A few hours later, she steps back to take in her progress. The lines suggest a face, broad shoulders, a man in abstract. It’s a start. Her satisfaction is disrupted by a smell. A strange, burned smell. “Oh,” she says, her face wrinkling, “what the hell is that?” She checks the kitchen, opening the microwave and the oven. Nothing. By the time she checks the stovetop, she can’t smell anything anymore. She sniffs the air to be sure. The smell is gone, if it was ever even there. She lights a candle just in case it comes back.

She prepares a cup of tea and sits down at the kitchen table with her laptop. She answers a few emails and window-shops on Amazon. After maybe half an hour, she carries her teacup to the sink and washes it out. As she turns back to the table, she notices the candle is no longer burning. Her surprise resolves itself quickly as she spies an open window in the bathroom. She closes it, then strikes another match and lights the candle anew.

In her next session, Carrie makes more progress on the painting. The gradients of skin and cloth begin to echo reality. The hair takes on dimension. She thinks she could almost run her hand through it and mess it up, like she used to. But the face isn’t close. This isn’t James yet.

Gazing at the canvas, her lip trembles, and a tear trickles down her cheek. She sniffles, her breath quivering. She is wiping her eyes as she notices that the smell has returned. There’s no mistaking it this time. The smell is real, and it’s stronger than it was before. It’s a sickening smell, like burned fat, burnt bacon grease but without the savory flavor.

Her tears dry on her reddened face as she investigates again. She checks high and low, inspecting every appliance in the kitchen. She checks the bathroom and the bedroom. Nothing. She shakes her head and lights a candle again. The apartment is washed clean with a wave of warm vanilla.

Carrie picks up a hardcover of The Last of the Mohicans and settles into the couch. After a few minutes, she rises to grab a blanket, and, just as she’s about to sit back down, she sees the candle is out again. She strolls to the bathroom to the close the window, but… the window is already closed. She checks the other windows in the apartment. All closed.

She lights the candle again and brings it back to the living room with her, where she sets it on the coffee table in front of the couch. She settles back down to start reading again. As she finishes the first sentence, the candle blows out, suddenly and forcefully, as if a gust of wind just blew through the apartment.

Her hands lose grip of the book, and it drops in her lap. A thin band of smoke twists away from the black wick. She stares at the candle, then shakes her head and shrugs it off. It’s late. She should call it a night. She changes for bed, takes a sleeping pill, then looks at herself in the mirror for a moment before sliding beneath the covers.

Sunlight wakes Carrie up the next morning. She sits up in bed, stretches, and blinks at the window. Chirping birds invite her to join the outside world. She laces up her runners and leaves the apartment. As she runs past trees and playing children, the crisp morning air filling her lungs, she starts to feel normal again. She comes to a stop, her chest rising and falling, and takes her earbuds out. It is a truly beautiful day.

At home, she takes a quick shower and eats a lunch of granola and berries. Then, it’s back to painting. The cheeks take form, and the mouth, then the eyes. She studies every inch of the portrait, licking her front teeth in concentration, adding a stroke here and there, applying the final touches. She puts the brush down and steps back to admire her work.

The man in the painting is definitely James. It’s so lifelike, one could almost imagine he is about to start talking or moving at any moment. It’s the best work she’s ever done. But somehow it feels too lifelike, almost hyperreal. And then she looks into the eyes. They seem to draw her in.

As she returns their gaze, she feels they are angry. Their stare carries a feeling of accusation, even hatred. But all the details are right. She’s imagining things. It’s her grief and survivor’s guilt talking. She knows that, the next time she looks at this canvas, she won’t see it this way.

Carrie grabs her keys and heads back to the art store. Despite the strange feeling she had when she looked at the eyes, she is glad the painting is finished and wants to get it on the wall. Once it’s in place, she tells herself, she will put art up around the rest of the apartment. No more empty, drab walls. At the store, she picks out a wooden frame. “Perfect,” she says as she plucks it from the shelf.

The next morning, Carrie wakes and immediately turns over to look at the frame, which is leaning against the wall of her bedroom, empty, ready to fulfill its purpose. She picks it up and heads for the art room. As she approaches the easel, she looks up from admiring the frame to look at the portrait.

The canvas is blank as it was the day she bought it.

Carrie’s mind races to come up with an explanation, but nothing comes. The canvas remains, but the painting is gone. James is gone. She shakes and starts to hyperventilate. She looks all around the room, but no answer presents itself. There has to be a reason, but what is it?

She has to calm down. She has to relax. How can she relax? The one thing she can think to do is take a hot shower. By force of will, she slows her breathing, then heads for the bathroom. She turns on the water and disrobes. Her skin is cold and covered with goose bumps. Rubbing her arms and shivering, she steps in.

The hot water feels amazing. Her tension and anxiety seem to melt away, lifted from her body in the warm vapor filling the air. She stands under the water, letting it wash over her. There’s nothing to worry about, she thinks. There must be an explanation she just hasn’t thought of. Head back, eyes closed, Carrie runs her hands through her hair as calm settles in.

The serenity of the moment does not last long. The soothing sounds of falling water clear her mind just long enough for her sadness to take center stage. She thinks of the painting, and of its subject. A sob escapes her as she says “James!” She hugs herself as she begins to cry. Her tears mix with the water and wash down the drain.

Her soft sobs continue, and she inhales deeply. That’s when she notices that something isn’t quite right. There’s a smell. She inhales again. It’s not just a smell. It’s the smell. The same pungent, offensive odor of burnt fat from before, and it’s stronger than ever. She opens her eyes again, her calm now all but gone.

She looks around, as if to discover the source of the smell. As she looks through the shower door, through its thick fog, Carrie sees, or thinks she sees, a dark profile in the shape of a man.

Her eyes widen, her mouth hangs open, then, her voice hesitant with disbelief, she whispers “James?”

The lights go out, punctuated by an electrical boom.

Carrie slips and falls, then grabs the sides of the shower to steady herself. By the poor light of the bathroom nightlight, she grapples her way out of the shower and wraps herself in a robe. Shaking, eyes wide open to take in all the light they can find, she stumbles out of the bathroom and into the apartment.

Everywhere, the apartment is filled with lit candles. Hundreds, thousands of candles, little tongues of flame, dancing and flickering, casting hellish shadows on the dark walls.

Speechless, Carrie wanders from room to room, neither believing or disbelieving what she sees. Her faltering steps carry her to the kitchen, the living room, then her bedroom, all filled with candles. At last, she reaches the art room, where a path clear of candles leads to the easel with its canvas, still blank. Dazed, she approaches and stands before the easel. As she looks at its unstained face, the canvas bursts into flames. She screams as the sound of roaring flames thunders in her ears.         Out in the hallway, a picture of Carrie hangs on the wall, and burns.