Page 10 of The House That Held Her

9

I know the human skull is made up of twenty-two distinct bones: eight cranial and fourteen facial. If I were to count the number of bones now staring up at me from the treasure chest, it would be roughly three hundred and fifty-two in total–or rather, sixteen skulls.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. The foul smell is sharp, sour, and unmistakably human. It claws its way down my throat, forcing me to gag again. I stumble backward, my hand covering my mouth, but my eyes refuse to look away. Hollow sockets gape up at me, dark and empty, like open mouths mid-scream. Some of the skulls are yellowed, brittle with age, edges crumbling like dried leaves. Others look... fresher. Thicker. The kind you’d expect to see perched on a doctor’s shelf, polished and clinical—only these aren’t plastic.

One skull, near the top, bears the violent signature of blunt force trauma. Cracks spider out from a quarter-sized hole near the rear left, radiating like the jagged legs of an ant trail converging on a forgotten crumb.

The stench of decay claws up from the chest, metallic and heavy. Dark, congealed blood stains the inside. My stomach twists violently. I swallow hard, tears pricking at my eyes as I force myself to turn away.

These aren’t just bones. They’re people. Men. Women. God—some of them are small. Kids. Even without formal training, I can see the decades etched into them. A few still hold entire rows of teeth, grinning grotesquely up at me, while others have snapped jaws, their smiles fractured and incomplete. These bones tell a story, or sixteen separate stories, that I don’t think I ever want to know.

My legs give out. I slide down the wall, the world tilting violently. Moments ago, I was having the time of my life—exploring this new charming, historic town, meeting new faces, peeling back layers of this house's rich heritage. I had been proud of what I’d found. A lovely couple had built this home, lived here, thrived here. It had been their legacy.

But now? Now I’m staring at sixteen human skulls. Death—violence—right here, buried within these walls.

How could this place be connected to something so horrific? My mind fixates on the cracked skull near the top—the one with the gaping wound, the jagged spiderweb of cracks. Were all of these people... murdered?

The shift from light to dark is too fast, too jarring. I can’t make sense of it. I feel the significance of it pressing down, the cruel irony that the same house I had seen as a fresh start was actually a graveyard all along. How did it go so wrong, so quickly? I press my palms into the cold floor, trying to ground myself, but the question keeps looping in my mind: Who were they? And why are they here?

The image is seared into me now. I’ll never unsee it. And deep down, a chilling certainty blooms—I don’t think I want to know their stories, because knowing means accepting the truth: this house isn’t what I thought it was, what I needed it to be.

I need help.

Nate. He’s my first thought. We’ve been distant lately, wires crossed more often than not, but he’s still my husband. The co-owner of this house. He has to know. My hands fumble for my phone, fingers trembling, but I freeze. He’s miles away. This needs immediate action. The police. I need the police.

I scramble to my feet, everything spinning as I stagger to the door, lungs clawing for air. The house feels like it’s closing in—walls too tight, air too thick. I can still smell it—clinging to my skin, my clothes. The rot. The death.

I burst outside, gasping, fingers shaking as I claw for my keys. The metal slips through my grasp, clattering onto the driveway.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, bending down—but someone beats me to it.

“Margot? Are you alright?”

Walter’s hand closes around the keys, his face lined with worry as he hands them back.

I shake my head, the words falling apart in my mouth. “The chest... the skulls... I need the police.”

His brow furrows, confusion knitting deep lines into his weathered face. “Slow down. Skulls? What’re you talking about?”

“Upstairs. In the chest. Sixteen skulls. Blood.” My voice cracks, the sheer horror of it tightening around my chest like a vice, making it hard to breathe.

Walter’s jaw works silently for a moment. “Margot, what the heck are you saying right now?"

“Listen to my words, goddamn it!” I snap, before reeling it back. “Please, listen to me. There's a chest upstairs in my bedroom. It is full of human-skulls. I have to go. I have to get help.”

Walter stumbles over what to say. His eyes flick between me and the house, jaw tightening as he debates his next move. He takes a step toward the house, then stops, turning back to me. His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, but no words come out. Instead, he lets out a sharp breath, shoulders rising and falling as if he’s forcing himself into action. Finally, he digs into his pocket, pulls out his own keys, and meets my eyes.

“Okay. But let me drive. No way in hell you should be behind the wheel right now.”

The ride to the Mount Dora police station is a blur—Walter glancing at me every few seconds, me staring out the window, hands clenched so tightly my nails dig half-moons into my palms.

The station sits tucked behind a forgettable, white-paneled building. Its plainness almost making it invisible from the main street. Ambulances and police cruisers intermingle in the lot, their flashing lights occasionally cutting through the stillness, though right now they sit asleep.

I step out of the truck slowly, my legs stiff and my heart heavy. My eyes feel vacant and unfocused as I struggle to imagine explaining what I've uncovered. I drift toward the entrance, Walter trailing behind, his boots scuffing against the pavement.

The bell above the door jingles softly as I step inside—a sound that feels far too cheerful. I approach the front desk; my hands limp at my sides. My voice comes out low, flat, almost a whisper.

“I… I need help.”

An officer looks up from the paperwork scattered across the desk. His eyes widen instantly as he scans my face. Alarm flickers across his features as he begins to reach for the phone.

“Ma’am, are you alright?

I open my mouth to explain, but no words come out. My throat feels tight, dry. I manage only, “It’s… bad. My house.”

Before the receptionist can respond, Walter steps forward, his voice steady but urgent. “We need to see Chief Miller. Something's been found at Hawthorn Manor.”

The officer straightens instantly, the easy slouch in his posture vanishing. He grabs the desk phone, his sharp eyes never leaving me as he dials.

Moments later, the back door creaks open. Chief Miller steps out, his silver hair catching in the harsh fluorescent light. His sharp eyes flick from me—pale and shaken—to Walter. Walter steps forward, extending a hand. They shake firmly, old familiarity passing between them.

“Andy,” Walter says, his voice low but steady.

“Walter,” Miller replies, giving him a nod before his eyes drift back to me. There’s a subtle shift in him now—a tension, a nervous energy humming under his calm exterior. These kinds of things don’t happen in Mount Dora, bad things, and it shows. He glances around the lobby, making sure no one else is nearby before turning his full attention to me.

“I’m Chief Miller,” he says, though there’s a thin edge of strain in his voice. “You’d better come back with me. We’ll talk in my office—somewhere private.”

Walter moves to sit, but I grab his arm. “He’s coming, too.”

The Chief raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Fine by me.”

His office is cramped—walls lined with commendations, an old map of Mount Dora hanging lopsided behind his desk. The scent of stale coffee and old paper clings to everything. I sink into the chair opposite him, Walter sitting beside me, his broad frame tense and still.

“Okay,” the Chief begins, fingers steepled under his chin. "So, what's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

I tell him about the map, the chest, the key—every insane detail. Halfway through, I see the disbelief creep onto his face.

When I finish, he leans back, his fingers drumming nervously against the desk. “So... a hidden map. A buried chest. Sixteen human skulls.” He swallows hard, glancing toward the closed door as if worried someone might overhear. “You do understand how this may sound, right? This—this kind of thing doesn’t happen in Mount Dora".

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my hands twisting in my lap. My voice is small when I speak. “I know how it sounds. It’s insane. But... I'm telling you the truth.” I glance down, feeling the heat of embarrassment flush through me.

Chief Miller doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he turns to Walter, his brow raised. “And you? Did you see this chest of skulls?”

Walter looks down at the floor, his boots scuffed and still. “No,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t. I just... she wasn’t in any shape to drive herself.” He jerks his thumb toward me. “I thought getting her here safe was the best move.”

That’s when the frustration in me boils over. “I can show you!” I blurt, my voice louder now, raw with emotion. “I’m not making this up. Just—come see it for yourself.”

His skeptical smirk fades slightly. “Alright then. Let’s take a look.”

He glances toward the doorway just as a tall officer steps inside, his badge reading “Jenkins.” Without missing a beat, Miller leans forward, mutters something low to Jenkins, who responds with a sharp nod before disappearing back down the hall.

“Jenkins is my deputy here in Mount Dora,” Miller tells me, his voice sliding into something softer. “Best officer I have. He’ll help us sort this out.” He flips open his notebook, fresh page ready, the faint scratch of pen against paper the only sound for a beat. “Walk me through it again. Slowly this time.”

I swallow hard. My throat feels raw as I force the words out, rehashing every gruesome detail—the weight of the skulls, the hollow eye sockets, the rancid stench that still clings to my memory. My voice trembles, but I push through it.

Miller jots down notes, his face carved from stone, giving nothing away. “Alright, Mrs. Bennett. We’ll take a look. Jenkins is gathering some of the guys, and we’ll meet them there.”He stands, asWalter’s hand appears in my line of sight, steady and grounding. I let him pull me up, his grip warm and sure.

Outside, the cool air slaps me awake, cutting through the haze of panic. Mount Dora hums around us like nothing’s wrong—cars pass, people talk, shop windows glow soft against the encroaching dark. Somewhere out there, life is still normal. But not here.

Walter’s truck waits at the curb, its battered red frame flanked by a police cruiser. I hesitate as he opens the door for me. My mind flashes forward—to the house, the chest, the skulls. Panic surges hot in my chest, rooting me to the spot.

Run. Just leave.

The thought is wild and fast, gone almost as quickly as it came. I grit my teeth, push the fear down, and climb into the seat.

The drive blurs past. I barely register the streets as they slide by. Walter’s hands are firm on the wheel, but there’s tension there too—the slight whiteness of his knuckles, the set of his jaw.

“Margot,” he says, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “Whatever happens when we get there… just know I’ve got your back.”

I want to accept it. I want to lean into the promise. But for some reason, the words feel paper-thin. I stare at his profile, the hard line of his brow caught in the dashboard glow, and say nothing.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull up to Hawthorn Manor. Its dark silhouette looms ahead, the porch light casting long, warped shadows. Behind us, Chief Miller’s cruiser pulls in, headlights flashing over Jenkins leaning against his car, arms crossed.

I step out of the truck, my legs shaky beneath me. The house looks the same, but the air feels wrong—thicker, heavier.

Walter hovers close as we approach the porch. Jenkins steps forward. “Perimeter’s clear, sir. No one’s been in or out.”

Miller gives a tight nod before turning to me. “Alright. We're following you, Mrs. Bennett.”

The weight of the key in my pocket feels like lead. Every step inside is harder than the last. The house groans around us, floors creaking under boots, the smell of dust and something older, deeper, filling my nose.

When we reach my bedroom, I freeze. The door looms in front of me, the memory of what I saw behind it stark and raw. My fingers tremble as they hover over the knob.

“Margot?” Walter’s voice is gentle, coaxing.

I force myself to move. The door swings open.

The chest sits exactly where I left it. The lock dangles, open. The lid gapes wide.

Empty.

I blink. Once. Twice.

No. No.

“They were here,” I whisper. My voice cracks on the last word. “They were right here.”

I rush forward, dropping to my knees. The inside of the chest is the same—old wood, a dark stain in the corner—but the skulls are gone.

Chief Miller crouches beside me, his pen tapping against his notepad. “Mrs. Bennett… are you sure you?—”

“I’m not crazy!” I shout, heat flooding my face.

Miller’s face is hard to read, somewhere between concern and skepticism. “I don’t think you’re crazy, ma’am. But right now… there's nothing here.”

His voice trails off, heavy with implication.

Desperation claws at my chest as I turn to Walter, needing—aching—for someone to believe me. But his eyes falter, flicking away from mine, his jaw tightening with something raw and brutal. Embarrassment. Not for me—by me. The realization hits like a slap, sharp and cold.

“Walter—” I try, but my voice breaks before the rest can form. Nothing comes out. I stand there, mute, my throat locked with panic, unsure how to make them see.

I lunge toward the chest, my hands scrambling inside, pushing past splinters and dust until my fingers find it—the dark, sticky smear against the wood.

“See!” I cry, turning to face them. “There’s blood! You need to test it for DNA. It’ll match someone from Mount Dora—I know it!”

Chief Miller steps forward, peering into the chest. His expression is unreadable as he studies the stain. “If that is blood, it would have to match someone’s DNA we already have on file—which would mean a known criminal.”

The words drop heavy between us, thick with finality. My hope fractures.

I turn away, my arms wrapping around myself as Chief Miller does a final glance around the room.

His movements are slow, methodical. He checks under the bed. Peeks inside the closet. But then, just as I rub my forehead, willing away the pulsing headache forming behind my eyes, I catch it—his hand brushing over the nightstand, fingers subtly lifting the lid of the drawer. My stomach twists as I realize what he’s doing.

“Are you looking for something?” My voice is sharper than I intend, the accusation laced within it unmistakable.

Chief Miller barely hesitates, but I don’t miss the fleeting moment of surprise that crosses his face before he schools his features back into something neutral. He turns toward me, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Just making sure there’s nothing that could explain what you saw,” he says evenly.

My skin prickles, anger clawing its way up my throat. “You mean like medication?”

The room is quiet. Too quiet. The two other officers shift awkwardly near the door, avoiding eye contact, their postures suddenly tense. Chief Miller exhales through his nose and nods.

“I have to consider every possibility, Mrs. Bennett.”

I let out a sharp laugh, humorless and bitter. “So, let me get this straight. I tell you I found a chest full of skulls, and instead of considering that someone might have taken them, you think I hallucinated the entire thing?”

His silence is answer enough.

My chest tightens. This is a dead end, I realize. Even if I scream until my voice breaks, it won’t matter. They don’t believe me. And worse, they’ve already made up their minds.

Walter looks at me, something soft and sad in his eyes. “I believe you, I do” he says quietly. But we both know it's a lie.

The words cut deeper than I expect. I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I want to scream. Instead, I stand, my hands curled into fists again. He turns toward the door, signaling the men to leave.

Then I’m alone.

The room feels cavernous, hollow. I stare at the empty chest. Doubt slithers in, cold and sharp.

What if I did imagine it?

My breath comes in shallow gasps as I drop to the floor, curling my arms around my knees. The key digs into my palm, the metal cold and real.

I know what I saw.

Don’t I?