Page 12 of The House That Held Her

11

T he hot water scorches my skin, but I don’t care. I need it—the sting, the burn—something tangible to ground me. Steam fills the room, dense and suffocating, but I let it cocoon me as I stand beneath the relentless stream, eyes closed, my hair plastered to my scalp. I haven’t slept. Not a damn wink. The night terrors claw at the edges of my mind—twisted flashes of the basement, the bloated body in the tub, and that gnawing sound, still burrowing deep in my ears. I tip my face into the spray, hoping it will wash the images away. It doesn’t. They cling to me, just beneath the surface, waiting.

I think of Nate. God, I need him. His voice. His arms. Some tether to reality. I remember calling him last night, my hands shaking, but the phone just rang and rang. No answer.

I’m not stupid. I know what this is. Nate is probably with someone else—has been for a while now. The distance between us hasn’t just crept in; it has carved itself out, bit by bit, over time. I know that. I just don’t want to admit it.

My mind drifts, thinking about the last few years. My push to start a family, Nate’s big promotion at CirroSystems, Lila’s death—and the brutal legal battle that follows. I’m not sure when exactly Nate stopped loving me, but I have a suspicion. It was probably right after I failed to protect Lila. I mean, what screams ‘unfit mother’ more than letting a child get abused for months under your watch?

Shame curls tight in my chest. I feel… unlovable. Broken in a way I can’t fix. And this move—from Maryland to Florida—is our last-ditch effort to salvage something that’s already rotting. Nate’s idea, actually. A clean slate. A fresh start. And for a few brief weeks, it feels like he’s all in.

But then the storm. His disappearance. The hollow, half-hearted efforts at communication. He’s not here. Not really. And deep down, I know it. Our marriage is over. Has been for a while now. I just haven’t had the guts to say it out loud.

The water cools, snapping me back. I twist the tap off and step out, the cold air prickling my wet skin as I grab a towel. The house is too quiet. Heavy with it.

I wipe the fog from the mirror, my reflection pale and hollow-eyed, before reaching for my phone. A notification blinks—voicemail from Nate. My chest tightens as I hit play.

“Good morning! I don’t know about you, but I slept like a baby last night. Being with you always helps me rest easy… I love you, Margot.”

Click.

I blink back tears, the lump in my throat swelling until I can’t swallow. His voice is everything I need, soft and grounding in a way that twists the incoming guilt tighter in my chest. Here I am, ready to throw in the towel on our marriage, and I step out of the shower to this—his voice, his warmth, like he still cares. Maybe he does. Maybe his head is just caught in its own storm, same as mine.

I call him back. Once. Twice. No answer.

“Dammit,” I mutter, slamming the phone onto the nightstand. I can’t stay here—not today.

I dress fast, yank on jeans and a sweater, and grab my keys. The Hawthorns—the house—there’s more to this place, layers I haven’t peeled back yet. And if no one else will help me, I’ll dig until I find the truth myself.

Sunlight spills across Mount Dora, illuminating the cobblestone streets and century-old lampposts with a golden glow that feels almost too pristine. The town looks like a preserved postcard from another era—brick storefronts with ivy creeping up their sides, wrought-iron benches tucked beneath towering oak trees draped in Spanish moss, and flower boxes bursting with petunias and marigolds. The gentle clink of wind chimes echoes from a nearby café patio, where early risers sip coffee beneath striped umbrellas. The air is crisp, carrying a faint hint of lake water and freshly baked pastries from the bakery down the block. It’s all so charming, so picture-perfect—far too cheery for what I’m setting out to prove today.

I walk through town until the Mount Dora Library comes into view—small, brick, with a faded “OPEN/CLOSED” sign swaying in the breeze. Inside, it smells of old paper and something burnt, maybe coffee. I approach the front desk, my voice barely there.

“Hi. I’m looking for anything you might have on the roots of Mount Dora—town records, deeds, newspapers.”

The librarian, an older woman with kind eyes, tilts her head, her smile soft. “Local history’s in the back room, dear. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

I make my way through the stacks, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzing in my ears. My head pounds, exhaustion digging its claws deep. The skulls claw their way back into my mind—the hollow sockets, the twisted grin of desiccated flesh clinging to bone. I rub my temples, trying to force the images out. Not now. I need to focus.

The records room is small, dusty, and cluttered with binders, old ledgers, and rows of metal filing cabinets. Wooden shelves groan under the weight of town archives, thick with decades of local history. A series of tall drawers house microfilm canisters, each labeled by decade—1920s, 1930s, 1940s—some even older, their paper labels curling at the edges.

I flip through the drawers, my fingers trailing over dusty canisters labeled with events—“Founding Families,” “Mount Dora Citrus Boom,” “Lake Dora Regatta 1966”—but none of them seem specific enough to help. I open another drawer, this one packed with newspapers meticulously organized by month and year, their edges beginning to yellow. I start scanning, flipping through front-page stories, sifting through decades of town history—parades, festivals, scandals—each headline a breadcrumb from another life.

The hours blur as I comb through paper after paper, the soft shuffle of pages and the distant hum of the library the only sounds around me. My stomach growls a low reminder that it’s probably time for a break. Moments before I give up, I stumble across an article that stops me cold: “The Tragic Death of a Town Icon.”

I skim the article, my eyes racing over the grim details. Cecilia loves the lake, often taking the boat out alone to read or simply drift in the stillness. But one summer afternoon, she doesn’t return. They find her hours later, slumped under the relentless sun, her skin blistered and split, her hair tangled in lake weeds. A bird has pecked out one of her eyes, leaving her face frozen in a twisted mask of agony. It’s George who finds her, and from that moment on, he is never the same.

The article lacks photos of Cecilia or George—just a stark image of the Hawthorn rowboat, one I recognize all too well. In the picture, the boat sits upright, tied neatly to the pier, its hull pristine and intact. Not a scratch, not a crack. Nothing like the battered wreck I’ve seen lodged in the tall marsh grass on my way to and from the chest’s hiding spot.

Another article catches my eye: “Respected Business Owner Missing After Wife’s Death.”

George vanishes days after Cecilia’s death, just as Walter said. The town searches, scours the woods and the lake, but he’s never found.

I sit back, the paper trembling in my hands. There’s more. I can feel it—a thread tying it all together. The chest. The dreams. The goddamn house.

I leave the library, surprised to see the sun now dipping low, casting beautiful pink and red across the Florida skyline. A spark of orange flickers across the street—Dr. Whitfield, cigar in hand, the ember pulsing with each slow inhale.

He catches my eye and waves me over.

I hesitate, then cross the street.

“Evening’s the best time here,” he says, patting the bench beside him.

I sit, the smoke heavy and sweet, dragging up old memories of my dad smoking on summer nights.

“How’s our little town treating you?”

“Strangely,” I admit.

He chuckles, low and dry. “Most folks feel that way at first. But Mount Dora’s got layers. You’ll figure it out.”

I study him. “Have you been here your whole life?”

He nods. “Most of it. Stayed for love. Stayed longer out of habit.”

There’s something wistful in his tone, but I don’t pry. “Doctor, have you ever… noticed anything odd about this place? Or rather, about my house?” The words feel awkward coming out of my mouth. Even though Nate and I own Hawthorn Manor, it doesn’t feel like ours—not with everything that’s happened.

The doctor chuckles softly, a warm sound, not mocking. “There are plenty of odd things about this town, Margot, including that house on the hill. But it sounds like you’re hinting at something more specific. What are you really asking me?”

A wave of familiar embarrassment settles over me, one I’m growing fairly tired of. I stare at the ground. “I... I don’t really know. I’ve been seeing strange things at the house. Things that can’t be real—things I can’t logically explain.”

He regards me calmly, waiting for me to go on.

“I... it...” The words tangle on my tongue. “Sometimes it feels like I’m being watched. I see and hear things that make no sense. I guess what I’m really asking is... do you believe in ghosts?”

The doctor raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from his cigar before releasing the smoke into the growing dusk. “Sure, I believe in ghosts. I’ve never experienced what it sounds like you’re describing, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening to you.”

His honesty is grounding. “I’ll be more direct—did something bad happen at Hawthorn Manor? Something that might explain what I’ve been experiencing?”

His expression shifts, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “A lot happened at that house, but if you’re looking for tales of brutal murders or secret cults chanting in the basement, I think you’ll be disappointed. It was just a house, lived in by a couple who had their fair share of misfortune and pain.”

For the second time during this conversation, I feel an opening to dig deeper—and this time, I take it.

“Doctor Whitfield, how well did you know George and Cecilia Hawthorn?”

He stares into the distance, the glowing embers of his cigar illuminating his face in the Floridian dusk. “I knew Cecilia better than I knew George. She and I came up in school together. I was also their primary care physician. In fact, I was the primary for most of the historic district before I began to scale back my practice.”

I nod, reading between the lines of his responses so far. “And how was your… personal relationship with them both? Would you say you were friends?”

A small, sad smile slowly appears on his face. “Truth be told, Cece was my best friend growing up. Although, I’m afraid she likely wouldn’t say the same about me.”

He pauses, something resting just on the tip of his tongue. I wait, choosing my words carefully. I need more—whether or not Whitfield’s story will give me what I’m looking for, I don’t know, but I have to try.

“Did the two of you have a falling out or something?” I ask gently.

It’s hard to tell in the fading light, but I think his eyes are misting over.

“Or something—yes,” he finally says. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much now, with both of them gone, but it still feels wrong to speak ill of the dead.” He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I’ll preface this by saying I know my opinions are clouded by how I felt about Cecilia. Still, facts are facts.”

I wait, pulse quickening, while he sits in silence—cracking his knuckles, shifting on the bench, dragging slowly from the cigar. Just as I begin to wonder if he’s changed his mind, he speaks again.

“I was in love with Cecilia Doyle from the moment I met her as a boy. She was kind and gentle, patient and smart. She never said a bad word about anyone. She saw the good in everything and everyone. Unfortunately for me, that included George Hawthorn.”

He glances at me, then continues.

“George had a darker side. I knew it even then. He was older, loud, rich—always the center of attention. But Cece liked him. I believe it’s because she saw that darkness and thought she could fix it. She fell in with the ‘cool kids’—those Bugs—and our friendship slowly faded. It never ended outright, just faded. Which, in my opinion, hurt more than any big blow-up ever could.”

Tears slip down his face now, catching the last light of the sun like falling orbs of sorrow. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just lets them fall.

“Losing a friend hurts. Being replaced hurts. But losing the person you love—to someone cruel and secretive—breaks you.”

My heart aches for him. But the moment he mentions secrets, sympathy turns to curiosity. I draw a breath, ready to push for more, but he speaks again unprompted.

“Again, I won’t speak ill of the dead. But truth persists, even after death—Cecilia always wanted children, but they struggled. My assumption, as George’s doctor, was that he was infertile. We never tested it, but it was my prevailing theory. Until…”

He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Until what, Doctor?” I prompt.

He straightens and stands, brushing ash from his lap. “I can confirm to you that George fathered a child outside his marriage. But it feels wrong to say more.”

I rise, instinctively ready to protest, but he lifts a hand gently—wordlessly asking me to let it go.

“Regarding your question about the oddities in your home... you should have it checked. Mold, asbestos, radon. Sometimes things in the air make people sick. Headaches, dizziness, hallucinations—even paranoia. Have you experienced any of that since arriving?”

I swallow hard. Every single symptom he listed... I’ve been dealing with all of them. The realization hits like a stone: a mix of relief and embarrassment.

“Honestly, yes. All of it.” Nate said the house had been inspected before we moved in, but I don’t actually know what that covered. “Yeah, I’m feeling pretty sheepish for not thinking of that explanation myself, Doctor.”

He nods firmly. “No need to feel that way at all. I’m a doctor. It’s how I’m trained to think.” He pats my shoulder kindly and turns to walk away—but then stops, draws a breath, and turns back.

“About what I said earlier, Margot—the mother and child are unimportant. What matters is that you understand George Hawthorn was not the golden boy most of this town makes him out to be. It doesn’t change anything now, not after all this time, but it’s important to me that someone knows the truth. George had a cold, selfish side that few ever saw. Now go home and get some rest.”

He smiles—a faint, gentle expression—but I don’t catch it. My eyes snag on something else, something across the street, barely visible in the fading light. A figure moves with purpose, his head turned away, but I know that silhouette. That messy, pushed-back hair—the way he walks, I’d know it anywhere.

“Nate?” The name slips out, barely a whisper, my heart suddenly thrumming against my ribs. I shoot to my feet. “Nate!” I call, louder this time, my voice cracking in the cold air.

But he’s gone. Just like that—around the corner, swallowed by shadows before I can even think to run.

“Margot?” Dr. Whitfield’s voice snaps me back. I flinch, realizing he stands just a few steps away, his brow creased in concern. “Are you alright?”

I force a smile, brittle and hollow. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

His eyes linger on me, skeptical. “If you’re sure. And please remember what I said, get the house tested.” There’s a softness in his tone, almost fatherly, but it slides right off me. I’m too restless, too rattled.

“Tested, yeah,” I mutter, already watching him walk away.

Then I bolt.

I cross the street fast, my boots slapping against the pavement, heading straight for the corner where I saw him vanish. My pulse roars in my ears.

I round the corner, chest tight with hope—and then it caves in.

Nothing. The street stretches out, empty and quiet. A streetlamp buzzes overhead, its pale light casting long, lonely shadows. No sign of him. No hurried footsteps. No fading silhouette.

“Nate?” My voice cracks this time, softer, desperate.

Silence answers.

I push forward, scanning the alleys, the doorways, every darkened corner. But there’s nothing. No one.

By the time I hit the end of the block, the truth is obvious. It wasn’t him. Or worse—maybe there was never a man there at all.

Frustration claws at me. I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging hard, trying to snap myself back to reality. But what is reality anymore? Since Hawthorn Manor, nothing feels solid. Every answer unravels into more questions, and now—now I’m seeing ghosts in the dark, thanks to what… mold?

I turn back the way I came, my shoulders sinking. And the question claws at me again, sharper this time, impossible to ignore: What the hell is happening to me?