Page 13 of The House That Held Her

12

T he humid Florida night clings to my skin, and the stars above cast long, deep shadows across my path. My foot throbs with every step—a dull, persistent ache radiating from the wound where that damn nail punctured it. It's worse than I want to admit. What was sharp, searing pain the day it happened has now sunk deeper, dragging at my energy, turning every movement into a significant effort.

My mind twists and turns, replaying the conversation I just had with Doctor Whitfield. Two things stand out, both unsettling in different ways. The first is straightforward—if George had a child with someone else, who was she, and where is she now? Could she still be in Mount Dora, or did she leave long ago?

The second detail is more troubling. Whitfield spoke with confidence—certainty, even—about George being dead. But most people in Mount Dora say George disappeared, at least entertaining the possibility he could still be alive somewhere, leaving Mount Dora and it’s tragedies behind. Why is Doctor Whitfield so sure he’s dead? And isn’t it more than a little disturbing that the man so sure of George Hawthorn’s death also happened to be in love with George’s wife?

I’m no detective, but I’ve watched enough crime documentaries to know that when someone talks about a missing person in the past tense—and has a motive as powerful as love—there’s a pretty good chance they’re involved.

I think back on my two interactions with Doctor Whitfield. He was pleasant, even charming. He seems sweet and knowledgeable. But my judgment of character hasn’t exactly been flawless the past few years. Which leaves me worrying– is it possible Doctor Whitfield had something to do with George’s disappearance?

Before I can continue my thought process, headlights swing wildly across the yard, jolting me to a stop. A car rumbles over the gravel, moving with careless, jerky swerves that kick up clouds of dust. My pulse quickens. Whoever is driving doesn't seem to care about the narrow path—or anything in their way.

I tense, preparing to dive out of the path if I have to. But the car slows as it nears, its engine growling before settling into a purr.

A metallic purple PT Cruiser.

It coughs to a stop beside me, its headlights cutting sharp lines through the dark. The driver's window rolls down with a whine, revealing a cigarette jutting from lipsticked lips.

"Evening, darling!" Phyllis Brendamore coos, smoke curling into the night air.

She is all chaos and color—oversized round sunglasses at night, a polka-dot headscarf flapping in the breeze, and an offensive floral perfume battling the cigarette smoke. Her lipstick is a violent shade of pink, clashing spectacularly with the deep purple of her car.

"Phyllis," I say flatly, my patience already fraying.

Then I notice him. The man in the passenger seat. Late forties, maybe, with a heavy beard and olive skin. His dark shirt clings to broad shoulders, but it's his eyes that pin me—deep, intent, and unsettlingly hungry.

"Ah! Where are my manners?" Phyllis chirps, following my gaze. "This is my son, Patrick."

Patrick doesn't speak. He just watches me, head tilted slightly as if trying to read something I'm not saying. His eyes linger, too long, too deep.

I force a polite smile. "Nice to meet you."

He nods once, the barest acknowledgment.

Phyllis waves her cigarette in a wide, smoke-trailing arc. "I was just popping by, dear, thought maybe you'd changed your mind about hosting the Winter Gala at Hawthorn Manor. It'd be perfect!"

"No, Phyllis. I haven't."

"Oh, Margot, come on. You're sitting on a goldmine of local history! The town would love it."

"No, and I don't appreciate these unannounced visits," I snap before I can stop myself.

Phyllis's smile flickers, then rebounds even brighter. "Well, excuse me! Mount Dora's always been a pop-in kind of place. We're neighbors, after all."

I catch her glancing into the rearview mirror, her gaudy rings glinting as she adjusts it. She scans behind her like she expects someone—or something—to show up.

"Where exactly do you live, Phyllis?" I ask, the question sliding out before I can second-guess it.

Her jaw twitches, a tiny tell, before she answers, "Oh, just down the way."

Vague. Deliberately vague.

"Well, maybe I'll swing by sometime. You know, neighborly and all."

Her laugh is too loud, too forced. "Of course, darling. Anytime."

Patrick still hasn't spoken. His gaze hasn't shifted.

"Alright then, we really must be going," Phyllis declares, hitting the gas. "Ta-ta!"

The PT Cruiser lurches away, dust billowing in its wake. I stand there for a beat, watching the taillights flicker into the distance, my mind racing.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I start toward the house, my steps slow and uneven, the throbbing in my foot fading beneath the swirl of questions buzzing in my head. Phyllis and Patrick. What are they doing here before I arrive? They couldn't have just been sitting in the car waiting. Have they been snooping around the grounds? The thought itches at me, refusing to settle. And that look Patrick gave me—too intent, too knowing. There's something more there, something off. Phyllis seems to be circling Hawthorn Manor with a kind of desperation. Why does she keep showing up?

"Evenin', Mrs. Bennett."

I nearly jump out of my skin. Chief Miller's voice slices through my thoughts, yanking me harshly back to reality.

I haven't even seen him—but there he is, sitting against his cruiser, arms folded, watching me with a steady, patient stare. How long has he been there, waiting?

"Chief, hi," I reply, forcing calm. "What...uh, what's wrong?"

"Just checkin' in." His eyes drop to my limp. "What happened there?"

"Renovation injury," I mumble. "Stepped on a nail."

"Yikes. Hope you got a tetanus shot."

I give a weak smile.

He hesitates. "Margot… about last time I was here. The, uh, skulls."

I stiffen.

"I don't want to press," he continues, "but you know how things are around here. Folks talk. And it seems like?—"

I stare at him, waiting

"Seems like you're asking a lot of questions." He kicks at the gravel with the toe of his boot. "Which in itself is fine, but I'm worried it may alarm some of the residents here."

"Alarm them how exactly?"

He runs a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. "What happened to the Hawthorns was tragic. I knew Cecilia and George well—better than most. The town still misses them dearly. And while I understand your curiosity about the history of your home, dredging up Cecilia's death and George's disappearance only drags the town back to one of its darkest times. Things are... stable now. Tourism keeps the town's income steady, and we've weathered the past few hurricanes just fine. Everything is... good. I don't want folks getting restless over old ghost stories."

"Ah, so you talked to Dr. Whitfield, I see. Well, I appreciate your concern and I'll take your request into consideration," I say coldly.

His eyes acknowledge the hint. "That's all I'm asking." He turns to return to his cruiser but pops his head over the door. "One more bit of advice, not that you want it—steer clear of Phyllis Brendamore. That family's… complicated."

"Understood."

He climbs into his cruiser, the engine sputtering as it rolls away.

The quiet that follows is more solemn somehow, my frustrations bubbling.

Inside, I lock the door, leaning against it for a beat before heading to the kitchen. Hunger nibbles at me—until I hear it.

That wet, rhythmic gnawing.

My whole body tenses. Not the basement this time.

Upstairs.

Knife in hand, I creep toward the stairs, each step of the climb shooting pain through my foot. The sound grows louder, more grotesque, vibrating through the house like a heartbeat.

My bedroom door looms ahead.

I throw it open.

Nothing.

No bathtub, no monster in the dark, no headless body.

Except…

I drop to my knees, ear to the treasure chest in the center of the room.

The sound is coming from inside.

Hands trembling, I flip it open—preparing myself for this house's latest trick on my tired mind.

Empty. Of course, it's empty.

Like the room, the chest is empty, and the maroon fabric lining the interior is untouched. I kneel there, my fingers gripping the edge of my chest, my eyes wide and unfocused. Tears blur my vision, the frustration and fear overwhelming me.

I'm losing my mind. Maybe it's the death of a child in my care or the ache of wanting and failing to have my own family, feeding into this bottomless pit of inadequacy. Perhaps it's the loss of home, back in Maryland, needing to run away to find some semblance of peace again. Or maybe it's Nate's absence, the long silences between us stretching thinner each day, leaving me to wonder if he's already gone in spirit.

A sob claws its way out, raw and ugly. I bury my head into the crook of my elbow, my right arm resting against the cold edge of the chest. The significance of everything—this house, the grief, the hollow ache of being left behind—presses in on me, suffocating.

When I finally open my eyes, something catches my attention. The corner of the maroon fabric at the base of the chest is pulling away—just slightly as if it's been disturbed. I sniffle, wiping my face with the back of my hand, and lean in closer.

There are faint but undeniable wear marks near the fabric as if fingers have clawed at it repeatedly.

I grab the knife from the floor, slipping the blade beneath the fabric, prying it loose. It peels back with a reluctant hiss, revealing words scratched deep into the wood beneath—dark, jagged letters:

The Darkness stirs, ever hungry but never satisfied.

Below it, a neat row of tally marks—sixteen, stark and accusing.

Sixteen tallies. Sixteen skulls.

I stagger back, the breath punched from my lungs, my body collapsing into a seated heap as the words burn into my mind.

The Darkness stirs, ever hungry but never satisfied.

This is it—finally, proof! I haven't imagined the skulls. Miller, Jenkins, Walter, they have seen the chest here in my room; it's real. And now these words, these tallies inside the chest, are also in my room. There's no mold making me hallucinate. I'm not fucking crazy. I found sixteen skulls buried in this town, and I'm going to find out why.