Page 15 of The House That Held Her

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M y half-conscious mind pulls me from sleep. I lie here, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts tangled in a haze. A familiar sense of dread weighs on my chest, pressing me deeper into the mattress.

I push myself upright, wiping the sleep from my eyes. The house sits in a heavy, empty silence. It reminds me of a museum after hours, every corner and hallway pregnant with memories that don’t belong to me.

I have to admit, I never planned to call this place Hawthorn Manor. Naming a house—even a grand, sweeping one—has always felt pretentious to me. However, after closing, the agent reminded us that it was legally a historic site and that any renovations would require city approval.

“I’d recommend calling it by its legal name,” the agent had said, “as all the townsfolk already do. It’d be rather time-consuming redoing all that paperwork, don’t you think?”

That day feels so distant now—like a dream that slips away the moment I try to remember it.

What doesn’t feel like a dream is the torment I’m experiencing in this house. It’s a strange limbo: part psychotic breakdown, part full-blown poltergeist haunting. For every minute I feel sane, there are two where I’m convinced I’ve lost my mind and another three where I believe I’m being haunted by something—or someone. I need to break out of this cycle. I need a clear head. I need coffee.

I’ve never been much of a cook. Honestly, I have no idea if the stovetop in this place is gas or electric. Nate and DoorDash usually have me covered on that front. But when it comes to coffee, I know how to make a serious cup of joe.

Back in college, I paid for my entire education as a barista at the only Starbucks in town. That was when you had to shout, “calling bar!” through the chaos, The Avett Brothers blasting way too loud in the background. The barista on bar duty would shout “calling!” back, letting you announce the order for everyone to hear. It was high stress for terrible pay, but at least I honed some authentic coffee-making skills.

Now I sit at the bay window in the kitchen, cradling my mug of Death Coffee, a blend I first discovered in a tiny café years ago. The espresso crema is perfect—bittersweet and strong. The name is grimly fitting, considering the current atmosphere around me, but it works miracles on my foggy brain.

I stare out at the grounds of Hawthorn Manor. The day is light and breezy, and I can just barely return to how I felt when Nate and I first decided to buy this massive old place. Gazing across the lawn, I realize I’ve been a passenger in my own life for too long, letting this house and its mysteries pull me along.

I set my coffee on the windowsill and move into the living room, rummaging through cardboard boxes until I find my old CPS ID badge. The edges are frayed, and the laminate is yellowed, but my name is still right there. Simply holding it puts me in a different frame of mind.

Standing in front of the hallway mirror, I slip the badge around my neck, tighten my ponytail, and give two gentle squeezes to my biceps, toes flexing in my shoes. It’s the same ritual I used to do when facing difficult cases.

Sixteen skulls. Sixteen lives. I can’t keep thinking of them as just bones. These were people with stories and families. Their absence is like a weight in the air, an echo in every silent corner of this place. If the skulls are gone now and the police refuse to help, I need to track down other proof—evidence that can’t disappear so easily.

I open my laptop, fingers flying as I scour missing persons reports, articles, and community forums for any lead. Hours pass as I overwork my espresso machine, my eyes growing gritty from the screen’s glow. But the search yields little—mostly far-flung disappearances I can’t connect.

Then, finally, something. A fifteen-year-old article about a local boy, age six, who vanished without a trace. Michael Lark. No forced entry, no leads. He lived not far from here, just outside Mount Dora. Excitement and dread tighten my chest. It’s not conclusive, but it’s a start.

I lean back, running my fingertip over the boy’s photo on my laptop screen. Michael Lark. The name feels like a puzzle piece. I snap the laptop shut, the quiet hum of the house amplifying the sudden rush of my thoughts.

I grab my keys and slip on my shoes. If Michael’s disappearance is linked to the sixteen skulls, I won’t solve this stuck behind a screen. I need to see where he lived, breathe the air of that place, and try to feel what happened.

The Lark residence is easy enough to find. Its paint is chipping, and the grass is left to grow wild like no one’s cared for the property in years. My heart thrums as I knock. I can’t predict what I’ll find or what I’m supposed to say.

For a long moment, silence. Then the door creaks open, and a middle-aged woman peers out. Exhaustion etches her face, her eyes sunken in with dark shadows beneath them. She looks at me like she’s trying to guess if she’s seen me before.

I manage a polite smile. “Hi, my name’s Margot, and I’m looking for Ms. Penny Lark. Have I got the right address?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yes.” Her voice is guarded. “What do you want?”

I keep my tone gentle, producing my old CPS badge just enough for her to notice. It’s unethical—maybe outright illegal—but I need her to talk about Michael. “I’m investigating a missing persons case, and I think it might be tied to your son’s disappearance. I was hoping you could tell me about the day Michael vanished.”

Her eyes widen, and I see pure fear behind them. She shakes her head, voice trembling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any children.”

That hits me like a punch. I blink, fumbling my words. “I’m sorry, but you are Penny Lark, right? Isn’t Michael your son? He disappeared from here fifteen years ago. Please, I only want to help. I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

Penny’s expression hardens. “You need to leave. Now.” She tries to shut the door, but I press my hand against it, desperation in my voice.

“Please, Ms. Lark. He was your son. Something is happening in this town.”

“No!” she snaps, her voice breaking. “You don’t know anything. I never had a son, and I don’t know who Michael is.”

She forces my hand away, slamming the door. I hear the bolt and chain lock behind it.

I stand there, stunned, staring at the notes in my hand and the printed article. The address clearly matches. Penny Lark must be so overcome by PTSD that she’s erased the memory of her own child’s existence. I’ve seen survivors do strange things, but never to this extent.

I walk back toward my car in a haze, my mind replaying the look on Penny’s face when she denied ever having a son. That look wasn’t defiance—it was terror.

Through my dusty windshield, I watch the battered house. It looks like a sad house full of sad secrets, hiding an even sadder woman.

I hover a moment, my hand on the key, but I can’t turn the ignition. I feel that same surge of focus I had at home when I put on my CPS badge. The last time I ignored a gut feeling like this, a child paid the price. I can’t do that again.

Quietly, I slip out of the car and circle around to the left side of the house.

At the first window, I can just barely see into what must be a dim kitchen. I hear Penny moving somewhere inside, her footsteps echoing in the hush. I follow the sound until I find a second window, this one taller than the last.

A small paper sailboat is taped to the bottom of the sill as if riding the window frame. My heart beats faster. Cautiously, I peer inside.

It’s a little boy’s room. There’s a bed with a blanket covered in bright cartoon rockets. Toys spill across the floor. On a small desk, crayon drawings are strewn about in disarray. The walls are decorated with pictures of a bright-smiling blond kid, his name—Michael—drawn in cheery letters above the bed.

It’s like a time capsule, frozen in place from the exact day he vanished. My pulse thuds in my ears. I’m staring at a life left in limbo, and for the first time, I feel the cold chill of realization that I may be on the brink of something bigger than I’ve ever imagined.