Page 16 of The House That Held Her

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I run my fingertip along the painted seam of the window, testing for any give. It’s sealed tight. I slip my car key out of my pocket and carefully wedge its edge between the window frame and the casing, digging into the layers of latex paint. The paint clings stubbornly, and sweat breaks across my forehead as I work it loose.

I know I’m exposed like this, perched on the side of Penny Lark’s house with nothing but a half-baked lead. If anyone drives by, they’ll see me immediately. And given my previous run-ins with the local police chief, I doubt he’d believe anything I have to say. I push harder, prying at the frame, feeling the paint finally crack. The window groans in protest as I ease it open, an ugly shriek of old wood and Florida humidity. But it budges enough for me to squeeze inside.

I pause, listening. My heart hammers, but I force myself to be patient, to make sure Penny isn’t about to come rushing in. After a few seconds of silence, I pull myself up and through.

Squatting low, I take in my surroundings. I wait, body tense, but no footsteps approach. Slowly, I straighten and move deeper into the room. A child’s bedroom. The sight of it tightens my throat. My fingertips brush over the crayon drawings scattered on a small desk. One of them shows a little boy playing with a sailboat—Michael; I recognize him from the news article. He was real, and he lived right here. But why would his own mother pretend he never existed?

My unspoken question is answered by a faint whimper that rises from somewhere in the house, a tiny, frantic sound stifled before it can fully escape. I freeze, glancing around—the open doorway, the vacant bed, the dusty rocking chair in the corner. Could it be an animal outside? But then I hear it again, except this time it doesn’t stop. The whimpers roll into hushed whispers, the sound twisting my gut. I feel a prick of fear that tells me I’ve gone too far, crossed a line I shouldn’t have. Why do I keep doing this to myself—these reckless moves and impulsive decisions aren’t like me.

I back toward the window, trying to stay calm, to keep from bolting in panic. Then, just as I’m about to exit the same way I came, I see a face staring at me from under the bed.

Penny Lark’s face.

The shock of it nearly stops my heart. Her black hair is drenched, dripping and clinging to her face. She turns her head slightly, one eye peering at me through a parted curtain of hair.

I jolt backward, missing the window altogether and landing hard on the floor with my spine jammed against the wall. Before I can scramble to my feet, Penny lunges, scuttling out from under the bed and onto my lap in one unnervingly fast move.

I open my mouth to scream, but her cold, slick hand seals over my lips, silencing me. In the dim light, I see how wild her eyes look. “You need to leave,” she whispers, almost humming the words. “They’re… watch-ing.” She draws out the final syllables in a sing-song, twisted lullaby that sets my nerves on edge. “They’re always watching. If you keep asking questions, you’ll disappear, too.”

My chest heaves, blood roaring in my ears. “Who’s they?” I whisper against her clammy palm. “Who is watching, Penny?”

She shoots a frantic glance around the room. “They. Their. Her. Him. His. They. Their. Her. Him. His. Him. My him. My Michael. My Michael! ” She shrieks his name and hurls her head forward, slamming it into the floor just inches from my leg.

Blood seeps across the floorboards, pooling near my thigh. I catch only glimpses of Penny’s twisted features as the light slices through the window, shining across her face. I’m too stunned to move until I feel the warm trickle of blood spatter hit my face. With a strangled cry, I push her away and lunge for the window.

I hurl myself out and land in an awkward sprawl, scrambling to get on my feet. I don’t look back. No one chases me, but my heart pounds so fiercely I can’t hear anything else. I burst into a sprint.

Only when I’m behind the wheel of my car do I realize how badly I’m shaking. I stare at my own reflection in the rearview mirror, splatters of crimson line my jawbone. In my mind, I can still see Penny’s wide, frenzied eyes and smell the coppery tang of her blood in that tiny bedroom.

I jam the key into the ignition, throw the car in drive, and peel away from the Lark house as though the devil himself is on my tail.

Fear clings to me like an oily residue, refusing to slip away. My mind reels, trying to process Penny’s horrifying behavior, her cryptic words—“They’re always watching.” As the road stretches on, I realize I’m now running from something far more sinister than I could have ever imagined. Now I know—deep in my bones—that whatever haunted Penny Lark is now coming for me.