Page 22 of The House That Held Her

21

T he air in Marty’s cramped back-office feels thick and stale. I can’t shake the sensation that everything is about to change in this room—that the final pieces of this puzzle are about to click together. Shannon sits beside me, and I feel her tension prickling the air. Across the small desk, Marty exhales, looking like he’s bracing for a storm.

“George’s favorite book,” he begins, “was Poe’s The Gold-Bug —he was obsessed with it. Everything we did as kids tied back to that story somehow.”

I exchange a quick glance with Shannon. She looks as puzzled as I am.

“The Gold-Bug,” Marty explains, “is a classic treasure hunt story that incorporates cryptography and hidden messages—one of the first popular stories to really showcase how coded clues can lead to buried treasure. That concept fascinated George. He saw it as proof that sometimes, what’s hidden can change the world. William Friedman—founder of the NSA—credited The Gold-Bug for inspiring him to become a cryptographer.”

Shannon leans forward, arms resting on her knees. “So, George wanted to make an impact on the world… using cryptography?”

Marty nods, a faint, sad smile tugging at his mouth. “Yes. In his own way, that was George’s dream. He was forever crafting puzzles, building secret contraptions. Anything he could do to challenge the rest of us. Andrew Miller—yes, your very own Chief Miller—Cecilia Doyle, Amelia Hawthorn, and me… we were inseparable back then. Called ourselves ‘the Bugs’ because of Poe’s story. George made it up, said we were just like William Legrand, the main character in the book. Amelia was George’s kid sister, so she tagged along. He grumbled about it sometimes, but because Cecilia doted on Amelia, that was enough for him to put up with it.”

I notice Marty’s voice soften when he says Amelia’s name, and for a brief moment, an almost wistful expression warms his face. But it fades just as quickly, replaced by a shadow.

“We grew up the way most kids did in the seventies,” he says, running a hand through his graying hair. “Riding bikes, exploring, solving silly mysteries around town—like who kept stealing candy from McMyers, or why Farmer Jackson’s cows kept breaking loose at night. We were known around Mount Dora as a rowdy group of junior detectives.” He glances away, eyes flickering with memories. “Those days felt magical. But, like everything else, they came to an end.”

Silence settles for a moment. Shannon shifts in her seat, clearly sensing there’s more—something darker. I sit very still, my heart hammering in my chest.

Marty sighs. “Cecilia was originally from Ocala. Her parents, Margie and Thomas Doyle, moved to Mount Dora when she was a baby. Margie taught at our school, took a special liking to George from the start. And Cecilia, well, she was big into history, loved the architecture of old churches. Hawthorn Manor was built in that gothic style mostly because she wanted it that way.”

He rubs his hands together, the skin dry and pale. “George was different. Born here in ’62, he had deep roots in Mount Dora—especially through his father, Normand, who ran a large citrus grove business. It made the family well-off, and the town respected him.” Marty’s voice wavers. “Normand was hardly ever home, and when he was, he seemed more invested in refining the town’s image of him, rather than being a father to his own kids. That left George and Amelia in the care of their mother, Dorothy— ‘Dot’ to most.”

Marty pauses, running his tongue over his lips as though his mouth has gone dry. “Dot gave birth to Amelia in 1970, and after that… she went to a dark place. Postpartum depression, we’d call it now, but back then no one talked about it much. She started drinking heavily. Everyone knew, but nobody intervened. Normand’s influence, small-town silence… it was easier to look the other way.”

A chill skitters up my spine. Shannon inhales sharply, and I reach over to gently squeeze her arm.

Marty closes his eyes for a second before continuing, voice low. “One day, George and Amelia started turning up with bruises. We Bugs saw it, but we were just kids ourselves. We had no idea how to help. By winter of ’75, things escalated. Dot passed out drunk one night holding a lit cigarette, and she nearly burned down half the house. Destroyed their Christmas tree and the gifts underneath it. I still remember seeing George afterward—he looked hollow. The curiosity and joy in him just… vanished.”

He steeples his fingers, staring down at the cluttered desk. “George spent that Christmas at my house. He told me that Dot was a ticking time bomb. He begged his father for help, but Normand wouldn’t even acknowledge there was a problem, let alone intervene. George said he feared something terrible would happen if no one intervened. We tried to reassure him, but… in the spring of ’76, it all came crashing down.”

My heart thuds heavier, bracing for what’s next. I notice Shannon’s breathing is as uneven as mine.

Marty meets our gaze, his own eyes glistening. “Amelia died that year. The official story was that she accidentally fell down the stairs. But George, Andrew, and I—we knew. Dot’s temper was explosive. We’d seen it, even felt it. George didn’t tell us the details outright, but we understood that night changed him forever. Amelia was gone, and everything about him hardened.”

A wave of grief seems to pass through the small office, like the air itself is slowing down to listen to Marty’s words. I feel myself leaning in, almost forgetting to breathe.

“After Amelia’s death, George clung to Cecilia,” Marty says. “She was his anchor, and her mom tried to give him some semblance of a family. Andrew and I drifted to the sidelines. George and Cecilia were always whispering, hiding things from everyone. There was a period there when the “Bugs” didn’t really exist at all. Amelia was gone, George and Cece rarely spent time with us; so it was just Andrew and me. Then, that Fall, Dot died too—same cause, supposedly. Fell down the stairs just like Amelia. People whispered about curses, ghosts, or just bad luck. But Andrew and I suspected it wasn’t so innocent. George hated his mother. And if he felt like she caused Amelia’s death…”

He trails off, voice trembling. I realize he’s on the verge of revealing something monstrous. Shannon shifts next to me, and I grab her hand to steady myself.

Marty licks his lips. “But we were best friends. We stuck together, even when we knew something wasn’t right.” He looks up, his eyes haunted. “One night, George called us back to Hawthorn House. We hadn’t all been there since Amelia’s funeral. The place was dark and neglected. He took us upstairs to see Normand, who was frail and dying from lung cancer by that time. And then we sat down in the parlor, and George told us the truth about Amelia—that Dot had killed her in a drunk rage. Threw her down the stairs over something as trivial as a misplaced lighter. George was there, saw it happen—and Dot just walked away. Like it was nothing.”

Shannon’s hand goes stiff in mine, and I realize I’m practically crushing her fingers in my grip. I force myself to let go a bit.

Marty’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Cecilia tried to keep George from doing anything rash. But he told us he dreamed of killing Dot every night, that he couldn’t stop picturing Amelia’s broken body. The only thing he wanted was revenge. Eventually, that rage… it won.”

A hush falls over the room. I feel an almost tangible coldness, like the secrets of Hawthorn Manor are leeching into the air around us. Marty looks spent, drained by recounting these horrors. My mind swirls with questions: Did George actually kill Dot? Was there a cover-up? And how do those tragedies lead to the nightmares unfolding in the manor now?

A glance at Shannon shows me she’s pale, her jaw set in grim determination. I know she’s already forming a plan, but her eyes mirror my own fear.

Finally, I manage to speak, my voice wavering. “So… you think George…?”

Marty nods, pain etched across his face. “And from that day on, nothing in Mount Dora was ever the same.”