Page 30 of The House That Held Her

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C obalt chloride—that’s the key phrase glowing on my phone screen. It’s a chemical compound used as a humidity-activated ink, changing from a colorless to colored ink when exposed to moisture. I close the web browser and exhale, thoughts whirling. It explains how the hidden writing on the map slowly appeared: George Hawthorn must have brushed the paper with cobalt chloride, which allowed the shower’s humidity to do the rest.

I set my phone aside and refocus on the map spread across the coffee table, my heartbeat thrumming at this very tangible clue. For the first time in…forever, there’s a real lead, something that might pull me out of this black hole. If Shannon and I can decode this cryptic message, maybe we can end this nightmare and get back to Maryland, leaving behind this horrible attempt at a newer, happier life.

I can’t lie to myself. Part of me wants to rip this map into shreds—its pretentious hidden clues and veiled promises to reveal something actually worthwhile. The thought of playing into whatever twisted game is unfolding here, of being a pawn in George Hawthorn’s puzzle, makes me feel sick. We still don’t know enough about him to say with any certainty that he’s actually tied to these skulls—or to the feeling of terror and silence permeating through this town. But the idea of him tugging at our strings from beyond the grave infuriates me.

And yet, I can’t deny how enticing it is. Ever since the night this house flooded, I’ve been starving for answers, and after everything I’ve lost, I feel entitled to them. I need to know what the fuck is really happening in Mount Dora. So, I swallow my pride, forcing aside the nauseating thought that some dead man, who once sat in this very house, is now smirking from beyond the grave at the idea of someone picking up the breadcrumbs he left. And here I am, sifting through those details, piece by piece, desperate for the truth.

I narrow my eyes at the newly formed letters and numbers: Aureus Scarabaeus, followed by lines of Roman numerals. Shannon sits on the floor, leaning against the armchair, stifling a yawn while wrestling with her laptop. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks tear-streaked, but her posture radiates a new sense of purpose.

“‘Aureus Scarabaeus,’” she says, reading from her screen. “Translated from Latin: Gold Scarab.”

My stomach jolts. “Shannon, Marty already gave us what we needed. A scarab is…” I pause waiting for it to click.

“A bug! The Gold Bug! Holy shit!” She exclaims, pumping a fist into the air.

“Bingo. George was obsessed,” I say. “It was his favorite book, right? So, this makes total sense. Whatever these numbers are, they have to be tied to that story. Problem is, I’ve never read it. Have you?”

Shannon hums thoughtfully, then nods at the Roman numerals. “Negative. Could be coordinates?”

“It crossed my mind.” I let out a tense breath. “But they look too short for longitude and latitude coordinates, right?” Let’s just convert them to standard digits first and see if anything pops out at us?”

Working side by side, we list each set:

XXIII – V – VII → 23 – 5 – 7

XLII – II – IV → 42 – 2 – 4

XV – III – VI → 15 – 3 – 6

LXVII – VII – VIII → 67 – 7 – 8

XXXII – IX – II → 32 – 9 – 2

We stare at the results, trying to see if the sequences match any pattern. Shannon plugs them into Google, checking if they map to GPS. Nothing. Meanwhile, I try scrolling through cryptography sites, my eyes glossing over with terms and concepts I haven’t the faintest clue about. Atbash. Rail Fence. Affine. Autokey. Who knew there were so many types of ciphers in the world?

My eyes continue to lazily fall on the Google page until it hits me like lightning. I begin to read out loud - "A book cipher is a cipher in which each word or letter in the plaintext of a message is replaced by some code that locates it in another text, the key."

It made perfect sense. The Gold Bug famously used a book cipher—a secret message hidden within the pages of a book. It was one of literature's earliest and most celebrated examples of cryptography, inspiring countless generations of puzzle-solvers and treasure-hunters. George had taken that inspiration and implemented it here. These numbers were not coordinates. They were a book cipher left behind by a man obsessed with secrets hiding in plain sight.

But to decode it, we needed the story itself. Another quick Google search tells me that the original short story was published in 1843, but countless versions have existed since. I scroll through listings online, my heart sinking as I realize how many editions are out there. The Gold Bug had been published in newspapers, turned into anthologies, and republished in numerous formats. If George had based his cipher on a particular version, we would need that exact one to unlock it.

My heart pounds faster as I say, “Shannon, I think these numbers might be referencing a specific edition of The Gold Bug. Poe wrote that story in 1843, but it’s been reprinted a million times. If George used a book cipher, we need the same edition he used.”

She nods, pushing off the chair. “Okay, that makes sense. But if he hid these clues all over the house, it would make sense for him to leave the needed copy here as well, right? Maybe it’s still here in the house somewhere.”

I jump up, heading to the bedroom shelves where I once spent hours adding my many books to the shelves already populated by so many volumes left behind by the Hawthorns.

We run our hands along the rows, scanning spines. My pulse leaps when I see a battered, time-worn copy: The Gold Bug, Dodd, Mead everything else has been.”

The initial hit of adrenaline from finding the book cipher was diminishing, and I could feel sleep tugging at me. The past twenty-four hours had been exhausting, and my body begged for rest, true, uninterrupted rest.

Shannon paced the room, her hair tied up in a ponytail, flapping around behind her as she muttered potential leads under her breath. I watch her and smile. She’s my best friend in the world, the smartest person I’ve ever known. If anyone can help me figure this out, it’s her.

My focus shifts back to the task at hand. If I am going to figure this out, I need to think like George—step into his logic, his obsession with cryptography, his love for intricate puzzles. Hidden clues. Treasures. The Gold Bug .

I turn the phrase repeatedly in my mind, each iteration leading me down another blind alley. The words feel like they’re mocking me, yet I can’t shake the feeling that the answer is right there, just waiting for me to connect the pieces.

Determined not to waste any more time, I stood up. “Let’s split up. Look around the house for anything that could relate to digging, soil, a bug, anything like that. George has used all kinds of gimmicks up to this point, so nothing is off limits.”

Shannon nodded. “I’ll take this floor, you take the main. Yell if you find anything.”

I drift from room to room, my fingers brushing the edges of furniture, gliding along carved doorframes with my senses heightened, searching for anything that might break the mystery wide open.

It’s well past midnight, or maybe even later—time is a blur.

I flick on a lamp in the living room, and its sickly glow chases away the shadows from the fireplace. My gaze falls onto the intricate woodwork, the elaborate carvings that framed the hearth with an almost reverent beauty. There, amidst the shadows, is something I missed before.

A carved shape, barely discernible in the dim light, is set into the right side of the fireplace frame. It is subtle, almost invisible, but as I lean in, the details emerge: a bug, its six legs spread out, with pincers like a beetle, carefully etched into the wood. My heart begins to pound as my eyes shift to the left side of the fireplace, where I find an identical carving. This can’t be a coincidence. It has to mean something. I scream for Shannon, and she arrives within moments.

“Look– they have to be connected to this, right?” I trail a fingertip over the carving on the right. Each leg is individually carved, unlike the left carving, which is just a solid shape. Shannon’s excitement ratchets up a notch. “Can we just acknowledge how nuts this is? Out of all the houses in America, you had to buy the national treasure house of secrets?”

I press one of the tiny legs, and it gives way with a barely audible click, staying depressed. My heart leaps into my throat. I press another, then a third, until finally, after the fourth leg, we hear a strange sound—a mechanical whirring deep inside the wall. The legs reset, jutting back out, and I realize that we’re dealing with a combination.

A four-digit code. What could it be? I try to recall everything we had learned about George, his past, and what mattered to him. The years that had defined his life float around in my mind—Amelia's birth year or perhaps Cecilia and George’s anniversary?

I skip the second option because I don’t know the year the couple was married. But I do remember our conversation with Marty that Amelia was born in 1970. My heart sinks: there are only six legs, plus the creature’s pincers, and the second digit required a 9.

“What about the book itself, Margot? When was The Gold Bug first published?” Shannon asks.

I almost jump out of my skin. I hug Shannon and litter her face with kisses. Of course, that sequence didn't require a 9 because the year The Gold Bug was published– 1843.

Assuming the legs were ordered as North Americans read, I press the bug's first pincer from top left to bottom right, then the eighth, the fourth, and finally the third. Each tiny carved appendage clicked into place…

Silence.

Shannon and I stand perfectly still, waiting. Several moments pass and I turn to speak when I hear a soft metallic creak, as though gears were shifting behind the wall. The bug's carved body slowly pushes outward, protruding from the frame, leaving its legs behind. It looked like an old-fashioned dial waiting to be turned.

“Ho-ly… shit.” whispers Shannon.

I swallow hard, glancing at my best friend. With my heart pounding, I grasp the bug's body and twist it clockwise. The turn was almost too easy, the mechanism smooth and deliberate. A deep, resonant click echoed through the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of something unlocking.

I push the bug back into place, holding my breath as I listen. A muffled noise comes from somewhere deeper within the house. My pulse quickens as we both turn our heads, straining to locate the source of the sound. Nothing seems different. There were no sliding panels, no secret doors swinging open. But I know something, somewhere had moved.

“Something definitely unlocked,” Shannon whispers.

“I agree. Whatever we just did moved something.” I whisper in return, wondering why we’re whispering at all.

We search the corners, the underside of the mantel, behind the sofa. Nothing.

“Let’s split up,” Shannon says. “It might be in another room. You check the ground floor. I’ll go upstairs. If you find anything—shout. Although maybe a little less than before, you scared me half to death.”

I don’t love the idea, but it’s logical that time could be critical with a timer counting down until whatever we opened, closes again. “Be careful,” I say softly, catching her anxious expression. She nods, jogging up the steps while I methodically sweep the foyer, the kitchen, the hall closet. Each minute that passes without discovery makes my nerves jangle harder.

When I’ve checked every crevice, I hurry to the staircase, a knot of worry in my chest. “Shannon? Did you find anything?” I call, heading up. No reply. The second-floor hallway is silent but for the faint hum of electricity.

I poke my head into the spare bedroom—no Shannon, no changes. Then I approach our bedroom, the one I once shared with Nate. My hand hovers over the doorknob, bracing myself against a flood of painful memories. Summoning courage, I push it open.

“Shannon, you in—?” My voice dies. The desk in the corner is swung away from the wall, like it’s mounted on a hidden hinge. There’s a narrow gap of blackness behind it, the wood paneling parted.

My pulse spikes. I swallow hard, stepping closer. The gap is just wide enough for a person to slip through. A draft of cold air wafts out, carrying a stale, musty smell. My hands tremble as I grip the desk edge and shift it farther aside, peering into the darkness beyond.

“Shannon?” I whisper. My voice echoes faintly, but no answer comes.

Fear prickles the back of my neck. My friend wouldn’t just vanish. The only explanation is she entered this secret passage. But why didn’t she call for me? Why go without me?

Steeling myself, I slip through the opening. Shadows swallow me whole, the air thick and suffocating. “Shannon, can you hear me?”

Silence.