Page 31 of The House That Held Her

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I bend down, my shoulders wedging through the tight threshold behind my bedroom wall. My phone’s flashlight slices jagged beams through the oppressive darkness, and every time the light grazes a shape, my imagination warps it into something menacing. My pulse hammers in my throat as I step inside, each footfall swallowed by an eerie hush.

I call Shannon’s name over and over as I push deeper into the darkness, my fear increasing with each moment of silence.

At the center of this cramped, hidden space stands a drafting desk. Scattered papers lie across its surface like fallen leaves in a forgotten storm—worn, crumpled, dust-ridden.

Cautiously, I move closer to the drafting desk and switch on a small lamp. A jolt of yellow light flares, flickering once before steadying. It sends our shadows dancing across the walls, turning the cluttered contents of the room even more sinister. I realize now that this space is larger than I expected, the corners fading into gloom. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with tattered books, rusted tin boxes, and glass jars filled with things I can’t begin to identify. A stale, musty smell clings to the air, thick with the weight of secrets that never saw the light.

My eyes drift to a solitary, narrow bed in the far corner, its thin blanket half-pulled off, as if whoever used it left in a rush. A small dresser sits nearby, piled with more tools, scattered papers, and books. It’s as if some frantic force was at work here before everything froze in time.

I turn, glancing back at the wall I just passed through, trying to picture how all this might look from the other side. That’s when I notice the small pinholes puncturing the wood, each letting in a thread of light. My heart rate spikes with fresh alarm—I realize what these must be.

Peepholes.

I lower my face to one of them, dread pooling in my stomach. On the other side is my bedroom—the entire view, right down to the comforter Nate and I picked out together. Bile rises in my throat as it sinks in: Someone was watching me. Watching me sleep, undress, share my most private moments with Nate. Every detail was on display for a voyeur hidden in these walls.

A nauseating wave of violation churns inside me, but I grit my teeth against the urge to bolt. I remind myself I’m alone here—whoever used this room doesn’t appear to be here now. I can’t let fear hijack me; I came too far to turn back empty-handed. For all my hopes, though, the chest is nowhere to be seen. A crushing disappointment gnaws at my insides. I was so sure it would be here.

I let my flashlight wander across the walls and corners, searching for any sign that I’ve missed something. Then, in the far edge of the lamplight, I see a narrow passageway extending into the darkness, like a tunnel leading deeper into the house’s bones. A chill brushes my skin, as though some cold, unseen current flows out of that opening.

My throat tightens, but I force myself forward. The passage twists in cramped, suffocating turns, the walls pressing in on me until my shoulders almost graze the wood. More peepholes appear in random intervals, each revealing another slice of my home. One overlooks the bathroom, and I catch my reflection in the mirror. A flash of memory—myself stepping out of the shower, vulnerable, oblivious—rips through me. My guts knot in horror.

But I keep going, swallowing the bitter taste of revulsion. I’m here for answers, and I won’t leave without them. With every cramped step, I start to see how extensive these secret corridors are, winding through the structure like hidden arteries. My mind reels at the realization that none of us were ever alone in Hawthorn Manor. Not truly.

Suddenly, the walls feel even tighter. My breath comes in ragged bursts. I glance at my phone, noticing it was only able to charge to nine percent battery. A new spike of fear grips me. If it dies, so does my only source of light and any chance of calling for help. I break into a clumsy, urgent jog. The passage twists, disorienting me, and I fight to keep calm.

I turn a corner, heart hammering in anticipation of escape—but I’m met with yet another room. It’s laid out almost identically to the first: the same creeping shadows, the same stifling air. On one wall, more peepholes allow dim glints of light to seep in. My breath catches when I recognize the room on the other side.

The nursery.

The one Nate and I once dreamed of filling with life, of hearing a baby’s laughter, but which remained agonizingly vacant. Raw grief twists inside me as I step back, swallowing the ache. Then, in the center of this hidden space, my phone’s failing beam settles on something I’ve been searching for all along—the wooden chest, yawning open, its lid propped as if in silent invitation.

And even in the faint light, I see them: the faint outline of skulls waiting to be found for a second time.