Page 33 of The House That Held Her

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I stare at the Yankees cap clenched in my trembling hands, and the world around me seems to spin in slow motion. My lungs constrict as the realization slams into me again and again, like relentless waves against a cliff. Walter’s hat. It’s here, hidden away in this secret room behind my own bedroom walls.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my brain to conjure some benign explanation. But the truth claws at me from every angle—I can’t escape it. Walter was here, not just once, not by accident, but over and over. He lived in these walls, kept that chest of skulls, and meticulously planned every horror I’ve just uncovered. My mind screams in protest, but there’s no denying the obvious: Walter, the gentle, dependable man who always showed up at my lowest moments, is the very monster who’s been tormenting me all along.

My thoughts are a frenzied mess, tumbling and colliding in my head. How could I have never asked where he lived? How did I not realize he was living here, behind the walls, hiding all evidence of his crimes? Scenes of our conversations flicker through my memory—the warmth in his voice, the calm way he’d say, “I’m here to help,” every time I felt alone. Now I see each moment for the lie it was, a twisted manipulation. Walter, the groundskeeper, the boy raised near this property, the one who claimed to protect me when Nate was gone—he’s been the threat all along. The darkness I feared was never distant; it was right here, watching from the shadows.

My knees threaten to buckle, my stomach knotting itself tight. Every nerve in my body screams that I have to go —right now, before I can’t move at all. The hat slips from my hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

I stagger backward, clambering through the cramped opening into my bedroom. My vision blurs with panic, tears, and disbelief. Every inch of this room now feels like a stranger’s domain, its comforting familiarity stripped away in an instant.

Dawn light leaks through the curtains, painting everything in a gentle glow that mocks the horror lurking beneath. I force myself to stand straight, air rasping in my lungs as I try to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.

That’s when I see him. Walter is perched on the edge of my bed, shoulders sagging, face caught between sorrow and a kind of weary acceptance. His eyes lock onto mine, and I feel the entire room contract until it’s only the two of us. His hands and boots are both covered in mud, leaving marks all over the floor and bedspread. My breath leaves me in a rush, cold dread crawling across my skin.

“Margot…” he says softly, his voice threaded with regret, like he pities me for finally understanding.

I want to scream, to unleash all my fury and terror, but my throat closes up. My eyes burn, and a dozen memories collide: every conversation, every moment of trust, now coated in blood and deceit. I feel my knees give, my body threatening to collapse. And Walter just sits there, motionless, waiting. Watching. His familiar face distorts with each ragged heartbeat, as the mask finally slips away, revealing the monster I never realized lurked underneath.