Page 34 of The House That Held Her

33

I stare at Walter, my heart banging against my ribs as I try to reconcile this ordinary-looking man with the horror he’s unleashed into my life. His face is unremarkable—almost serene—and that fact alone is deeply unsettling. Because I know now: behind those calm eyes lurks a murderer.

He’s perched on the edge of my bed, fingers drumming lightly on the mattress. He doesn’t look upset or panicked, only mildly interested, as though assessing my next move. And that eerie composure makes my skin crawl.

“Margot,” he says, voice low and coaxing, as if speaking to a startled animal. “I know what you’re thinking. This all looks…bad.”

His words almost break me. Bad doesn’t begin to cover it. But I don’t wait for his next lie.

I bolt, spinning on my heel and sprinting down the hallway. All I can think about is getting out, finding Shannon—and then ending this nightmare. I feel Walter behind me, not rushing but following with deliberate steps.

“Don’t run, Margot,” he calls down the corridor. “We have to talk eventually.”

His voice is like a slow, mocking echo. My lungs burn by the time I hit the stairs, my bare feet slapping the steps in a blur. Where is Shannon?

I reach the front door, heart leaping with relief. If I can just get outside, I can scream for help, flag down a passerby, something. I grab the knob, twist, and yank. It moves, but not enough—the deadbolt is locked. Usually, the key dangles on the inside, but now the ring is empty, the key gone.

Walter must have taken it.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says softly from behind me.

My stomach lurches; panic flares. I whirl around, half expecting to see Shannon standing there—but it’s only him. Where is she? A pained gasp escapes me. “What did you do to Shannon?”

He tilts his head, wearing that same damn near-smile that makes me want to sob with rage. “Haven’t seen her,” he says casually.

“Stop lying!”

He shrugs, as if my accusation barely registers. “She might be lost… this house can be tricky. You of all people should know that.”

My anger ignites. I’m aware this is a stalling tactic, and I don’t have time for it. I race away from the front door, veering into the kitchen. If I can slip around, maybe I can catch Walter off guard or find some other way out. Behind me, his footsteps remain infuriatingly measured, as though he’s certain I can’t escape.

“Margot,” he calls in a lilting tone that makes my skin crawl. “This is pointless. I know every corner of this house—inside and out. You won’t find a hiding place I can’t reach.”

I push into the kitchen, scanning for something—anything—I can use to defend myself or break a window. A heavy skillet? A knife? I circle the island, but Walter’s silhouette appears at the threshold, blocking the path.

My stomach flips. I pivot and bolt back toward the hall, praying I can dodge him on the stairs. Maybe I can find Shannon before it’s too late. He doesn’t lunge—just steps aside, letting me pass, which feels even more unnerving than if he’d grabbed me.

I bound upstairs, two steps at a time, ignoring my burning calves. If Shannon is anywhere in this house, I have to find her. I reach the landing, eyes darting to the bathroom door—no, too flimsy. The guest room? Too obvious. Under the bed? He’d find me in seconds.

No. There’s only one option left: the hidden passageways behind the walls. The same claustrophobic tunnels where I uncovered that horrifying chest, the same place Shannon vanished into. Fear knots my insides, but I press on.

Tears sting my eyes as I slip into my bedroom, crossing straight to the small panel behind my dresser. This is how I got in last time. With shaking hands, I tug the panel open, revealing the tight corridor beyond. Walter’s voice drifts closer, calm and cold.

“Margot, be sensible. I’m not the villain you think I am. Just let me explain,” he coaxes, as though we’re discussing a mild disagreement and not a string of murders.

My heartbeat clangs in my ears, and I force myself to breathe quietly. Walter’s in my bedroom now—I can hear him stepping around, muttering to himself in a twisted, sing-song voice.

“Is Margot under the bed?” he taunts, like he’s playing hide-and-seek. “Not there. Behind the door?” A theatrical sigh. “Nope.”

The floorboards creak as he moves across the room. I press myself deeper into the darkness, stomach churning at how close he is. My heart thrashes so hard I’m sure he can hear it.

“Is Margot in my room?” he murmurs, voice turning almost reverent.

Terror seizes me. A moment of breathless silence stretches, and then his fist slams against the wall. A thunderous crack reverberates through the wood, sending a shockwave that rattles me. I gasp, stumbling backward and smacking my spine on the edge of the drafting desk. A cry lodges in my throat.

“Shannon, Shannon…” he mutters, switching tactics. “She’s such a sweet friend, isn’t she? Isn’t that why you’re so desperate to find her?”

Tears leak down my cheeks. Focus. I let my hands explore the cramped passage, feeling for the path. If Shannon got lost in here, maybe I can pick up on something—footprints in the dust, or an echo of movement. The memory of how she once teased me about being too stubborn to give up sparks a flicker of determination. She might still be alive. She has to be.

Walter’s footsteps shift, moving across the floor. I force myself deeper, ignoring the tightness in my chest. The corridor is black as tar. I can’t see an inch in front of my face, so I press one hand against the wall, letting it guide me. The air is dense, smelling of dust and stale secrets.

Behind me, I hear Walter leave my room, his voice fading. Maybe he assumes I’ll come out eventually. Maybe he’s searching for a quicker route to corner me. He knows these passages , a dreadful voice in my head reminds me, maybe better than I ever will.

Still, I keep going, step by slow step. The space twists, branching off in corners that feel impossible to navigate blind. I have to find Shannon. If I can’t, I’ll at least look for an exit—a loose board, a gap to the outside, some way to get out and call for help.

Behind my eyes, I see Nate’s face, recalling the violent discovery of him in the bathtub. I think of Lila, Penny—so many names swirling in the darkness. Walter took them all from me. Not Shannon. Not again.

My hand meets a solid wooden panel. No latch, no doorknob—just more wall. I curse under my breath, leaning my forehead against it, swallowing the anger and grief. On the other side of this panel, Walter could be waiting, or Shannon might be unconscious, or…

I inhale slowly, pressing on. Darkness or not, I refuse to stop searching. Walter might own these walls, but he doesn’t own my will. I won’t give him the satisfaction of submission.

Somewhere up ahead, the tunnel splits. My fingertips graze a corner. I pick one direction at random, hoping it leads me closer to where Shannon might be. Behind me, faint echoes of Walter’s methodical steps filter through the old timbers.

I take another trembling breath, gather what courage I have left, and plunge deeper into the blackness, determined to find Shannon—or an escape—and to bring this entire nightmare to an end, one way or another.