Page 35 of The House That Held Her

34

I stumble through the cramped, suffocating darkness of these hidden passageways, straining to stay just out of Walter’s reach. Hawthorn Manor has turned into a twisted labyrinth, the very walls seemingly conspiring to trap me. Each time I think I’ve found a path, it veers into another dead end. My breath comes in ragged bursts, and the only relief I find is through the tiny peepholes carved into the walls—brief, taunting windows into a home I once thought was mine.

I press my eye against one of those openings, my heart racing. Beyond it, I see the kitchen, still achingly familiar yet warped by all that’s happened. It feels like years ago now, since Nate and I first stepped foot into this kitchen, imagining the Thanksgivings we’d spend here together, cooking and baking our favorite foods. The memory slams into me, nearly overwhelming me with grief. Then, before I can process the pain, a giant, bloodshot eye fills the peephole from the other side.

Walter.

“Peek-a-boo, Margot,” he says in a singsong murmur. “I see you.”

I jolt backward, stifling a yelp, hand clamped over my mouth. My back hits the rough wall, reminding me just how cornered I am. The echo of Walter’s footsteps drifts along the corridors, sometimes seeming to come from right beside me, as though he’s walking parallel on the other side of these panels, waiting to snatch me if I slip. Other times, I swear he’s in here with me, only steps behind, his breath just inches from my neck.

The pathways twist left, then right, then left again, a demented puzzle with no obvious solution. I’m losing track of how long I’ve been trapped in this claustrophobic warren. Each second drips into the next, exhaustion gnawing at my bones. I can’t stop, or he’ll catch me. So, I push on, adrenaline fueling my every shaky step.

I pause to press my face against another peephole, desperate for some idea of where I am. This time, the living room slides into focus—and my heart wrenches. Shannon and I were just in this room together, looking for an answer to a puzzle I wish we had never found.

An old memory grips me: Shannon, defiant and protective, arms crossed as she argued on my behalf back home—when the courts pinned me with partial responsibility for Lila’s death. Shannon was my shield back then, unwavering. She saved me from sinking beneath all that guilt, stood between me and the world’s pointed fingers. And now I had dragged her into whatever this was.

Tears fill my eyes, shock warring with disbelief, grief curdling into anger. In my heart I know he’s done something to her. I just can’t admit it out loud to myself. My rage burns through my tears: Walter will pay. I clench my fists, pressing them against the wall.

Movement flickers in the living room. Walter steps into view, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look so calm anymore—his motions are jittery, his expression coiled. He paces, mumbling to himself, glancing at some unseen presence beyond my narrow line of sight. Is there…someone else in the house?

My pulse spikes. Walter is flailing, gesturing around the room like he’s trying to explain something. He looks desperate—terrified, even. I lean closer, ear against the wall, struggling to catch a word or name, but I only hear the low rumble of his voice, one-sided and agitated.

Then Walter steps to the very center of the room. He sighs, hanging his head, and for a moment, he looks sad—until he lifts his gaze and locks eyes directly on the spot where I’m hiding.

My blood goes cold. He stares at the wall that conceals me, eyes narrowed, a small smile curling his lips, like he knows I’m watching. Then, silent as a predator, he slips out of sight.

I suck in a shaky breath, heart pounding. I realize in a flash: these passageways have more than one entrance. He’s going to hunt me down from some other route. I can’t stay here; I have to move.

Turning away from the peephole, I edge forward, hands ghosting along the rough wood. Every muscle tenses, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. My mind spins with the question of how large this hidden network is, how many corridors crisscross the house’s foundation. Suddenly, the ground drops beneath my feet. I lurch forward, nearly pitching headlong into empty space.

A series of steps descends into darkness—leading downward, and I know for a fact Hawthorn Manor doesn’t have a basement. Not one I’ve ever seen, anyway. Fear collides with a raw, urgent need to escape, and that need wins. I scoot onto the top step, lowering myself carefully. The air grows damp, carrying a rank odor that sets my nerves on edge.

My feet dip into frigid water, and a gasp hitches in my throat. It’s so cold it practically numbs my ankles, and each step sends a ripple through the dark, stagnant pool. The ceiling here is barely high enough for me to stand upright, forcing me to hunch. The walls tighten around me, muddy and slick, studded with uneven stone. Tiny scratching sounds tell me I’m not alone—rats, insects, or who knows what else. I shiver, refusing to let my imagination run wild. Walter is the real danger.

I feel around in the darkness and recognize there are two pathways in front of me. I take a breath, step to the left, and begin moving forward. Within a few steps, my world starts to tilt and I realize I’m descending. The odd feeling of water rising is the only real proof that what I’m sensing is actually true. A brief flash of panic surges through me as I imagine continuing down this path, only to find the water moving up further until I drowned.

No, instead I turn back, retracing my steps. This time, I take the right path, which does not feel like it’s descending. Step by step, I push on. The tunnel twists left, then right, random water droplets falling on my head and neck, chilling me to the bone. A suffocating panic tries to claw its way up my throat, but I clamp it down. I will not die here. Not in some watery crypt with Shannon still out there, somewhere. I steady myself with each shallow breath, inching deeper into the gloom.

Then I see it—a wavering, pale light dancing on the surface of the water so faint I think I might be imagining it at first. Hope flares inside me like a match in the dark. I press forward, the water splashing louder against my legs. I can hear something, too—a voice?

Not Walter’s. This voice is gruffer, urgent, but muffled by the tunnel’s constant dripping. The corridor opens abruptly into a small cellar, water draining through a grated floor. Candlelight—or some other flickering glow—bobs against the damp walls. I pause, heart in my throat, fighting the urge to turn and flee. But I can’t. Whoever’s beyond this tunnel has to be safer than what I left behind.

Swallowing hard, I push forward, stepping into the dimly lit space. Water sloshes around my shins, draining toward the grate. My eyes adjust slowly to the change in light as I look around. The drips echo off the stone, forming a steady backdrop of white noise that nearly drowns out the voice. But it’s definitely there—closer now, distinct from the rasp of my own breath.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. Then, slowly, I step forward, emerging from the tunnel's darkness and into the flickering light of the basement—a basement I knew all too well.