Page 39 of The House That Held Her

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I squeeze the trigger, but all I get is a hollow click. Shock slams through my body so hard it feels like I’ve been kicked in the chest. My frantic finger pumps the trigger again, and again that sickening click mocks me.

George’s laugh rips across the night. It starts low, almost playful, then rises into a manic howl that drowns even the hammering rain. My stomach twists in a way I’ve never felt before. And then, as if he’s flipped a switch inside himself, he cuts off the laugh. His eyes lock onto mine through the curtain of rain. He inhales sharply through his teeth, drawing saliva back into his mouth, and scowls.

“You were actually going to shoot me,” he says flatly. It’s not a question, and it’s not an accusation. It’s like he’s marveling at the idea. There’s hurt and fury shimmering behind his gaze, and I can’t decide which side of him is more terrifying. Suddenly, I want to bolt, to fling the useless shotgun at him and run. But my limbs refuse to cooperate.

He leans in a fraction, reading the panic flaring in my eyes. “You’re scared,” he murmurs. “You should be. Everyone is dead. The storm’s too loud, the town’s shut inside. And you?” His grin returns, twisted and hungry. “You want to run. I can taste it. But listen to me—she always gets what she wants. I’ll do anything she asks of me. And tonight”—he dips close enough for me to catch the stench of his breath—“she wants you.”

His final word is breathed against my ear. It jolts me like a shock of electricity, blasting through the paralysis in my muscles. I spin on my heel, fumbling the shotgun and letting it crash to the mud as I take off toward the woods. Rain stabs at my cheeks, wind roars in my ears, but I keep screaming for help, for anyone, even knowing I’m probably wasting air. The storm devours everything.

My ankle is on fire, swollen and unsteady. Every third step sends a fresh stab of agony right up my leg. Branches whip my face, leaving tiny cuts. I zigzag blindly among the trunks, trying to stay hidden. Finally, I glance back, heart in my throat, expecting George’s silhouette right on my heels. But I see nothing. He’s not behind me. Despite the throbbing in my foot, I push on faster.

A break in the canopy reveals the faint lights of Hawthorn Manor. My eyes hone in on the front door. If I can just get inside, lock or barricade it… Even if George finds another way, I can slow him. My phone is inside. All I have to do is call for backup, get help.

Headlights flicker through the trees in front of me. I freeze, dropping instinctively into a crouch. My throat seizes as Chief Miller’s cruiser prowls slowly up the winding road—except I know it’s not Miller at the wheel. The side spotlight flares white through the rain, searching the underbrush. And George’s voice floats on the storm, singsong and mocking, “Margot… where are you?”

My heart scrambles in my chest. He’s still having fun, playing his cat-and-mouse game. But I’m hardly able to walk at this point, let alone outrun a car. My ankle throbs and the swelling’s creeping above the top of my shoe. Another block or two and I’ll be limping too badly to move. I look down the hill back towards the center of Mount Dora. Racing all the way back to the police station or a random house, hoping their hurricane shutters and doors aren’t already drawn seems like an impossibility in my condition.

Hawthorn Manor is the only real chance I have.

Clamping a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry of frustration, I push away from the road, hobbling through the last stretch of trees that stand between me and the house. My lungs burn from the humidity and fear, my ankle throbs with every uneven footstep. But I refuse to stop. The storm scythes at me with wind and water, and I’m half-blind with rain, but finally—finally—I see the driveway. My house is right there, looming in the gloom.

The front door is wide open, light from the hallway casting a dull glow into the night. I pause, breath stuttering. I scan the darkness for any sign of movement but see none. It’s been several minutes since I saw the police cruiser or spotted any light combing through the trees. He may have doubled back.

Summoning my last scrap of courage, I sprint out of the tree line. My ankle feels like it’s splitting in two with each step, but adrenaline blasts me forward.

I’m panting, nearly delirious, as I cross the open gravel. I swear something moves at the corner of my vision—a dark silhouette racing toward the house as well. My heart nearly bursts. George. He’s found me, I know it. Desperation rips through every cell, and I throw myself up the porch steps. One, two, three, in a blur. I hit the threshold, chest heaving, and stagger inside. Relief surges through me—I made it. I’m inside.

I spin to slam the door shut—and never see the fist that slams into the side of my head. White-hot agony explodes across my skull, and a shriek dies on my lips. I’m weightless, falling. My brain registers the impact of the floor before everything descends into black.