Page 40 of The House That Held Her

39

A clap of thunder jolts me awake. I sit on the sofa in my living room, my breath shallow and uneven. I scan the room until my eyes lock on the man I once believed was Walter, standing by the fireplace that now roars with flames. Outside, the storm rages, thunder rattling the windows.

My hands clench at my sides, knuckles stretched pale as fury and sorrow ignite within me. Every muscle trembles with the need to both run and confront him. I can’t stop thinking of Shannon—her cries echoing through the water runoff tunnel, the way I hear her voice call out to me one last time. My best friend is gone.

“Why?” I manage, trying to sound strong despite the cold dread pooling inside me. Rain hammers against the windows, perfectly in step with the pounding of my heart. “Why pretend all this time? Why take my best friend? Why kill her?” I choke over the lump in my throat, my voice rising to be heard over a jarring thunderclap. “You murdered my fucking husband. You murdered my best friend. Michael and Penny Lark. All those skulls were people with lives, with dreams and families. For what? To feed your own sick desires? Why?! Tell me, George. Why?”

I’m shouting now, tears flooding my vision, my chest heaving with sobs I can’t afford to show him. But I can’t stop; I have to say it all, the betrayal and agony clawing for release.

When I’m finally spent, breathless and trembling, George—no, not Walter, but George Hawthorn—slowly exhales, letting my cries fade to the storm’s roar. Lightning flashes across his face, revealing a steady, almost gentle expression, as though he pities me.

“Are you done?” he asks softly.

I let out a strangled laugh. “No!” My voice cracks, but I press forward, shouting all the fury and grief I have left—the people I lost, the nightmares he’s forced on me, the shattered hope. I hurl accusations like spears, every word a desperate attempt to wound him the way he’s torn me apart. He listens without flinching. Even the thunder outside feels dim compared to the blood pounding in my ears.

Eventually, I collapse back against the sofa, panting. My head throbs, and my entire body is tight with tension. It’s like my soul has been scoured raw.

George’s gaze drifts to the window before returning to me. His voice, when he speaks, is unsettlingly calm. “I wasn’t always a monster,” he begins. “As a boy, I was just like any other child. I had anger, sure, but so does everyone. Then there was my mother, Dorothy…”

He keeps his eyes on mine, letting the words linger. ‘You see," George continues, his voice softening, "Dorothy had a way of instilling darkness in our home. She was always there with her best friend. Gin. They were inseparable. The alcohol brought out a side of her that was pure evil." He rolls up his left sleeve, pushing his arm forward. Tiny, organized lines of scars ran up and down his arm—too many for me to count. "I was her ashtray," he says. "And Amelia was her punching bag." He speaks without emotion—a hollow recounting of events. "One day, she pushed Amelia from the top of the stairs, straight down to the bottom. She didn't touch a single step on the way down. She died right there in front of me. When her neck snapped, something inside of me did too."

I can barely breathe, the horror of his words twist my insides.

George meets my gaze, his eyes cold and detached. "I confided in Cecilia after that. Cece made it her life's mission to save me, to keep that darkness at bay. And it worked for a while. She loved me. Truly loved me. And I loved her more than anything. But the darkness never left. It haunted me, buried too deep, festering." He shakes his head slowly. "One night, I had a nightmare. Amelia's face. Her broken body at the foot of the stairs. It felt as though the only way to escape it was to finally do something. I left Cecilia asleep in bed, snuck out, and I killed my mother. I pushed her, just like she pushed Amelia. I watched her fall. It was vindication. And for a moment, it tasted sweet."

My mind is reeling.

George looks outside and then back to me; his eyes almost soft. "When I returned to Cecilia's, sneaking through the window, she was waiting for me. She knew what I'd done before I even spoke a word. She saw it in my eyes and felt it in my touch when she pulled me close. But she didn't turn me away. She held me. She believed she could save me." His gaze drops to the floor now, his voice barely a whisper, almost lost to the roaring storm. "But killing my mother didn't end the darkness. It quieted it for a time, but the shadows were always there, lurking, biding their time. Cecilia and I fought against it, convinced we could hold it back. We built this house because I couldn't bear the old one. Not after seeing my family destroyed there. I wanted a new start. A sanctuary. A place where we could finally have the life we dreamed of." George gestures around the room's grandeur, contrasting with the anguish in his voice. "But..." He hesitates, his expression hollow, as if the words could crush him.

"We couldn't have children. No matter what we tried, it was hopeless. The medicine available back then offered no answers and no hope. We had to accept our new roles. Cecilia, the matriarch of a town that adored her, and me, the man who would do anything for her, including suffocating my deepest desires. And when Cecilia died, it shattered me. She was everything. The love of my life. The only light in the darkness. And suddenly, she was gone. I remember her laughter filling this house, her touch that could chase away even my worst thoughts. Without her, there was nothing but emptiness. There was no one to blame, no one to direct my fury at. I was lost. The rage stayed, bubbling, filling every corner of my mind, and that's when the hauntings started."

George's voice drops to a ragged whisper, his words trembling. "She haunted me, Margot. I could hear her laughter. Empty, hollow. Her crying in the dead of night, her voice calling out to me from the darkened halls, always whispering something that I couldn't quite catch. One night, I woke up, and she was lying next to me, as real as you are now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her skin cold, one eye missing. She just stared at the bottom of the bed, never turned to me, never spoke a word. And when I got out of bed and came around to meet her gaze, her single eye refocused on me, and she screamed. No words. Just a blood-curdling, heart-stopping scream. She was gone when I opened my eyes again, but the indent and the chill she had brought were still there. And Margot, she would leave signs. Cryptic, chilling messages that clawed at my sanity. I remember stepping out of the shower once, and there it was. Her handprint on the fogged mirror, perfectly clear, fingers splayed as though she'd been standing right behind me, her presence lingering just beyond my reach. Another night, I woke to see her silhouette waiting in the darkest corner of the room, just a shadow barely distinct from the blackness, her quiet sobs threading through the silence. It was a sound so fragile and desperate it made my blood run cold. She never spoke. Not a single word. Her contact was always begging, pleading. Her sorrow was too deep and consuming for words."

George's eyes glaze over, lost in the memories, and his voice breaks. "So, I went to Lake Dora, stood at the water's edge, and begged her to find peace. And you know what happened? She finally spoke to me. She answered. My darling, Cecilia. I couldn't see her, but I could feel her. I could smell her. She whispered to me. Pleaded for me to bring her company. She told me she was lonely, Margot! And how could I refuse her? She was the love of my life and of course she was lonely. My poor Cece, forced to exist on that god awful lake all alone." George drifts in and out of focus, the moments between words growing longer and longer as he recalls the memory.

"I would do anything to give her what she wanted. And so, I did. At first, I considered killing myself, Margot. I thought about simply ending it all. Throwing myself into Lake Dora to join Cecilia in the afterlife. But I knew better. I had promised Cece, long ago, that I would never take my own life, even if she went before me. She made me swear, and I kept that promise. Deep down, I knew that killing myself wouldn't bring her peace. Cecilia needed company, but not me, not before it was my time. It had to be someone else. The very next day, I walked the streets of Mount Dora, searching. Freddy Bahn was a nobody. The town drug addict who no one would miss. And so, I took him. I strangled him and buried him by the lake, at the exact spot Cece spoke to me the night before. And for a while, Margot, it worked to both quiet Cecilia's spirit as well as my own darkness."

My stomach twists as George's voice softens, becoming almost affectionate.

"For one year, I had peace. But then Cecilia returned. It started just as before. The wails that tore through the house in the middle of the night, the whispered words that twisted around in my brain. Her silent screams from passing reflections in the windows until I couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. It was all happening again, and I knew what she needed this time. I had to give her someone she knew, someone she would recognize, someone who might bring her comfort. So, I brought her Mary Alcott. She had been Cecilia's friend for years. Her laughter had filled our home when things were still bright and hopeful. I thought that maybe Cecilia's spirit would finally rest if she had a familiar face in the afterlife. I was right. I strangled Mary, just as I had Freddy. But after that, I faced a problem. Someone would eventually find the bodies. The freshly turned soil and marks of my work would attract suspicion. I needed to find another way to get them to Cecilia. A way that would leave no trace, no footprint for others to see. That's when I started to question where someone's spirit truly resides. Most people believe it's in the heart. But not me. No, the heart is just flesh. An organ that rots away like any other. The actual vessel for a person's spirit, the seat of their essence, is the skull. Bone is eternal, bound intrinsically to the spirit world. That's why many cultures and ancient religions have revered it for centuries.”

“So, I severed the skulls of Freddy and Mary. I took their skulls and discarded the rest of their bodies into Lake Dora. And when it came to disposal, I learned a thing or two. Did you know that female alligators are particularly vicious when guarding their nests? They're ravenous, relentless. Almost as if they're driven by a primal fury. I knew they'd handle the rest. So, I tossed what remained of their bodies into the murky depths of Lake Dora, and in moments, the water came alive. The thrashing, the bubbles, and then... stillness. They were gone. Devoured. It was as if they had never existed. Just whispers swallowed by the lake, destined to remain forever, playing the role of Cecilia's ghostly community.”

I sit in stunned disbelief, struggling to comprehend the casual way in which George was recounting his murders. There is no trace of guilt, no hint of remorse. Only a chilling detachment that revealed the true horror of the man before me.

George continued. "After Mary, everything grew more complicated. As I feared, the next year, right on cue, the hauntings began again. My dear Cecilia, restless even in death, had grown impatient. A year passed, and the friends I had offered were no longer enough to satisfy her. Most men might have found it too much to bear. Perhaps they would have fled, torn down the house, and left Mount Dora far behind. But I am not like most men. Instead, I craved her return. I missed her. Even in her terrifying form, with her sadness and rage, every moment of contact filled the void in me. To feel her presence, even fleetingly, was like warm sun on my skin after an endless winter. And so, I set out to bring her a third offering."

George's eyes grew distant, his voice almost playful as he continued. "Douglas Lane, if I remember correctly. But something was different. She wasn't pleased with Doug. I could feel it. Mere moments after watching the life leave his eyes, I felt her spirit overwhelm me in a way it never had before. It was almost like possession. She never spoke aloud, but her presence filled me, reaching in and controlling my soul. I felt her emotions twisting through mine, forcing my hands away from his throat. This was not the one she wanted. I was baffled. I looked into Douglas' terrified eyes, trying to decipher what Cecilia was asking of me. And then, in a flash, it became clear. She desired the one thing she could never have while she was alive. A child. For a brief, fleeting moment, even my blackened heart hesitated at the thought of sacrificing a child. But that hesitation was simply a moment, nothing more. It passed, and my resolve solidified. My love deserved this. She deserved everything she had been denied. And so, I transformed. I became not just a hunter of men and women but of children, too.”