Page 41 of The House That Held Her

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GEORGE, 13 YEARS AGO

I slip in through the open window, the cold rain lashing at my face, soaking my clothes. The nightlight’s weak glow paints the bedroom in shifting blues, the corners lost to darkness. The storm outside rumbles with a low, constant anger, but the boy—Michael Lark—sleeps on, oblivious to the danger creeping into his world.

My heart thrums against my ribcage, a quiet drumbeat of anticipation. My breath comes shallow and quick, fogging in the damp chill of the room. I take careful steps over the scattered toys on the floor—bits of plastic, a small truck, a stuffed bear. Each step must be silent. The old floorboards are treacherous, always eager to give me away with a creak or groan.

There he is. Michael. His lashes flutter slightly as he dreams, a gentle sigh escaping his parted lips. A worn, floppy-eared rabbit lies tucked under his arm, and a thin dinosaur-patterned blanket wraps him in a fragile cocoon. For a moment, I pause, my chest tightening at the innocence of it all. But I clench my jaw, forcing that useless sentiment away. I’m here for a purpose.

I hover over him, wincing at how loud my own breathing sounds in the hush of the storm-lulled house. Thunder growls from the clouds above, drawing closer, as if the night itself has been building toward this moment. I reach out, pressing my fingertips gently to his shoulder. He stirs, eyelids flickering. I can’t afford to let him cry out—my hand clamps down over his mouth before he has the chance.

His eyes snap open, shock flooding them. He tries to move, tries to scream, but all that emerges is a muffled whimper. The swirl of confusion and terror on his face sets my pulse racing. I twist my other arm beneath him, pulling him against me as he thrashes, the blanket tangling around his legs. His small hands paw at my wrist, nails scratching at my skin. It won’t help him.

Outside in the hallway, a door creaks. My gut twists. His mother– Penny. She’s nearby, maybe already rousing. I can’t let her see me. Michael wriggles in my arms, panic giving him strength, but I shove down any pity that tries to surface. I made my decision long ago. I move toward the window as fast as I dare, stumbling through the scattered toys.

One of Michael’s feet catches the edge of a plastic tractor—his toy skitters across the floor, and the noise makes my heart stutter. I jerk him tighter to my chest, forcing him to still. He bites down on my hand, but I barely feel it. Adrenaline coats everything in numb urgency.

I get one knee on the windowsill, using my shoulder to push it open wider. The storm air slaps us, driving rain stinging my cheeks. Thunder cracks overhead. I swing my leg out and lower us carefully, dropping down into the yard in a crouch. The wet grass soaks my knees.

Behind us, I hear her. Penny’s footsteps moving over the worn floorboards in the hallway. Then her voice, uncertain at first: “Michael?” She’s half-asleep, but the dread in her tone is instant. A mother knows.

Michael kicks again, tries to spit out a plea for help. I jam my hand tight against his mouth, my chest tightening with every step I take across the soggy lawn. The rain picks up, each heavy droplet like needles against my scalp.

Inside, Penny’s fear erupts into a sharp cry. She’s reached his bed, found only rumpled blankets and the empty space where her son should be. Then her scream knifes through the night. “Michael! Michael!”

I grit my teeth. He thrashes in my arms, hearing his mother’s voice. My lungs burn, and my arms ache, but I keep going, forging a path across the yard toward the trees. I’m counting on the roar of wind and thunder to mask our escape. Lightning flares, blinding me for an instant, revealing the stark silhouettes of the towering oaks. Their gnarled branches stretch overhead like a net, welcoming me into their cover.

I push forward, my grip never slackening around the boy. His muffled sobs vibrate against my palm. I can feel the frantic pounding of his small heart against my chest—it mirrors my own, each beat feeding a vicious cycle of terror and purpose.

Behind me, Penny’s voice cracks, bordering on hysteria, reverberating in the open window: “Michael!”

I force myself not to look back. I’ve made my choice. I vanish into the shadows of the tree line, the storm swallowing up her desperate cries, her heartbreak echoing in the darkness. Thunder growls in a final, hollow note, sealing the bond I’ve chosen to make.

Michael’s cries fade into a trembling whimper against my hand. My foot slips on the sodden leaves, but I regain my balance, forging deeper into the night. I cling to him, my teeth clenched, body locked tight with tension.

A muffled crash from somewhere behind me in the house signals Penny’s frantic, futile dash to the window, maybe even out into the yard, searching. But I’m gone, her son cradled in my arms, the storm’s heavy curtain shielding us from sight.

Just as the swirl of guilt in my chest threatens to slow my steps, lightning ignites the sky again. In the flash, I see the outline of the path leading away from the Lark property. I’ll follow it. I’ll deliver Michael. And soon enough, the storm will pass—leaving yet another empty bed behind in Mount Dora.

I clutch Michael tighter, ignoring his feeble kicks. This has to be done. And like the storm itself, I’m unstoppable.