Page 43 of The House That Held Her

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T he storm outside thrashes at Hawthorn Manor as if it wants to rip the place apart from the foundation up. Thunder booms in waves, vibrating through the floor beneath me, and the wind hurls heavy sheets of rain against the windows, the force rattling them in their frames.

I force in a trembling breath, trying to center myself. My focus returns to George, his face half-lit by the fireplace’s sputtering glow. My mind races with a dozen questions, each one jabbing at me like a knife. But only one forces its way out.

“Why Nate?” My voice sticks in my throat, turning the question rough, almost hoarse. “Why keep him alive this long? Why torment me with all the calls and messages? Why go through all that?”

George’s gaze softens, and I catch a flicker of what looks like remorse crossing his features. Rain patters against the window, but his words drift above the storm, cold and deliberate.

“Nate was meant to be my next offering,” he says, each syllable weighted with chilling finality. “It had been a year and Cecilia was restless again. When you and Nate moved in, everything changed,” George continues, voice tight. “It complicated my usual routine. Harder to move unseen. Trickier to come and go as I needed to. So, instead I waited, and I watched. I watched you both. But he–”George’s tone sharpens with a bitter edge “—treated you like you were a chore. A problem. It reminded me of my mother, the way she belittled me. And something inside me… connected with you. I wanted to protect you, the way I couldn’t protect Amelia.”

I feel my throat tighten as I catch the raw edge of George’s words. His warped sense of devotion nauseates me, twisting my insides.

George’s eyes flick to mine. “Eliminating Nate would give Cecilia what she needed—and I’d save you from him. Redemption, maybe.”

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, barely audible under the storm’s roar. He’s delusional, spinning reality around his guilt and grief.

He shakes his head. “Then you found the map. Moved the chest. That disrupted the entire plan. I couldn’t perform the ritual. Couldn’t do my part to calm Cece. It forced me out of the tunnels, forced me to cover my tracks. And then I realized..." He hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor. "I realized I didn't want you to know. I wanted you to get to know Walter, the groundskeeper. I wanted you to know the man who was just here to help, to be kind, to watch over you. Not the monster my mother forced me to become."

I feel something snap inside me—a bolt of rage that electrifies my veins. I shoot up from my seat, face flush with fury. "You murdered my husband because you wanted a chance at fucking redemption?" I scream, my voice distance, like it’s not even me saying it but someone else. "It wasn't about protecting me, or even satisfying a ghost that literally only exists in your head. It was your obsession to fix what you couldn't with Amelia. It could have been anyone else, and you chose him because you thought you could right the past by protecting me? You murdered him, George. You took away the love of my life."

Before I can stop myself, I reach for the table lamp, swinging it with everything I have. The lamp misses George’s head by an inch, slamming into the floor and exploding into a spray of broken glass, metal, and sparks. A sharp hiss escapes as the bulb shatters and dies, throwing the room into even deeper darkness.

George raises his hands, words tumbling out in a plea. “Margot, please. You have to understand.” His eyes flash with something that might be panic. “I do care about you. I’ve watched you for so long. I saw how you’d cry yourself to sleep, how your shoulders shook under the weight of everything that followed you from Maryland. After you’d fall asleep, I’d sit by your bed… talk to you… stroke your hair.”

The impact of his confession is like ice water spilling down my spine. I can feel the blood drain from my face, a clammy dread settling over my skin.

“You’ve sensed it,” he murmurs. “The glimpses in the dark, the whispers at night. Cecilia haunts these halls when she’s lonely—she’s real, and you felt her, too. But I was there, always, keeping you safe from everything else. Nate… he was unworthy. Removing him was mercy. You don’t see that yet, but you will.”

I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting a wave of nausea. My eyes dart around the dim room, searching for an escape route, a weapon, anything . I realize now that every flicker of paranoia, every unexplained noise I dismissed as grief or madness, even the nightmare of the tub in the basement— it was him . George had inserted himself into my life in a thousand subtle ways and influenced the very way in which I thought.

His voice drops, heartbreakingly gentle. “I was your guardian, Margot. Your protector.”

My lips part, but at first, no sound comes out. Then I manage a trembling whisper, “You’re insane. You killed him. You… watched me. He was my husband. You—” I choke on sobs, my emotions tangled in devastation and wrath.

His eyes glimmer with sorrow, or maybe pity. “Nate was cruel,” he insists, as though it’s enough of a reason. “You deserve better.”

Rage floods every inch of me, a molten heat fueling my limbs. My entire reality has been twisted by this man’s lunacy, and I see only one path forward now: survival.

I grit my teeth. I need to make it out. I need to tell the world what George did.

He notices my shift—my posture tensing, my eyes searching. Panic flashes in his expression. “Margot, please?—”

But I’m already taking a step away, determined to reach that door. I have to escape this place, blow the lid off his gruesome secrets, and ensure George never haunts another living soul again.

Lightning flares outside, illuminating his face in a stark flash—haunted, desperate, and scarily convinced he’s right. The thunder crashes, shaking the floor under my feet.

George’s twisted mind might believe he’s saving me, but I see the real monster. No matter how terrible the storm raging outside is, I now know an even worse danger lives inside these very walls.