Page 52 of The House That Held Her

51

T he sun is dipping low in the sky when I return to Phyllis’s bungalow, a tight knot of dread coiling in my stomach. The letter in my coat pocket feels heavier than ever—a quiet bomb waiting to detonate. I know Patrick will be furious at what I’m about to show him. Still, I can’t see another way out. I’ve written and rewritten every word in an effort to break the truth gently.

When I knock, the door swings open to reveal Patrick standing there, confusion flickering across his features as he steps aside to let me in. Inside, the bungalow feels even more cramped than before—musty furniture, the faint smell of old perfume. My breath catches as I look at him.

“Patrick,” I begin, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I just want to reiterate that I really appreciated your respect and patience as I worked through the bombshell you dropped on me when we first met.” I smile passively to try and break the tension.

“During my research, I found some information that I think you need to see.” My hand slips into my coat, pulling out the envelope. My palms are clammy with sweat, and I pass the letter over to him.

His expression hardens before he even reads a word. I can sense the wall going up, a mixture of mistrust and anger. He slides out the pages, scanning the opening lines.

I step onto the small front porch, wanting to give him space. But I only get a couple of steps away when I hear the letter tear in two, echoing like a gunshot in the still evening air. Spinning around, I find Patrick glaring at me, shreds of paper in his hands.

“You think I’m gonna buy this garbage?” he snarls. “You think I care what you wrote down? This doesn’t change a damn thing.”

I flinch at the raw fury in his voice. My mind whirls back to my promise to Phyllis—she begged me to protect him from the ugly truth, to keep him from discovering her secret. But I’ve just made it worse. Fighting the urge to defend myself, I raise both hands, palms out.

“Patrick,” I say quietly. “Easy. Listen, I’m not trying to shatter anything you believe. But it’s important for me to provide you with the truth so we can both move forward.”

“Fuck you!” he screams, spittle flying his mouth. I squint in a poor attempt to block some of the vile liquid spilling from his face.

“Okay, okay. We can’t do this here. Not in front of your mom. She doesn’t need to hear this.” I say gently, trying my best to de-escalate the situation.

He flicks a glance over his shoulder, clearly wary that Phyllis might emerge at any moment. His jaw tenses. “Fine. There’s a second house out on the Hawthorn property—it’s a shit hole, but no one will bother us there. Take the gravel drive, keep right through the trees. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

He slams the door without waiting for my reply. Ripped shreds of my letter flutter across the porch, and a wave of nausea clenches my gut. Things are already falling apart and I don’t know how to stop it from getting worse.

Twilight has fully settled by the time I navigate Hawthorn Manor’s long driveway, passing the main house where Margot is likely inside. I keep my lights off and my speed at 5 mph to not attract any attention. Just beyond a bend, the gravel forks. I veer right, following Patrick’s directions, and soon spot a secluded opening in the trees. Ahead stands a smaller, older building—Hawthorn House. Its siding is peeling, windows dusty, as though it’s been neglected for decades. Perfect for a meeting no one else will overhear.

I hide my car along the tree line under a gnarled oak and climb out. Crickets drone in the thick summer air, and the faint hush of an approaching storm rustles the branches overhead. I sit and wait, well beyond twenty minutes. I get out and begin to pace, wondering what’s taking him so long to get here.

Finally, after closer to an hour, I hear the growl of Patrick’s truck. He pulls up directly in front of the house, the headlights raking across the house’s chipped paint.

Patrick steps out, and even from a distance, I can smell the whiskey on him. His eyes are bloodshot, his movements jerky and unsteady. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, stalking toward the house.

I follow him to the porch, my heart hammering.

He reaches for the heavy handle first, but it refuses to budge, locked tight. I glance around, second guessing the nighttime rendezvous with an angry drunk man at an abandoned house. Moments later, I hear shattering glass behind me. Pulse pounding, I spin around—only to see Patrick grinning, a rock clutched in his hand.

“ One of us owns it, right? What’s the big deal?” he says as he unlocks the now broken window and then climbs inside. Seconds later the front clicks and swings open.

Reluctantly, I follow him, flipping on an overhead light that buzzes to life, illuminating a threadbare living room. Dust stirs in the stale air.

He spins on me before I can even close the front door. “So, this is where you try to tell me I’m not his son? That I’m some con artist? You want to take everything away from me. Is that it?”

I keep my voice low, forced calm. “I’m not taking anything. I just?—”

“Liar!” he barks, and before I can move, he drives his shoulder into my chest, knocking me back a few steps. His breath reeks of alcohol and rage. “All my life, I’ve had nothing. I’ve been nothing. And then I learn about George! I finally have a chance to claim a legacy, to be someone. And you—some nobody from up North—show up to rip that away? Over my dead body.”

I hold my palms out. “Listen, I?—”

Patrick lunges. His fist rams into my cheek, and my vision bursts with white sparks. I stagger, fighting for balance. Another blow catches my jaw, sending me sprawling to the floor. Pain explodes down my spine, breath whooshing from my lungs.

He’s on me in an instant, pinning me. “You think you’re better than me?” he growls. “George abandoned you too, you know! He fucked your mother and then left her to die. He didn’t give a shit about you!” He lands another punch, and my head snaps back, the world going fuzzy at the edges.

With the next hit, I taste blood. Panic surges—he’s going to kill me. “Patrick—please!” I gasp, trying to bring my arms up. He batters them away with surprising force.

“I’m so sick…” another fist connects to my cheek bone, “of everyone else…” one more crack to the same spot, “looking down on me!” He head butts me this time and with a crack I know my nose is broken. “And finally, instead of being stolen from, I’m going to do the stealing.” He screams, with literal heat pulsating from his body.

“I’m taking your damn house,” he hisses, hooking a fist into my ribs. I gasp in agony. “Your money… your inheritance…” Each word is punctuated by another brutal blow. Darkness swims in my vision, and I now know I made the worst mistake I’ve ever made in coming here.

Then something changes in his gaze—an ugly sneer. He grabs my left hand, yanks my wedding ring free. “Might take your wife, too,” he snarls.

Fury and desperation swell, but I’m too disoriented to fight back. Another hit crushes my temple, and blackness sweeps in.

When I come to, my head throbs as though a jackhammer is burying itself within my brain. My mouth is filled with coppery blood, and I barely register the coarse floorboards under my cheek. Patrick is hunched over my wallet and phone, rifling through them with shaking hands. He’s so focused, he doesn’t notice me stir.

I grit my teeth, bracing against the pain, and force myself upright. My limbs feel like lead, and my eyes are struggling to focus in the low light. I look at the violent man in front of me, wondering how I’m still alive. Then a glint glances off his hand and I see my ring, my wedding ring, on his finger. The sight shoots adrenaline straight through my veins and I lunge, without thinking. I knock into him and he staggers, swears, and tries to swing at me again. But this time, I’m ready for it and instead, I use his momentum against him, grabbing hold of his incoming wrist and swinging him off-balance towards the still open door.

I follow in pursuit, with no plan, just rage. We crash out onto the porch. My back slams against the railing and he rushes towards me: I twist, shoving him away. Patrick stumbles down the three steps leading up to the porch, his head cracking against one of the stepping stones with a sickening thud. He collapses in the dirt below, unmoving.

Gasping, every nerve aflame, I stare at him. Did I just kill him? Heart hammering, I scramble down the steps and check for a pulse at his neck. It’s still there, faint but steady. Relief trembles through me. I hoist his dead weight by the arms, dragging him back inside the house, this time closing the door.

I drop him unceremoniously onto the living room floor, my muscles screaming. My head spins, spots dancing in my vision from pain and fear. But I can’t stay here. The moment he wakes, we’ll be right back at each other’s throats. I slump against the wall, pressing shaking fingers to his neck again—yes, still breathing.

Then I hear it—a low rumble of an engine outside. Headlights flash across the dusty windows. Panic floods me. If someone finds me here with an unconscious, bloody Patrick, there’ll be no explaining. Slowly, I climb to my feet, searching for any escape route that doesn’t involve stepping right into those headlights.

I stumble down a short hallway, nervously looking from left to right for an exit. I head towards the back of the house intending to use the backdoor, but it’s nailed shut with several old two by fours. A hear a car door slam and panic floods my thoughts. I turn and see a door. The handle squeaks in protest, but it opens. I slip inside, pulling the door nearly shut behind me just as the front door opens and heavy footsteps enter. My pulse thunders in my ears.

Crouched in total darkness, I listen to the newcomer walk through the living room. There’s a muttered curse, then a scraping noise, followed by a grunt. Suddenly, I realize they’ve found Patrick’s limp form. My mind churns with panic—who is it? Did Phyllis follow him? What if it’s the police?

The footsteps grow heavier, and I realize in horror the newcomer is dragging Patrick across the floorboards. I hear the person move into the hallway towards the kitchen and every cell in my body screams to hide. I turn towards the blackness leading down into the basement and silently feel my way down until my feet touch hard floor. I take a deep breath and try to identify where the footsteps are now when the basement door creaks open. Dim light spills down, illuminating the bottom steps where I press flat against the wall.

Then a terrible thud echoes. Patrick’s body cartwheels down the stairs like a discarded doll. He lands in a crumpled heap right in front of me, limbs bent at awful angles. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to smother a scream.

Slowly, a man descends behind him, each step unnervingly calm as I silently push deeper into the basement. My stomach churns as he comes into view: Walter, the landscaper we hired to help maintain the house. His face is set in a strange calm, eyes distant, almost as though he’s in a trance.

“I don’t remember taking this one, my love” he mutters, voice low and oddly conversational. “Was this really the next offering?” I wait for a response, confused as to who he’s talking to. I hear no more footsteps, no responses. There’s no one else here.

Confusion and terror tangle in my gut as my mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing. Walter stands over Patrick’s body, head tilted in puzzlement. Then he murmurs, “Georgie, Georgie. Tsk, tsk. You’re getting worse!” A chill runs through me— Georgie ? Does he think he’s talking to my father?

Before I can move, Walter grabs Patrick under the arms, hoisting his limp form and dropping it into an old clawfoot tub deeper in the gloom of the basement. Horror grips me as Walter rifles through a battered toolbox and extracts a wicked-looking saw.

My stomach heaves. I know what he’s about to do—and I can’t bring myself to move, to scream, to do anything. I’m paralyzed. The jagged rasp of metal on bone splits the silence, and I press myself against the wall, shutting my eyes. Nothing can erase the wet, grinding sounds that follow.

When the noise finally stops, I force my lids open in time to see Walter lift Patrick’s severed head from the tub, blood spattering his overalls. He gazes at it with an eerie detachment. “This one’s quite handsome, darling. I have to say, I’m a bit jealous! If you weren’t so convincing, I’d say pick someone else!” he cackles with genuine enjoyment.

My heart nearly stops. My teeth clamp so hard on my lip, I taste blood, fighting the urge to vomit or pass out.

Without warning, Walter strolls back upstairs, carrying Patrick’s head in one hand. The basement door closes, plunging me into near-darkness. The only sound is the slow dripping of blood from the tub. I sag against the stone wall, every inch of me shaking.

I crouch there, too shocked to move. Tears find their way out of my face even though my entire body is numb. Eventually, my survival instinct kicks in. Police. Call for help. It’s beyond hiding at this point. Someone is dead. I reach for my phone and realize it’s missing. My mind races and I think about Patrick going through my pockets when I was unconscious.

I have to get out. Make it to the police station. Tell them everything. I push to my feet, ignoring the burn in my ribs. Each step through the gloom is agony, but I manage to creep up the stairs. I crack the door and glance into the living room.

Walter is outside, rummaging around near Patrick’s truck. I look to the floor where our scuffle happened, and I can’t find any of my belongings. My head snaps up as Patrick’s truck roars to life with Walter behind the wheel. I duck as headlights tear through the house. I listen, face pressed flat on the floor, as the truck makes its way around the property towards the rear where the engine then dies. I remain frozen, unsure of Walter’s movements or intentions. I think I can hear his footsteps growing closer again. I prepare to run back into the basement when I hear a second engine start up and then roar off into the night.

It feels like forever before I find the strength to push up off the floor. My legs wobble, and bile claws up my throat. I barely make it to the sink before I’m violently sick. When the retching subsides, I collapse to the floor, tears running hot down my cheeks. How did we get here?

As I struggle to stand, headlights sweep past the windows again. My entire body seizes. Shit. Why is Walter back? But then I hear the faint murmur of a familiar voice drifting in through the broken window. Oh my god, that’s Margot. My gut twists. She’s come looking for me. She knows. Or maybe she’s still trying to satisfy her own curiosities about our new property. Either way, I can’t let her find me.

The front door creaks open. Panic rages inside me. I don’t have time to bury the evidence or hide the gore in the basement. My only choice is to vanish before she sees me. My eyes land on the basement door. No, no—I can’t go back down there. But the footsteps grow louder, drawing near. I have no choice.

I dart back down into the darkness, pulling the door shut just as Margot and someone else step inside the old house, calling out tentatively. Pressed against the cold stone wall, I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the ragged sob building in my throat.