Page 55 of The House That Held Her

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I lie in the motel bed, drifting into dark, restless dreams. Whispers hiss at the edges of my consciousness—soft, relentless sounds that slip through the cracks of temporary peace. I’m back at Hawthorn House, standing at the top of the basement steps. The air down there is thick with decay, every breath sticking in my throat. I descend one step at a time, limbs leaden and slow, until the smell of blood slams into me. My stomach clenches in revulsion, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t force myself to turn back.

A sickening splash echoes from somewhere below. Something heavy shifts in water. “Come see,” a voice whispers, so quiet it might be the wind. “Come look, Nate.” My bare feet peel away from the clammy floor with each step, sending chilling squelches through the silence. Dim light flickers, illuminating an ancient porcelain tub in the center of the room. Patrick’s body floats there, the water black and still. His arms are twisted at impossible angles, head lolling to one side like a ruined doll.

A strangled cry catches in my throat as Patrick’s head snaps upward. The face is bloated, discolored, his eyes locking onto mine. His lips move, and a grotesque rattle comes out: “Why didn’t you stop him?” His voice sounds like it crawled out of the grave. Blackness sprays in all directions as Patrick’s arm lashes out, fingers clutching for me. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

I stagger back. The whispers swell, merging into an angry crowd of unseen accusers. The basement walls begin to close in, pressing against my shoulders. Hands burst out of the concrete, gripping my arms and legs, dragging me toward that tub.

“You can’t hide from this, Nate,” they chant. “You can’t hide…”

I bolt awake, screaming. My lungs ache, and I clutch at the thin motel sheets, eyes darting around. The flickering neon sign outside casts jittery shapes on the walls, and I’m drenched in sweat. It’s a struggle to remember where I am. Slowly, my mind catches up. It was just another nightmare.

The old school clock on the nightstand reads 7:42 PM.

I stare, disbelieving. Twenty hours—nearly an entire day—slipped away from me. How? How did I sleep for so long?

My insides clench as reality crashes down around me: Margot. Walter. Patrick.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shoving the sweaty sheets aside. My shoes, my jacket—where did I leave them? My body is frantic, my mind a swirl of panic as I stumble around the small room. Then I remember the car. It’s still hidden back by the tree line near that other house.

I can’t lose more time, so I run out into the storm-dark streets. Rain lashes at my face, the wind roaring in my ears. I force one foot in front of the other, each step hammering through puddles as I push toward Hawthorn Manor.

By the time I reach the long gravel driveway to Hawthorn Manor, I’m gasping for breath. The Florida heat smothers me, and I’m drenched in sweat, but I can see the manor’s peaks jutting over the tops of the trees. My legs threaten to buckle, but I keep going.

My senses go into overdrive as I draw nearer. No alarms, no screams, no doors left ajar or windows shattered. Everything looks too ordinary, and that normalcy sets me even more on edge. I slow as I approach the house, chest heaving, prepared to enact part one of the plan I hastily threw together on my way here.

I know I can’t just barge in, spill the entire tangled mess, and expect Margot to handle it calmly—especially with Shannon here. Shannon never cared for me, and everything I say, no matter how true, will sound suspect.

I need first to confirm Margot’s safety.

I edge around the side of the house until I reach the kitchen window. The curtains are partly drawn, but I can see Margot inside by the fireplace, her posture stiff and anxious as she glances around. Shannon is nowhere in sight. Relief floods through me just seeing Margot alive and apparently unhurt. No sign of Walter, no obvious signs of violence.

With validation that Margot is safe, I feel better about moving onto the next part of this plan, which is to get my story straight for the police.

I start moving again, heading toward the other house, the one where everything went so very wrong. My pulse thumps wildly as I recall Patrick’s fate. He was violent, yes, but something about him was also desperate and broken—like a man drowning in his own insecurities, battling to find his place without a father figure. I know the feeling well. A wave of pity emerges as I think of him lying in that tub, alone and disfigured.

As I step onto the porch, echoes of last night’s struggle come rushing back: the smash of a breaking window, the cracking of bone on stone. Pushing past the sick memories, I open the front door, letting myself back in. The air inside is exactly the same, heavy with the metallic stench of blood and decay. A shudder runs through me.

I make my way downstairs, flipping the light switch, half terrified my nightmare will come true and Patrick’s body will lunge at me. The tub still sits in the center of the room, Patrick’s body slumped in it. My stomach lurches at the sight. A faint buzzing sound reaches my ears—odd, hollow. I step closer, realizing it’s coming from Patrick’s pants pocket. His phone.

I gag, fighting the urge to vomit, forcing myself to approach the tub. The body is so close now, the smell overwhelming. My gaze snags on my wedding ring—the ring I once wore. I slip it off Patrick’s finger and place it back on mine. It feels like a small reclamation of myself, but it also feels dirty.

Hands trembling, I reach into Patrick’s pocket and ease out a battered flip phone, still vibrating with missed calls. I flip it open, my heart sinking when I see “Mom” on the screen—Phyllis. She’s desperate to reach her son. She has no idea he’s lying here, murdered, head severed and stolen.

I swallow hard, feeling the crushing weight of what I must do. I punch in the numbers. The line rings, echoing painfully loud in this dark chamber. Finally, a voice answers. I can barely steady my breath enough to speak.

“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking in the silence. “My name is Nate Bennett, and I need to report a murder.”