Page 61 of The House That Held Her

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I sprint through the darkness, slamming into cinderblock walls more than once in my haste, trying to get my bearings. My vision wavers, my lungs still ragged from the ordeal in the tunnel. I’m convinced this passage led into Hawthorn Manor via the old run-off tunnel I took. My thoughts momentarily flash back to the dirty basement, hoping by now the police have arrived to discover Patrick’s body, to search for Margot…to search for me.

Muffled voices seep through the stone around me. I try to yell, but all that comes out is a raspy whisper. Whatever life was in my vocal cords is gone; after near-drowning and screaming through the tunnels, my throat is done.

The tunnel keeps snaking around in wild, erratic turns. I glimpse small holes in the walls and think I see glimpses of furniture and floorboards, but the house lights must be off, making it impossible to orient myself. I just keep going, guided by the subtle changes in air pressure and the scattered patches of moonlight that occasionally slip through cracks.

Then more steps appear. Some rise only a step or two; others climb five or six. A couple slope downward, disorienting me further. Eventually, I have no idea where I am—upstairs, downstairs, or somewhere in between. My heart starts to pound again, panic rising like bile.

And then, finally, I see it: bright, brilliant light shining from somewhere ahead, flooding the corridor. Relief hits me like a battering ram, and I break into a run, weaving past an old treasure chest with a rusty, half-open lock, dodging dusty chairs and an old bed, until I burst through the exit.

The rush of clean air nearly knocks me sideways. I double over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. When I straighten up, the confusion nearly topples me again. I’m in our bedroom. The bed Margot and I once shared stands in the same place, the desk shifted at an angle to reveal the opening I just emerged from. Shock ties my thoughts into knots. Why the hell is there a secret passage here?

Before I can piece it together, I hear the voices again—this time clearly. Margot. She’s alive. Hope and dread fuse in my chest, because there’s a second voice: Walter. My pulse roars in my ears. He’s here, and my wife is in danger.

I don’t know if he’s armed. I don’t know if he’s threatening her with a knife, a gun—anything at all. If I move carelessly, I could lose her in a single heartbeat. She’s yelling now and I track the sounds to somewhere downstairs. Trying to dampen each step, I tug off my soaking boots, gently dropping the first.

I’m halfway through removing the second when I hear it: the crash of a struggle. Someone’s running up the stairs just outside the bedroom door. My heart leaps, and I creep closer, ready to pounce on Walter the moment he appears. My blood sings with adrenaline, images of Patrick’s murder fueling a desire for retribution.

But then the noise dies—replaced by a strained tussle. I inch around the doorway until I can see the top of the staircase. My eyes go wide at the sight. Margot, face pressed against the step, pinned down by Walter. He’s leaning his entire weight onto her, forcing her head toward a broken banister spindle. A sharpened splinter of wood waits to impale her throat if he pushes an inch farther.

My muscles coil, and I fling myself into motion. I slip in the mud my soaked boots have tracked inside, almost go down face-first, but manage to plant a hand and vault forward. Margot’s chin is fractions of an inch from that lethal shard, and while I can’t directly see them, I know what Walter’s eyes are like: burning with the same frenzied hatred he wore when he removed Patrick’s head.

I barrel into them, hooking around the banister’s main post on my left. I hurl my body forward, letting gravity carry me. My left palm slams into Walter’s nose, a grisly crunch confirming the cartilage is shattered. In the same instant, I wedge my right hand under Margot’s neck, shielding her throat from the spindle.

White-hot pain flares through my palm. The shard tears into flesh, sending splinters spraying across the steps, but it’s my hand, not Margot’s throat, that’s skewered. My voice is gone, so the roar of agony I try to unleash emerges as a ragged whisper. Walter howls for both of us, letting go of Margot so he can grab at the ruin of his nose.

He stumbles backward a few steps, blood streaming, then surges forward, murder in his eyes. I’m pinned down by my wounded hand, wincing as it throbs, and can barely muster my left arm to protect Margot. But she doesn’t need my help. Her leg lashes out, striking him squarely in the chest.

I see Walter’s body heave backward, no part of him touching the stairs anymore. He flies past the railing, arms and legs splayed. I cringe as he hits the floor far below with a sickening thud, and the house goes eerily silent.