Page 15 of The House That Held Her

I need help.

Nate. He’s my first thought. We’ve been distant lately, wires crossed more often than not, but he’s still my husband. The co-owner of this house. He has to know. My hands fumble for my phone, fingers trembling, but I freeze. He’s miles away. This needs immediate action. The police. I need the police.

I scramble to my feet, everything spinning as I stagger to the door, lungs clawing for air. The house feels like it’s closing in—walls too tight, air too thick. I can still smell it—clinging to my skin, my clothes. The rot. The death.

I burst outside, gasping, fingers shaking as I claw for my keys. The metal slips through my grasp, clattering onto the driveway.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, bending down—but someone beats me to it.

“Margot? Are you alright?”

Walter’s hand closes around the keys, his face lined with worry as he hands them back.

I shake my head, the words falling apart in my mouth. “The chest... the skulls... I need the police.”

His brow furrows, confusion knitting deep lines into his weathered face. “Slow down. Skulls? What’re you talking about?”

“Upstairs. In the chest. Sixteen skulls. Blood.” My voice cracks, the sheer horror of it tightening around my chest like a vice, making it hard to breathe.

Walter’s jaw works silently for a moment. “Margot, what the heck are you saying right now?"

“Listen to my words, goddamn it!” I snap, before reeling it back. “Please, listen to me. There's a chest upstairs in my bedroom. It is full of human-skulls. I have to go. I have to get help.”

Walter stumbles over what to say. His eyes flick between me and the house, jaw tightening as he debates his next move. He takes a step toward the house, then stops, turning back to me. His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, but no words come out. Instead, he lets out a sharp breath, shoulders rising and falling as if he’s forcing himself into action. Finally, he digs into his pocket, pulls out his own keys, and meets my eyes.

“Okay. But let me drive. No way in hell you should be behind the wheel right now.”

The ride to the Mount Dora police station is a blur—Walter glancing at me every few seconds, me staring out the window, hands clenched so tightly my nails dig half-moons into my palms.

The station sits tucked behind a forgettable, white-paneled building. Its plainness almost making it invisible from the main street. Ambulances and police cruisers intermingle in the lot, their flashing lights occasionally cutting through the stillness, though right now they sit asleep.

I step out of the truck slowly, my legs stiff and my heart heavy. My eyes feel vacant and unfocused as I struggle to imagine explaining what I've uncovered. I drift toward the entrance, Walter trailing behind, his boots scuffing against the pavement.

The bell above the door jingles softly as I step inside—a sound that feels far too cheerful. I approach the front desk; my hands limp at my sides. My voice comes out low, flat, almost a whisper.

“I… I need help.”

An officer looks up from the paperwork scattered across the desk. His eyes widen instantly as he scans my face. Alarm flickers across his features as he begins to reach for the phone.

“Ma’am, are you alright?

I open my mouth to explain, but no words come out. My throat feels tight, dry. I manage only, “It’s… bad. My house.”

Before the receptionist can respond, Walter steps forward, his voice steady but urgent. “We need to see Chief Miller. Something's been found at Hawthorn Manor.”

The officer straightens instantly, the easy slouch in his posture vanishing. He grabs the desk phone, his sharp eyes never leaving me as he dials.

Moments later, the back door creaks open. Chief Miller steps out, his silver hair catching in the harsh fluorescent light. His sharp eyes flick from me—pale and shaken—to Walter. Walter steps forward, extending a hand. They shake firmly, old familiarity passing between them.

“Andy,” Walter says, his voice low but steady.

“Walter,” Miller replies, giving him a nod before his eyes drift back to me. There’s a subtle shift in him now—a tension, a nervous energy humming under his calm exterior. These kinds of things don’t happen in Mount Dora, bad things, and it shows. He glances around the lobby, making sure no one else is nearby before turning his full attention to me.

“I’m Chief Miller,” he says, though there’s a thin edge of strain in his voice. “You’d better come back with me. We’ll talk in my office—somewhere private.”

Walter moves to sit, but I grab his arm. “He’s coming, too.”

The Chief raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Fine by me.”

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