Page 16 of The House That Held Her

His office is cramped—walls lined with commendations, an old map of Mount Dora hanging lopsided behind his desk. The scent of stale coffee and old paper clings to everything. I sink into the chair opposite him, Walter sitting beside me, his broad frame tense and still.

“Okay,” the Chief begins, fingers steepled under his chin. "So, what's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

I tell him about the map, the chest, the key—every insane detail. Halfway through, I see the disbelief creep onto his face.

When I finish, he leans back, his fingers drumming nervously against the desk. “So... a hidden map. A buried chest. Sixteen human skulls.” He swallows hard, glancing toward the closed door as if worried someone might overhear. “You do understand how this may sound, right? This—this kind of thing doesn’t happen in Mount Dora".

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my hands twisting in my lap. My voice is small when I speak. “I know how it sounds. It’s insane. But... I'm telling you the truth.” I glance down, feeling the heat of embarrassment flush through me.

Chief Miller doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he turns to Walter, his brow raised. “And you? Did you see this chest of skulls?”

Walter looks down at the floor, his boots scuffed and still. “No,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t. I just... she wasn’t in any shape to drive herself.” He jerks his thumb toward me. “I thought getting her here safe was the best move.”

That’s when the frustration in me boils over. “I can show you!” I blurt, my voice louder now, raw with emotion. “I’m not making this up. Just—come see it for yourself.”

His skeptical smirk fades slightly. “Alright then. Let’s take a look.”

He glances toward the doorway just as a tall officer steps inside, his badge reading “Jenkins.” Without missing a beat, Miller leans forward, mutters something low to Jenkins, who responds with a sharp nod before disappearing back down the hall.

“Jenkins is my deputy here in Mount Dora,” Miller tells me, his voice sliding into something softer. “Best officer I have. He’ll help us sort this out.” He flips open his notebook, fresh page ready, the faint scratch of pen against paper the only sound for a beat. “Walk me through it again. Slowly this time.”

I swallow hard. My throat feels raw as I force the words out, rehashing every gruesome detail—the weight of the skulls, the hollow eye sockets, the rancid stench that still clings to my memory. My voice trembles, but I push through it.

Miller jots down notes, his face carved from stone, giving nothing away. “Alright, Mrs. Bennett. We’ll take a look. Jenkins is gathering some of the guys, and we’ll meet them there.”He stands, asWalter’s hand appears in my line of sight, steady and grounding. I let him pull me up, his grip warm and sure.

Outside, the cool air slaps me awake, cutting through the haze of panic. Mount Dora hums around us like nothing’s wrong—cars pass, people talk, shop windows glow soft against the encroaching dark. Somewhere out there, life is still normal. But not here.

Walter’s truck waits at the curb, its battered red frame flanked by a police cruiser. I hesitate as he opens the door for me. My mind flashes forward—to the house, the chest, the skulls. Panic surges hot in my chest, rooting me to the spot.

Run. Just leave.

The thought is wild and fast, gone almost as quickly as it came. I grit my teeth, push the fear down, and climb into the seat.

The drive blurs past. I barely register the streets as they slide by. Walter’s hands are firm on the wheel, but there’s tension there too—the slight whiteness of his knuckles, the set of his jaw.

“Margot,” he says, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “Whatever happens when we get there… just know I’ve got your back.”

I want to accept it. I want to lean into the promise. But for some reason, the words feel paper-thin. I stare at his profile, the hard line of his brow caught in the dashboard glow, and say nothing.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull up to Hawthorn Manor. Its dark silhouette looms ahead, the porch light casting long, warped shadows. Behind us, Chief Miller’s cruiser pulls in, headlights flashing over Jenkins leaning against his car, arms crossed.

I step out of the truck, my legs shaky beneath me. The house looks the same, but the air feels wrong—thicker, heavier.

Walter hovers close as we approach the porch. Jenkins steps forward. “Perimeter’s clear, sir. No one’s been in or out.”

Miller gives a tight nod before turning to me. “Alright. We're following you, Mrs. Bennett.”

The weight of the key in my pocket feels like lead. Every step inside is harder than the last. The house groans around us, floors creaking under boots, the smell of dust and something older, deeper, filling my nose.

When we reach my bedroom, I freeze. The door looms in front of me, the memory of what I saw behind it stark and raw. My fingers tremble as they hover over the knob.

“Margot?” Walter’s voice is gentle, coaxing.

I force myself to move. The door swings open.

The chest sits exactly where I left it. The lock dangles, open. The lid gapes wide.

Empty.

---