Page 18 of The House That Held Her

What if I did imagine it?

My breath comes in shallow gasps as I drop to the floor, curling my arms around my knees. The key digs into my palm, the metal cold and real.

I know what I saw.

Don’t I?

10

Isit on my bed, the old external hard drive clutched tightly in my hands as I plug it into my laptop. The hum of the drive spins to life, warm and familiar, grounding me in a reality that feels like it’s slipping through my fingers. I need comfort—something, anything, to pull me back from the edge of whatever nightmare I’m teetering on.

The hurricane outside passed days ago, but its chaos lingers, tangled in my mind. Nothing—none of Walter’s carefully chosen words or Chief Miller’s flat reassurances—can untangle it. I know better. Something is wrong.

I need Nate. I need to feel him again, even if only through the thin veil of memory. The hard drive clicks and whirs, the screen filling with thumbnails—birthdays, vacations, holidays—all versions of a life that feels so far away now. My fingers hover before I click into the folder markedEarly Days.

The first video loads—a trip to the Smoky Mountains. The camera jostles slightly in Nate’s hands as he stretches his arm out, his grin wide and boyish. My heart aches watching it. Then, there I am, my younger self appearing on screen, cheeks flushed with excitement, laughter bubbling from my lips. I smile through the sting of tears, letting the moment wash over me.

For a beat, the weight on my chest lifts. I’m not trapped in this house or tangled in fear. Instead, I’m the newly minted Mrs. Bennett—happy, loved. I let the video finish before hesitating, my cursor hovering over the next file. I want to hold onto that feeling a little longer.

The next video flickers onto the screen—Nate and me dancing in the kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning, still in our pajamas, Sinatra crackling from the old thrift store vinyl. I can almost smell the coffee brewing, feel the worn kitchen tiles under my bare feet.

Then I hear it.

A soft, rhythmic thumping—barely noticeable at first. My finger hovers over the spacebar. I pause the video, but the sound doesn’t stop. It continues, hollow and slow, seeping through the house.

I freeze, my heart pounding as the sound grows louder, more insistent. It reminds me of something heavy being dragged up the stairs. My mind snaps to the chest—the effort it took to haul it inside, the weight of it. But it’s right here, in my room.

The laptop slides onto the bed as I stand, my bare feet hitting the cold wood floor. The thudding echoes, vibrating through the walls. I creep toward the hallway, my pulse thudding in my ears, each step tightening the knot in my chest.

The noise guides me down the flight of stairs and then to the basement door.

The handle is cold under my trembling fingers as I twist it. The door creaks open, darkness spilling out like ink. The smell hits me—earthy, metallic—stout with the unmistakable stench of decomposition.

I descend the stairs slowly, the wood groaning under my weight. The gnawing sound grows clearer—wet, tearing, something primal. Halfway down, my foot slips into something cold and slick. I look down, the faint light from above catching a crimson smear.

Bile claws at my throat.

At the bottom of the stairs, in the center of the basement, sits an old, stained tub. A hunched figure crouches inside, shoulders jerking with grotesque movements. The gnawing grows louder, more frantic. My hand shoots to my mouth, choking back a scream.

The figure twists slightly, and I see its face—sunken eyes and blood-slicked lips stretched into a twisted snarl. The torn body it hovers over is a ruin of flesh and bone, the head barely hanging on.

I stumble backward, my foot slipping on the blood-slicked step. My body crashes into the railing, pain flaring as I scramble for balance. The gnawing stops.

A low, guttural growl fills the space.

I bolt up the stairs, the growl following me, thick and heavy in the air. I slam the door shut behind me, my breath ragged, my heart a hammering drum in my chest.

I need help. Walter. He will believe me. I scramble upstairs, grabbing my phone with clammy hands. My thumb hovers over his contact.

But then I stop.

I remember the humiliation—the empty chest, the looks from the officers, the pity in Walter’s eyes. I can’t do it again, not without proof.

I switch on the camera, the flashlight cutting through the dark as I make my way back to the basement. The house feels heavier now, the walls pressing in as I retrace my steps. I grip the doorknob hard, steeling myself before pushing it open.

The basement yawns open beneath me, silent. I take a shaky step down, then another, my camera trembling in my hands. I sweep the light across the floor.

Nothing.

---