Page 20 of The House That Held Her

The hours blur as I comb through paper after paper, the soft shuffle of pages and the distant hum of the library the only sounds around me. My stomach growls a low reminder that it’s probably time for a break. Moments before I give up, I stumble across an article that stops me cold: “The Tragic Death of a Town Icon.”

I skim the article, my eyes racing over the grim details. Cecilia loves the lake, often taking the boat out alone to read or simply drift in the stillness. But one summer afternoon, she doesn’t return. They find her hours later, slumped under the relentless sun, her skin blistered and split, her hair tangled in lake weeds. A bird has pecked out one of her eyes, leaving her face frozen in a twisted mask of agony. It’s George who finds her, and from that moment on, he is never the same.

The article lacks photos of Cecilia or George—just a stark image of the Hawthorn rowboat, one I recognize all too well. In the picture, the boat sits upright, tied neatly to the pier, its hull pristine and intact. Not a scratch, not a crack. Nothing like the battered wreck I’ve seen lodged in the tall marsh grass on my way to and from the chest’s hiding spot.

Another article catches my eye: “Respected Business Owner Missing After Wife’s Death.”

George vanishes days after Cecilia’s death, just as Walter said. The town searches, scours the woods and the lake, but he’s never found.

I sit back, the paper trembling in my hands. There’s more. I can feel it—a thread tying it all together. The chest. The dreams. The goddamn house.

I leave the library, surprised to see the sun now dipping low, casting beautiful pink and red across the Florida skyline. A spark of orange flickers across the street—Dr. Whitfield, cigar in hand, the ember pulsing with each slow inhale.

He catches my eye and waves me over.

I hesitate, then cross the street.

“Evening’s the best time here,” he says, patting the bench beside him.

I sit, the smoke heavy and sweet, dragging up old memories of my dad smoking on summer nights.

“How’s our little town treating you?”

“Strangely,” I admit.

He chuckles, low and dry. “Most folks feel that way at first. But Mount Dora’s got layers. You’ll figure it out.”

I study him. “Have you been here your whole life?”

He nods. “Most of it. Stayed for love. Stayed longer out of habit.”

There’s something wistful in his tone, but I don’t pry. “Doctor, have you ever… noticed anything odd about this place? Or rather, about my house?” The words feel awkward coming out of my mouth. Even though Nate and I own Hawthorn Manor, it doesn’t feel like ours—not with everything that’s happened.

The doctor chuckles softly, a warm sound, not mocking. “There are plenty of odd things about this town, Margot, including that house on the hill. But it sounds like you’re hinting at something more specific. What are you really asking me?”

A wave of familiar embarrassment settles over me, one I’m growing fairly tired of. I stare at the ground. “I... I don’t really know. I’ve been seeing strange things at the house. Things that can’t be real—things I can’t logically explain.”

He regards me calmly, waiting for me to go on.

“I... it...” The words tangle on my tongue. “Sometimes it feels like I’m being watched. I see and hear things that make no sense. I guess what I’m really asking is... do you believe in ghosts?”

The doctor raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from his cigar before releasing the smoke into the growing dusk. “Sure, I believe in ghosts. I’ve never experienced what it sounds like you’re describing, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening to you.”

His honesty is grounding. “I’ll be more direct—did something bad happen at Hawthorn Manor? Something that might explain what I’ve been experiencing?”

His expression shifts, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “A lot happened at that house, but if you’re looking for tales of brutal murders or secret cults chanting in the basement, I think you’ll be disappointed. It was just a house, lived in by a couple who had their fair share of misfortune and pain.”

For the second time during this conversation, I feel an opening to dig deeper—and this time, I take it.

“Doctor Whitfield, how well did you know George and Cecilia Hawthorn?”

He stares into the distance, the glowing embers of his cigar illuminating his face in the Floridian dusk. “I knew Cecilia better than I knew George. She and I came up in school together. I was also their primary care physician. In fact, I was the primary for most of the historic district before I began to scale back my practice.”

I nod, reading between the lines of his responses so far. “And how was your… personal relationship with them both? Would you say you were friends?”

A small, sad smile slowly appears on his face. “Truth be told, Cece was my best friend growing up. Although, I’m afraid she likely wouldn’t say the same about me.”

He pauses, something resting just on the tip of his tongue. I wait, choosing my words carefully. I need more—whether or not Whitfield’s story will give me what I’m looking for, I don’t know, but I have to try.

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