Page 24 of The House That Held Her

Inside, I lock the door, leaning against it for a beat before heading to the kitchen. Hunger nibbles at me—until I hear it.

That wet, rhythmic gnawing.

My whole body tenses. Not the basement this time.

Upstairs.

Knife in hand, I creep toward the stairs, each step of the climb shooting pain through my foot. The sound grows louder, more grotesque, vibrating through the house like a heartbeat.

My bedroom door looms ahead.

I throw it open.

Nothing.

No bathtub, no monster in the dark, no headless body.

Except…

I drop to my knees, ear to the treasure chest in the center of the room.

The sound is coming from inside.

Hands trembling, I flip it open—preparing myself for this house's latest trick on my tired mind.

Empty. Of course, it's empty.

Like the room, the chest is empty, and the maroon fabric lining the interior is untouched. I kneel there, my fingers gripping the edge of my chest, my eyes wide and unfocused. Tears blur my vision, the frustration and fear overwhelming me.

I'm losing my mind. Maybe it's the death of a child in my care or the ache of wanting and failing to have my own family, feeding into this bottomless pit of inadequacy. Perhaps it's the loss of home, back in Maryland, needing to run away to find some semblance of peace again. Or maybe it's Nate's absence, the long silences between us stretching thinner each day, leaving me to wonder if he's already gone in spirit.

A sob claws its way out, raw and ugly. I bury my head into the crook of my elbow, my right arm resting against the cold edge of the chest. The significance of everything—this house, the grief, the hollow ache of being left behind—presses in on me, suffocating.

When I finally open my eyes, something catches my attention. The corner of the maroon fabric at the base of the chest is pulling away—just slightly as if it's been disturbed. I sniffle, wiping my face with the back of my hand, and lean in closer.

There are faint but undeniable wear marks near the fabric as if fingers have clawed at it repeatedly.

I grab the knife from the floor, slipping the blade beneath the fabric, prying it loose. It peels back with a reluctant hiss, revealing words scratched deep into the wood beneath—dark, jagged letters:

The Darkness stirs, ever hungry but never satisfied.

Below it, a neat row of tally marks—sixteen, stark and accusing.

Sixteen tallies. Sixteen skulls.

I stagger back, the breath punched from my lungs, my body collapsing into a seated heap as the words burn into my mind.

The Darkness stirs, ever hungry but never satisfied.

This is it—finally, proof! I haven't imagined the skulls. Miller, Jenkins, Walter, they have seen the chest here in my room; it's real. And now these words, these tallies inside the chest, are also in my room. There's no mold making me hallucinate. I'm not fucking crazy. I found sixteen skulls buried in this town, and I'm going to find out why.

13

Itry Nate's number again, the familiar ringtone echoing in my ears, each unanswered call tightening the knot in my chest. Six days. That's how long he's been gone. Though he told me it was a week-long work trip from the start, it still feels like a month—each day stretching wider with his absence. My thumb hovers over the redial button before I sigh, letting the phone fall onto the table. I need him, now more than ever, and yet he isn't reachable.

Frustration prickles at my skin as I flip open my laptop. My fingers hesitate over the keys, trembling slightly before I start typing.

Nate,

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