Page 26 of The House That Held Her

The lie lingers in the air, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. I consider Paula's reaction—her sudden urgency, the way her eyes darted to her watch as if it held the answer she needed. It feels like fear, a raw, knee-jerk instinct to flee. But what is she afraid of?

As the museum's caretaker, Paula is bound to hear her share of small-town gossip and half-truths dressed up as urban legends. But this isn't gossip—this is something deeper, something she doesn't want to talk about. Maybe she's heard things, truths so unsettling that even mentioning them is risky. The thought prickles unease down my spine.

The streets blur around me, my mind spiraling as I walk aimlessly back to Hawthorn. Sixteen skulls. Buried chest. Sixteen tallies. Ghosts. Paula's warning echoes, sharp and evasive.The Darkness stirs, ever hungry but never satisfied.Disappearances. Secrets. Phyllis. Patrick. Strange, knowing glances. Nate. The way Paula bolted like I'd uttered a forbidden word.

"Afternoon, Margot!"

I startle, spotting Walter in the garden, his hands deep in the soil. He waves me over.

"Hey, Walter," I call out, my throat dry, mind still trying to return to full attention to the here and now.

"How're you feeling today?" He wipes the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a streak of dirt. "Been sleeping any better?"

There it is—the polite concern laced with quiet disbelief. He doesn't believe me, not entirely. But I push the thought aside.

I sit down, bringing a glass of lemonade to my lips, condensation trailing down my fingers. Walter's words come back to me, and I sit up straight as the facts collide in my brain.

August 2009.

Not January. Not 2008.

If Cecilia died in August 2009, it wasn't seventeen years ago—it was sixteen.

Sixteen skulls. Sixteen tallies. Sixteen years.

It's all connected. I don't know how and I don't know why. But Cecilia Hawthorn and that chest of skulls are connected, and I'm going to find out how.

14

My half-conscious mind pulls me from sleep. I lie here, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts tangled in a haze. A familiar sense of dread weighs on my chest, pressing me deeper into the mattress.

I push myself upright, wiping the sleep from my eyes. The house sits in a heavy, empty silence. It reminds me of a museum after hours, every corner and hallway pregnant with memories that don’t belong to me.

I have to admit, I never planned to call this place Hawthorn Manor. Naming a house—even a grand, sweeping one—has always felt pretentious to me. However, after closing, the agent reminded us that it was legally a historic site and that any renovations would require city approval.

“I’d recommend calling it by its legal name,” the agent had said, “as all the townsfolk already do. It’d be rather time-consuming redoing all that paperwork, don’t you think?”

That day feels so distant now—like a dream that slips away the moment I try to remember it.

What doesn’t feel like a dream is the torment I’m experiencing in this house. It’s a strange limbo: part psychotic breakdown, part full-blown poltergeist haunting. For every minute I feel sane, there are two where I’m convinced I’ve lost my mind and another three where I believe I’m being haunted by something—or someone. I need to break out of this cycle. I need a clear head. I need coffee.

I’ve never been much of a cook. Honestly, I have no idea if the stovetop in this place is gas or electric. Nate and DoorDash usually have me covered on that front. But when it comes to coffee, I know how to make a serious cup of joe.

Back in college, I paid for my entire education as a barista at the only Starbucks in town. That was when you had to shout, “calling bar!” through the chaos, The Avett Brothers blasting way too loud in the background. The barista on bar duty would shout “calling!” back, letting you announce the order for everyone to hear. It was high stress for terrible pay, but at least I honed some authentic coffee-making skills.

Now I sit at the bay window in the kitchen, cradling my mug of Death Coffee, a blend I first discovered in a tiny café years ago. The espresso crema is perfect—bittersweet and strong. The name is grimly fitting, considering the current atmosphere around me, but it works miracles on my foggy brain.

I stare out at the grounds of Hawthorn Manor. The day is light and breezy, and I can just barely return to how I felt when Nate and I first decided to buy this massive old place. Gazing across the lawn, I realize I’ve been a passenger in my own life for too long, letting this house and its mysteries pull me along.

I set my coffee on the windowsill and move into the living room, rummaging through cardboard boxes until I find my old CPS ID badge. The edges are frayed, and the laminate is yellowed, but my name is still right there. Simply holding it puts me in a different frame of mind.

Standing in front of the hallway mirror, I slip the badge around my neck, tighten my ponytail, and give two gentle squeezes to my biceps, toes flexing in my shoes. It’s the same ritual I used to do when facing difficult cases.

Sixteen skulls. Sixteen lives. I can’t keep thinking of them as just bones. These were people with stories and families. Their absence is like a weight in the air, an echo in every silent corner of this place. If the skulls are gone now and the police refuse to help, I need to track down other proof—evidence that can’t disappear so easily.

I open my laptop, fingers flying as I scour missing persons reports, articles, and community forums for any lead. Hours pass as I overwork my espresso machine, my eyes growing gritty from the screen’s glow. But the search yields little—mostly far-flung disappearances I can’t connect.

Then, finally, something. A fifteen-year-old article about a local boy, age six, who vanished without a trace. Michael Lark. No forced entry, no leads. He lived not far from here, just outside Mount Dora. Excitement and dread tighten my chest. It’s not conclusive, but it’s a start.

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