Page 35 of The House That Held Her

He steeples his fingers, staring down at the cluttered desk. “George spent that Christmas at my house. He told me that Dot was a ticking time bomb. He begged his father for help, but Normand wouldn’t even acknowledge therewasa problem, let alone intervene. George said he feared something terrible would happen if no one intervened. We tried to reassure him, but… in the spring of ’76, it all came crashing down.”

My heart thuds heavier, bracing for what’s next. I notice Shannon’s breathing is as uneven as mine.

Marty meets our gaze, his own eyes glistening. “Amelia died that year. The official story was that she accidentally fell down the stairs. But George, Andrew, and I—we knew. Dot’s temper was explosive. We’d seen it, even felt it. George didn’t tell us the details outright, but we understood that night changed him forever. Amelia was gone, and everything about him hardened.”

A wave of grief seems to pass through the small office, like the air itself is slowing down to listen to Marty’s words. I feel myself leaning in, almost forgetting to breathe.

“After Amelia’s death, George clung to Cecilia,” Marty says. “She was his anchor, and her mom tried to give him some semblance of a family. Andrew and I drifted to the sidelines. George and Cecilia were always whispering, hiding things from everyone. There was a period there when the “Bugs” didn’t really exist at all. Amelia was gone, George and Cece rarely spent time with us; so it was just Andrew and me. Then, that Fall, Dot died too—same cause, supposedly. Fell down the stairs just like Amelia. People whispered about curses, ghosts, or just bad luck. But Andrew and I suspected it wasn’t so innocent. George hated his mother. And if he felt like she caused Amelia’s death…”

He trails off, voice trembling. I realize he’s on the verge of revealing something monstrous. Shannon shifts next to me, and I grab her hand to steady myself.

Marty licks his lips. “But we were best friends. We stuck together, even when we knew something wasn’t right.” He looks up, his eyes haunted. “One night, George called us back to Hawthorn House. We hadn’t all been there since Amelia’s funeral. The place was dark and neglected. He took us upstairs to see Normand, who was frail and dying from lung cancer by that time. And then we sat down in the parlor, and George told us the truth about Amelia—that Dot had killed her in a drunk rage. Threw her down the stairs over something as trivial as a misplaced lighter. George was there, saw it happen—and Dot just walked away. Like it was nothing.”

Shannon’s hand goes stiff in mine, and I realize I’m practically crushing her fingers in my grip. I force myself to let go a bit.

Marty’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Cecilia tried to keep George from doing anything rash. But he told us he dreamed of killing Dot every night, that he couldn’t stop picturing Amelia’s broken body. The only thing he wanted was revenge. Eventually, that rage… it won.”

A hush falls over the room. I feel an almost tangible coldness, like the secrets of Hawthorn Manor are leeching into the air around us. Marty looks spent, drained by recounting these horrors. My mind swirls with questions: Did George actually kill Dot? Was there a cover-up? And how do those tragedies lead to the nightmares unfolding in the manor now?

A glance at Shannon shows me she’s pale, her jaw set in grim determination. I know she’s already forming a plan, but her eyes mirror my own fear.

Finally, I manage to speak, my voice wavering. “So… you think George…?”

Marty nods, pain etched across his face. “And from that day on, nothing in Mount Dora was ever the same.”

22

It was night when everything changed in Hawthorn House. George returned home, his father's absence providing the opportunity.

The house lay cloaked in darkness, the only sound the creaking of old floorboards under his careful steps. George moved with purpose, his eyes fixed on the dim hallway. Dot's room was at the end, on the second floor. He ascended the stairs, the old wood groaning beneath his weight, each step deliberate and heavy. He reached her room and peered in to find her sprawled on the bed with a bottle of gin tipped over, soaking her nightgown. The acid smell of alcohol filled the room.

George called her name, voice echoing down the narrow hall, loud enough to break her drunken stupor.

Dot rose slowly, her eyes unfocused, and staggered toward the staircase, her limbs moving like those of a marionette with cut strings. George slipped away into Amelia's old room, hidden in the shadows, as Dot stumbled closer. She moved like an apparition, her face hollow and devoid of expression, her clothes clinging damply to her body. She reached the stairs, taking her first faltering step downward.

George emerged from the darkened room, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Amelia was the only good thing to come from this family, and you took her from this world." His words echoed, hard and final. Dot turned, her glazed eyes meeting his, recognition flickering for a split second.

There was no time for more. George lunged, and his foot met her chest. Dot fell, tumbling down the staircase, her body colliding with the wooden steps, each impact punctuated by the sharp crack of breaking bones. Her screams were fleeting, swallowed by the viciousness of the descent, until she finally lay motionless at the bottom.

George stood at the top of the stairs, expression unreadable, waiting. Below, Dot's body shuddered, her breaths wet and labored. Blood pooled around her head, and she mumbled, her words a jumble of sounds that never entirely formed. He walked down the stairs and watched unflinchingly as her movements slowed and her eyes lost focus.

When the last flicker of life had faded, he turned away, stepping over her crumpled form without another glance. The door swung open, the night air spilling in as George walked out, leaving only silence behind him.

23

Ican sense the tension in the cramped office the moment Marty utters those words: “And from that day on, nothing in Mount Dora was ever the same.” It’s like a dense weight settles over the room, pressing in from all sides. Shannon is beside me, pale and silent, her eyes locked on Marty. He doesn’t look at either of us; he just keeps staring down at his hands, as if speaking these memories aloud might tear him apart.

“Cecilia knew the truth,” he says, voice low and weary. “And she carried it with George. They shut me and Andrew out after that. We were never fully part of their secret, only pieces on the periphery. But we knew George had changed—his warmth replaced by something colder, darker. Almost like he believed he had to become the monster he once feared his mother was.”

My stomach churns. George Hawthorn, the philanthropic figure who once charmed this entire town, has been revealed as something else entirely—a killer. I glance over at Shannon. She’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched. Her knuckles are white where she’s gripping her notebook.

Marty rubs his temples, like recounting all of this is taking every bit of strength he has left. “Once George told us what really happened, I felt this awful mix of horror and relief. On one hand, our friend was confiding in us again—like we were the original Bugs, all together. But on the other hand, he’d just admitted to murder.” He exhales a shaky breath. “I’d be lying if I said I never thought about turning him in. But how could I betray my best friend after everything he’d endured? So the four of us made a pact, right there in that living room. We vowed never to reveal Amelia’s or Dorothy’s real cause of death. We thought George deserved peace after all he’d gone through.”

I swallow hard. The notion of that silent agreement sends a chill through me. “So why break it now?” I ask quietly, trying to steady my voice. “Why tell us all this?”

Marty sighs. “Because George once promised he could control his darkness. After Dot was gone, he swore there’d be no more violence. I believed him—he was my friend and he’d already lost so much. Then Cecilia died on the lake, and everything spun out of control.”

A prickle of dread courses through me. I can’t help wondering if, somewhere deep down, I already suspected George was capable of this. Part of me feels a twisted kind of vindication at having those suspicions confirmed. Yet I’m also horrified—what if that single murder wasn’t the end?

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