Page 38 of The House That Held Her

“Shannon?” I rasp, my voice cracks in fear.

“I’m here,” she calls, shaky but audible.

Then I hear it—the ragged, heavy breaths of a stranger, prowling along the wall, inching closer. My stomach lurches violently. Every hair on my body stands on end. It’s the primal fear of being hunted, of prey cornered in a predator’s den.

I shuffle urgently toward Shannon, but the darkness feels alive, twisting us apart. My arms wave through emptiness. We’re both off the stairs now, but I can’t tell how far into the room we actually are.

“Shannon?” I call again, more desperate this time.

“Margot, stay close!” she says, voice barely above a hiss.

Suddenly, someone—something—charges up the stairs. The thunder of footsteps explodes above us, and the door slams shut, leaving an even deeper hush behind. I’m suffocating in this void, my heart hammering so violently I think it might burst out of my chest.

I swallow, forcing my dry throat to speak. “Shannon?”

“I’m here.” Her voice is nearer, a thin lifeline in the dark. “Hold on.”

I hear her fumbling, the clink of her phone. Then, a flash of light explodes from the phone’s screen, illuminating her pale, terrified face for a heartbeat. Her eyes are wild, sweat carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. Before either of us can speak, the phone slips from her fingers, smashing screen-first onto the floor. Everything goes black once more.

“Fuck!” Shannon curses. “Hold on, I’ll find it.”

I shuffle forward, feeling the walls closing in. My foot strikes against something and I stumble. My knee collides with cold porcelain, sending a jarring shock up my leg. Biting back a yelp, I reach down and trace my fingers along a curved edge—an antique claw-foot bathtub.

A wave of dread slams into me. In the darkness, my fingertips graze something wet and viscous, smearing across my skin. Blood, I know it without even needing to see the liquid. My stomach turns inside out. I jerk my hand away, struggling not to vomit as my mind whirls with awful possibilities. The stench intensifies—a sickly mixture of rust and decomposition that clogs my lungs.

Just when I’m sure I can’t take another second, Shannon manages to flip the breaker on the wall. Dim, flickering light floods the basement, and in that moment, I see the tub for what it is: a horror show splashed with crimson. My breath falters, and my vision swims.

“Margot, don’t look!” Shannon cries, her voice trembling with pure panic.

But it’s already too late. My eyes latch onto the figure slumped in the bathtub. An adult man—headless. Smeared trails of blood snake from the jagged stump at his neck, winding up the stairs like a grotesque path leading out of this dungeon. My gaze drifts to his limp left arm draped over the tub’s edge only inches from my face. And resting exactly where it should be—between his pinky and middle fingers—sits my husband’s wedding ring.

26

Ibarely register Shannon’s frantic voice, her words warping and muffling as though they’re coming from somewhere underwater. Everything slows to a dreadful crawl. Nate’s left hand lies only inches away—his wedding ring catching the faint light. I can’t reconcile what I’m seeing with reality. The air around me thickens, colors blur into each other, and the world wavers at the edges. My focus tunnels, collapsing inward, darkness nibbling at my vision. I keep telling myself: It can’t be Nate. It can’t be him in that bathtub.

Yet, here he is—or what’s left of him. My Nate. My mind reels at the impossibility, the horror. I reach out, my fingers trembling like leaves in a storm, and touch his palm. It’s still warm. Tears spill unchecked down my cheeks, each drop splattering on the dingy floor.

Somewhere behind me, Shannon’s voice slices through the haze, snapping against my consciousness like a whip. “Margot! We have to go. They could come back. Margot, please—get up!”

Her urgency barely penetrates the thick grief that has crashed over me, heavy and unrelenting. My knees feel fused to the floor. How can I possibly leave him here? None of this was supposed to happen. Nate should be in DC, miles away, doing…anything besides lying here, soaked in blood. We were supposed to fight and scream and then reconcile. We were supposed to grow old together.

Shannon latches onto my arm, desperation fueling her strength. She tugs, shakes, pleads—each pull yanking me back from the black pit threatening to consume me. My body responds automatically, though I feel hollow inside. My legs lock and unlock, stumbling in a mechanical march up the stairs as Shannon sobs, half-leading, half-dragging me forward.

“We have to go,” she begs, her voice raw, cracking on every word. “Please, Margot. I know you’re in shock, but we have to move. Now!”

My brain is stuck on a loop, replaying images that layer over each step. Nate smiling on our wedding day, his arm around my waist, whispering, “I’ve got you,” against my ear as we danced. My foot lifts onto a stair. I remember the first night in our new home, the comforting weight of his hand on my back, his fingertips making soothing circles. Another step. Then the promise we made: no matter how bad life got, we’d stand by each other.

Somehow, Shannon gets me through the hallway, guiding me with single-syllable commands. “Door. There. Go. Keep walking.” Her voice wavers, on the edge of panic. “Just a little further, Margot. Come on.”

We burst outside into the grove, the tree silhouettes twisting in the darkness. My vision swims in and out, but I feel Shannon pause beside me, panting, tears streaking the grime on her face.

“I don’t know if I can leave you here,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Should I run ahead, get the car? But I can’t just?—”

She’s looking at me, expecting something, some response, but I’ve got nothing. The world has drained of meaning. I’m a shell, sleepwalking through a nightmare.

Shannon steels herself and loops an arm around my waist, half-carrying me through the blackness. Branches whip at our legs, and my foot catches on tree roots, but she keeps going, one dogged step after another. There’s a fierceness in her grip—a raw determination that feels like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Finally, we break free from the grove and stumble toward Hawthorn Manor. Its dark shape looms, a silent witness to everything that’s happened. I can’t bring myself to speak. I can’t bring myself to feel anything at all.

---