Page 41 of The House That Held Her

The treasure map in my jeans pocket pokes at my thigh, and I pull it out, preparing to tear it to pieces. How can this flimsy paper have unraveled my entire world?

Behind me, the shower handle squeaks. A moment later, Shannon steps out, a towel clutched around her body. She sees me on the floor, eyes red and raw, but no tears left.

I look up at her, voice raspy. “Shannon, I’m done. Just…get dressed. We should finally go?—”

My words freeze as I catch sight of the map. Something is happening to the paper. Words appear in a deep, inky black, creeping across the tattered surface: “Aureus Scarabaeus.” Below it, Roman numerals form in precise rows:

XXIII–V–VII

XLII–II–IV

XV–III–VI

LXVII–VII–VIII

XXXII – IX – II

A tremor runs through me, cold as death. It feels like the house itself is watching, playing with me—laughing at my constant rollercoaster of emotions. Fear prickles along my scalp, and my heart pounds so wildly I can’t imagine it staying in my chest.

I don’t know what these codes mean, but the knowledge they exist—that this map can shift and show new secrets—rips through the last threads of sanity I have left. I look up at Shannon, body quaking, unsure if these words spell salvation or damnation.

29

Cobalt chloride—that’s the key phrase glowing on my phone screen. It’s a chemical compound used as a humidity-activated ink, changing from a colorless to colored ink when exposed to moisture. I close the web browser and exhale, thoughts whirling. It explains how the hidden writing on the map slowly appeared: George Hawthorn must have brushed the paper with cobalt chloride, which allowed the shower’s humidity to do the rest.

I set my phone aside and refocus on the map spread across the coffee table, my heartbeat thrumming at this very tangible clue. For the first time in…forever, there’s a real lead, something that might pull me out of this black hole. If Shannon and I can decode this cryptic message, maybe we can end this nightmare and get back to Maryland, leaving behind this horrible attempt at a newer, happier life.

I can’t lie to myself. Part of me wants to rip this map into shreds—its pretentious hidden clues and veiled promises to reveal somethingactuallyworthwhile. The thought of playing into whatever twisted game is unfolding here, of being a pawn in George Hawthorn’s puzzle, makes me feel sick. We still don’t know enough about him to say with any certainty that he’s actually tied to these skulls—or to the feeling of terror and silence permeating through this town. But the idea of him tugging at our strings from beyond the grave infuriates me.

And yet, I can’t deny how enticing it is. Ever since the night this house flooded, I’ve been starving for answers, and after everything I’ve lost, I feel entitled to them. I need to know what the fuck is really happening in Mount Dora. So, I swallow my pride, forcing aside the nauseating thought that some dead man, who once sat in this very house, is now smirking from beyond the grave at the idea of someone picking up the breadcrumbs he left. And here I am, sifting through those details, piece by piece, desperate for the truth.

I narrow my eyes at the newly formed letters and numbers:Aureus Scarabaeus,followed by lines of Roman numerals. Shannon sits on the floor, leaning against the armchair, stifling a yawn while wrestling with her laptop. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks tear-streaked, but her posture radiates a new sense of purpose.

“‘Aureus Scarabaeus,’” she says, reading from her screen. “Translated from Latin: Gold Scarab.”

My stomach jolts. “Shannon, Marty already gave us what we needed. A scarab is…” I pause waiting for it to click.

“A bug! The Gold Bug! Holy shit!” She exclaims, pumping a fist into the air.

“Bingo. George was obsessed,” I say. “It was his favorite book, right? So, this makes total sense. Whatever these numbers are, they have to be tied to that story. Problem is, I’ve never read it. Have you?”

Shannon hums thoughtfully, then nods at the Roman numerals. “Negative. Could be coordinates?”

“It crossed my mind.” I let out a tense breath. “But they look too short for longitude and latitude coordinates, right?” Let’s just convert them to standard digits first and see if anything pops out at us?”

Working side by side, we list each set:

XXIII – V – VII → 23 – 5 – 7

XLII – II – IV → 42 – 2 – 4

XV – III – VI → 15 – 3 – 6

LXVII – VII – VIII → 67 – 7 – 8

XXXII – IX – II → 32 – 9 – 2

We stare at the results, trying to see if the sequences match any pattern. Shannon plugs them into Google, checking if they map to GPS. Nothing. Meanwhile, I try scrolling through cryptography sites, my eyes glossing over with terms and concepts I haven’t the faintest clue about. Atbash. Rail Fence. Affine. Autokey. Who knew there were so many types of ciphers in the world?

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