Page 42 of The House That Held Her

My eyes continue to lazily fall on the Google page until it hits me like lightning. I begin to read out loud -"A book cipher is a cipher in which each word or letter in the plaintext of a message is replaced by some code that locates it in another text, the key."

It made perfect sense.The Gold Bugfamously used a book cipher—a secret message hidden within the pages of a book. It was one of literature's earliest and most celebrated examples of cryptography, inspiring countless generations of puzzle-solvers and treasure-hunters. George had taken that inspiration and implemented it here. These numbers were not coordinates. They were a book cipher left behind by a man obsessed with secrets hiding in plain sight.

But to decode it, we needed the story itself. Another quick Google search tells me that the original short story was published in 1843, but countless versions have existed since. I scroll through listings online, my heart sinking as I realize how many editions are out there.The Gold Bughad been published in newspapers, turned into anthologies, and republished in numerous formats. If George had based his cipher on a particular version, we would need that exact one to unlock it.

My heart pounds faster as I say, “Shannon, I think these numbers might be referencing a specific edition of The Gold Bug. Poe wrote that story in 1843, but it’s been reprinted a million times. If George used a book cipher, we need the same edition he used.”

She nods, pushing off the chair. “Okay, that makes sense. But if he hid these clues all over the house, it would make sense for him to leave the needed copy here as well, right? Maybe it’s still here in the house somewhere.”

I jump up, heading to the bedroom shelves where I once spent hours adding my many books to the shelves already populated by so many volumes left behind by the Hawthorns.

We run our hands along the rows, scanning spines. My pulse leaps when I see a battered, time-worn copy: The Gold Bug, Dodd, Mead & Co., 1923.

“This has to be it,” I whisper.

We clear space on the writing desk. With the map and notepad ready, I flip to page 23, and Shannon leans over my shoulder, counting lines out loud. Then I count words:

Page 23, line 5, word 7: “Deep”

I jot that down, and we repeat the process:

Page 42, line 2, word 4: “Scarab”

Page 15, line 3, word 6: “Cipher”

Page 67, line 7, word 8: “Door”

Page 32, line 9, word 2: “Turn”

Putting them together yields: Deep scarab cipher door turn.

I read it aloud, frowning. “It’s not exactly a sentence. More like…five words that maybe sort of could be another clue. The last part—door turn—makes me think of physically turning a door, or a doorknob. But deep scarab cipher?”

Shannon’s brow creases as she taps her pen anxiously against the desk. “Deep scarab makes me think deep bug again, maybe it has to do with the chest? That was buried. There are bugs in the soil, right?”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t feel right. Whatever remains of this puzzle, I think it’s here in the house; everything else has been.”

The initial hit of adrenaline from finding the book cipher was diminishing, and I could feel sleep tugging at me. The past twenty-four hours had been exhausting, and my body begged for rest, true, uninterrupted rest.

Shannon paced the room, her hair tied up in a ponytail, flapping around behind her as she muttered potential leads under her breath. I watch her and smile. She’s my best friend in the world, the smartest person I’ve ever known. If anyone can help me figure this out, it’s her.

My focus shifts back to the task at hand. If I am going to figure this out, I need to think like George—step into his logic, his obsession with cryptography, his love for intricate puzzles. Hidden clues. Treasures.The Gold Bug.

I turn the phrase repeatedly in my mind, each iteration leading me down another blind alley. The words feel like they’re mocking me, yet I can’t shake the feeling that the answer is right there, just waiting for me to connect the pieces.

Determined not to waste any more time, I stood up. “Let’s split up. Look around the house for anything that could relate to digging, soil, a bug, anything like that. George has used all kinds of gimmicks up to this point, so nothing is off limits.”

Shannon nodded. “I’ll take this floor, you take the main. Yell if you find anything.”

I drift from room to room, my fingers brushing the edges of furniture, gliding along carved doorframes with my senses heightened, searching for anything that might break the mystery wide open.

It’s well past midnight, or maybe even later—time is a blur.

I flick on a lamp in the living room, and its sickly glow chases away the shadows from the fireplace. My gaze falls onto the intricate woodwork, the elaborate carvings that framed the hearth with an almost reverent beauty. There, amidst the shadows, is something I missed before.

A carved shape, barely discernible in the dim light, is set into the right side of the fireplace frame. It is subtle, almost invisible, but as I lean in, the details emerge: a bug, its six legs spread out, with pincers like a beetle, carefully etched into the wood. My heart begins to pound as my eyes shift to the left side of the fireplace, where I find an identical carving. This can’t be a coincidence. It has to mean something. I scream for Shannon, and she arrives within moments.

“Look– they have to be connected to this, right?” I trail a fingertip over the carving on the right. Each leg is individually carved, unlike the left carving, which is just a solid shape. Shannon’s excitement ratchets up a notch. “Can we just acknowledge how nuts this is? Out of all the houses in America, you had to buy the national treasure house of secrets?”

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