Page 44 of The House That Held Her

I turn, glancing back at the wall I just passed through, trying to picture how all this might look from the other side. That’s when I notice the small pinholes puncturing the wood, each letting in a thread of light. My heart rate spikes with fresh alarm—I realizewhatthese must be.

Peepholes.

I lower my face to one of them, dread pooling in my stomach. On the other side is my bedroom—the entire view, right down to the comforter Nate and I picked out together. Bile rises in my throat as it sinks in: Someone waswatchingme. Watching me sleep, undress, share my most private moments with Nate. Every detail was on display for a voyeur hidden in these walls.

A nauseating wave of violation churns inside me, but I grit my teeth against the urge to bolt. I remind myself I’m alone here—whoever used this room doesn’t appear to be here now. I can’t let fear hijack me; I came too far to turn back empty-handed. For all my hopes, though, the chest is nowhere to be seen. A crushing disappointment gnaws at my insides.I was so sure it would be here.

I let my flashlight wander across the walls and corners, searching for any sign that I’ve missed something. Then, in the far edge of the lamplight, I see a narrow passageway extending into the darkness, like a tunnel leading deeper into the house’s bones. A chill brushes my skin, as though some cold, unseen current flows out of that opening.

My throat tightens, but I force myself forward. The passage twists in cramped, suffocating turns, the walls pressing in on me until my shoulders almost graze the wood. More peepholes appear in random intervals, each revealing another slice of my home. One overlooks the bathroom, and I catch my reflection in the mirror. A flash of memory—myself stepping out of the shower, vulnerable, oblivious—rips through me. My guts knot in horror.

But I keep going, swallowing the bitter taste of revulsion. I’m here for answers, and I won’t leave without them. With every cramped step, I start to see how extensive these secret corridors are, winding through the structure like hidden arteries. My mind reels at the realization that none of us were ever alone in Hawthorn Manor. Not truly.

Suddenly, the walls feel even tighter. My breath comes in ragged bursts. I glance at my phone, noticing it was only able to charge to nine percent battery. A new spike of fear grips me. If it dies, so does my only source of light and any chance of calling for help. I break into a clumsy, urgent jog. The passage twists, disorienting me, and I fight to keep calm.

I turn a corner, heart hammering in anticipation of escape—but I’m met with yet another room. It’s laid out almost identically to the first: the same creeping shadows, the same stifling air. On one wall, more peepholes allow dim glints of light to seep in. My breath catches when I recognize the room on the other side.

The nursery.

The one Nate and I once dreamed of filling with life, of hearing a baby’s laughter, but which remained agonizingly vacant. Raw grief twists inside me as I step back, swallowing the ache. Then, in the center of this hidden space, my phone’s failing beam settles on something I’ve been searching for all along—the wooden chest, yawning open, its lid propped as if in silent invitation.

And even in the faint light, I see them: the faint outline of skulls waiting to be found for a second time.

31

Istand motionless, my gaze locked on the chest. For so long, I’ve needed to see these skulls—to prove I’m not unraveling and to silence the echo of that humiliating encounter with the police who dismissed me like some delusional, hysterical woman. Yet now that I’m here, the chest only radiates dread. My mind reels with the possibility of finding Nate among its grisly contents. I wonder if I’d even recognize him.

What makes a facerecognizableonce it’s stripped of muscle and skin—when it’s reduced to a raw, bare skull? I can’t stop imagining the macabre difference between old bones, yellowed and brittle, and those newly stripped, the surface still smooth and pale. The thought of some killer meticulously scraping and cleaning flesh sets my stomach roiling, but it stays fixed in my mind all the same, refusing to leave.

Before I can stop myself, I’m on my knees, the chest looming over me. It summons me forward with cruel inevitability, my legs moving as if directed by someone else’s will. And then I take them in: sixteen skulls, each one old and discolored, and a seventeenth that’s fresh enough to be unmistakablynew. I don’t need a closer look to know. My heart cracks, and I crumple, my forehead hitting the edge of the chest as tears spill hot and fast. A sick part of me was waiting for proof, but now that I have it, none of it matters. Nate is gone.

I sit there, staring blindly at those hollow sockets, letting numbness wash through me. Everything I’ve worked toward, everything I cared about—destroyed. I should stand up, but my body sags under the weight of loss. At last, with agonizing slowness, I haul myself upright and swipe the back of my hand across my damp cheeks, fighting for breath. I yank out my phone and take picture after picture with trembling fingers, capturing every angle of these gruesome remains until my phone finally dies. But now, at least, I have evidence—something real to bring forward.

But as I flip through the images, a hollow truth punches into me: I no longer care about the house, about making a fresh start, or about the redemption I once hoped for. All I want is to go home—to Maryland. I close my eyes, conjuring the smell of Old Bay on freshly steamed crabs, the vivid reds and oranges of fall, the muted crunch of snow underfoot in winter. That’s my home, my safe haven.Not this.Not a place of death and betrayal, where I’ve lost everything.

I open my eyes, voice cracking in the dim, suffocating passageway. “I’m sorry, Nate,” I whisper, tears coming again. “This was all my idea—this house, this move. I thought I could fix…everything after Lila. Fix us. Fix me. But I was wrong. So wrong.”

A vivid ache hits me at the memory of Lila’s tiny face, that old regret flaring up like a bruise I can’t help pressing. I’d convinced myself this house would bring closure, that it would forgive me for not saving Lila. Instead, I dragged Nate here with me, and now he’s gone, another causality in my attempt to have the picture-perfect white picket fence life.

A cold emptiness settles over me. I turn from the chest, fueled by determination rather than panic. I start retracing my steps through the maze of passageways, using the peepholes as my map. One shows me the guestroom, so I pivot east. Another looks out on the living room, where Shannon and I sat hours ago working out how to open this cursed passageway. My stomach clenches at the thought of Shannon– if she came in here, she’s likely just as lost as I am.

At last, I emerge in the first hidden room, the one with the drafting desk and unmade bed. Relief floods me—I’m finally close to escaping. I have my proof, and now I just need to find Shannon and get this phone to the police.

But as I stoop through the entrance, something catches my eye—a shape on the dresser near the bed. My heart jumps into my throat. Reaching for my phone, I remember too late that its battery is dead. The only illumination is the flicker of the old lamp and the sliver of weak light from a peephole.

I move closer, adrenaline spiking. My fingers curl around the object, and I drag it into the trembling lamplight. It’s a Yankees baseball cap, frayed along the edges with a cracked brim. My hands shake worse as I turn it over, tears blurring my sight, until I make out a single word scrawled in fading ink on the inside:

“Bambino.”

32

Istare at the Yankees cap clenched in my trembling hands, and the world around me seems to spin in slow motion. My lungs constrict as the realization slams into me again and again, like relentless waves against a cliff.Walter’s hat.It’s here, hidden away in this secret room behind my own bedroom walls.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force my brain to conjure some benign explanation. But the truth claws at me from every angle—I can’t escape it. Walter was here, not just once, not by accident, but over and over. He lived in these walls, kept that chest of skulls, and meticulously planned every horror I’ve just uncovered. My mind screams in protest, but there’s no denying the obvious: Walter, the gentle, dependable man who always showed up at my lowest moments, is the very monster who’s been tormenting me all along.

My thoughts are a frenzied mess, tumbling and colliding in my head. How could I have never asked where he lived? How did I not realize he was livinghere,behind the walls, hiding all evidence of his crimes? Scenes of our conversations flicker through my memory—the warmth in his voice, the calm way he’d say, “I’m here to help,” every time I felt alone. Now I see each moment for the lie it was, a twisted manipulation. Walter, the groundskeeper, the boy raised near this property, the one who claimed to protect me when Nate was gone—he’s been the threat all along. The darkness I feared was never distant; it was right here, watching from the shadows.

My knees threaten to buckle, my stomach knotting itself tight. Every nerve in my body screams that I have togo—right now, before I can’t move at all. The hat slips from my hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

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