Page 45 of The House That Held Her

I stagger backward, clambering through the cramped opening into my bedroom. My vision blurs with panic, tears, and disbelief. Every inch of this room now feels like a stranger’s domain, its comforting familiarity stripped away in an instant.

Dawn light leaks through the curtains, painting everything in a gentle glow that mocks the horror lurking beneath. I force myself to stand straight, air rasping in my lungs as I try to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.

That’s when I see him. Walter is perched on the edge of my bed, shoulders sagging, face caught between sorrow and a kind of weary acceptance. His eyes lock onto mine, and I feel the entire room contract until it’s only the two of us. His hands and boots are both covered in mud, leaving marks all over the floor and bedspread. My breath leaves me in a rush, cold dread crawling across my skin.

“Margot…” he says softly, his voice threaded with regret, like he pities me for finally understanding.

I want to scream, to unleash all my fury and terror, but my throat closes up. My eyes burn, and a dozen memories collide: every conversation, every moment of trust, now coated in blood and deceit. I feel my knees give, my body threatening to collapse. And Walter just sits there, motionless, waiting. Watching. His familiar face distorts with each ragged heartbeat, as the mask finally slips away, revealing the monster I never realized lurked underneath.

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Istare at Walter, my heart banging against my ribs as I try to reconcile this ordinary-looking man with the horror he’s unleashed into my life. His face is unremarkable—almost serene—and that fact alone is deeply unsettling. Because I know now: behind those calm eyes lurks a murderer.

He’s perched on the edge of my bed, fingers drumming lightly on the mattress. He doesn’t look upset or panicked, only mildly interested, as though assessing my next move. And that eerie composure makes my skin crawl.

“Margot,” he says, voice low and coaxing, as if speaking to a startled animal. “I know what you’re thinking. This all looks…bad.”

His words almost break me.Baddoesn’t begin to cover it. But I don’t wait for his next lie.

I bolt, spinning on my heel and sprinting down the hallway. All I can think about is getting out, finding Shannon—and then ending this nightmare. I feel Walter behind me, not rushing but following with deliberate steps.

“Don’t run, Margot,” he calls down the corridor. “We have to talk eventually.”

His voice is like a slow, mocking echo. My lungs burn by the time I hit the stairs, my bare feet slapping the steps in a blur.Where is Shannon?

I reach the front door, heart leaping with relief. If I can just get outside, I can scream for help, flag down a passerby,something.I grab the knob, twist, and yank. It moves, but not enough—the deadbolt is locked. Usually, the key dangles on the inside, but now the ring is empty, the key gone.

Walter must have taken it.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says softly from behind me.

My stomach lurches; panic flares. I whirl around, half expecting to see Shannon standing there—but it’s only him.Where is she?A pained gasp escapes me. “What did you do to Shannon?”

He tilts his head, wearing that same damn near-smile that makes me want to sob with rage. “Haven’t seen her,” he says casually.

“Stop lying!”

He shrugs, as if my accusation barely registers. “She might be lost… this house can be tricky. You of all people should know that.”

My anger ignites. I’m aware this is a stalling tactic, and I don’t have time for it. I race away from the front door, veering into the kitchen. If I can slip around, maybe I can catch Walter off guard or find some other way out. Behind me, his footsteps remain infuriatingly measured, as though he’s certain I can’t escape.

“Margot,” he calls in a lilting tone that makes my skin crawl. “This is pointless. I know every corner of this house—inside and out. You won’t find a hiding place I can’t reach.”

I push into the kitchen, scanning for something—anything—I can use to defend myself or break a window. A heavy skillet? A knife? I circle the island, but Walter’s silhouette appears at the threshold, blocking the path.

My stomach flips. I pivot and bolt back toward the hall, praying I can dodge him on the stairs. Maybe I can find Shannon before it’s too late. He doesn’t lunge—just steps aside, letting me pass, which feels even more unnerving than if he’d grabbed me.

I bound upstairs, two steps at a time, ignoring my burning calves. If Shannon is anywhere in this house, I have to find her. I reach the landing, eyes darting to the bathroom door—no, too flimsy. The guest room? Too obvious. Under the bed? He’d find me in seconds.

No. There’s only one option left: the hidden passageways behind the walls. The same claustrophobic tunnels where I uncovered that horrifying chest, the same place Shannon vanished into. Fear knots my insides, but I press on.

Tears sting my eyes as I slip into my bedroom, crossing straight to the small panel behind my dresser. This is how I got in last time. With shaking hands, I tug the panel open, revealing the tight corridor beyond. Walter’s voice drifts closer, calm and cold.

“Margot, be sensible. I’m not the villain you think I am. Just let me explain,” he coaxes, as though we’re discussing a mild disagreement and not a string of murders.

My heartbeat clangs in my ears, and I force myself to breathe quietly. Walter’s in my bedroom now—I can hear him stepping around, muttering to himself in a twisted, sing-song voice.

“Is Margot under the bed?” he taunts, like he’s playing hide-and-seek. “Not there. Behind the door?” A theatrical sigh. “Nope.”

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