Page 47 of The House That Held Her

My feet dip into frigid water, and a gasp hitches in my throat. It’s so cold it practically numbs my ankles, and each step sends a ripple through the dark, stagnant pool. The ceiling here is barely high enough for me to stand upright, forcing me to hunch. The walls tighten around me, muddy and slick, studded with uneven stone. Tiny scratching sounds tell me I’m not alone—rats, insects, or who knows what else. I shiver, refusing to let my imagination run wild.Walteris the real danger.

I feel around in the darkness and recognize there are two pathways in front of me. I take a breath, step to the left, and begin moving forward. Within a few steps, my world starts to tilt and I realize I’m descending. The odd feeling of water rising is the only real proof that what I’m sensing is actually true. A brief flash of panic surges through me as I imagine continuing down this path, only to find the water moving up further until I drowned.

No, instead I turn back, retracing my steps. This time, I take the right path, which does not feel like it’s descending. Step by step, I push on. The tunnel twists left, then right, random water droplets falling on my head and neck, chilling me to the bone. A suffocating panic tries to claw its way up my throat, but I clamp it down.I will not die here.Not in some watery crypt with Shannon still out there, somewhere. I steady myself with each shallow breath, inching deeper into the gloom.

Then I see it—a wavering, pale light dancing on the surface of the water so faint I think I might be imagining it at first. Hope flares inside me like a match in the dark. I press forward, the water splashing louder against my legs. I can hear something, too—a voice?

Not Walter’s. This voice is gruffer, urgent, but muffled by the tunnel’s constant dripping. The corridor opens abruptly into a small cellar, water draining through a grated floor. Candlelight—or some other flickering glow—bobs against the damp walls. I pause, heart in my throat, fighting the urge to turn and flee. But I can’t. Whoever’s beyond this tunnel has to be safer than what I left behind.

Swallowing hard, I push forward, stepping into the dimly lit space. Water sloshes around my shins, draining toward the grate. My eyes adjust slowly to the change in light as I look around. The drips echo off the stone, forming a steady backdrop of white noise that nearly drowns out the voice. But it’s definitely there—closer now, distinct from the rasp of my own breath.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. Then, slowly, I step forward, emerging from the tunnel's darkness and into the flickering light of the basement—a basement I knew all too well.

35

Iblink against the flicker of the dim overhead bulb, my vision struggling to adjust after what feels like an eternity in those pitch-dark tunnels. The faint light sways, casting jerking shadows across the scene. My heart drops like a stone the instant I recognize where I’ve emerged: Hawthorn House’s basement. The white metal tub sits there, still stained red from Nate’s blood, his headless body sprawled as if in grim parody. The tiles are slick with mud and gore, forming a monstrous mosaic that wrenches my stomach.

But I’m not alone. Standing over Nate’s body is Chief Miller.

He whirls at the sound of my footsteps, and I catch the confusion blazing in his eyes. Without hesitation, he draws his sidearm, leveling the barrel at my chest.

“Freeze!” he barks, voice clipped and shaking with tension. I see panic and distrust etched across his face as he locks onto me.

I throw my hands up, a shiver raking my spine. “Chief, listen to me,” I plead, trying to steady my breath. “I’m Margot Bennett. Walter—he?—”

“Turn around!” he roars, taking a measured step closer, gun unwavering.

A crack of raw fear tears through me. He’s not hearing me. To him, I’m a suspect. Maybe an accomplice to this nightmare. My eyes flick to the tub, where Nate lies motionless, and a sob tears from my throat. As someone I had initially pegged as dirty, in this moment, Chief Miller is the only one who may be able to help me. My last chance.

“Please,” I say, my voice cracking. “He’s the one who did this—Walter, he killed my husband, he took Shannon, and?—”

“Shut up!” Chief Miller snaps, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me so hard I gasp. The grimy, blood-smeared wall slams into my cheek. “You think I’m an idiot?” he snarls close to my ear, wrenching my arms behind my back. My shoulders scream in protest as the handcuffs bite into my wrists.

“That…that body, it’s—” My breath hitches, trying to get the words out. “It’s Nate. My husband. Walter did it.”

Chief Miller grimaces, glancing at the tub. “He doesn’t even have a head. How the hell would you know it’s your husband?” His suspicion practically drips off him.

I want to collapse. The weight of the day’s horrors crushes me, and I can’t find any words that might break through his anger. The silence is broken by the sound of a phone ringing. I watch as he picks it up, glaring at me. “Don’t move,” he growls.

I slump against the wall, my wrists screaming, tears slipping down my cheeks. I’ve never felt so helpless. Footsteps thunder overhead, and I can hear him placing a call from the top of the stairs. His voice is ragged, furious, but I can’t make out every word—only the anger:

“…body here… yes, Hawthorn House… I have Margot Bennett in custody… I want to do this by the book… No… Fine.”

The chief comes back down, jaw tense, eyes dark with something that might be fear or loathing. He grips my cuffed arm, forcing me to stand. “Get up.”

I stumble, nearly tripping on the blood-smeared tiles. My brain roils with shock, unable to shake the image of Nate’s lifeless body in that tub. The chief half-drags me up the basement steps and through Hawthorn House’s hallway. Everything tilts, spinning in a sickening blur. I expected to be leaving this place behind forever—not locked in cuffs, not under suspicion of murder. Outside, the night air hits me like a slap, cold and unforgiving. He shoves me into the back of his police cruiser and slams the door.

We pull away, the engine’s growl blending with the pounding of my heart. I gather my courage, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. “Chief, please,” I manage, voice trembling. “Walter is dangerous—he’ll?—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he snaps, eyes forward, knuckles white on the wheel.

Terror clamps around my chest. I’m losing precious time. Shannon is missing, Walter is still out there, and nobody’s listening. “He’ll kill you, too!” I choke out, desperation flooding me. “You have no idea what he’s capable of?—”

The car screeches to a halt, pitching me against the front seat. Luckily, there was no metal barrier between the front and back seats, or I would’ve likely broken my nose against it. “I said shut the fuck up!” he snarls, slamming his hand against the ceiling.

He slams on the gas, and the cruiser lurches forward again. Rain spatters the windshield, quickly growing into a furious downpour. The world becomes a murky kaleidoscope of shifting shadows. I press my forehead to the glass, peering through rivulets of water, feeling like I’m drowning on land.

Time slips by. My heart thuds faster as we wind along a curving road, the scenery half-drowned in darkness. Something about this route nags at me. It feelsfamiliar. A horrifying certainty creeps up my spine.

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