Page 53 of The House That Held Her

George looks outside and then back to me; his eyes almost soft. "When I returned to Cecilia's, sneaking through the window, she was waiting for me. She knew what I'd done before I even spoke a word. She saw it in my eyes and felt it in my touch when she pulled me close. But she didn't turn me away. She held me. She believed she could save me." His gaze drops to the floor now, his voice barely a whisper, almost lost to the roaring storm. "But killing my mother didn't end the darkness. It quieted it for a time, but the shadows were always there, lurking, biding their time. Cecilia and I fought against it, convinced we could hold it back. We built this house because I couldn't bear the old one. Not after seeing my family destroyed there. I wanted a new start. A sanctuary. A place where we could finally have the life we dreamed of." George gestures around the room's grandeur, contrasting with the anguish in his voice. "But..." He hesitates, his expression hollow, as if the words could crush him.

"We couldn't have children. No matter what we tried, it was hopeless. The medicine available back then offered no answers and no hope. We had to accept our new roles. Cecilia, the matriarch of a town that adored her, and me, the man who would do anything for her, including suffocating my deepest desires. And when Cecilia died, it shattered me. She was everything. The love of my life. The only light in the darkness. And suddenly, she was gone. I remember her laughter filling this house, her touch that could chase away even my worst thoughts. Without her, there was nothing but emptiness. There was no one to blame, no one to direct my fury at. I was lost. The rage stayed, bubbling, filling every corner of my mind, and that's when the hauntings started."

George's voice drops to a ragged whisper, his words trembling. "She haunted me, Margot. I could hear her laughter. Empty, hollow. Her crying in the dead of night, her voice calling out to me from the darkened halls, always whispering something that I couldn't quite catch. One night, I woke up, and she was lying next to me, as real as you are now, tears streaming down her cheeks, her skin cold, one eye missing. She just stared at the bottom of the bed, never turned to me, never spoke a word. And when I got out of bed and came around to meet her gaze, her single eye refocused on me, and she screamed. No words. Just a blood-curdling, heart-stopping scream. She was gone when I opened my eyes again, but the indent and the chill she had brought were still there. And Margot, she would leave signs. Cryptic, chilling messages that clawed at my sanity. I remember stepping out of the shower once, and there it was. Her handprint on the fogged mirror, perfectly clear, fingers splayed as though she'd been standing right behind me, her presence lingering just beyond my reach. Another night, I woke to see her silhouette waiting in the darkest corner of the room, just a shadow barely distinct from the blackness, her quiet sobs threading through the silence. It was a sound so fragile and desperate it made my blood run cold. She never spoke. Not a single word. Her contact was always begging, pleading. Her sorrow was too deep and consuming for words."

George's eyes glaze over, lost in the memories, and his voice breaks. "So, I went to Lake Dora, stood at the water's edge, and begged her to find peace. And you know what happened? She finally spoke to me. She answered. My darling, Cecilia. I couldn't see her, but I could feel her. I could smell her. She whispered to me. Pleaded for me to bring her company. She told me she was lonely, Margot! And how could I refuse her? She was the love of my life and of course she was lonely. My poor Cece, forced to exist on that god awful lake all alone." George drifts in and out of focus, the moments between words growing longer and longer as he recalls the memory.

"I would do anything to give her what she wanted. And so, I did. At first, I considered killing myself, Margot. I thought about simply ending it all. Throwing myself into Lake Dora to join Cecilia in the afterlife. But I knew better. I had promised Cece, long ago, that I would never take my own life, even if she went before me. She made me swear, and I kept that promise. Deep down, I knew that killing myself wouldn't bring her peace. Cecilia needed company, but not me, not before it was my time. It had to be someone else. The very next day, I walked the streets of Mount Dora, searching. Freddy Bahn was a nobody. The town drug addict who no one would miss. And so, I took him. I strangled him and buried him by the lake, at the exact spot Cece spoke to me the night before. And for a while, Margot, it worked to both quiet Cecilia's spirit as well as my own darkness."

My stomach twists as George's voice softens, becoming almost affectionate.

"For one year, I had peace. But then Cecilia returned. It started just as before. The wails that tore through the house in the middle of the night, the whispered words that twisted around in my brain. Her silent screams from passing reflections in the windows until I couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. It was all happening again, and I knew what she needed this time. I had to give her someone she knew, someone she would recognize, someone who might bring her comfort. So, I brought her Mary Alcott. She had been Cecilia's friend for years. Her laughter had filled our home when things were still bright and hopeful. I thought that maybe Cecilia's spirit would finally rest if she had a familiar face in the afterlife. I was right. I strangled Mary, just as I had Freddy. But after that, I faced a problem. Someone would eventually find the bodies. The freshly turned soil and marks of my work would attract suspicion. I needed to find another way to get them to Cecilia. A way that would leave no trace, no footprint for others to see. That's when I started to question where someone's spirit truly resides. Most people believe it's in the heart. But not me. No, the heart is just flesh. An organ that rots away like any other. The actual vessel for a person's spirit, the seat of their essence, is the skull. Bone is eternal, bound intrinsically to the spirit world. That's why many cultures and ancient religions have revered it for centuries.”

“So, I severed the skulls of Freddy and Mary. I took their skulls and discarded the rest of their bodies into Lake Dora. And when it came to disposal, I learned a thing or two. Did you know that female alligators are particularly vicious when guarding their nests? They're ravenous, relentless. Almost as if they're driven by a primal fury. I knew they'd handle the rest. So, I tossed what remained of their bodies into the murky depths of Lake Dora, and in moments, the water came alive. The thrashing, the bubbles, and then... stillness. They were gone. Devoured. It was as if they had never existed. Just whispers swallowed by the lake, destined to remain forever, playing the role of Cecilia's ghostly community.”

I sit in stunned disbelief, struggling to comprehend the casual way in which George was recounting his murders. There is no trace of guilt, no hint of remorse. Only a chilling detachment that revealed the true horror of the man before me.

George continued. "After Mary, everything grew more complicated. As I feared, the next year, right on cue, the hauntings began again. My dear Cecilia, restless even in death, had grown impatient. A year passed, and the friends I had offered were no longer enough to satisfy her. Most men might have found it too much to bear. Perhaps they would have fled, torn down the house, and left Mount Dora far behind. But I am not like most men. Instead, I craved her return. I missed her. Even in her terrifying form, with her sadness and rage, every moment of contact filled the void in me. To feel her presence, even fleetingly, was like warm sun on my skin after an endless winter. And so, I set out to bring her a third offering."

George's eyes grew distant, his voice almost playful as he continued. "Douglas Lane, if I remember correctly. But something was different. She wasn't pleased with Doug. I could feel it. Mere moments after watching the life leave his eyes, I felt her spirit overwhelm me in a way it never had before. It was almost like possession. She never spoke aloud, but her presence filled me, reaching in and controlling my soul. I felt her emotions twisting through mine, forcing my hands away from his throat. This was not the one she wanted. I was baffled. I looked into Douglas' terrified eyes, trying to decipher what Cecilia was asking of me. And then, in a flash, it became clear. She desired the one thing she could never have while she was alive. A child. For a brief, fleeting moment, even my blackened heart hesitated at the thought of sacrificing a child. But that hesitation was simply a moment, nothing more. It passed, and my resolve solidified. My love deserved this. She deserved everything she had been denied. And so, I transformed. I became not just a hunter of men and women but of children, too.”

40

GEORGE, 13 YEARS AGO

Islip in through the open window, the cold rain lashing at my face, soaking my clothes. The nightlight’s weak glow paints the bedroom in shifting blues, the corners lost to darkness. The storm outside rumbles with a low, constant anger, but the boy—Michael Lark—sleeps on, oblivious to the danger creeping into his world.

My heart thrums against my ribcage, a quiet drumbeat of anticipation. My breath comes shallow and quick, fogging in the damp chill of the room. I take careful steps over the scattered toys on the floor—bits of plastic, a small truck, a stuffed bear. Each step must be silent. The old floorboards are treacherous, always eager to give me away with a creak or groan.

There he is. Michael. His lashes flutter slightly as he dreams, a gentle sigh escaping his parted lips. A worn, floppy-eared rabbit lies tucked under his arm, and a thin dinosaur-patterned blanket wraps him in a fragile cocoon. For a moment, I pause, my chest tightening at the innocence of it all. But I clench my jaw, forcing that useless sentiment away. I’m here for a purpose.

I hover over him, wincing at how loud my own breathing sounds in the hush of the storm-lulled house. Thunder growls from the clouds above, drawing closer, as if the night itself has been building toward this moment. I reach out, pressing my fingertips gently to his shoulder. He stirs, eyelids flickering. I can’t afford to let him cry out—my hand clamps down over his mouth before he has the chance.

His eyes snap open, shock flooding them. He tries to move, tries to scream, but all that emerges is a muffled whimper. The swirl of confusion and terror on his face sets my pulse racing. I twist my other arm beneath him, pulling him against me as he thrashes, the blanket tangling around his legs. His small hands paw at my wrist, nails scratching at my skin. It won’t help him.

Outside in the hallway, a door creaks. My gut twists. His mother– Penny. She’s nearby, maybe already rousing. I can’t let her see me. Michael wriggles in my arms, panic giving him strength, but I shove down any pity that tries to surface. I made my decision long ago. I move toward the window as fast as I dare, stumbling through the scattered toys.

One of Michael’s feet catches the edge of a plastic tractor—his toy skitters across the floor, and the noise makes my heart stutter. I jerk him tighter to my chest, forcing him to still. He bites down on my hand, but I barely feel it. Adrenaline coats everything in numb urgency.

I get one knee on the windowsill, using my shoulder to push it open wider. The storm air slaps us, driving rain stinging my cheeks. Thunder cracks overhead. I swing my leg out and lower us carefully, dropping down into the yard in a crouch. The wet grass soaks my knees.

Behind us, I hear her. Penny’s footsteps moving over the worn floorboards in the hallway. Then her voice, uncertain at first: “Michael?” She’s half-asleep, but the dread in her tone is instant. A mother knows.

Michael kicks again, tries to spit out a plea for help. I jam my hand tight against his mouth, my chest tightening with every step I take across the soggy lawn. The rain picks up, each heavy droplet like needles against my scalp.

Inside, Penny’s fear erupts into a sharp cry. She’s reached his bed, found only rumpled blankets and the empty space where her son should be. Then her scream knifes through the night. “Michael! Michael!”

I grit my teeth. He thrashes in my arms, hearing his mother’s voice. My lungs burn, and my arms ache, but I keep going, forging a path across the yard toward the trees. I’m counting on the roar of wind and thunder to mask our escape. Lightning flares, blinding me for an instant, revealing the stark silhouettes of the towering oaks. Their gnarled branches stretch overhead like a net, welcoming me into their cover.

I push forward, my grip never slackening around the boy. His muffled sobs vibrate against my palm. I can feel the frantic pounding of his small heart against my chest—it mirrors my own, each beat feeding a vicious cycle of terror and purpose.

Behind me, Penny’s voice cracks, bordering on hysteria, reverberating in the open window: “Michael!”

I force myself not to look back. I’ve made my choice. I vanish into the shadows of the tree line, the storm swallowing up her desperate cries, her heartbreak echoing in the darkness. Thunder growls in a final, hollow note, sealing the bond I’ve chosen to make.

Michael’s cries fade into a trembling whimper against my hand. My foot slips on the sodden leaves, but I regain my balance, forging deeper into the night. I cling to him, my teeth clenched, body locked tight with tension.

A muffled crash from somewhere behind me in the house signals Penny’s frantic, futile dash to the window, maybe even out into the yard, searching. But I’m gone, her son cradled in my arms, the storm’s heavy curtain shielding us from sight.

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