Page 65 of The House That Held Her

Slowly, a man descends behind him, each step unnervingly calm as I silently push deeper into the basement. My stomach churns as he comes into view: Walter, the landscaper we hired to help maintain the house. His face is set in a strange calm, eyes distant, almost as though he’s in a trance.

“I don’t remember taking this one, my love” he mutters, voice low and oddly conversational. “Was thisreallythe next offering?” I wait for a response, confused as to who he’s talking to. I hear no more footsteps, no responses. There’s no one else here.

Confusion and terror tangle in my gut as my mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing. Walter stands over Patrick’s body, head tilted in puzzlement. Then he murmurs, “Georgie, Georgie. Tsk, tsk. You’re getting worse!” A chill runs through me—Georgie? Does he think he’s talkingtomy father?

Before I can move, Walter grabs Patrick under the arms, hoisting his limp form and dropping it into an old clawfoot tub deeper in the gloom of the basement. Horror grips me as Walter rifles through a battered toolbox and extracts a wicked-looking saw.

My stomach heaves. I know what he’s about to do—and I can’t bring myself to move, to scream, to do anything. I’m paralyzed. The jagged rasp of metal on bone splits the silence, and I press myself against the wall, shutting my eyes. Nothing can erase the wet, grinding sounds that follow.

When the noise finally stops, I force my lids open in time to see Walter lift Patrick’s severed head from the tub, blood spattering his overalls. He gazes at it with an eerie detachment. “This one’s quite handsome, darling. I have to say, I’m a bit jealous! If you weren’t so convincing, I’d say pick someone else!” he cackles with genuine enjoyment.

My heart nearly stops. My teeth clamp so hard on my lip, I taste blood, fighting the urge to vomit or pass out.

Without warning, Walter strolls back upstairs, carrying Patrick’s head in one hand. The basement door closes, plunging me into near-darkness. The only sound is the slow dripping of blood from the tub. I sag against the stone wall, every inch of me shaking.

I crouch there, too shocked to move. Tears find their way out of my face even though my entire body is numb. Eventually, my survival instinct kicks in. Police. Call for help. It’s beyond hiding at this point. Someone is dead. I reach for my phone and realize it’s missing. My mind races and I think about Patrick going through my pockets when I was unconscious.

I have to get out. Make it to the police station. Tell them everything. I push to my feet, ignoring the burn in my ribs. Each step through the gloom is agony, but I manage to creep up the stairs. I crack the door and glance into the living room.

Walter is outside, rummaging around near Patrick’s truck. I look to the floor where our scuffle happened, and I can’t find any of my belongings. My head snaps up as Patrick’s truck roars to life with Walter behind the wheel. I duck as headlights tear through the house. I listen, face pressed flat on the floor, as the truck makes its way around the property towards the rear where the engine then dies. I remain frozen, unsure of Walter’s movements or intentions. I think I can hear his footsteps growing closer again. I prepare to run back into the basement when I hear a second engine start up and then roar off into the night.

It feels like forever before I find the strength to push up off the floor. My legs wobble, and bile claws up my throat. I barely make it to the sink before I’m violently sick. When the retching subsides, I collapse to the floor, tears running hot down my cheeks.How did we get here?

As I struggle to stand, headlights sweep past the windows again. My entire body seizes.Shit. Why is Walter back?But then I hear the faint murmur of a familiar voice drifting in through the broken window.Oh my god, that’s Margot.My gut twists. She’s come looking for me. She knows. Or maybe she’s still trying to satisfy her own curiosities about our new property. Either way, I can’t let her find me.

The front door creaks open. Panic rages inside me. I don’t have time to bury the evidence or hide the gore in the basement. My only choice is to vanish before she sees me. My eyes land on the basement door.No, no—I can’t go back down there.But the footsteps grow louder, drawing near. I have no choice.

I dart back down into the darkness, pulling the door shut just as Margot and someone else step inside the old house, calling out tentatively. Pressed against the cold stone wall, I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the ragged sob building in my throat.

52

Above me, I hear the heavy groan of the front door closing, followed by the creak of floorboards. Margot and another voice, sounds female—are moving inside. I don’t dare move.

Their muffled voices filter down as they fumble for a light switch, and my stomach drops. They’re here, probably searching for answers, the same way I am. But why?

A weak, jaundiced glow flickers to life overhead, barely reaching into the corners of this grim basement. Margot’s voice stands out, tense as she responds to some kind of joke I can’t quite make out. I can picture Margot’s face—her eyes darting around, her expression wary. My chest aches just knowing how close she is. But I can’t reveal myself. Not now. Not like this.

Their footsteps draw closer, every groan of the old floorboards a threat. I swallow hard, searching the basement with my eyes. I have to stay hidden. If they find me near Patrick’s body in that tub, drenched in blood, they’ll assume I did it—that I’m some sort of monster. I need to protect Margot from this but what can I do?

Then I hear the basement door creak open, and a cold ripple of dread slides through me. I press myself flat against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, struggling to stay invisible. Margot’s voice trembles– she’s scared. The smell of blood is overpowering down here. The air is damp, and it clings to me. I feel the wet , hard ground against my palm and I curse Chief Miller for ever bringing us to this town.

I realize suddenly that I might not be hidden enough. Panicking, I pace one step, then another, searching desperately for a better spot. My hip bangs into the edge of the tub. Patrick’s body shifts, and I cringe at the disgusting slosh of blood swirling through the water.

Margot goes quiet. I can almost feel her hold her breath for a better listen. She heard that sloshing. I know it. My teeth clench, and I silently beg them to turn around and go back upstairs—anything to avoid seeing what’s in this awful basement.

“Shannon, do you see that?” Margot’s whisper cuts the silence like a gunshot.

I follow her line of sight and realize my own shadow stretches across the wall like some monstrous shape. My heart hammers so loudly, I’m sure they can hear it. I’m trapped, and they’re only a few feet away.

Before I can think, I notice the breaker box within arm’s reach. Desperate, I flip the main switch, plunging the house into darkness. Instantly, I can’t see a thing. But I can hear them—Margot’s breath, Shannon’s quiet gasp—and I can hear myself, panting, ragged, terrified.

I force myself to move along the wall, careful not to scrape my shoes against the floor. It feels like every slight shift echoes a thousand times. My stomach churns as Margot calls Shannon’s name in the dark, her voice tight with fear. Footsteps approach—slow, deliberate.

We’re stuck in a cruel dance in the dark. Them on one side of the tub, me on the other. We’re rotating now, but I can’t tell which direction they’re taking. I’ll either move clockwise with them or run directly into them which petrifies me.

I can see a speck of moonlight to my right and I recognize I’m now close to the stairs. We’ve managed to swap places, and I realize this is my only chance. Keeping low, I tear up the stairs. My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I silently pray that Margot and Shannon won’t follow. The basement door slams behind me, and I press my ear against the wood, straining to listen.

I hear someone stumble, a dull clang against metal, and my blood runs cold. The tub. Did Margot touch it? I can imagine her hand brushing the slick, horrific surface of Patrick’s remains. I want to scream at them to leave, to run away, but I’m frozen in place, terror and guilt binding me.

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