Page 67 of The House That Held Her

“You can’t hide from this, Nate,” they chant. “You can’t hide…”

I bolt awake, screaming. My lungs ache, and I clutch at the thin motel sheets, eyes darting around. The flickering neon sign outside casts jittery shapes on the walls, and I’m drenched in sweat. It’s a struggle to remember where I am. Slowly, my mind catches up. It was just another nightmare.

The old school clock on the nightstand reads 7:42 PM.

I stare, disbelieving. Twenty hours—nearly an entire day—slipped away from me. How? How did I sleep for so long?

My insides clench as reality crashes down around me: Margot. Walter. Patrick.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shoving the sweaty sheets aside. My shoes, my jacket—where did I leave them? My body is frantic, my mind a swirl of panic as I stumble around the small room. Then I remember the car. It’s still hidden back by the tree line near that other house.

I can’t lose more time, so I run out into the storm-dark streets. Rain lashes at my face, the wind roaring in my ears. I force one foot in front of the other, each step hammering through puddles as I push toward Hawthorn Manor.

By the time I reach the long gravel driveway to Hawthorn Manor, I’m gasping for breath. The Florida heat smothers me, and I’m drenched in sweat, but I can see the manor’s peaks jutting over the tops of the trees. My legs threaten to buckle, but I keep going.

My senses go into overdrive as I draw nearer. No alarms, no screams, no doors left ajar or windows shattered. Everything looks too ordinary, and that normalcy sets me even more on edge. I slow as I approach the house, chest heaving, prepared to enact part one of the plan I hastily threw together on my way here.

I know I can’t just barge in, spill the entire tangled mess, and expect Margot to handle it calmly—especially with Shannon here. Shannon never cared for me, and everything I say, no matter how true, will sound suspect.

I need first to confirm Margot’s safety.

I edge around the side of the house until I reach the kitchen window. The curtains are partly drawn, but I can see Margot inside by the fireplace, her posture stiff and anxious as she glances around. Shannon is nowhere in sight. Relief floods through me just seeing Margot alive and apparently unhurt. No sign of Walter, no obvious signs of violence.

With validation that Margot is safe, I feel better about moving onto the next part of this plan, which is to get my story straight for the police.

I start moving again, heading toward the other house, the one where everything went so very wrong. My pulse thumps wildly as I recall Patrick’s fate. He was violent, yes, but something about him was also desperate and broken—like a man drowning in his own insecurities, battling to find his place without a father figure. I know the feeling well. A wave of pity emerges as I think of him lying in that tub, alone and disfigured.

As I step onto the porch, echoes of last night’s struggle come rushing back: the smash of a breaking window, the cracking of bone on stone. Pushing past the sick memories, I open the front door, letting myself back in. The air inside is exactly the same, heavy with the metallic stench of blood and decay. A shudder runs through me.

I make my way downstairs, flipping the light switch, half terrified my nightmare will come true and Patrick’s body will lunge at me. The tub still sits in the center of the room, Patrick’s body slumped in it. My stomach lurches at the sight. A faint buzzing sound reaches my ears—odd, hollow. I step closer, realizing it’s coming from Patrick’s pants pocket. His phone.

I gag, fighting the urge to vomit, forcing myself to approach the tub. The body is so close now, the smell overwhelming. My gaze snags on my wedding ring—the ring I once wore. I slip it off Patrick’s finger and place it back on mine. It feels like a small reclamation of myself, but it also feels dirty.

Hands trembling, I reach into Patrick’s pocket and ease out a battered flip phone, still vibrating with missed calls. I flip it open, my heart sinking when I see “Mom” on the screen—Phyllis. She’s desperate to reach her son. She has no idea he’s lying here, murdered, head severed and stolen.

I swallow hard, feeling the crushing weight of what I must do. I punch in the numbers. The line rings, echoing painfully loud in this dark chamber. Finally, a voice answers. I can barely steady my breath enough to speak.

“Hi,” I say, my voice cracking in the silence. “My name is Nate Bennett, and I need to report a murder.”

55

Istalk back and forth across the basement floor, my pulse thudding in my ears so hard it almost drowns out the sick gurgle of my stomach. A thousand times, I consider bolting for the stairs—away from the rank smell of congealed blood and the heavy feeling of death pulsing in this place. But I can’t leave Patrick a second time. Even though his head is gone, the sight of his torso sitting in that tub still makes my insides twist with guilt. The last thing I want is to abandon him down here like a discarded piece of trash, so I hover at the bottom of the steps, grimacing at the sticky residue of dried gore that coats each riser.

Every few seconds, I rehearse what I’ll say to the cops. The words tangle in my throat. Who’s going to believe me? This entire situation, from the moment that manilla folder arrived on our doorstep, feels like the plot of an Agatha Christie novel. While Chief Miller will be able to vouch for portions of the story like that envelope, I imagine what his face will look like as I stand here, half delirious, trying not to throw up while I relive every dark secret and every fatal decision that led us here.

It’s then that I hear it: a faint, distant noise, so soft I almost mistake it for my own thumping heartbeat. I freeze, head tilted. Could it be the police outside? Or maybe someone else entering? No—this sound is different. The hush of dripping rain seeps through the walls. The threatening clouds I saw on my run here are now crying over Mount Dora. But still, somewhere, deeper in the gloom, there’s another sound.

I pivot, the hair on the back of my neck standing up as I wander toward the far corner of the basement. I’ve always assumed these walls were it—the boundary of this godforsaken space. But I discover a shadowed alcove that recedes beyond the flickering light. My lungs constrict with a fresh wave of dread as my shoes sink into frigid water that’s pooled along the floor. The force of the storm overhead must be sending water down here, turning this corner into a shallow lake of icy muck.

That’s when the sound tears through the silence again—louder, distinctly human. A scream. A woman’s scream, carrying the unmistakable edge of terror. My entire body goes cold. I glance back at the main room, where the single yellow bulb sways, illuminating Patrick’s final resting place. Only a few feet separate me from my makeshift vantage by the steps. I clench my teeth, summoning every ounce of courage just to lift one shaky foot deeper into the dark.

I flick open Patrick’s ancient flip phone. The green glow is pathetic, but it’s enough to see the jagged outline of a tunnel, hunkered low under the foundation. Water trickles down the walls, the dank smell of wet earth flooding my nostrils. From somewhere in that black maw, another scream reaches my ears—this time impossibly clear. The kind of scream that chills your blood.

I spin back, heart slamming against my ribs, torn between charging in and waiting for the police. My mind snaps to the memory of myself frozen in this same basement last night—immobile while someone was murdered in front of my eyes. I feel the shame all over again, the hot burn of regret in my throat. I won’t let that happen a second time.

“All right,” I whisper, voice shaking so badly it’s hardly audible. “All right… you can do this.”

The phone’s meager glow dances across the water. Fear floods my senses with every step I take into that low tunnel. Darkness closes in, wrapping around me like a living thing, but I keep going, because there’s a voice—someone who needs help. And for once, I’m not going to run. For once, I’m going to be the man Margot once believed in, the man I lost somewhere behind years of secrets and mistakes.

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