Page 68 of The House That Held Her

My lungs struggle to pull in enough oxygen in this tight space, and my skin crawls at the cold water soaking my ankles. Every inch of me screams to turn back, but I push forward, because if I give in now, if I cower again, that scream might stop. And that would be the worst sound of all.

56

Ipush farther down the tunnel, and I can’t be positive, but it feels like the water is rising the deeper I go. Initially, it was just my feet sinking into cold puddles, but now it sloshes around my ankles, making my skin prickle. Every drop of water that drips from the low ceiling mingles with the beads of sweat on my neck, and I can’t tell which is which. Fear or rain—either way, it’s soaking me in a clammy dread.

The darkness hangs onto me like a living thing. With no idea how far this tunnel goes, I can’t shake the mental image of floodwaters creeping higher until I’m forced to swim. And while I was a lifeguard back in high school, it’s been many years since I needed to swim for any significant period of time.

That scream—God, that piercing, female scream echoing through these walls—it could be coming from anywhere. My breathing grows labored, my heart hammering like a caged animal as I inch forward unable to see more than an inch or two in front of me.

Eventually, I feel the space in front of me shift. I pull out the phone to see if I can make sense of the shapes ahead. The tunnel splits in two. I could continue forward or take a hard left that leads to what appear to be steps; how many or where they lead, I have no idea. But the sight of those stairs makes my heart skip with hope. Stairs mean an exit—maybe a way out of here.

I stand there, drenched and trembling, listening for that scream again, but I only hear rainwater echoing through the rocks. Deciding to follow my gut, I choose left and start climbing. My relief is short-lived. After a few steps, I plant my foot to rise onto the next stair—and my boot lands on empty air. I lurch forward, panicking as my arms flail. Instead of dropping into another pit, I smack onto a sloping floor that cuts right off from the step I missed.

I stay crouched for a moment, breath catching in my throat. Then I notice tiny pinpricks of light up ahead. The weird angles and absolute blackness mess with my depth perception. My brain spins, imagining what I must look like to anyone watching. I shuffle forward in a half-crouch, arms out, trying to avoid invisible drops or sudden obstacles.

The glimmers of light grow larger, like bullet holes in a wall that let splinters of illumination through. Seeing them calms me for a moment. Even if they’re not an escape route, they’re the marking of life outside of this blackness. That tiny comfort vanishes the instant another scream pierces the silence. This time, it ricochets from behind me, not ahead.

My pulse spikes again. How could the disembodied voice be behind me now? Is there another hidden entry, another secret path carved into these walls? I freeze in place, torn between the faint hope of what’s ahead and the undeniable fact that my gut, once again, steered me in the wrong direction.

I stare at the pinholes of light. They beckon me with the potential of warmth and freedom. It would be so easy to keep going, slip through some hidden door somewhere, and escape this watery crypt. But I know why I’m here. I’m not the same coward who stood paralyzed in that basement, watching as Walter murdered Patrick. This time, I’m the man who’s willing to wade into terror for the sake of saving a life.

My jaw clenches. One last glance at the light, then I turn around. The steps behind me loom like an ominous descent, each step back down darker, wetter, more dangerous. I brace myself, practically sitting on the edges of each stair so I don’t miss another break in the floor. Once I’m down, I steer myself left, heading deeper into the unknown rather than returning to the main basement I came from.

The water’s higher here—maybe it’s pouring in from the storm, or maybe this section is just lower ground. Regardless, I push forward, steps noisy as the water drenches me up to mid-shin now. Then another scream rings out, closer this time. My blood turns cold, but at least I know I’m on the right track. Someone needs help, and I’m getting closer

Clutching the flip phone, the pallid glow trembling with my shaking hand, I walk on. Water drips, fears swirl, and that desperate cry for help drives me forward through the rising flood, faster and faster.

57

My lungs burn with every breath as I wade deeper through the flooded tunnel, and my chest tightens with a fresh stab of panic. Just a few minutes ago, I felt a surge of courage—ready to play the hero, to save whoever might be screaming in the dark—but human resolve is a fragile, ever-shifting thing. I can sense mine dissolving as the water creeps relentlessly higher.

Two new developments set my nerves on edge. First, I see flickers of light reflecting off the water—not directly ahead but bouncing off the curved walls as if there’s a source somewhere around the bend. Second, the water is no longer just lapping at my shins. It’s up to my chest. I can hear the storm outside, pounding the ground above, sending torrents of rain through grates overhead. That run-off is funneling in, threatening to fill every last pocket of air in this tunnel.

Fear tries to claw its way up my throat. I swallow it down and keep moving, repeating a mantra in my head like a desperate prayer:Be the man she thought you were. Be the man she needs you to be.I picture Margot’s face, haunted by Patrick’s death, maybe hating me for the role I played or didn’t play. Even if I can’t right that wrong, I can do some good here. I can be the man who rescues someone instead of letting them die.

The light I saw before is growing now, but so is the water. I’m forced to hobble forward on tiptoe, my chin lifted to keep from gulping in the rising tide. Another grate looms above me, spilling a sheet of water across the entire tunnel. I grit my teeth, close my eyes, and force my way through. The torrent slaps against my head, flooding my ears. I shake them clear, blinking water from my lashes. For the briefest second, I hear not one but two voices echoing somewhere in the darkness. Two women, maybe. My heart gives a violent lurch. Could it be…Margot? Shannon? No, that makes no sense. Why would they be here?

But something in my chest tells me it’s not such a crazy thought after all. A burst of adrenaline grips me, yanking me from my stupor. I shove forward, half swimming now, each push of my legs lifting me off the tunnel floor. The ceiling looms just inches above the waterline. Another corner—another bend—and up ahead, a massive, grated opening. Dim light from who-knows-where outlines the bars. Beyond it lies the open air, presumably Lake Dora. My thoughts spin in frantic circles, trying to piece it together, but the tunnel’s current surges forward, and I’m swept under.

Water covers my head, and I swallow a mouthful of salt water before I manage to resurface. Spluttering, I crane my head back, discovering I have only a sliver of space between water and stone—a few precious inches for air. I smash my face against the slick ceiling, gasping for oxygen, knowing that if I don’t get through that grate, I’m dead. I push out all the carbon dioxide in my lungs, taking the biggest breath I can manage, then plunge beneath the surface.

Underwater, I kick wildly. My hands stretch out in front to avoid slamming face-first into the iron bars. But instead of metal, I collide with something soft– human skin. I try to open my eyes, but the water is dark and brackish, stinging my vision. My heart pounds as I sense a body drifting. I claw for the surface, desperate for air.

Breaking through, I find maybe an inch of breathing room. I gulp another shallow lungful and angle my head sideways. In the murky gloom, I spot a floating shape. It’s Shannon. Her face is pale, her eyes closed, her body limp. She’s on this side of the grate. I don’t know if she’s breathing. I don’t know why she’s here. Terror lances through me—what if Margot’s down here, too, pinned somewhere by the current?

I force the thought aside and dive again, palming the rusted bars. There has to be a hinge, a lock—anything—but my fingertips graze only solid, unyielding iron. The water level pushes upward, swallowing precious inches of air. My mind reels: This is how I die. This is how Shannon dies. And if Margot loses both of us, after losing Lila, after everything that’s happened—what will it do to her?

The images slam into my brain in a series of brutal flashes: Margot, alone, devastated, with no hope left. I picture her broken. I see her on the bathroom floor again, the same horrific scene I stumbled upon a year ago– crimson red escaping from the long, straight line on her left arm. The horror of it all ignites a new flame in my chest.

I thrust off the tunnel floor, wresting another shallow mouthful of air from that last sliver of space. Then, with a roar of defiance echoing in my head, I grab Shannon around the waist. Her body is limp, but I cling to her, refusing to let go. The water roars in my ears, pounding like blood rushing through my temples. I will find a way out.

I’m not dying here. Not like this. And neither is Shannon.

58

Iplant my feet against the grate, gripping Shannon tightly in my arms, and kick off with every bit of strength I have left. For one dizzying moment, we’re moving forward, carried by momentum through the churning water. Then, in a heartbeat, she’s ripped from my grasp.

Panic engulfs me. I fling my arms out, trying to grab onto anything—her clothes, her hair, some part of her—to keep us together. My momentum propels me forward without her until, in desperation, I brace a hand against the mossy tunnel ceiling. That sudden friction slams me onto my back, half of my face above the water, half below it. I gulp down more liquid than air, choking as my lungs scream for oxygen. A nasty burn clenches my throat. This is what drowning feels like. I force the thought away. Not now. I can’t let it happen now.

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