CHAPT 18 : The House’s Dark Secret

Lynda sank into the couch, exhaustion weighing her down like a heavy blanket. The moment she stepped into her house, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about what had happened earlier at the police station. She needed rest, a break from the whirlwind of emotions and confusion. But the silence of the living room did nothing to soothe her. Instead, it pressed down on her, making her thoughts louder.

She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to let it go. Yet, her journalist instincts refused to stay quiet.

Mrs. Patterson was murdered.

And Isaac… he had been investigating this house all along.

Her fingers twitched. She couldn’t ignore this any longer. There was something deeply wrong with this place, something beyond the unsettling feeling she had when she first moved in. And now, she had confirmation that it wasn’t just paranoia.

Grabbing her laptop from the coffee table, she flipped it open and began typing furiously. If there was a story to uncover, she was going to find it.

Lynda started with a basic search: *unresolved murder cases, five years ago, Havenridge Town. Dozens of results popped up, but nothing that immediately caught her eye. Narrowing her search, she typed: murder house, serial killer, unsolved cases, Willow Grove.

Her breath hitched when she saw one particular headline:

THE BLOOD HOUSE: A SERIES OF UNSOLVED MURDERS LEAVES A NEIGHBORHOOD HAUNTED

Her hands trembled slightly as she clicked on the article.

"Five years ago, a string of brutal murders shook the quiet neighborhood of Willow Grove. The victims, all found within the same house, had no apparent connection to one another. Each case was eerily similar—no signs of forced entry, no obvious struggle, and no evidence pointing to a suspect. The police were left baffled. With no leads and no arrests, the case eventually went cold. The house was later rented out to new tenants, but many refused to stay long, citing unexplained disturbances and an overwhelming sense of dread."

Her pulse quickened as she scrolled further. The article listed the names of the victims—five in total. The last murder happened exactly five years ago.

She checked the dates. The day she moved in was just one day after the fifth anniversary of the last murder.

Was it a coincidence? Or was there something she wasn’t seeing?

Her chest tightened as she skimmed through more articles, each one only deepening the pit in her stomach. Witnesses had reported strange noises, flickering lights, and even whispers in the dead of night. Some neighbors even believed the killer still lurked somewhere in the neighborhood, watching, waiting.

A chill ran down her spine.

Had Mrs. Patterson known something? Was that why she was killed?

Lynda’s hands clenched into fists. She wasn’t just a random tenant. There was a reason she had ended up here. And if the killer was still out there…

She was already part of the story.

Lynda let out a slow, measured breath and leaned back into the couch, trying to process everything she had just read. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she debated whether to dig deeper or stop before she found something she wasn’t ready to face.

After a moment of hesitation, she opened a new tab and searched for any information on Mrs. Patterson’s family. She remembered the landlord mentioning a son—Adriel. If anyone could give her more insight into the house, it would be him.

It took a few minutes of scrolling, but she finally found a mention of Adriel Vincent. He had once been a real estate agent, but after his mother’s death, he had gone completely silent on social media. No posts, no updates.

Lynda bit her lip and hesitated before searching for his contact information. It felt intrusive, but at the same time, she needed to reach out.

After a few more searches, she found an old business listing with his phone number. Taking a deep breath, she copied it down and drafted a message:

Hi Adriel, I’m Lynda Stetson. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry for your loss. I understand this must be a difficult time for you, but if you’re open to it, I’d love to meet and talk. There are some things I’d like to understand about the house. Let me know if you’re willing to meet. Take care.

She stared at the message for a moment before pressing send.

Seconds passed. Then minutes.

Just as she was about to put her phone down, a reply came in.

Lynda. Thanks for reaching out. I appreciate it. This weekend works. Let’s meet at Hillview Café, Saturday at 2 PM.

Lynda exhaled, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation.

Maybe now, she’d finally get some answers.

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