Chapter 18

After we change the gate code and say goodbye to the neighbors, Cole and I make our way up the lawn and toward the front porch. Some of my fear from this morning has dissipated, though so many of my thoughts are still overloaded with worry—an echo chamber of ever-present panic.

There’s a dead body in the backyard.

Oh, that’s a pretty flower.

Vera killed your parents.

Cole has been really nice lately.

Vera killed someone and buried them in the yard.

I should make something for the neighbors as a thank you for being so kind.

I was staring at a skeleton less than an hour ago.

When we reach the porch, I freeze.

It’s impossible, and yet, there it is.

Another letter. Two in one day. That’s never happened before.

Cole grabs it first but hands it over to me when I reach for it without a scene. I tear it open. This is starting to feel cruel. I’m not sure how much my heart can take or how I’ll survive another soul-crushing secret.

Dear Bridget,

For all of Vera’s secrets, this house has a secret too. Before you make any decisions, I need to show it to you.

In the basement, in the far corner of the room, you’ll find a metal door built into the floor. During prohibition, the tunnels were used to transport liquor to and from the town center. Before that, there were many rumors about what they were used for. Now, most people have forgotten they exist.

Not everyone, though.

Vera knew about the tunnels, and they helped her commit some of her most atrocious crimes. Don’t believe me? Go check.

Signed,

A friend

I glance at Cole, who’s reading the letter over my shoulder.

“Tunnels?” I ask with a sigh. “Seriously?”

He scratches his eyebrow in thought. “Have you ever been in the basement?”

“No. I know there is a basement, but Vera made it clear that it was off limits. It floods really badly when it storms, and she was always worried about rats and mold. She said it was dangerous.”

His brows jerk upward. “And you still want to go check it out?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, you’re really selling it here, I’ve gotta tell you.”

“Come on. We have to, don’t we? That’s the whole reason we’re here. The reason we haven’t called the police.”

“I’m teasing. I’m obviously in if you are.” He pulls open the door and we step inside. “Lead the way.”

I head toward the hall and turn left, making my way toward the laundry room and guest bath, then down a smaller hall with two doors. One is just a broom closet. The other leads to the basement.

Cole stares at it strangely. “I can’t believe you never tried to look down here.”

“Vera told me not to. Besides, I’d seen enough scary movies that creepy, old basements didn’t interest me in the least.” I eye him. “Why? Did you go down here?”

He shakes his head. “I never really explored the house. Mom made it clear the areas I was allowed to go in: the yard, the bedroom I was given, and the common areas. If I snooped, she could’ve lost her job, so I stayed where I was allowed to be.”

The words hurt my heart. Until this week, I’d never spent much time thinking about how life must’ve felt for Cole while he was here. Like a prisoner, almost. That’s how it seems. Like this was his cage, but he was never allowed to fully make it his home.

Vera could’ve done more to make him feel welcome. She should’ve done more.

And so should I.

The truth weighs heavily on me. I should’ve done more. I should’ve been kinder. I shouldn’t have let my own issues cloud my judgment of Cole.

Reaching for the handle, I pull the door open. It sticks at first, and I have to wiggle it a bit, but eventually it gives.

The musty smell and warm, humid air hit me quickly, the humidity sticking to my skin. The room is dark, and I use the flashlight on my phone to search for a light switch on the walls, though there’s nothing to be found.

Over my shoulder, Cole sucks in a breath. “Do you think there’s a light down there?”

“Maybe.” I’m trying to sound braver than I feel.

“I can go check. You stay here.”

“No way,” I say firmly, shoving one of my trembling hands into my pocket. “I’m going.”

He nods. “Fine. I’m right behind you.”

The wooden steps groan under our weight, and I have to wonder when someone might’ve been down here last. From the way it smells, I’d say it’s been a long time since anyone opened that door, but then again, maybe basements just smell that way. We didn’t have one in my parents’ house, and I don’t have one in my apartment, so I wouldn’t honestly know.

The darkness surrounds us as we descend into it. Cole stays close behind me, a hand on my shoulder as we make our way down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, I scan the space, my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for someone to jump out and grab us.

Finally, my eyes land on a metal string in the center of the room, and I bolt for it. The sharp zzzzzing of the cord fills my ears, and the room illuminates suddenly. The single bulb doesn’t do much for the large space and everything is still cloaked in shadows, but it’s better than nothing.

For the most part, the concrete room is empty. There’s a stack of chairs leaning against a wall next to what looks like an old card table. A sofa sits against a different wall with a cream-colored canvas drop cloth over it.

The floor has a few wet spots on it, and there are plastic containers stacked around the room in random places with Vera’s familiar, large, loopy handwriting on them: Christmas. Fall. Home movies. Harold.

The ‘home movies’ container catches my eyes first, and I open it, but I find that everything inside is on VHS. I pick up a few tapes and read the descriptions, her handwriting hitting me with a pang of nostalgia.

Christmas 1988

Jenn’s 16th

Summer of 1972

Beach Trip 1978

Bitter Corp Christmas Party #32

Chrissy’s Graduation

Senior Prom

Jenn’s Wedding

Chrissy’s Wedding

I sort through a few more, sad that we have no way to watch them anymore. The memories have nearly been lost to time and technology. It makes my heart ache just a bit to think that my mom exists within them, and I make a mental note to find a VHS player on eBay so I can watch them soon.

I shove those containers out of the way, searching the floor until I spot one with my name on it. A golf ball lodges in my throat, unmoving no matter how hard I try to swallow it down.

I lift the lid and look down inside, my eyes welling with tears.

Patricia. My baby doll with the wonky eye that would never quite open right. I’d nearly forgotten about her. I smooth the dusty, blue dress and her wild, dark hair, holding the plastic form to my chest as I continue to search. There are drawings and letters I wrote to my parents, my handwriting getting progressively better over the years. I find stacks of photographs of me throughout the years—years before I came to Bitter House, when I was still with Mom and Dad. There’s a bit of extra light in my eyes then. Even if I didn’t know how old I was, I could tell you it was before they’d passed with a single look.

A stuffed rabbit sits near the bottom of the bin. Bun Bun.

Why did Vera keep all of this? Why didn’t she tell me it existed? How could she keep things that had once belonged to my mom if she knew she was the one who had killed her? I want to take this as a sign that the letter writer is wrong. That my instincts about Vera, about how she could never actually hurt my mom, are right. Maybe the person writing the letters wanted to prove they were right about one thing so I’d believe them about everything else without questioning them too much.

Or…maybe not.

Or maybe it’s all true.

Vera should’ve given me these things when I turned eighteen. She should’ve sent it with me when I left, so I had pieces of my parents. Whatever remained of them.

Still, I have to be at least somewhat grateful that she kept them and left me the house. If she’d left it to Aunt Jenn, I have to believe it all would’ve been tossed out.

One good deed to make up for all the bad.

“I found something.” Cole’s voice draws my attention from the corner of the room where he’s been moving stuff, noisily sliding the plastic containers across the concrete floor.

I jerk my head around to look at him, and by the worried expression on his face, I know what he’s found: the door in the floor, just like the letter said.

I cross the room toward him quickly as he shoves the last of the stacks of containers out of the way, staring down while he scratches his temple. When I near him, I see it. A rusting, round, metal door sits on the floor near the corner, previously covered up by the containers.

He bends down, giving me a questioning look before he jerks at the handle. The door releases a dull groan as the metal hinges give way. I take the door from him, pulling it open the rest of the way and laying it back against the floor. Together, we stare down into the darkness.

His eyes meet mine. “Now what?”