But like most families, all the beauty and wealth on the outside couldn’t hide the rotting worms from within. Landry’s father had pushed her to marry the wealthy man, and although she loved her home and her children, her true love was for another man in town, a local cobbler. When William was working, she snuck her lover inside. For years, they continued their affair. But like all secrets, it was bound to come to light, and one day when William returned early from work and found them together, it did.

William was so distraught that he murdered both his wife and her lover, but he didn’t stop there. He also killed all six of his children, one by one, convinced they belonged to the cobbler and not him.

It was a terrible, tragic story but most houses around here had history. If not a personal tragedy, then there was still blood to be found—the South’s long history of slavery, and before that, the lands stained red with the blood of Native Americans. It’s impossible to go anywhere without some sort of dark, devious history attached to it.

Downstairs, I moved from room to room, tapping on walls like I was a kid again—Nancy Drew-esque, always searching for something hidden in the walls, but rarely finding it. The dining room was deserted, but through the windows, I could see Bri and Mara still by the pool, talking and drinking. They were loud and obnoxious, talking over each other. They probably can’t even hear what one another’s saying, I thought, irritably. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why Bri was hanging around her. Mara was just so dreadful. But then so was Bri too, maybe?

I’d read everything I could online about the Landry murders, but there hadn’t been as much as I’d expected. Rumor had it that the bodies were found right here, stacked in the dining room. But there were other variations of the story too, versions that included the dead children and wife being tucked neatly into their individual beds, blood staining their covers, or stacked outside in some sort of outbuilding.

Next, I entered the kitchen and went straight to the pantry doors. I’d read everything I could on the construction of old houses, and the pantries were pretty unique on some of these old estates.

I found the pantry door entrance, tucked between the industrial-sized freezer and laundry room space. I slipped inside it, feeling around for a light switch or string, but found none.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the murky darkness, fingers inspecting each shelf carefully. There were so many boxes and canned goods, and despite my curiosity, I was put off by the musty, mildewy smell inside the cramped space.