After the man disappeared, things became worse. The plants grew restless, their whispers turning into demands, louder and more insistent. They were no longer satisfied with animals, no longer satisfied with one person. They wanted more.
I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t think. Every rustle of a leaf, every creak of the branches outside my window felt like a warning, like they were calling for me. The garden had become alive in the most terrifying way, and I knew it was only a matter of time before they turned on me.
One evening, as the sun set and the sky turned blood-red, I heard the door creak open. It wasn’t the wind this time. The vines had slithered through the cracks, inching their way toward me. I ran to the garden shed, grabbing the sharpest tools I could find—an axe, a pair of garden shears. But what good were they against something that had already rooted itself inside my soul?
I fought as hard as I could, cutting and slashing, tearing the vines apart. But for every vine I cut, three more sprouted. They wrapped around my legs, my arms, dragging me toward the heart of the garden where the black seed still pulsed with unnatural life.
I screamed, but no one heard. The garden consumed me.
The next day, my house was silent, the garden more beautiful than ever. Flowers bloomed in vibrant colors, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of roses. Passersby stopped to admire it, wondering once again what my secret had been.
But they didn’t see the truth.
If you visit the garden now, you might notice something strange—roses with a deep red hue, almost as if they were stained with blood. And if you listen closely, you might hear a faint whisper, a voice carried on the wind.
It’s my voice.
I’m still here, buried beneath the roots, feeding the garden. Forever.