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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 04/12/2017
Rose Garden
Born 1964, F, from Gordon, ACT, AustraliaThe taste of blood filled Sonja’s mouth, and she screwed up her face in disgust. She examined her wounded finger and marvelled at how much damage sodding rose bushes could cause. Stupid damn things, didn’t they know she was just trying to help?
She stood and stretched, jumping a little when she noticed old Mrs Capone standing behind her with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“Oh dear,” Mrs Capone observed sadly. “You’re bleeding. Wait and I’ll get you a band-aid.”
She carefully laid the tray on the wrought iron table and bustled back inside, returning a few minutes later with a band-aid and antiseptic cream. Sonja tended to her finger wound while Mrs Capone poured the tea and handed her a cup with a biscuit.
“Thank you Mrs Capone,” she said, politely sipping at the weak, milky brew.
“Please, call me Doreen. Or Dor would be even better. How’s your tea?”
“It’s very nice, thank you,” said Sonja, gamely. “And the biscuits are really good. So are you Italian? It’s just, you know, your surname …” she trailed off and took another bite of biscuit, washed it down with a sip of tea.
“Oh, no dear,” laughed Doreen. “My husband was Italian. She giggled, tapped the side of her nose and winked at Sonja. “It’s true what they say, you know. About Italian men.”
Sonja nearly choked on her biscuit. Oh dear God, she thought, completely appalled. Please don’t …
Doreen continued, happily ignorant of Sonja’s discomfort. “Yes, typical Italian men with their green thumbs. You should see the backyard! Completely planted out with vegetables, hardly any lawn at all. Oh how he loved to get his hands dirty in the garden!” She smiled in gentle reminiscence. “Tony never understood the point of flowers. “If you can’t eat ‘em, why grow ‘em”, he used to say. But he still built me my beautiful rose garden.”
Sonja nodded, relieved. She could only imagine what the garden would look like in spring. The crescent shaped rose bed nestling in the corner of the front garden would be spectacular with rose blooms and perfume. Someone, she presumed Mr Capone, had positioned two benches and a small table so visitors to the garden could immerse themselves in the beauty.
“What happened to your husband, Mrs … Doreen … Dor?” asked Sonja.
Doreen looked down at her cup of tea, sadly. “I don’t know, dear,” she said. “He disappeared one day and was never seen again. It’s been nearly seven years, now.”
Silence.
“I’m very sorry, Dor. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh that’s okay. I don’t mind being on my own. At least I don’t have to have sex anymore.”
With that, she swept everything back onto the tray and went into the house, while Sonja sat in surprised horror.
She finished pruning for the day as late afternoon cooled into early evening. Doreen gratefully handed over fifty dollars payment, and nodded happily at the work Sonja had done.
“Will you be over next weekend, dear?” she asked. “I think a final tidy up before the new leaves come on, and then we can think about mulching and feeding. Oh, I’m so looking forward to spring!”
Sonja weighed her various injuries against the newfound wealth nestling in her jeans pocket. Stupid rose bushes.
“Sure,” she said brightly. “I’d love to. See you next Sunday!”
And indeed, next Sunday saw Sonja kneeling gamely in the rose garden digging out weeds and pruning stray twigs. She shuffled over to the next bush, and knelt on a piece of dead rose branch. A long curved thorn sank effortlessly through her jeans and into her knee. She nearly cried with the pain, and sat back to unpin the branch. The thorn was even more painful coming out than going in, and she thought for a minute that she might actually be sick. Then it was out all the way, and she dismally watched a widening circle of blood turn her blue jeans purple.
She rubbed her knee and tossed the piece of branch towards the wheelbarrow. Of course, she missed. It was that sort of day.
Sonja sighed and gingerly knelt on her sore knee. Not too bad. She dug the trowel deep into the soft earth to dislodge a particularly stubborn dandelion, and paused as it hit something solid. Something … was that …
Sonja screamed and fell back, nearly impaling the back of her head on the rose bush behind her. She frantically removed her gardening gloves and wiped her hands on her jeans in disgust, before limping over to the house and ringing the bell.
Doreen opened the door, and looked aghast at Sonja’s desperate face.
“Please can I come in and wash my hands,” she begged. “And my knee,” she sobbed. “I stabbed my knee.”
“Oh dear, what on earth happened?” Doreen ushered Sonja into her dim, cool house. Into the bathroom. Out came the antiseptic wipes, cream and bandaids. Sonja frantically scrubbed her hands until they glowed a fiery red.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, tears drying on her face. “I think I just dug up your dog.”
Doreen looked at her, and shook her head. “Oh no, dear. It wouldn’t have been my dog. I don’t much care for pets. Always digging up things and going to the toilet all over the garden.” She thought for a moment. “I’ve been in this house for about thirty years, but I guess it’s possible it could have belonged to the people before us.”
Sonja doubtfully remembered the dog’s mummified skull, a thin layer of leathery skin still clinging to its snarling face. She would have thought it would be completely skeletonised after 30 plus years. But then again, what did she know about the process of decay?
“If it’s okay, I’d rather just refill the hole than try and dig the thing out. Unless you’d prefer me to …”
“No, no. That’s quite okay. Good plant food, you know.”
Sonja nodded like she did know, but privately thought that she would never look the same way at roses again.
Patched up physically and emotionally after tea and biscuits, Sonja returned to her duties in the rose garden. She filled in the hole (grave?) and recommenced her weeding and pruning as far away from the remains as possible.
Something glittered in the late afternoon sun, the gold starkly visible against the rich, dark soil. Sonja picked up the necklace, turning it over in her hands. The fragile clasp had broken, and the owner obviously hadn’t noticed. Such a shame, it was a delicately pretty necklace and Sonja imagined the owner would have been very upset to lose it. Maybe Doreen knew who it belonged to.
Doreen looked at the necklace and nodded her head. “Oh yes,” she said. “Jennifer, her name was. I didn’t know her last name, though. She was here last year helping me with my roses. A pretty girl, I wonder what happened to her?”
Sonja looked at Doreen skeptically. “So she … disappeared?” She just managed to stop herself from adding “as well.”
“Well, I don’t know about disappeared,” said Doreen. “She just stopped coming around. I am surprised she didn’t come back to look for her necklace, though. Oh well, I guess it’s yours now. A little gift from the roses to make up for … well … the other thing.” She giggled, and handed over another fifty dollars. “Will you be back next weekend, dear? I think we’d better feed the roses before they get too hungry.” She giggled again. Sonja thought that she had never heard anything so sublimely creepy in her entire life, but agreed to come back.
A week later, she was bitterly regretting her decision. As autumn grudgingly gave way to spring, the early warmth brought insects out in force. Ants found their way under clothing and into shoes, bestowing painfully itchy bites. A bee divebombed her and got tangled in her hair, buzzing angrily and bouncing heavily off her ear and neck until she could bat it free. It stung her on the wrist and fell dying to the ground as she scraped the barb out and sucked the wound. A spider, made enormous with the egg sac on its back, waddled over her leg. She didn’t want to touch it, and waited in tense disgust while it completed its journey and dropped to the ground.
A small tremor, and the spider disappeared, along with the writhing bee.
What the …
Sonja felt a rolling motion underneath her and tried to stand up, but her way was barred by rose branches that had somehow formed a thorny cage around her. Feeling foolishly panicked, she opened her mouth to scream for help, but a thick branch slipped around her head and mouth, effectively gagging her.
The earth rolled and churned, and Sonja could feel herself being dragged down, sturdy rosebush roots gripping her feet and legs and pulling her down as the branches pushed from above. Hot blood soaked the earth, and the roses drank it with hungry delight.
The dark earth covered her chin, her mouth, her nose, her eyes. For a moment, her hair fanned the soil before it, too, disappeared with a final violent lurch. The earth settled and shook itself flat.
Two weeks later, the postman stopped and admired Doreen’s roses. “Your roses look amazing, Dor!” he said. “How do you do it?”
Doreen giggled, tapped the side of her nose and winked at him. “Oh, now, Gus.” She said, coyly. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Gus laughed heartily, and went on his way.
The roses nodded and fed in the warm sunshine.
Rose Garden(Hazel Dow)
The taste of blood filled Sonja’s mouth, and she screwed up her face in disgust. She examined her wounded finger and marvelled at how much damage sodding rose bushes could cause. Stupid damn things, didn’t they know she was just trying to help?
She stood and stretched, jumping a little when she noticed old Mrs Capone standing behind her with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“Oh dear,” Mrs Capone observed sadly. “You’re bleeding. Wait and I’ll get you a band-aid.”
She carefully laid the tray on the wrought iron table and bustled back inside, returning a few minutes later with a band-aid and antiseptic cream. Sonja tended to her finger wound while Mrs Capone poured the tea and handed her a cup with a biscuit.
“Thank you Mrs Capone,” she said, politely sipping at the weak, milky brew.
“Please, call me Doreen. Or Dor would be even better. How’s your tea?”
“It’s very nice, thank you,” said Sonja, gamely. “And the biscuits are really good. So are you Italian? It’s just, you know, your surname …” she trailed off and took another bite of biscuit, washed it down with a sip of tea.
“Oh, no dear,” laughed Doreen. “My husband was Italian. She giggled, tapped the side of her nose and winked at Sonja. “It’s true what they say, you know. About Italian men.”
Sonja nearly choked on her biscuit. Oh dear God, she thought, completely appalled. Please don’t …
Doreen continued, happily ignorant of Sonja’s discomfort. “Yes, typical Italian men with their green thumbs. You should see the backyard! Completely planted out with vegetables, hardly any lawn at all. Oh how he loved to get his hands dirty in the garden!” She smiled in gentle reminiscence. “Tony never understood the point of flowers. “If you can’t eat ‘em, why grow ‘em”, he used to say. But he still built me my beautiful rose garden.”
Sonja nodded, relieved. She could only imagine what the garden would look like in spring. The crescent shaped rose bed nestling in the corner of the front garden would be spectacular with rose blooms and perfume. Someone, she presumed Mr Capone, had positioned two benches and a small table so visitors to the garden could immerse themselves in the beauty.
“What happened to your husband, Mrs … Doreen … Dor?” asked Sonja.
Doreen looked down at her cup of tea, sadly. “I don’t know, dear,” she said. “He disappeared one day and was never seen again. It’s been nearly seven years, now.”
Silence.
“I’m very sorry, Dor. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh that’s okay. I don’t mind being on my own. At least I don’t have to have sex anymore.”
With that, she swept everything back onto the tray and went into the house, while Sonja sat in surprised horror.
She finished pruning for the day as late afternoon cooled into early evening. Doreen gratefully handed over fifty dollars payment, and nodded happily at the work Sonja had done.
“Will you be over next weekend, dear?” she asked. “I think a final tidy up before the new leaves come on, and then we can think about mulching and feeding. Oh, I’m so looking forward to spring!”
Sonja weighed her various injuries against the newfound wealth nestling in her jeans pocket. Stupid rose bushes.
“Sure,” she said brightly. “I’d love to. See you next Sunday!”
And indeed, next Sunday saw Sonja kneeling gamely in the rose garden digging out weeds and pruning stray twigs. She shuffled over to the next bush, and knelt on a piece of dead rose branch. A long curved thorn sank effortlessly through her jeans and into her knee. She nearly cried with the pain, and sat back to unpin the branch. The thorn was even more painful coming out than going in, and she thought for a minute that she might actually be sick. Then it was out all the way, and she dismally watched a widening circle of blood turn her blue jeans purple.
She rubbed her knee and tossed the piece of branch towards the wheelbarrow. Of course, she missed. It was that sort of day.
Sonja sighed and gingerly knelt on her sore knee. Not too bad. She dug the trowel deep into the soft earth to dislodge a particularly stubborn dandelion, and paused as it hit something solid. Something … was that …
Sonja screamed and fell back, nearly impaling the back of her head on the rose bush behind her. She frantically removed her gardening gloves and wiped her hands on her jeans in disgust, before limping over to the house and ringing the bell.
Doreen opened the door, and looked aghast at Sonja’s desperate face.
“Please can I come in and wash my hands,” she begged. “And my knee,” she sobbed. “I stabbed my knee.”
“Oh dear, what on earth happened?” Doreen ushered Sonja into her dim, cool house. Into the bathroom. Out came the antiseptic wipes, cream and bandaids. Sonja frantically scrubbed her hands until they glowed a fiery red.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, tears drying on her face. “I think I just dug up your dog.”
Doreen looked at her, and shook her head. “Oh no, dear. It wouldn’t have been my dog. I don’t much care for pets. Always digging up things and going to the toilet all over the garden.” She thought for a moment. “I’ve been in this house for about thirty years, but I guess it’s possible it could have belonged to the people before us.”
Sonja doubtfully remembered the dog’s mummified skull, a thin layer of leathery skin still clinging to its snarling face. She would have thought it would be completely skeletonised after 30 plus years. But then again, what did she know about the process of decay?
“If it’s okay, I’d rather just refill the hole than try and dig the thing out. Unless you’d prefer me to …”
“No, no. That’s quite okay. Good plant food, you know.”
Sonja nodded like she did know, but privately thought that she would never look the same way at roses again.
Patched up physically and emotionally after tea and biscuits, Sonja returned to her duties in the rose garden. She filled in the hole (grave?) and recommenced her weeding and pruning as far away from the remains as possible.
Something glittered in the late afternoon sun, the gold starkly visible against the rich, dark soil. Sonja picked up the necklace, turning it over in her hands. The fragile clasp had broken, and the owner obviously hadn’t noticed. Such a shame, it was a delicately pretty necklace and Sonja imagined the owner would have been very upset to lose it. Maybe Doreen knew who it belonged to.
Doreen looked at the necklace and nodded her head. “Oh yes,” she said. “Jennifer, her name was. I didn’t know her last name, though. She was here last year helping me with my roses. A pretty girl, I wonder what happened to her?”
Sonja looked at Doreen skeptically. “So she … disappeared?” She just managed to stop herself from adding “as well.”
“Well, I don’t know about disappeared,” said Doreen. “She just stopped coming around. I am surprised she didn’t come back to look for her necklace, though. Oh well, I guess it’s yours now. A little gift from the roses to make up for … well … the other thing.” She giggled, and handed over another fifty dollars. “Will you be back next weekend, dear? I think we’d better feed the roses before they get too hungry.” She giggled again. Sonja thought that she had never heard anything so sublimely creepy in her entire life, but agreed to come back.
A week later, she was bitterly regretting her decision. As autumn grudgingly gave way to spring, the early warmth brought insects out in force. Ants found their way under clothing and into shoes, bestowing painfully itchy bites. A bee divebombed her and got tangled in her hair, buzzing angrily and bouncing heavily off her ear and neck until she could bat it free. It stung her on the wrist and fell dying to the ground as she scraped the barb out and sucked the wound. A spider, made enormous with the egg sac on its back, waddled over her leg. She didn’t want to touch it, and waited in tense disgust while it completed its journey and dropped to the ground.
A small tremor, and the spider disappeared, along with the writhing bee.
What the …
Sonja felt a rolling motion underneath her and tried to stand up, but her way was barred by rose branches that had somehow formed a thorny cage around her. Feeling foolishly panicked, she opened her mouth to scream for help, but a thick branch slipped around her head and mouth, effectively gagging her.
The earth rolled and churned, and Sonja could feel herself being dragged down, sturdy rosebush roots gripping her feet and legs and pulling her down as the branches pushed from above. Hot blood soaked the earth, and the roses drank it with hungry delight.
The dark earth covered her chin, her mouth, her nose, her eyes. For a moment, her hair fanned the soil before it, too, disappeared with a final violent lurch. The earth settled and shook itself flat.
Two weeks later, the postman stopped and admired Doreen’s roses. “Your roses look amazing, Dor!” he said. “How do you do it?”
Doreen giggled, tapped the side of her nose and winked at him. “Oh, now, Gus.” She said, coyly. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Gus laughed heartily, and went on his way.
The roses nodded and fed in the warm sunshine.
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JD
06/17/2019Gotta watch out for those HUNGRY roses and their thorns! Also the sweet ladies who grow them but hire others to tend them! Another great nasty read, Hazel! :-)
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
JD
10/03/2020With the title and pic it looks like such a lovely sweet story.... readers who don't know you yet are in for a shock...! Or maybe more like a sharp thorn prick. Anyway, thanks again for all the outstanding horror stories you've shared on Storystar, and Happy Short Story STAR of the Day, Hazel! :-)
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Gail Moore
06/16/2019Oh my goodness, Never again will I plant roses. They are way to hungry hehehe
Loved your story. Well done :-)
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Hazel Dow
06/17/2019You can probably tell I'm not a big fan of roses. They are vicious and those scratches are not by accident! Thank you for your kind words :-)
COMMENTS (2)