Dear Readers,
We’re up to week #13 of
’s Scary Summer, and the writers are on a roll! This week’s story idea came to me courtesy of ’s post about a plant, Corokia cotoneaster. It’s not a pansy…that’s for sure. Read on if you dare!
Pixabay
In the chill of the October midnight, he tucked his gun in one pocket and the Mace spray in the other before walking toward the overgrown garden behind the abandoned house. Since the beginning of this month of the dead, he hadn’t had a good night’s rest. At twelve o’clock each night, sounds woke him—not quite moans, not quite sighs, not human and not like any animal he’d ever heard.
Even though fear ran through him like a second pulse, he had to find what was causing those otherworldly sounds. He had to stop them before he went mad from lack of sleep.
Tonight, the moon darted in and out of clouds, spattering strange patterns along the ground. He’d no sooner taken a few steps inside the broken gate than he heard it. A quavering, vibrating cry that halted him mid-stride and almost stopped his heart. He didn’t dare use his flashlight. He couldn’t give his position away. Whatever crouched in those shadows sounded dangerous. He pulled out the gun and the Mace.
As he stood frozen in fear, deciding what to do, the moon emerged, an orange orb that cast light over the whole garden
Pixabay
There, tangled among the dead and dying garden, stood a strange shrub, its dark, twisting branches reaching out like searching fingers. Tiny, blood-red berries along the limbs glowed with an unnatural light of their own, rather than from the moon.
When nothing leapt out at him, he crept forward, holding his gun steady in one hand, the Mace out and ready in the other. While the sound he’d first heard didn’t repeat, a faint whispering, just beyond hearing, came from inside that bush.
Enticed by the sibilance that he now took as a message, he looked closer. The bush wasn’t covered in red berries but small, hollow eyes that stared back. A prickling sensation worked its way up his arms and legs, across his chest—hundreds of tiny needles stinging his skin, but not drawing blood.
Suddenly, the branches shuddered as if the thing was coming to life. It inched toward him, eager to claim him as part of its twisted, living nightmare.
He emptied his gun into it. He sprayed the Mace. Instead of stopping it, thorny arms shot out and, in a chilling grip, dragged him into the mass of branches. The last sounds he heard were screams of agony and the loud gnashing of sharp teeth as the bush shredded him into a neat composting pile.
The End
I don’t always write short horror. Here’s more of my work, and I’d love it if you’d take a look.
Very cool!! I have it saved to read, I’m super excited!
He should have taken some Roundup into that garden.:) Great job of creating suspense leasing up to the ending, Lee. The tiny red eyes were particularly effective.