Page 18 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

I opened my eyes.

The same old couch sat there. The cold fireplace. The family portrait still hanging above it, untouched by time.

Green wallpaper with white roses curled around a golden frame. The oil painting inside showed my father, my stepmother, and me—ten years old, smiling like I didn’t know better.

No Dorian.

Like he never existed.

Buthe did.

He was part of this family.

FIVE

LENORE

Thekitchenwindowoverlookedthe garden—what used to be a garden, anyway. Roses still clung to life out there, the last stubborn bloom in a yard slowly giving in to rot. Mom had planted them herself.Roses don’t live forever,she’d said,but the memory of them does.And she was right.

Even after I left, I held on to those roses like they were the only thing this place had ever given me. Wherever I went, I remembered them—red against the green, her hands buried in soil, the way her hair caught the sunlight. I remembered that time with her. And everything that came after.

Two different worlds.

I missed her.

I set the glass in the sink and walked to the door on the right—the one that led out to the garden. My hand wrapped around the doorknob, and I pushed it open.

The air outside hit differently. Heavier.

Every flower in the yard had wilted, browned, and collapsed into itself, all except the roses. They stood proud, untouched byweather, and time as well... like the house still remembered what she loved. WhatIloved.

To the right, the ground looked disturbed—patches of grass dug up and piled like someone had started digging and stopped halfway through. To the left stood the old wooden pavilion. Once my favorite spot to read. Now it looked like something left behind by the years.

Funny how some things stay the same, even when we don’t.

I turned back toward the house. As I stepped inside, something moved in the corner of my eye—a shadow moving too fast, too quietly.

I froze.

My heartbeat crashed in my chest. My breath locked up. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even move.

Then footsteps faded.

No. No, this can’t be real.

My thoughts scrambled.Was someone here? Was I being watched? Was I even alone?

I stayed frozen to the floor, fear holding me still. But somewhere deep down, my body knew it had to move.

Move. Just move.

One foot forward. Then the other. I kept going, one step at a time until the living room came into view.

That’s when the phone rang.

The sound split the silence like glass. Echoes ran down the hallway, into the walls, under my skin. Cold sweat slid down my temple. My hands trembled.

The phone sat on the wall, the long white cord twisted like a snake coiled too tight. I picked up the receiver, my voice barely there.

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