The Woman In The Garden
By Jesee Jones
Mallory awoke in a cold sweat. The memory of her nightmare quickly faded, but an earthy scent remained. Reminiscence of sleep clung to the corners of her consciousness, clouding her ability to think. Where am I? What am I doing here?
A slanted ceiling hung low over her bed. The paint was chipped and cracks crisscrossed each other. Her foggy stupor lifted as she swung her bare feet onto the weathered floorboards.
Moonbeams shone through the closed window, its pale light splashed across her blue silk scarf, folded neatly atop the worn-out nightstand. Her suitcase was propped open at the foot of her bed.
Yes, that’s right, she was driving across country. It had been a little less than a week of traveling along the Trans Canada and it led her to some small town in Northern Ontario, its name…what was its name? It didn’t matter. She was hours away from home and no desire to go back until her toes touched the Pacific and her convertible felt the crisp air of the Rockies.
The bed creaked as she stood. A floorboard groaned when she turned to peer out the window. A garden sprawled below her. Tall hedges framed in the groomed lawn, cutting the backyard off from the fields beyond and the dirt road twisting its way into a town still miles away. Three flowerbeds blossomed at its center. It was too dark to see what bloomed in which, but somehow she knew without a doubt the right were red roses.
A woman, her skin as pale as milk, stood sentry at the unruly flowers. Still as a statue, her gaze never left Mallory’s window. As if she had been staring for hours, days even, waiting.
A chill tickled her spine. Mallory pulled herself away and closed the sunbaked blinds. Just another guest, she assumed and retreated to the door. Its hinges begged for oil when she pulled it open. The aroma of moth balls clung to the stale air. Across the hallway, a naked bulb buzzed above the bathroom mirror, painting the walls in its dull, yellow light.
She crossed the threshold, eyes on the toilet. Though her heart rate had slowed, sweat still beaded her brow. When she finished relieving herself, she flicked on the tap and splashed cool water on her face. She blinked droplets out of her eyes and stared into her reflection.
A pale woman with matted and dirty hair stared back at her through the mirror. Her cheeks were as hollow as the dead eyes that bore into Mallory’s soul. Thick, clotted blood seeped from a jagged laceration across her throat. Maggots fed ravenously off the mutilated flesh. A horde of silent flies circled the woman’s head.
An icy grip squeezed Mallory’s throat and stole her breath before she could scream. The bathroom light flickered. She sank against the wall, her trembling legs failing to hold her upright. Her knotted stomach tightened when she recognized the familiarity in the woman’s face.
When she found her voice, her terror bubbled in the back of her throat, clawing its way to her lips. As her mouth opened, the ghoul’s own jaw unhinged and dirt toppled over her blackened and cracked tongue.
Mallory’s wail echoed through the empty hallways of the hostel.
“Mallory!” her host yelled. He thundered down the hall. “Mallory, are you okay?”
Charles Webster filled the doorway with his lean figure. His golden hair was a mess, and his shirt, tight against his chest, was on backwards. Mallory looked from him to the mirror.
The grotesque woman was gone. Her reflection had returned to normal.
“Are you okay?” Charles repeated.
“Yes, I…I thought I saw something.” Her gaze swam in his deep blue eyes. A dimple formed on his left cheek as his lip curled. What had she been so frightened about? “I had a nightmare. Must’ve made my brain play a trick on me or something.”
“I get them too sometimes. Something about this house.” His soothing voice danced in her ears. He leaned against the doorframe. A matching dimple appeared on his right cheek as his smile widened. “Maybe it’s got bad bones.”
Unable to stop herself, perhaps not caring to, she giggled. “Maybe.”
“All this excitement has worked up a thirst. Share some wine with me?”
Heat bloomed on her cheeks. How lucky am I? Her head in the clouds, Mallory followed Charles down the stairs. Travel across the country and end up in a hostel with only Mallory to keep her host company. Sexy, charming and caring, who else would spring out of bed just to check up on me like that? God, am I ever lucky.
Her parents warned her about staying in hostels, urging her it was safer in hotels. But she was fresh out of university and little money to her name. Her friends had gone backpacking across Europe and that’s what she really wanted to do. However, it was easier to explore her home country. So, she figured out the cheapest way to see the Great White North. Starting in Turo, Nova Scotia (her hometown) she set off with a few hundred bucks and a network of hostels mapped out and preplanned. She had given herself a single night in one horse towns and a few days in the bigger cities, but those damned eyes convinced her otherwise.
Those perfect blue eyes.
In the kitchen, they found a dusty bottle of red. He uncorked it with a muffled pop and handed her the first glass before pouring his own. Mallory choked down a sip. It was more vinegar than alcohol. Charles flicked on the radio and downed his glass. “Delicious.” He refilled it to the brim.
“You look like an angel,” Elvis sang from the blocky speakers. “Walk like an angel.”
“So, Mallory Linger, to where are you traveling?”
She set aside her glass. “Driving across country. See what the landscapes have to offer, you know? So, Charles Webster, how long have you owned the hostel for?”
“Tit for tat, eh?” A grin played across his sultry lips. “Five years. What’s your favourite flower?”
“Roses. Who was the woman in the garden? I thought I was the only guest.”
“But I got wise.”
Charles froze, his glass half raised. “You are the only guest, Mallory.”
“You fooled me with your kisses,” the song continued.
She frowned. “But I saw someone—”
“You were probably seeing things.”
Her wrinkled brow deepened. There had been someone out there, she was sure of it. It couldn’t have been a trick of the mind, was it? No, there was certainly someone in the garden. Next to the roses. Watching the hostel. Watching her.
She began to protest, but Charles cut her off with another award-winning grin. If he said it while smiling, he could convince her hell was as frigid as a winter’s night.
“Mallory,” a voice croaked behind her.
She spun in her chair and stared into the dark, empty hallway. “Did you hear that?”
Charles shook his head.
“Mallory,” the voice was more persistent.
“There it is again!”
“Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink,” Charles reached for her still full glass.
“No, I heard—”
“Mallory!”
She sprung to her feet and ran to the hall. As she flicked on the light, jagged cracks split down the white walls in a white puff of plaster dust. Doors lining either side splintered. Rich, dark blood gushed out of the fractures and oozed onto the floorboards.
Mallory jumped back with a yelp and slammed into Charles.
“Careful there. What’s the matter?”
Dumbfounded, she turned from him to the walls. The cracks were gone. The blood disappeared. The doors were intact.
Thud. Something heavy dropped on the stairs.
Thud. Thud, thud. Something heavy was coming down the stairs.
“I told you we weren’t alone!” She hurried to the stairwell, heart hammering, stomach somersaulting.
“What are we looking at?” Charles asked. His breath was warm in her ear. Satisfying goosebumps tickled her neck.
Her nervous gaze slowly climbed the steps, expecting something to crawl out of the looming darkness, something was coming, she just knew it. A murderous beast had to be descending upon them, blood dripping from its fangs and staining its fur.
There was no thudding. There was no monster. There was only black emptiness.
“Nothing,” Mallory breathed. “There’s nothing there.”
Shadows from the hall called to her. “Mallory.”
“Who are you?” Mallory shrieked.
“What are talking about?”
“Come on, there’s someone here!” She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the voice. At the end of the hall waited a glass door. Beyond was the boxed-in garden.
The woman stood where she had been, dutifully guarding the rosebush. Her hair fell in filthy clumps around her hollow cheeks. Flies buzzed around dried blood caked to the top of her chest. Her blouse was stained purple and skin was sickly grey. A baby blue scarf was wrapped around her neck.
“There she is,” Mallory’s hand quivered as she motioned toward the mysterious woman in the garden. “Charles?”
The empty hallway light flickered.
“Where did you go?”
“Mallory.”
The lone traveler turned back to the door and yanked it open. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Knotted strands of hair flourished behind the woman as she twirled and scurried behind the flowerbeds.
“Answer me!” Mallory rounded the flowerbeds, but only found a few encroaching weeds. “Where did you go?”
“Stop…please…” a weak voice pleaded from the thorns. Caution in every step, Mallory neared the flowers. “Please.”
Through the petals and vines lay a forgotten rusty trowel. The moment she touched its wooden handle, everything around her changed.
Sunshine replaced moonlight. Mallory’s fears disappeared with the chill of the night. Windchimes sang in a warm, summer’s breeze. Wrapped around her neck was her favourite blue silk scarf.
A light touch brushed her hand. Charles gleamed down at her, a pink lily in an outstretched hand. He wore a clean button up and tight jeans, his pajamas nowhere to be seen. His hair was wavy and perfect, smile intoxicating.
Mallory took the flower, her cheeks matching its petals. “Do you treat all of your guests like this?”
“Almost all.” He backed away to a small bench full of fresh roses blooming in black, temporary trays. “Some of my guests, those traveling in packs or with kids, or if they don’t have a certain quality…they just take up time while I wait for such beautiful prizes.”
“I’m a prize?” Mallory asked, grinning madly, losing herself with every word he seemed to sing.
“One that I will forever cherish.” He pulled a trowel from amongst the roses. He twiddled it between his fingers. He was so close now, almost against her. Mallory tried not to make it obvious as she inhaled his fierce musky scent. Charles held her chin between his finger and thumb. She gently closed her eyes, heart pounding, lips ready for a kiss.
The trowel sunk deep into her gut. Her lips trembled as her gaze went from the garden tool, all but the handle disappeared into her blouse and flesh, to Charles blue eyes. Once dazzling, they had turned cold and calculated.
Her head swam and legs gave out. She crashed to the ground, leaving the small spade clutched in his hand. Like a broken dam, blood guzzled from the fresh wound. Mallory grabbed fists full of grass and pulled herself away from Charles, away from the man craving her death.
“Beautiful travelers far from home, comely drifters with nowhere to go.” Charles’ charming smile turned murderous. “Who’s going to notice if they never leave?”
“Why?” She groveled passed the lilies and Daliah’s.
He chuckled. “Why not? People like you…you go missing all the time.” His gaze wandered to the flowerbeds. “Does anyone even care?”
His shadow blocked the sun’s warmth and grew across her bloody form as he neared. His dimples became craters as his lips curled upward. She bent her leg, aimed for the groin, and kicked him with as much fading strength as she could muster. His smug smile vanished as he collapsed to the ground.
Mallory clambered to her feet. Charles reached for her fleeing ankle and roared as his fingertips barely brushed the grip of her shoe.
She pressed a quivering hand over her abdomen. Hot, sticky blood poured between her fingers. She tumbled through the garden’s open door, tears streaming down her face, every breath a fight against persistent sobs from either pain or fear. Blood trailed after her, trickling into the narrow gaps of the floorboards.
She grasped the front doorknob.
It didn’t budge.
Mallory fumbled with the lock. Blood smeared her escape. Click. Still the door refused to open.
Her stomach twisted and pulse thudded in her throat. There were two other locks, one at the top of the door, the other on the floor. Both keyholes faced inward.
“Mallory!” Charles shouted. Whatever sweet melody his voice once danced with was gone. “Get back here!”
Her feet pounded the stairs. Two faces melted out of the walls, their eyes hollow and skin plaster. “Run,” they urged in unison. “Run.”
She made it to her room and threw open the door. In the garden below, two figures stood next the flowerbeds, their flower beds Mallory realized. One was a woman, decayed to nearly a skeleton, the other was a man with green flesh and bone thin frame.
“Jump,” their mouths didn’t move but they spoke clear in her mind. “Jump.”
She grasped the sides of the window and put one foot on the sill. Mallory gapped at the drop below, willing her to take the plunge. It was fifteen feet, at least. What if she breaks a leg? Can she even get out of the garden with all the hedges, guarding every inch of the yard? And if she did manage to survive the fall unbroken and managed to escape the greenery, what next? The nearest town sat far into the horizon. She probably wouldn’t even make it. But if she didn’t try, she was certainly going to die.
“Jump!”
Panic and common sense battled for a moment too long.
“Gotcha,” Charles growled. Cold hands squeezed her upper arms and dragged her to the floor. The window slammed shut above her head.
Mallory quivered against the wall, vision blurry from never ending tears. Blood continued to gush into her palms. Her sobs echoed in the small room. Each breath she managed to draw in was sharper than the last.
“Don’t cry,” he soothed, wiping her blood from his trowel. He placed it on the scratched nightstand. “You’re not pretty when you cry.”
“Stop…please…please…”
He ran a soft finger over her cheek. “Shh, Mallory, shh. It’ll all be over soon. Then you’ll be here forever. My beautiful prize.”
Charles tore the baby blue scarf from her neck and carefully folded it. Gently, he switched it for his trowel and trained its tip at Mallory’s throat. “Roses. They smell so sweet, so…peaceful. A magnificent flower for such a magnificent woman.”
*
Mallory awoke in a puddle of perspiration, her final breath, drowned in gurgling blood, forgotten. A pleasant odour of roses lingered.
Jesee Jones is an aspiring writer from Northern Ontario, Canada where he lives with his wife, dog, and two cats. By day, he plays with lights and sirens as a paramedic and volunteer firefighter; by night, he tries to find the right words.
