“It’s a splendid day out there, isn’t it? The sun gleams bright, children laugh in their fleeting innocence, and the birds fill the air with melodies they’ll never understand. A picture-perfect world. But here… here, the curtains stay drawn. The light dare not intrude, and the music of that bright, naive world cannot touch us.

  In this room, the only light comes from the faint flicker of shadows. The only sound? My voice. And that’s just the way I like it. Out there, the world spins its comforting little lies. But here, we deal in truths—the kind that slither beneath your skin and nest in your mind.

  Welcome to my library, where stories don’t merely entertain—they linger, they fester. My name is Mr. Charlie, and the tales I weave will follow you long after you close the book. But don’t worry—you’ll come to love them. Or they’ll come to love you.”

  And now, let me take you to a place where beauty and decay dance together, where truth is as sharp as a thorn…

  "Red Roses"

  Daniel had always been proud of his garden. It was his sanctuary, tucked behind his old Victorian house on the edge of the woods. The garden had once been a flourishing testament to his care, with vibrant flowers of every color stretching toward the sun. But one plant always stood out—his roses. Blood-red, lush, and radiant, they seemed to defy time itself, even when the other flowers withered under the harsh summer sun.

  It started a month ago. Work became overwhelming, and Daniel, exhausted and distracted, stopped tending to his garden altogether. No water, no pruning, no care. The tulips shriveled, the daisies turned brown, and the vines clung desperately to the cracked walls. Yet, the roses thrived. In fact, they looked even more alive than before—vivid red petals glistening like they were fresh with morning dew, despite the parched earth.

  At first, Daniel didn’t think much of it. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck, he told himself. Some plants, after all, had a way of surviving longer than others. But as the days passed, the roses became impossible to ignore. They were impossibly perfect, their fragrance almost sickeningly sweet, their stems strong and unyielding. They had a vibrancy that seemed out of place in the decaying garden.

  It wasn’t just the roses. His gardener, Henry, had disappeared two weeks ago. Daniel hadn’t given it much thought at the time. Henry had always been a solitary man, prone to disappearing for days without explanation. But when the local police came by to ask if he’d seen Henry, something shifted. Daniel couldn’t help but feel a knot tighten in his stomach. He assured them that he hadn’t seen the gardener for weeks, dismissing the concern as overblown.

  “I’m sure he’s just off on one of his trips,” Daniel had said with a smile, too quick to dismiss it. “Henry does that sometimes. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  But when the search parties came back empty-handed, and Henry’s belongings remained untouched, Daniel’s thoughts began to turn darker. Still, he refused to entertain the idea that something was wrong. There was no evidence to suggest foul play, after all. People vanish sometimes, right? And the roses... they were thriving. Everything had to be fine.

  Yet, they grew larger, more oppressive, their scent thickening the air around him. At night, Daniel would lie awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, a quiet unease clawing at the edges of his thoughts. Every time he passed the garden, the roses seemed to be watching him, their deep crimson petals almost... knowing.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  One evening, as Daniel stood by the garden gate, something caught his eye. A glint of silver buried beneath the soil near the roses. He kneeled, heart hammering, and uncovered a small, rusted spade. His breath caught in his throat. It was Henry’s spade, the one he always carried with him. And as he dug a little deeper, his fingers brushed against something cold and unnaturally stiff. His stomach churned.

  “No. It’s just a trick of the light. It’s nothing,” he whispered to himself, quickly covering the spot. “It’s just a plant… just a plant… it’s all fine.”

  But his words fell flat in the thick, still air. The roses seemed to grow larger overnight, their thorns reaching out like claws, as if to grab him. His mind raced, but he shut the thought away. Denial was easier. Denial was safer.

  Days turned into weeks, and still, he ignored the signs. The roses had become more than just a garden decoration—they were an obsession. He avoided the edges of the garden now, knowing something was wrong but unwilling to confront it. It wasn’t until one fateful evening, when the wind carried an unfamiliar scent—a sharp, metallic tang—that Daniel could no longer deny what had happened.

  The roses had fed.

  The scent of blood filled the air, thick and choking, and Daniel found himself standing frozen before the garden gate, as if drawn by some unseen force. His eyes, wide and frantic, flickered to the roses. There, amidst the vibrant red blooms, he could see something... wrong. The petals were no longer just crimson—they were soaked, dripping with a dark, viscous liquid that wasn’t dew.

  A soft rustling sound, like a whisper, caught his ear. He turned slowly to face the source, but no one was there. His heart pounded in his chest. He had to leave. He had to run. But as he backed away, his foot caught on something soft and wet—a patch of ground that squelched unnaturally beneath his shoe.

  He looked down.

  The soil was moving.

  Out of it, twisted and gnarled like roots from hell, Henry’s hand shot up, pale and lifeless, but gripping with unyielding force. Daniel screamed and stumbled back, but the hand held him fast, dragging him toward the roses, toward the waiting jaws of the garden.

  The roses bloomed.

  Daniel tried to deny what was happening, tried to scream, to fight, but it was too late. His gardener had become part of the earth. The roses had feasted on him, and now they were hungry for more.

  He could feel the thorns digging into his skin as he was dragged closer. The sharp scent of blood filled his nostrils. Panic surged through him, and his eyes darted around in search of escape—but the garden seemed to close in on him, every path to freedom swallowed by the ever-growing thorns.

  And just as he was about to be consumed, the world around him seemed to shift. The roses whispered. The ground trembled. And with one final, desperate gasp, Daniel realized the truth he had been avoiding all along. Was he truly the prey here, or had he, too, been feeding all along?

  Daniel jerked awake, his body drenched in cold sweat. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath ragged. He blinked at the dark room, disoriented, only the faint hum of the house breaking the silence. The dream—the horrible, suffocating nightmare—it had to be just that. A nightmare.

  But something felt wrong. He turned slowly, eyes scanning the room, and his gaze settled on the window. Outside, the garden stood still under the moonlight, the roses swaying gently in the wind.

  A shiver ran down his spine as his eyes narrowed. The roses, they looked the same, but… no. There was something different. Something was off. The petals gleamed unnaturally, almost… wet?

  He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unsettling thought. He had to calm down. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

  But then, as he swung his legs off the bed to stand, he felt it—a cold, damp sensation beneath his feet. He froze.

  There, creeping out from under the bed, twisted and dark, roots had begun to snake across the floor. They curled and writhed, their tips sharp and unnatural, reaching toward him with a hunger he couldn’t explain.

  The roses... they were waiting.