The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Waiting for 12 - Foliage

Episode Date: November 25, 2018

We're in-between Seasons 10 and 11 so to tide you over we have two stories while you wait. "Foliage" written by Gemma Amor and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nichole Goodnight & Dan Zappulla & Jesse Cornett. Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptation produced by: Jesse Cornett "Waiting for 12" illustration courtesy of Krista Neubert & Krys Hookuh Audio program ©2018 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This audio program presents horror, which is frightening and disturbing. You let us into your mind at your own risk. The sunlight fades to darkness. The frightful tales creep into your mind. It's time to give it because tonight there will be... Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings.

Thanks for joining us. We're currently in between seasons 11 and 12, working hard on our season 12 premiere on December 9th. And don't forget, pre-orders for Season Pass 12 start on December 1st. But we want to ensure you have some sleepless nights before the start of season 12, so we have a tale which may grow on you. In it, we meet a widower trying to get his life back on track. As author Gemma Amour explains, His new job as a handyman finds him working at an old estate,

which in his town has a long history of mysterious circumstances. Ones which he soon realizes are still happening. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, Dan Zippula, and Jesse Cornett. So if you find yourself clearing an old neglected garden, think twice before cutting down the foliage. I wrote my first letter to Louise a few months after she died. It started as an experiment.

I was half out of my mind with grief and anger. I sat in my bedroom, once our bedroom, with a half-finished bottle of bourbon in one hand and a pen and a note-pad in the other. Bleary-eyed, I began to scratch words forcefully onto the paper. Dear Louise. Before I knew it, I'd written her a letter. The experiment became a habit, and now I write to her almost every day.

Because I miss her. The letters help me, a little. I can't talk to her anymore, but I can write. It's something, at least. I know, I know, writing letters to a dead woman. Yeah, a pointless, futile endeavor. It's not like I have a forwarding address to send them to. I have a pile of these brown envelopes amassing in a cardboard box.

on a shelf in the cupboard where her dresses used to hang before I went crazy one night and threw them all out. I regretted that so much the next day. Grief makes idiots of us all. Today, though, the pen won't move across the paper. For some reason, even though I actually have news to share for once, just can't bring myself to say anything. Writers' block, I guess.

Usually I'd get over it by wallowing in, a bottle of single malt, but today I've got an appointment to keep. Today, I start a new job. My new job is very different from my previous employment. I realized after Louise died that I couldn't take it any longer, sitting in an office, pushing my fingers around a keyboard, imprisoned behind a glaring computer screen. I quit about six months after her funeral. I went back to basics. I'm what they call in. Odd job man now. I work outdoors. All day long, come rain or shine. It doesn't piss me off half as much as my old job, mostly because I don't see or speak to many people throughout the course of my

day. The pay is fine, keeps the rent man at bay, and the work is hard, physical labor. I fix things, lift things, smooth things around. I do gardening and maintenance. By the end of the day, I'm exhausted, which is good, because it means all. that's left for me then is a cold beer, leftover pizza, and deep, dreamless sleep. I used to dream about Louise. I used to dream about her body next to mine in bed, her skin, the smell of her hair. Now I just sleep, heavy and solid. And then I wake up. She isn't there. Fuck, there I go again. Anyway, this new job. Well, not the work itself, but the location. It's at Norfolk Manor.

I'm the fucking odd job man for Norfolk Manor. When Louise and I were kids, we were enchanted by Norfolk Manor. We used to play around the edges of the estate where the woods met the boundary wall. We had a den down there, made of crates and tree branches and an old tarp we found in my dad's garage. We'd sit and read comics, eat candy, stare at the rooftops of the manor house as they poked out from above the tree. tops. We smoked their first cigarette in that den. It's a wonder we didn't burn the whole fucking thing down around our ears and the force too for that matter. Those were good times, the best of times. I miss being young. I miss having all the good shit ahead of me instead of behind me,

like now. I miss my wife. Anyway, I found out about the job in the local paper. The ad said, odd job man wanted Norfolk Manor, good rate of pay, required immediately, inquiries to Fay Lockwood. I sat up straight in my chair when I saw the name Lockwood, and the thrill of excitement went through me. It's been a long while since that happened, believe me. Fay Lockwood is the granddaughter of Anne and Vincent Lockwood, who used to own the manor in the estate when I was a kid. The same Lockwoods, who then went missing all those years ago. It was the biggest scandal of the day back then. One minute they were there rolling around in that huge house with all that money and the next,

poof, gone, vanished without a trace. Only Faye was left behind. A child. An orphan. An orphan with an estate. Officially, the Lockwoods were listed as missing, but everyone around here knew that Anne and Vince were dead. Most people thought Faye Lockwood had something to do with it, despite her age. Maybe she'd murdered them so she could inherit the estate.

My town is like that. People desperate for something to wag their tongues at each other about. I remember feeling kind of sorry for Faye at the time, with her grandparents missing and everyone blaming her for it. But I think I was the only one. It's no wonder she moved away. Townsfolk would give her the stink eye for just walking down the street back. back then. She was only about 11 when it happened. Too young to be left alone like that.

In time, the gossip died down and the house remained empty until the inquest was done and dusted. The legalities tidied up. This seemed to take years, and in all that time, the house stayed boarded up, fenced off from the world. Fay Lockwood finally inherited the house and its grounds a month ago. Well, what's left of it anyway? The place is in a pretty bad state of repair. I reread the job advertisement a few times thinking about it. Then I called the number printed there. Faye Lockwood answered right away in a pleasant, if timid voice. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she said she wanted someone who could tidy up before she moved in.

And could I start right away that morning? I said, yeah, sure. As long as I got paid, I didn't care when I started. She laughed down the phone at me, and so, you're right. I am. Ten minutes later, Jeep loaded with tools ready to drive on over. I make one last effort to write to Louise before I go, to tell her my news. Dear Louise, I start, but again the pen stalls on the paper. I sigh, screw it up, throw it into the corner of the hallway, and I leave.

Norfolk Manor is every bit as eerie now as it was when we were kids. It's more decrepit, covered in ivy and these huge strangling creepers. All the windows choked up with the stuff, the gutters, the drains, roof tiles missing all over the place. Anything that was once painted is now peeling or rusted. The driveway is more like a forest, almost too overgrown to get a car down. It's going to be a shit tunnel. As a kid, I would stare at this house for hours. Face pressed through the bars of the broad iron gates out front.

used to creep the hell out of me, but I just couldn't help myself. You know when, as a kid, you'd scrape your knee on something, and then you'd get a scab over the wound, which you would then pick at and worry at, and then you can't get off despite the pain? Norfolk Manor was like that for me when I was a boy. I hated it. It scared me, but I couldn't stay away from the damned place, couldn't stop picking at the edges of it, trying to find a way in. Louis. Louis, told me once when we were 11 that it was haunted, and at night you could hear the ghosts screaming in the house, nodding somehow. As an adult, I pressed my head against those same iron bars now and looked at the gray crumbling stones of the manor. This time I felt sadness, not fear.

I could see the decay even from a distance. I get mad when places are left to rot like this. Back in its day, the manor was the talk of the town. I'd done some research. Things had happened here. Important guests were whined and dined. Local business deals were brokered. Political notaries entertained. Later on, the house was the backdrop to my childhood.

A fundamental part of the scenery behind the show that was me and my future wife. Dan and Louise, together always, since we were five. Now Norfolk Manor was nothing more than a ruin. and Louise was no longer part of the show. The gates were held together by a rusty padlock hanging from a large, thick, iron chain. I rattled them gently, wondering how to get in. The padlock fell to the ground with a thud.

I looked at it, lying there by my feet. It had rusted through completely. I shook my head, unwrapped the chains, and pushed. The sound the gates made as they opened was indescribable. Like the whole place was in pain and shouting at me. Kind of like the sound my heart made when I got the news about my wife's accident. I made a note to come back with some oil and grease the hinges. Once the gates were open, I drove my car carefully up the weed-strewn drive and parked opposite the house.

I stood there for a moment, marveling at the size of the place. The house was massive, and up close the extent of neglect was more evident. windows smashed, gutters overgrown with weeds in those thick, choking vines, birds flying in and out of holes in the roof. A weather vein, crooked and half dangling off a turret, green mildew coating the gray stone. The front door opened, and a woman came out. She was thin and pale, with short, dark hair. She looked anxiously at me until she spotted my tools in the back of the Jeep. Dan Burroughs?

Yes. I held out my hand, which she shook, timidly. How did you get in? She looked behind me at the wrought iron gates. I shrugged. Padlocks busted. Fell clean off the chain. I'll bring a new one tomorrow.

Oh. I looked at her, so slender and fragile looking. And then back up at the huge dark mass of the manor house. house. I tried to figure out if she was the sort of person who could have killed her own grandparents. It didn't fit. She was so delicate. I sensed that she was out of her depth here, inheriting an ancient pile of decaying stone and vines at her tender age, didn't seem like it was all it was cracked up to be. Where do I start? She looked at me with a strange, unreadable expression on her face, like she was scared of something.

Don't worry. I'll take care of it. She nodded and disappeared back inside. I looked about me and rubbed my hands. I like having a project to focus on. I can't stop thinking about what Louise looks like now. I mean, I know it won't be pretty. She's been in the ground a while. She should have been cremated.

But we decided on a traditional burial. instead. Big mistake. Now I lie awake in the mornings before the day starts and wonder what that soft skin of hers feels like. Wonder if the worms have gotten to it. It's not a healthy thought process. So to cope, I throw myself into my work at Norfolk Manor. I decided to start on the weed choked driveway before I did anything else, so that getting my Jeep in and out was a little easier. I picked up a trimmer and then realized there was too much growth to tackle that way. So I

switched to a weed wand blow torch. God, those things are so much fun. You blast the weeds with butane gas and within two days everything just fucking curls up and dies. I felt like Kurt Russell in the thing as I swaggered along

nuking everything in my path. Every man likes to destroy shit. There's a truth. When I stopped to rest, I could feel a set of eyes on me. You know, there's a prickling sort of feeling you get when you become aware of it. The hairs on the back of my neck rose up, to use a cliche. I looked up at the manor house, and sure enough, Faye stood in one of the first floor windows,

staring down at me. She vanished pretty quickly after I spotted her, as if embarrassed that I'd caught her out. I didn't think much of it, just went back to destroying the weeds on the drive. After that, it was lunch. I usually eat mine in the Jeep, scrolling through mindless shit on my phone. But for some reason, there was no signal out at Norfolk Manor. Besides, it was too hot to sit in my car. So I took my wrapped BLT and went to explore the grounds to the rear of the manor.

If I thought the front of the house was a mess, and I was in for a real, certified treat, the gardens around back were a lot worse. I mean, almost impenetrable. Large curtains of ivy formed barriers every which way you turned. And what wasn't obscured by that was hidden or choked by some sort of strangler vine, a type I've never seen before. The stems of the foliage were about the same thickness as a man's wrist,

and they had a chokehold on absolutely everything. Trees, old statues, walls, doors, everything. It looked like a mass of snakes, like Medusa's hair, writhing and smothering the life out of the estate. I felt short of breath just looking at it, claustrophobic almost. But I could also feel myself rising to the challenge. Clearing all this was going to take weeks, but I couldn't wait to see what lay underneath.

The vine growth was so thick, I couldn't get further than the end of an uneven rotting terrace that spread out from the rear doors of the manor. From there, I could just make out the top of a manor. metal structure at the bottom of what was once a formal lawn, one which sloped downhill away from the house. I caught a glimpse of glass and iron amongst the binds, probably a greenhouse or orangery, I thought. Hmm, intriguing. I made a list in my mind of the tools I was going to need. Chainsaw, axe, pruner, shears, knife. This was going to be a much bigger job than I thought. I was going

to need to draft in some extra labor to help. A voice from behind me on the terrace interrupted my thought process and made me jump. It's sad to see the place like this. Faye had crept up behind me somehow. I turned and was struck by how melancholy she looked. In fact, she looked how I'd been feeling since Louise died. Lost.

Sad. Yeah. I surveyed the tangle of growth in front of us. It's a real shame. I've never seen anything like it, if I'm honest, these vines. But I'll clear it. I like a challenge. I admire your confidence.

Are you sure you can handle this by yourself? I have a guy called Ted. I call him to help me with big jobs. But don't worry. I'm sure it looks worse than it is. I was sorry to hear about your wife. I looked at her, taken aback by the curveball, and unsure how to replace.

I don't apply. Small town gossip, still going strong, I thought. Only these days, people don't talk about how Anne and Vince Lockwood disappeared and were likely murdered by their own granddaughter. No, these days, people talk about my wife, Louise Burroughs, and how she died. And they talk about me and how sad it all is. I fucking hate small town gossip. Yeah, yeah, me too. God, I didn't mean to pry. It's okay. Don't worry about it. There was an awkward silence, and then she said, know what I hate the most about people? I shook my head. They can never mind their own fucking business.

I smiled. True, but I appreciate the sympathy. It was meant kindly. I know. Seriously, don't sweat it. I've lived here long enough to know that news, spreads. People feel involved in your life, even when they aren't. She smiled back hesitantly.

Isn't that the truth? I guess if anyone understands, it's me. My grandparents were the most important people in my life. Losing them both so suddenly, it changes a person. I was orphaned in the blink of an eye. That's aside from the fact that the whole town thinks 11-year-old me killed them so I could inherit this. She waved a hand at the crumbling, tangled estate, and laughed softly. Poor me. Want to come to my pity party? I sighed.

What the hell? If she wanted to share, I'd share. That's what all the people around you don't get, isn't it? I looked at the wedding ring, which still sat on my ring finger. What? I tried my best to explain. People don't get that you change fundamentally when someone you love dies, but you change in a way other people aren't comfortable with.

Like, I could sit in a bar with my buddy Ted and talk about football. But I couldn't tell him I wear my dead wife's dressing gown on really shitty days so that I can smell her perfume one more time. There was silence after that. I'm pretty good at killing conversations dead. Sorry, I don't speak to people much these days. Don't worry. She put a handout tentatively and patted me on the shoulder.

I thought I would mind and realized I didn't. The human touch felt good, actually, after such a long time. What's down there? I changed the subject and pointing at the metal structure at the bottom of the lawn. Faye looked and sighed. That's grand puzzled potting shit. He fancied himself as something of a botanist. He used to spend hours in there, splicing different plants together and trying to create new species and doing God knows what else.

Roses were his thing. He was obsessed with the idea of black roses. I chuckled. Men need their hobbies. Did he ever succeed? She laughed too, and it was a nice noise. Look around. See any black roses?

Nope. Well, there you go. She's nice in an unassuming, low... key kind of way. I thought she'd be stuck up. Rich girls are like that sometimes, too good for anyone else. But Faye isn't. She's nice. We stayed like that in silence for a bit longer. Then she said, Well, I've got a huge old house to somehow clean up. Sure. Good luck. Thanks, I'm going to need it. So are you. When she returned to the house, I went to get a better look at the vines covering the terrace and lawn. I held one between my finger and thumb, noticing how thick each stem was,

how supple and strong. I followed the line of it until I reached a leaf, ran my fingers over the rich, shiny green foliage with its blood-red veins. My fingers kept going, searching, until I eventually noticed something hanging down. It was green and looked on closer inspection like a seed pod. It was long, almost the length of my forearm. and looked like a, like a vegetable, like a zucchini or a cucumber. I took out my pocket knife and cut it free from its vine. It came away reluctantly with a squelching noise, leaking a thick, pungent slime as it separated.

I turned it over in my hand, frowning. It wasn't a seed pod. It was a flower bud. The petals tightly locked together like the flower was somehow hibernating, getting ready to burst forth. I put the tip of my knife under the edge of one pedal and worked it loose from the bud. It came free with a wet, tearing sound that somehow made me feel a little nauseous. I kept going, peeling back pedal after pedal, hoping to get to the stamens in the middle so I could see what kind of flower it was.

I was nearing the center of the bud when my knife tip hit something and made a noise. Ting! It was a solid noise and not organic. It sounded like metal. Felt like it, too, as I wiggled the blade around. What the fuck? I ripped out the remaining few petals. When I saw what lay in the center of the bud on a pillow of pink, fleshy matter,

I repeated myself. What the fuck? I hooked it with the tip of my knife and held it up. It glinted in the sun. It was a diamond ring. The next day, was a bad day. I knew as soon as I woke up that it was a bad day. I dreamed of Louise in the night. When I awoke, just for a second, just a wonderful, bright, hopeful second, I forgot that she died.

I rolled over and put my arm out and felt the empty bed and bang. There went that hope. The world feels cruel now that my wife isn't in it. I called Faye and told her I was sick, food poisoning. I couldn't make it in. I know she could tell I was lying, but she seemed cool with it. Sympathetic. You know people will always be sympathetic. That's the great thing about losing your wife.

Makes getting a day off easy. Fuck their sympathy. I gave into the huge emptiness inside me and got drunk. I sank a whole bottle of jack, lying in bed and fiddling with the diamond ring I'd found in the middle of that fucked up flower pot I turned it over and over and tried to figure out how it had gotten in there

the more I drank the less sense it all made when I finished my bottle I dragged my ass out of bed went to the store in my pajamas and bought another the lady at the checkout stared at me with sympathy I glared defiantly back at her, aware I was being an angry asshole, but unable to do anything about it. Fuck you, check out, lady. I don't need your sympathy. Can't you understand? I just need my wife back. I went back to bed with the second bottle of Jack clenched between my knees and tried to write to my wife again.

Dear Louise, I managed. And the page blurred as tears welled up in my eyes. miss you. Why the fuck did you leave me alone like this? He stopped writing. My day-long bourbon marathon turned into a two-day pity party to borrow the phrase from Fay Lockwood. I woke on the third day with a crushing hangover, a raging thirst for more booze and the diamond ring still clenched in my sweaty fist. I decided that I needed two things, hair of the dog and information about the Lockwoods, and I knew a guy, and I knew where he would be. I pulled on a halfway clean shirt and walked into town, too steamed to drive. It was 1130 by the time I got to the Slide Bar.

Slide is like a million other small town bars across America, dark, run down, in dire need of a paint job, and a second home to many of the town's locals, especially those that have retired. Retired like Sheriff Tidy, who sat hunched over the bar nursing of Bloody Mary when I walked in. He looked almost as bad as I did. Rough night, Sheriff? I pulled out a bar stool and flopped down on it. I was still half drunk from the day before, but like a lot of functioning alcoholics, might dealt with it well. So did Sheriff, who grunted at me in amusement. Huh, ain't every night a rough night these days. True, true.

Sheriff, can I trouble you for a moment? You know I'm not sheriff anymore, right, son? Yeah, I know. But old habits die hard, I guess. It isn't just me. The whole town still calls him sheriff, even though he gave up the title five years ago. He's that kind of man.

He demands respect. And as far as I'm concerned, He has mine. He's had it ever since the night Louise died. I remember how he cradled her head in his lap as she lay there on the cold tarmac when I'm struggling to breathe. I remember the look he gave me as I ran over, having gotten the call to get there and get out there fast. I remember how he held her hand and then held mine in a firm, rough grip. I remember being thankful that he was there.

and my wife breathed her last. Oh, fuck. It's so hard to stay on track with these memories. You all right, son? Yeah. I need some information, Sheriff. If you don't mind, that is. Shoot.

How much do you remember about the Lockwood case? Sheriff looked at me for a few moments, then finished his Bloody Mary with an indulgence slurp, gesturing for another one. Anne and Vine Lockwood. If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me about that case, I'd be a rich man, Denny Boy. So, the case, is it still marked as unsolved?

Sheriff took hold of his fresh, bloody Mary, and stirred it with the stick of celery that stuck out of the top before crunching into it with a satisfied noise. Hmm, yep, still unsolved. No one has seen hiding her hair of either of the Lockwood since they vanished into thin air all those years ago. I chose my next words carefully. And what about the granddaughter, Fay Lockwood?

Sheriff looked at me again, wondering where this was going. Well, word is, she smothered old granny and gramps in their sleep, then fed them into a wood chipper, and all so's to inherit a big, fat, crumbling pile of rotten ruin otherwise known as Norfolk Manor. Bit like me, huh? Fat and falling apart. The retired sheriff spat into the corner. I raised an eyebrow at him. And what do you think?

I tried to keep my tone neutral. He wiped his mouth and snorted in amusement. Skinny little thing like her. Aged all of 11 years old. Nah. So what did happen to them? I mean, in your opinion, off the record, like. Sheriff sighed, as if he'd given this a lot of thought over the years.

Well, my guess is that they retired quietly to some remote island together. Probably fed up with all the gossip and small town shit. You mean faked their own death? And left Faye all alone with no legal guardian? He shrugged. Why not? I mean, she stood to inherit their full fortune. They knew she'd be well looked after.

and she was enrolled into one of them fancy boarding schools, which would take her till she was 18. After that, she was an adult. Maybe they thought it would be better for her than living here, waiting for them to die before she could come into her own. I don't know, Sheriff. I mean, it kind of makes sense. But I also know that they were close to Faye. I don't think they would have left her like that.

So suddenly, with no idea of what happened to them. Not when she was so young, I mean. She was a kid. No one would just abandon a kid like that, not if they loved them, not even for the best of reasons. Sheriff shrugged. Whatever, Dan. We found no evidence of any foul play. Damn, we found no evidence whatsoever. When they first disappeared, we did a thorough sweep of that house.

And I mean fine-tooth comb. I could probably draw you a goddamn floor plan of that place. I walked it up and down so many times. All of their gold and valuables were still the same. The antiques, the paintings, all of it was untouched, so there was no burglary gone wrong or nothing like that. There was no trace of anything like blood, no signs of a struggle, no nothing. We dusted for fingerprints and found nothing out of place. The Lockwood's just up and vanished.

And from experience, that usually only happens when someone wants it to. I remained unconvinced, but I didn't want to argue with him. I was silent for a few moments and then brought the diamond ring out of my pocket. It glinted in the overhead lights. Sheriff smiled in amusement as I offered him the ring. Oh, I'm flattered, son, but I'm already married. Very funny. Look at it.

Look at the initials on the inside. He fumbled in his pocket for his reading glasses and squinted at the ring. He spotted the ornate, scrolled letters engraved into the gold band. A. L. He peered over the rims of his glasses. Faylockwood hired me to do some work on the grounds of Norfolk Manor. Is that right? Well, someone sure needs to pay it some attention.

A real eyesore now, it is such a shame. I agree. But that's not the point. I was clearing back some vines in the garden. I found this kind of embedded in one of the plants, Like it had been there a long time and sort of been assimilated by the plant somehow. You know how tree roots grow around fence posts and things that are in their way? Like that? Only inside the goddamn plant.

Sheriff remained silent, turning the ring over in his hands. Point is, I think it belongs to Anne Lockwood. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said, Hmm. Well, a diamond ring like this was on the list of out. The lochewables owned, if I remember rightly from the inquest. I remember because the diamond was a two-carat one. Or was it three?

Anyway, big fucker, like this. Did you ever find it? You said nothing was stolen or missing from the manor. He shrugged again, and I could see the wheels turning reluctantly. I just assumed she was wearing it when she disappeared. A piece like that looks sentimental. You'd think she'd take good care of it. I rode my face.

I don't know. Maybe she dropped it in the garden right before she left. But what if she didn't? What if she was wearing it on the day she vanished? But she never left Norfolk Manor. Did you... Did you check the grounds carefully? Sheriff leveled me with a disapproving glare.

Do I look like I leave loose ends untied, son? Of course we search the ground. Like I said, no evidence of any foul play. We missed the ring, but these things happen. And there's a big difference between a ring and a human body, son. We would have found the Lockwoods if they were in the ground somewhere. Trust me. Perhaps I'm overthinking this.

Something about that house, though, Sheriff. It feels unresolved somehow. Sheriff patted me on the shoulder. I get it. I do. Cold cases are. are like that, son. They build their own folklore and mystery, become stuck in people's minds. You think you're the only one to tell me their theories about what happened to the Lockwoods?

I smiled sheepishly. I'm sorry, Sheriff. I'm just, I'm just fixing for a distraction, I guess. He nodded kindly. I don't mind, son. I'd help you if I thought I could. And I agreed. The ring is interesting, but my advice is give it back to the lady of the house. Focus on being a handyman, and not a god. He winked at me to show no hard feelings. I smiled politely into my beer. My appetite for booze suddenly gone. I went home, took a shower, got my pen and pad of paper out, started writing. This time the words came easily, and as I wrote, the clouds slowly lifted, just a little. Enough to let in a sliver of light. And sometimes that sliver is enough to keep us going in the darkest of times.

And Sheriff was wrong. I just knew it. There's something about that house, that garden, those vines, something that just wasn't right. And I don't care what anyone else said. Sheriff are not, diamond rings don't just end up in the middle of flower buds like that. sitting in the middle like it fucking grew there somehow. And it's like he said. The ring looks like it was special, like an engagement ring,

something sentimental, something you wouldn't part with easily. I kept thinking to what Faye said about her grandpa, fancying himself a botanist, trying to create a new species, splicing things together, messing with the natural order of things. And then I think about how they vanished. Anne and Vince Lockwood vanishing without a trace.

And I can't get the image of that damned flower butt out of my mind. Huge, alien, and fleshy somehow. I rang Faye to apologize for my absence. She was surprisingly relaxed about it, which I appreciated. I thought for sure I'd lose the job at Norfolk Manor, and was strangely relieved when I didn't. To make up for it, I forced myself out of bed early the next day, despite my overwhelming exhaustion.

I called my buddy Ted and arranged to meet him at Norfolk Manor. I had an ice cold shower, a bucket of aspirin, and did a half hour of sit-ups to sweat the booze out. Feeling better, I got in my Jeep and went over to the estate, parked up and waited for Ted. There was no sign of Fay anywhere, which I was oddly grateful for. I felt ashamed at how I'd cut out on her, and I didn't want to deal with the complicated feelings

that arose in her company at that particular role. moment. Also, there was the diamond ring. I needed to give it back to her, but I still had a bad feeling about it, and I was done with bad feelings for a little while. Ted met me at the gates, pulling up on an old dirt bike that coughed noxious black fumes from its exhaust. I met Ted in the slide bar a while back. He's younger than me, and skinny as a beanpole, but strong, and a good laborer. We worked together on bigger jobs and split the pay. He's a good nature kid and diligent. Kind of kid you have no choice but to like.

I took him round back of the house, noticing with pleasure that the weeds were beginning to shrivel up and die off on the front drive. I'd clear up the dead stalks later. But for now, I wanted to get rid of those vines on the terrace. Actually, if I was being honest with myself, what I really wanted was to get to that old ornate potting shed poking out of the undergrowth at the bottom of the lawn and explore it. I felt like it was important somehow, particularly when it came to the Lockwoods. Maybe I'd find a skeleton or two inside. Maybe even some black roses.

Who knew? I kind of liked that idea. I would take a cutting, plant one on Louise's grave. Black roses are just the sort of thing she would have loved. Or maybe, instead I'd find more of those horrible pods. If God knows what growing inside. I shuddered. Ted blew out his cheeks as he surveyed the jungle on the terrace.

Well, that is going to take a whole lot of chopping. Yep. I chucked him a thick pair of pruning shears. He looked at the vines thicker than the width of my forearm and frowned. I'm not sure these are going to be enough. I mean, these things are huge. Just do your best with the smaller ones. I'll deal with the big fuckers.

You got it, boss. Oh, and a word of warning. I remember the diamond ring burning a hole in my pocket. If you come across any of these flower pod things, they look like seed pods about the size of your arm, cut them off and keep them, would you? Make a separate pile of them over there. Uh, sure.

I fired up the chainsaw. Flipping down my safety visor, I moved forward and started cutting. A few hours later, and weed cleared at least. at least half of the terrace. It was hard, slow work, and, well, it was unsettling for both of us. Cutting through the vines was a messy, slippery undertaking. They were spongy and fleshy, resisting our tools and only coming apart under the chainsaw or pruning shears after several attempts. They leaked a thick, pink sap that got all over everything, and to which everything else stuck, like it was glue.

And while we were trying to clear through it all, there were the flower pods. Prolific, as if we'd caught the plant in season. Ted found seven of them, and I found another 12. We laid them out on a piece of tarp, where they sat, stinking in the hot sun. Ted and I eventually stopped for a break and looked at each other, wiping sweat from our faces

with the bottoms of our shirts. God, I feel like I've been working a goddamn morgue. I knew what he meant. It didn't feel like cutting through foliage. It felt like cutting through human skin and bone. It was a distinctly disturbing feeling. And it didn't sit well with the remnants of my hangover,

which clung to me stubbornly. A voice came from behind us. Can I interest you in any lemonade? It was Faye. We turned and saw her standing on the newly opened up terrace, a tray clutched in both hands. She looked nervous, but hid it behind a tentative smile. Ted whipped off his baseball cap as if royalty had just entered the garden.

Thanks, ma'am. I realized that Faye was wearing a short, white, cotton dress that clung to her hips and emphasized her smooth skin. I... I dropped my gaze, which only made me aware of her legs, long, pale, and shapely. Faye set the lemonade tray down on a crumbling balustrade along the edge of the terrace, and she reached up to gather her hair in a ponytail, speaking around the hair tie gripped in her teeth as she weren't. Can I help you guys?

It feels wrong to sit in the house watching you both do all the work. Ted looked at me, and I shook my head. Seriously? I wouldn't. This stuff? This stuff is unpleasant. A gestured at the mutilated vines lying in a tangled pile. nearby and then plucked at my shirt which was coated with a thick wet secretion from the foliage. They looked over at the tarp upon which were stacked to the flower pods. She wrinkled her nose. Oh, what are those? They stink. Some sort of flour or seed pod. I haven't quite figured it out yet.

Gross. Anyway, you have to let me help somehow. I insist. A bit of mess doesn't bother me. Okay, fine, but do me a favor and change out of that pretty dress first. She raised an eyebrow at me, acknowledging the compliment. Obviously. She disappeared into the bowels of the house to get changed. Ted whistled as she went inside. That's Faye Lockwood? The Faye Lockwood that murdered her grandparents?

Wow. You watch it with that kind of talk, Ted. Gossip is painful for some folks. She was just a kid when it happened. Ted shrugged. Ah, I'm sorry, Dan. But you know this town. I grew up with that story.

It's kind of peculiar to meet her in the flesh. She seems nice. Not like a murderer at all. I nodded and reached for some lemonade. She is nice. Hey, but more importantly, she's paying us. So let's not... piss her off with any more of that talk, okay?

Loud and clear, boss. We finished the lemonade and Faye returned. She wore sensible boots, long trousers, long sleeves, and a dark green cap. Her short hair was tucked up underneath the cap, the peak of which cast shadows across her eyes. The shadows made me think of the dark, empty windows of Norfolk Manor, hollow holes that continuously watched our progress. What can I do?

She pulled a pair of thick gloves out of a pocket. You any good at lighting fires? Best thing to do with that lot is to burn it. I happen to be good at lighting fires. A lot of time spent at camp. She set to clearing a patch of earth in which to build a shallow fire pit, wide enough to toss the vines into for burning. Ted and I picked up our tools and went back to our assault on the garden.

The chainsaw roared, and before long, I saw spark, and ash fly into the sky as Faye got a fire burning. After a while, I noticed my chainsaw slowing down, churning and grinding on the thick sap. I stopped examining the edges. You all right, boss? Goddammed chainsaw teeth are getting clogged up with all this gooey shit. Can't make any headway for love nor money. I got a backup saw at my place, boss.

I was about to answer when something hit me. I wrinkled my nose. What's that smell? I looked around and spotted the fire that Faye had lit. Ted gagged into his sleeve. Oh, man. Smells like a fucking barbecue. Oh, what the fuck?

Faye stood staring down at the crackling fire, which sizzled and popped reluctantly around the wet vines. Pam? Her eyes were wide over a handkerchief, which she had clamped over her mouth and nose. Dan, what does this look like to you? Her voice was unsteady, and I got a sinking feeling. We came over to have a look, and I instantly wished I hadn't.

Lying in the fire at Faye's feet was one of the flower pods. It must have got tossed into the burn pile by mistake. She stared at it with a mix of horror and disbelief. My eyes followed hers. My stomach turned. The heat of the... The fire had done something to the pod, triggered a flowering response. The petals had burst wide open, revealing the center of the flower.

Only, instead of stamens and pollen, there, inside the flower lay something long and pale and far too familiar. Ted breathed out incredulous. Oh, is that a... Is that... Is that... It can't be. It's a finger. Faye turned to me for confirmation.

It's a finger, isn't it? I didn't want to touch it or get a closer look. I... What the fuck is this stuff anyway? Ted continued, repulsed, and I shook my head. You said your grandpa liked to experiment with plants? I turned to Faye and finally bringing the diamond ring out of my pocket. She stared at it as if...

but were a poisonous snake lying in the palm of my hand. Where... Where did... Where did you get that? I nodded at the monstrous flower in the fire. Inside one of those things. Face face was a frozen mask. That ring...

It's my granny's engagement ring. I think she... I think she was wearing it when she went missing. She took it from me and slipped it tenderly onto her left ring finger with shaking hand. We stood in silence, and then, in unison, turned and stared at the roof of the potting shed. I called Sheriff, told him to come down to Norfolk Manor to speak to Fay.

Yeah, I'm sorry, Sheriff, about the Lockwood case. I'm retired, remember? Don't you want to know for sure what happened to them, Sheriff? What if you were wrong all these years? You could, I don't know, clear Fay's name? He sounded irate. A court of law did that years back, Daniel? I persisted.

Yeah, I know, but I mean, in the eyes of the town. Look, Sheriff, something is wrong in that place. We found... I can't describe what we found, but I think he should come. I wouldn't ask unless I was pretty desperate. He said he'd think about it. I could tell he was lying. He clearly thinks about it.

I'm insane. An hour passed. When Sheriff showed no sign of being interested in our discovery, I collected up the pods and put them in a large canvas hold-all. I told Faye to get some rest and sent Ted home. What are you going to do? Faye ignored my advice about resting and eyeing the canvas bag nervously. Take these to someone to analyze. Who? I shrugged.

Anyone who will listen. She sighed and twirled the diamond ring on her finger. It looked good there, like it belonged. I want to come with you. I couldn't argue with her. Besides, I liked her company. I liked having a female presence in my life again, one who was alive and one who wasn't my mother.

The light was fading when I got into my Jeep. Embarrassed, I cleaned the front seat of all the clutter and shit that goes with my job. and tried to hide the beer bottles rolling around in the footwell before Fay could catch sight of them. We threw the flower pod bag in the back, climbed in and drove away. Norfolk Manor filling my rearview mirrors with its gloomy, brooding silhouette. I went straight over to Sheriff's House and banged on the front door screen. He opened it, face set in a bad mood, which only darkened further when he saw standing there. A great, smelly, leaking bag slung between us.

I swear to God, Dan. You're a nice boy, but I'm about done with this shit. I bent down and unzipped the bag. The stench that rolled forth was overwhelming. Jesus! Sheriff hurriedly shut his front door behind him to keep the smell out. I am not wasting your time, Sheriff. I know it.

Before he could say anything else, I picked up one of the disgusting flower buds and dug my penknife into it, peeling it. Peeling it like it was a revolting piece of fruit held out at arm's length, my eyes watering. As the petals began to fall away, and I got closer to the center, I could feel Faye and Sheriff tense beside me, reluctantly absorbed by what I was doing. An expectant silence fell upon us, and I felt my heart thudding in my chest with anticipation. When I got to the center, my knife stuck into something with a squelch, and I swore, dropping the blade and the bud to the ground.

Oh, God. Faye groaned as she saw what lay on the floor surrounded by discarded petals, a knife blade sticking upright out of the center of it. All I could think of in that moment was a darkboard or a target. Bullseye, my brain said. Over again. Bulls eye. Are you kids playing a goddamn joke on me? Is that it? Sheriff stepped back from that thing before us

I pressed a hand to my mouth and disgust and shook my head Faye moaned and put her head in her hands It wasn't a finger this time It was an eyeball A fucking eyeball Staring at us Real is the sun in the sky Things happened fast after that

Once sheriff had examined the pod for himself And reconciled himself to the very real nature of it He disappeared into his house. I heard him on the telephone, working himself into a temper as he tried to get hold of the new sheriff. Fay and I sat on sheriff's porch, staring into the distance. The bag full of pods lay where I dropped it. A thick, black cloud of flies had amassed over the top of them. Faye was lost, deep in thought and probably shocked.

I patted her on the hand to rouse her as sheriff continued to bellow down the phone in door. You okay? No, are you? I shook my head. Nope. We were silent for a while longer. Inside, I heard sheriff shout. I don't care if it's not procedure.

You get his skinny, lazy ass out of bed and down to Norfolk Manor before I come get him myself. You hear me? I wasn't sheriff of this town for 40 years to be fobbed off by a jumped-up guest clerk. I'll come back up. a retirement if I have to and fire your ass in a heartbeat. I smiled, despite everything. Sheriff had never stopped being Sheriff, not even in his own mind.

People who are good at what they do never retire. We went back to the house. The damned place is a magnet I just can't keep away. Can't keep from picking at that scab, worrying at the wound, digging around inside something I shouldn't. But I felt somehow like this was what I needed. To solve something, to understand something, after all this time when nothing made sense in any context, I just wanted to get to the potting shed to see what was inside.

A simple thing. What's inside the shed? As if it held the answers to my own mysteries. We found Ted waiting in the drive, unable to keep away an unsteady look about him. cops are here he jerked a thumb at the rear of the manor they better be we moved through the dying weeds and around the back of the terrace and lawn we found the town's finest crowded on the terrace standing around in a disorganized fashion staring in confusion at the mess of vines that smothered the land some of them were suited up in white overalls and i could only assume they were a forensics team others In regular police uniform, we're taping a perimeter around the edges of the terrace. There was an air of confusion, of being bewildered. Better get used to that, I thought, grimly.

Sheriff strode over to one of them and barked a question. Where's Sheriff Hoxton? The officer shrugged in apology. He's at the dinner dance this evening, sir. They gave us strict instructions not to bother him anymore. Is that right? In that case, you can all take orders from me. We need to cut a path through all this shit and get down to that structure you can see poking out over there.

We need to keep a close eye out for human remains. The team didn't question him, just waited for more orders. He turned, a gesture to me. This is Dan Burroughs. He's got experience with the foliage you can see covering everything. He's going to lead with me up front. He knows what to look for. We need you to follow behind, photograph, and collect any evidence we discover, anything at all that doesn't fit within the context of this garden.

Got it? Clothing, jewelry, personal effects, and, like I said, human remains. One of the uniformed cops raised a hand slowly. Sheriff waved him off, dismissive. And yes, this is about the Lockwood case before anyone asks. The cop lowered his hand. They gave us white hazmat suits. I looked at Faye while getting into mine.

You sure you want to do this? She nodded, unable to answer, sliding her thin limbs into the white suit carefully, as if feeling unsteady on her feet. I put out a steadying arm and she leaned on me. I smiled, gently, reassuringly, but she didn't acknowledge it. She looked as sick to her stomach.

We picked up our tools, looked to sheriff for confirmation. Let's get on with this. We cut a slow, arduous, sticky swath through the vines, noticing that the flower pods were more prevalent the closer to the potting shed we got. As we moved forward, our brand-new police-issue chainsaws roaring in unison like a terrible engine of destruction. I noticed that some of the buds were actually flowery.

I stopped to breathe for a moment, covered in sweat and sticky sap, and found myself staring into the heart of a huge black flower. Pedals unfurled fully, each one easily the size of a tennis racket. My breath caught in my throat, and I almost choked in shock, spluttering and closing my eyes in the Nile. In the center of this flower lay another eye, a roomy, milky, sore-looking eye. I steadied myself and then carefully pushed my face right up into the heart of the thing, trying to make sense of it, my own heart in my mouth. As I gazed in fear at it, aghast at this perversion of nature, the unthinkable happened. It blinked.

I yelled and fell backwards into Faye, who stumbled and crashed to the ground. I landed heavily on top of her, barely registering her cry of pain. Slowly, a withered eyelid lowered over the eye. thin, worn eyelashes brushing against the black petals. Then it opened again, as if from sleep. It looked at me,

fixing me with a milky pupil, and the flower shuddered, as if it had seen me and didn't like what it saw. I screamed. I couldn't help it. It rang out into the thick, scented air like a strange bird call,

bitter and ragged. A few of the white-suited guys behind us let out their own scared noises, one of them turning as if to leave. Sheriff rounded on them savagely. Don't even think about it. If we can stick it out, you can too. We've got a duty here, you understand? They stared back, not answering, but not running either.

A white-suited man came forward, took pictures, then, trembling, removed the flower from the vine with a surgical scalpel and bagged it. The eye rolled back in its socket. as the fine blade cut through the stem. I got back to my feet, sweating. I helped Faye up to her own feet. Her skin was gray, as if she was going to puke. That eye, it looked, it looked so...

Don't think about it. I squeezed her hand, trying not to throw up myself. It took another hour for us to reach the potting shed. The closer we got, the tighter and more impenetrable the vine growth became. A high, rich stink permeated the air around us, and the heat and humidity became overwhelming. We began to make out a noise as we moved. It was a creaking, groaning noise, audible in the silence between chainsaw bursts.

It was the vines tightening, closing like a fist in response to our assault, squeezing together into a writhing, slithering mass, like a nest of snakes, like Medea. Huss's hair. The message was clear. You shall not pass. Whatever was in that potting shed was the center of all this. I was sure now. The plants were guarding whatever was in that shed.

Sheriff grunted and puffed with exertion as he fought his way through the foliage. I don't have a goddamn fuckety clue what's happening right now, but I'm damned if I'm turning back. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and called out a warning. Look out. A tendril snaked suddenly across Sheriff's path to block him. He stabbed it lightning quick with a scalpel. The vine recoiled, as if in pain.

Sheriff grunted in satisfaction. I kept him in my sight at all times. He was a rock. And then, at last, we came to it. The potting shed. We found at the top of a door A mesh of vines as thick as my leg Wove a defensive shield across it

I put down my chainsaw Chest heaving sweat pouring off me I turned to the team behind me And if you bring a flamethrower I asked I was filled with a sudden urgency To burn the whole fucking place down And then run run as if my life depended on it I was half joking

But one of the forensic team nodded at me silently. I raised an eyebrow wondering if it was a standard issue police flamethrower, like the chainsaws, or if they borrowed it from someone. A flamethrower was passed down the line of white-suited men. I slipped the fuel tank straps over my arms, freed up the fuel line, took a deep breath, and then let the rage fill me up as I took hold of the gun. Fire shot forth from my hands. It felt good. One jet of flame was all it took. The plant reacted as a human wood to the fire.

It flinched and shrieked. Faye clamped her hands over her ears, and I had a moment to worry about her sanity. She was not going to like what she found inside the potting shed, instinct told me. The vines fell away, dropping to the ground like a hand dropping a hot coal, then scuttling backwards and retreating away.

In their absence, we saw an old woman. old wooden door, with cracked panes of glass set within, each pane engraved with ornate etchings of flora and ferns and other household plants. Sheriff put his shoulder to the door. It gave way easily with a definitive crash. He drew his gun, looked back at me, Faye, and Ted, gestured to the team behind us to get them to stay put, then ventured inside. I swallowed and took Faye's hand in mine. It was cold and pale, like Faye. My wife's hand was when she died. We went inside and found Anne and Vince Lockwood.

First, we found more black flowers. Not roses, but still, black as midnight. Petals shaped like that of a sunflower, only longer. They grew in abundance from a central mass of vegetation, in the center of which we found the Lockwoods. The plant had assimilated into their bodies, so completely that at first it was hard to spot them. They were barely recognizable as human.

They had become a thin, stretched membrane-like mass of skin, veins, tissue, hair, and plant matter. The vines burst out of this membrane like intestines, and I could see that over the course of many years, they had taken bits and pieces of the lockwoods and distributed them across their rapid, expanding network of growth. An age-spotted hand, fused with a glossy green leaf the size of a dinner plate, trembled to the left of us, fingers opening and closing uselessly. Over to the right, an ear grew in the center of a flower, and inside another flower I saw a tongue flapping around listlessly in the fetid, humid air of the potty shed. The noise it made was

obscene, a sound I'll never forget. Human teeth, long and yellow, lined the stem of a tendril by my right elbow. On the floor, not two yards from where I stood, a distorted, gnarled, old foot disappeared into the ground, as if kicking its way down and out of this hell. Sheriff shook his head, mesmerized and horrified by what lay before us. Ted wiped. Ted wiped a hand across his mouth, making quiet, retching noises into his fingers. Faye just stood there. Her cold, clammy hand gripping mind so tight I thought she would break all my fingers on my hand.

But I didn't feel it. I couldn't feel and missing years. Twenty years is a long time in the life of a plant. It's a long time over which to systematically deconstruct two huge. human beings and rearranged them organically. I understood now what Mr. Lockwood had been doing in his shed. He had been trying to create a new species, only not a species of plant. He had spliced human matter with organic matter. He had given himself and his wife too to the foliage. It was a form of suicide, I guess. Only, oh, oh God, only the Lockwoods weren't dead, you see. We found this out when

we heard a low moaning coming from the center of this tissue mass. It was a vaguely feminine, throaty, rasping moan, faint at first, then louder and louder. We froze and scanned the shed. We to locate the source of it, and found what was left of Anne Lockwood's skull, upon which the lower half of her face was still visible just about, was still connected to a tongue, and that tongue somehow was still connected to a set of functioning vocal cords. After that, I lost track of what was human and what wasn't. All I knew was that Anne Lockwood, or what remained of her, was moaning, a long, drawn out, pained moan. Faye burst into panicked, wretched tears, and grabbed the gun from sheriff's hand. Without hesitation, she fired it at what she could find

of her grandmother's skull, over and over again, round after round. It shattered in a spurted in a splattering mess of sap and brain matter. The moans stopped, and Faye said something incoherent, then fainted. I scooped her into my arms and carried her out of that place. I pushed through the circle of shocked, white-suited men and took her back across the newly cleared lawn. I lay her down on the terrace. Then I lay down on the ground next to her, taking huge breaths of air into my lungs.

And I thought about Louise. thought about her dying and her last words to me. It doesn't hurt, she said, blowing bubbles of blood through her lips as she spoke. Don't worry, darling, it doesn't hurt. She lied to me with her last breath, because that's what you do when you love someone. Today I wrote my last letter to my dead wife. It's funny, but I didn't think I would have a reason to be grateful for much after she died. But seeing what became of the Lockwoods made me grateful somehow. My wife didn't die an easy death. I was there.

I saw. She died in pain. But she died. How can I say this? It felt natural somehow. People die in car accidents all the time. It's brutal, but it's a truth we can cope. with eventually. A fact of life. A shitty one, but a fact nonetheless. But the Lockwoods? Nothing about

that was natural. Nothing about that was a recognized fact of life. It was a twisted, artificial design, a type of life and death that had no business on this earth. So, yeah, in a strange way, I felt somehow better about Louise's death since that day in Norfolk Manor. When Faye woke up, I took her away from Norfolk Manor. I took her back to mine, wrapped her in a clean blanket, and put her to bed. She slept for hours. And when she woke up, we talked for hours. Hours turned into days, and we kept on talking.

Like we were both making up for all the time we'd spent alone, talking to no one. The days turned into weeks, and she didn't leave, and I was okay with that. And what of the house, the gardens, the lockwoods? Faye had the whole place bulldozed in the end, the manor house, everything. She sold the land to developers, and they poured concrete over everything within days of arriving on site. And me, I'm moving. I need a new start. I told Louise about it in my last letter.

I told her about Faye, too. I think she would have liked her. I think she'd be happy that I found someone. And so now I have this box of letters I wrote. I'm going to bury the whole thing out on the edge of the Norfolk Manor Estate, away from the bulldozers, in the woods, near where our den used to be. Faye is going to join me. Anne Lockwood's diamond ring will go into the box with the letters.

And the whole lot will go into an unmarked grave, ready for us to dig up in the future, if we ever feel strong enough to do so. Then we're going to climb into my Jeep and head off. Where? I don't know. But it will be new and free of memories. For both of us. It's time to press eject and end the show. We thank you for letting us perform.

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