The Gardener's Girls

Chapter7

Lila

The body lay on the floor, a broken doll in a growing pool of crimson. The air was thick with the coppery, metallic smell of blood, a scent so overwhelming it coated the back of Lila’s throat and made her stomach heave. She stood frozen, her back pressed against the cold wall, her mind a screaming void. Rose and Poppy were already moving.

They didn’t cry. They didn’t gasp. They moved with a chilling, practiced efficiency that was more terrifying than any scream could ever be. It was a ritual. A chore. They were janitors in a slaughterhouse.

Poppy walked silently to a low cupboard beneath the sink and pulled out a long, black, zippered bag, laying it on the floor with a soft plastic sigh. Rose returned with a bucket, a mop, and a collection of cleaning sprays. They moved in perfect, horrific synchrony, their faces blank masks of resignation.

“We have to…,” Rose began, her voice low and steady, but she didn’t look at Lila. She couldn’t. “We have to clean up before he comes back for her.”

Her. Not a body. Not a mess. Her. She had a name, a life, a story that had just been violently extinguished on their floor. And they were going to mop her up like a spilled drink.

Lila’s entire body trembled. “I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “I can’t touch her.”

“You have to,” Poppy said, her voice surprisingly firm, though her hands were shaking as she unzipped the body bag. “He gets angry if there’s a mess. He gets angry if we don’t help.”

The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Their survival depended on their complicity. They had to desecrate the dead to stay among the living.

The sight of them approaching the body finally broke Lila’s paralysis. A wave of nausea so powerful it buckled her knees washed over her, and she stumbled towards the bathroom, her hand clamped over her mouth. She barely made it to the toilet before she was violently sick, retching until her stomach was empty and her throat burned. She knelt on the cold tile, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the sweat on her skin.

When she finally emerged, her legs weak and unsteady, the scene had transformed. The girl was gone, sealed away inside the black bag that now lay by the stairs like a grotesque piece of luggage. Rose was on her hands and knees, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the floor with a small brush, her movements precise and relentless. Poppy was wringing out the mop into the bucket; the water was a sickening shade of pink. The overpowering smell of blood was being slowly replaced by the sharp, chemical scent of bleach and lemon cleaner.

If it weren’t for the black bag in the corner, you would never know that a life had been brutally taken in this room just minutes ago. That was the most horrific thing of all—the erasure. The speed with which they could restore the cellar to its pristine, sterile state, as if nothing had ever happened.

"He'll be back," Poppy said, her voice flat, as she rinsed the mop head. "After he's showered. He’ll come for the bag."

The idea of him showering, calmly washing the blood from his skin while they cleaned up his crime, sent another shiver of revulsion through Lila.

She looked from Rose’s determined scrubbing to Poppy’s vacant stare. They weren't monsters. They were survivors. They had been doing this for so long that the horror had been calloused over, leaving behind only the dull ache of routine. How many times had they done this? How many girls had been placed in those black bags? The thought was a black hole that threatened to swallow her whole. She sank onto the sofa, wrapping her arms around her legs, and watched them work, a silent, horrified spectator to a ritual she knew, with a dawning and soul-crushing certainty, she would soon be forced to join.

The Gardener

Loneliness was a terminal disease. With every passing day, you died a little bit more. Arthur had felt as if he were dying for years, and he had had enough.

He stood under the spray of the shower, the water as hot as he could stand it, scrubbing his skin until it was raw. The germs. He could still feel them, a phantom crawling on his skin, the filth of that woman, her blood, her terror. It was a contamination, a stain on his world that had to be washed away. Dirty. Unclean. Mother would be so ashamed.

His heart rate finally began to slow as he watched the last of the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. He was clean again. The cool air hit his stinging skin as he stepped out of the shower, but the pain was a welcome, purifying sensation. He dried himself with a fresh, white towel and dressed in a clean, perfectly ironed set of clothes. The house was silent, just as he liked it. Orderly. Controlled.

He walked into his mother’s old room. He kept it exactly as she had left it. The floral bedspread, the antique vanity, the faint, lingering scent of her rosewater perfume. It was a shrine to a better time, a time of purity and order, before the world had tainted everything. A single, perfect white rose sat in a crystal vase on her bedside table. He replaced it every two days, before it could show the slightest sign of wilting. Decay was an enemy.

He looked at the portrait of her that hung above the bed. Her face was severe, her eyes hard, but in them, he saw the righteousness he had inherited. She had taught him about the filth in the world. She had shown him what happened when men were weak, when women were impure. His father had been weak, and the resulting chaos had destroyed their perfect family. His mother had spent the rest of her life trying to restore order, and now, it was his duty to continue her work.

He wasn’t a killer. He was a cleanser. A gardener, tending to a world overrun with weeds. The women he brought home, the prostitutes, the cheats—they were weeds. They choked the life out of good, decent families. They spread their poison, their moral decay. He wasn't just killing them; he was pruning the garden of humanity, allowing the true flowers to thrive.

And his blossoms, his girls in the cellar—they were the most beautiful flowers of all. He was protecting them, keeping them safe from the filth of the outside world. He was cultivating a new family, a perfect family, one built on purity, obedience, and order. Rose, Poppy, Violet… they understood. They had been with him for years. They knew the rules. They appreciated the sanctuary he had built for them.

This new one, though… Lily. She was still wild. There was a fire in her eyes, a defiance in the set of her jaw. He had seen it when he gave her the flowers. It was beautiful, in its own way, like a wild rose thorny and untamed. But it needed to be cultivated. She needed to learn that the thorns of rebellion were not welcome in his garden. She would learn. They all did.

He walked downstairs and made himself a cup of tea, his movements calm and precise. The police would find the body, eventually. But it wouldn’t matter. It would be another Jane Doe, another piece of human refuse washed up on the shores of the city. No one would connect it to him. Arthur Collins, the quiet accountant who kept to himself. No one would ever suspect that his house was a greenhouse for a perfect, captive family.

He thought of Lewis, Lila’s fiancé. He had seen him on the news, his face a mask of anguish. Arthur felt a flicker of something that might have been pity, but it was quickly replaced by contempt. If Lewis had truly loved her, he would have protected her. He wouldn’t have let her walk home alone in the dark. He had failed her. He was weak, like his father. Arthur had not failed her. He had saved her.

He finished his tea and rinsed the cup, placing it neatly in the dishwasher. It was time. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and went to the cellar door. They would be finished by now. They were good girls. They knew their chores. He unlocked the door and descended the stairs to collect the trash.