The Gardener's Girls

Chapter3

For a long moment after the lock clicked shut, the silence in the cellar was louder than the screams had been. It was a thick, suffocating silence, heavy with the coppery scent of fresh blood. Lila remained frozen, her back pressed against the wall, her mind a blank, howling void. Her gaze was fixed on the crumpled form of Iris on the floor. It didn’t seem real. The human body wasn't supposed to fold like that, to lie so still. A moment ago, Iris had been fury and defiance, a living flame. Now, she was just… a thing. An object in a rapidly expanding pool of crimson.

The spell was broken not by a sound, but by movement. Rose and Poppy pushed themselves away from each other, their faces pale and void of expression. They moved with a chilling, synchronized grace, like dancers in a macabre ballet they had performed countless times before. There were no tears, no gasps of horror. There was only a quiet, grim acceptance that Lila found more terrifying than any scream.

Rose walked to a small cupboard beneath the kitchen sink and retrieved a large, folded black bag, a bucket, and a mop. Poppy went to the bathroom and returned with an armful of cleaning supplies and a stack of old rags. They laid the items on the floor with a soft, deliberate precision. A ritual. This was a ritual.

Lila’s stomach heaved. "What… what are you doing?" she whispered, the words scraping her raw throat.

Rose didn’t look at her. She was on her knees, carefully unfolding the long, black vinyl bag next to Iris’s body. "We have to clean up," she said, her voice a flat monotone. "He hates a mess."

The sheer, insane domesticity of the statement shattered something inside Lila. He hates a mess. A girl was dead on the floor, her life extinguished in a fit of rage, and their concern was tidiness. The blood drained from Lila’s face as a horrifying realization washed over her. How many times have they done this? The empty vase on the table wasn't just for her; it was a permanent fixture, always waiting for the next "blossom" to replace one that had been pruned.

"Help me with her," Rose said to Poppy, gesturing towards Iris’s body.

Together, they took hold of the dead girl. Poppy took her shoulders, Rose her legs. They struggled. Dead weight was an anchor, heavy and uncooperative. Iris’s head lolled to the side, her dark hair matted with blood. Lila wanted to scream, to look away, but she was paralyzed, a spectator to this grotesque desecration. She couldn’t bring herself to help, couldn’t bring her hands to touch the still-warm skin of the girl who had been murdered for defending her. Guilt, sharp and venomous, mingled with the terror.

They managed to lift her, their movements clumsy but efficient, and carefully laid her inside the open body bag. Poppy gently folded Iris’s arms over her chest and brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. For a fleeting second, it looked like an act of tenderness, a final goodbye. Then Rose zipped the bag shut with a long, final zzzzzzip, sealing away the last remnants of the girl named Iris. A plastic shield now separated the living from the dead.

"Goodbye," Poppy whispered, placing a hand over the spot where Iris’s heart would be.

Lila watched in horror as they stood up and grabbed the bucket and mop. They were really going to do it. They were going to erase her.

The water in the bucket quickly turned a sickening shade of pink as Poppy submerged the sponge mop. Lila’s stomach turned violently when Poppy lifted the mop to rinse it; a string of blood stretched between the floor and the sponge before dripping back down. A horribly strong, metallic smell filled the air. She gagged, pressing her fist against her mouth to stifle the sound.

As quickly as the blood had poured onto the floor, it was gone. They were fast but terrifyingly thorough, not a single spot was left unclean. They moved in perfect sync, one scrubbing with a bleach-soaked rag while the other mopped away the residue. They worked around the black bag in the corner of the room, an obscene centerpiece in their cleaning efforts.

If it weren’t for that bag, you would never know that a person had been brutally murdered in this room just minutes ago. That was the scariest, most horrific thing Lila had ever witnessed—the casual, practiced efficiency of it all. They weren’t mopping up a crime scene; they were cleaning up a spill.

When they were finished, they put the cleaning supplies away, and the cellar once again smelled of lemons and bleach. The air was sterile, clean, as if trying to deny the atrocity that had just occurred.

Rose finally looked at Lila, her eyes holding a deep, weary sadness. "He'll be back after he's showered. To get the body."

Lila found her voice, though she didn’t recognize the hoarse, trembling sound as her own. "How many? How many people has he… has he k-killed?" She held her breath, waiting for the answer she already dreaded.

Rose lowered her head. "Since I've been here," she began, her voice barely audible, "he has killed eight."

Lila shook her head in disbelief, a fresh wave of nausea washing over her. Eight people. That many. "What? How does he get away with it?"

"The girls he chooses… they're usually runaways, living on the streets. If no one notices they're missing, then no one looks for them," Rose said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It was such a normal, human gesture in this moment of absolute insanity. "I had a fight with my family when I was sixteen. I left home shortly after my eighteenth birthday. I’d been living in hostels for ten months when the Gardener found me. I've been here almost three years."

Tears trickled down Lila’s face, dropping onto her lap. Three years. This girl had been trapped in this hell for three years. "Please don't cry, Lily," Rose said, her voice attempting a comforting tone that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "It’s not that bad down here."

Not that bad? The words echoed in Lila’s mind, a symphony of madness. He had kidnapped them. He was keeping them locked in his cellar. He would assault them when the mood struck him, and if they dared to fight back, he would kill them without a second thought. How the hell was that not that bad?

"Please don't look at me like that, Lily," Rose said, misinterpreting Lila’s stunned silence. "I know what you're thinking, but if you do what he says, everything will be fine. He'll treat you well."

"Apart from when he murders us, you mean!" Lila snapped, the words erupting from her in a burst of horrified anger.

Rose flinched. "Don't say that in front of him," she warned, her voice dropping again.

Lila looked away from her. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. How could Rose think any part of this was okay? She couldn't have always been like this. There must have been a time when she hated him as much as Lila did right now. How long did it take? How long until the horror became routine, until the monster became just a part of the family?

Poppy and Rose moved to the kitchen area and began talking in hushed voices. Lila didn’t try to listen; she knew they were talking about her, the new, fragile blossom who still didn’t understand the rules of the garden. Her heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest. She was so terrified of him coming back.

Someone will find me. The thought was a desperate prayer. She wasn't from the streets. She had a family. Friends. A life. People would know she was missing. The police would be called. They would start searching. She wondered who would be the first to realize she was gone. Her parents when she didn't return home? Or her friends, when she didn't answer their calls?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push away the image of her mother’s heartbroken face. She couldn't even begin to think about her father. Gulping down the rising lump in her throat, she pressed her fingernails into the palm of her hand. Don't cry. Don't let him see you cry.

A noise at the cellar door made her jump. Her heart leaped into her throat and her stomach turned over. He was coming back. She couldn’t hear anything until the handle turned and the door was pushed open. The air left her lungs as if she’d been punched. The door was soundproof. They couldn’t hear anything out there, and no one could hear them scream.

Rose stood up and walked to the bottom of the stairs to meet him. How could she stand to be anywhere near him?

He had showered and changed. He now wore a clean sweater and looked refreshed, as if he'd just returned from a pleasant walk. He scanned the spotless room, his gaze lingering for a moment on the black bag in the corner before he smiled. It was a calm, satisfied smile.

"I'm ordering pizza for dinner," he announced, his voice cheerful. "I think we all deserve a treat tonight. And we need to welcome our new blossom to the family properly."

Lila’s stomach turned again. Family. What the hell was wrong with him? He turned to her and smiled, his eyes warm and inviting. "We usually get two margheritas and a pepperoni. Is that okay with you? I can order something else if you'd like."

She stared at him in utter shock. Was he seriously discussing dinner plans while Iris's dead body was lying five feet away in a plastic bag? He was sick. Evil. Twisted. She didn't want to talk to him, ever. Poppy nudged her discretely, a silent, urgent prompt to answer him. Taking a shaky breath, Lila managed to reply. "T-that's fine."

He beamed. "Perfect. I knew you would fit in well. I'll go and order now. It won't be long."

Without another word, he bent down and scooped Iris’s body into his arms. It was clear from the strain on his face that the bag was heavy. He pressed his lips together in a firm line and walked slowly up the stairs with her. The cellar door had been unlocked the whole time he was down here.

Lila watched in horror as the door closed behind him and the lock clicked into place. "W-what?" she mumbled, her eyes stinging from being too stunned to blink. This was a dream. It had to be. Things like this didn't happen to real people.

Poppy’s voice was a soft whisper beside her. "It's going to be okay."

Lila closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The only way this could ever be okay was if she got out. Soon. She felt so sick. The thought of eating made her want to throw up. There was no way she would be able to eat pizza. The images ran through her mind on a loop: the gleaming knife, Iris’s choked cry, the blood pumping from the wound, the pink water in the bucket.

She sobbed and curled her arms around her legs. "Shh, don't cry." Poppy soothed, rubbing her back.

"I want to go home," she cried, hiccupping as she tried to catch her breath.

"You need to forget everyone," Poppy said, her voice gentle but firm. "It'll be easier. I have."

"I can't," Lila wept. "I need them."