The Gardener's Girls

Chapter2

Night bled into a state that wasn't quite morning. There was no sun, only the artificial hum of the lights overhead flickering to a brighter, harsher setting. The clock on the wall, a simple white circle with black, unforgiving hands, read 7:00 AM. Sleep hadn't been an escape, merely a pause—a series of dark, disjointed nightmares that left Lila feeling more exhausted than before.

The other girls were already moving with a practiced, somber rhythm. Rose was in the kitchen, the scent of toast filling the air, a horrifically domestic smell in this inhuman place. Poppy was methodically making the beds, smoothing out every wrinkle with an obsessive precision that spoke of terror, not tidiness. Iris, however, was a statue of defiance. She sat on the edge of her bed, her back ramrod straight, staring at the steel door with an intensity that burned.

"You need to get ready," Rose said, her voice soft but edged with steel. She didn't look at Iris. "He'll be down for breakfast at eight."

Iris didn't move. "I'm not his doll to be dressed up."

Poppy flinched, her hands freezing over a pillowcase. "Iris, don't. Please."

Lila felt a tremor of fear, sharp and cold. She pushed herself out of bed, her body aching, and accepted the clothes Poppy silently held out to her—a pair of simple jeans and a soft, lilac sweater. They belonged to the previous Lily. The thought made her skin crawl.

She showered quickly in the small, sterile bathroom, the hot water doing little to wash away the feeling of dread. There were no locks on the door. Every detail of this place was designed for absolute control. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale and drawn. She looked like a ghost. Following Rose’s earlier instructions, she ran a brush through her hair and applied a whisper of mascara, feeling sickened by the act. She was preparing herself for her captor.

When she emerged, the scene in the main room was thick with tension. Rose was setting four places at the small dining table. Poppy was arranging slices of toast on a platter. Iris was still on her bed, a coiled spring of rage.

At precisely 8:00 AM, the sound echoed from the top of the stairs—the sharp, metallic click of a lock being undone. Lila’s heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed herself back against the kitchen counter, trying to make herself invisible.

He descended the stairs with an easy, unhurried grace that was utterly terrifying. Today, he wore a simple, well-ironed shirt and trousers. He looked like a kind neighbor, a respected colleague. He was holding a single, perfect white calla lily.

"Good morning, my blossoms," he said, his voice a warm, pleasant baritone. He smiled, a genuine, fatherly smile that made the bile rise in Lila’s throat.

Rose and Poppy murmured their greetings. Lila forced a nod, her throat too tight to speak.

He approached Lila first, the lily held out in front of him. "For our newest blossom," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "To welcome you to the family."

Her hand trembled as she took the flower. The stem was cool and smooth. "Thank you," she managed to whisper.

"Put it in water, dear," he said, his smile never faltering. "We wouldn't want it to wilt." He turned his attention to the room, his gaze sweeping over every surface before it landed on Iris. His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Iris. You're not ready."

It wasn't a question.

Iris stood up, her small frame radiating a furious energy. "This is wrong, and you know it," she said, her voice low but steady. "She's just a girl. You have to let her go."

The warmth vanished from the Gardener's face. It was as if a mask had dropped, revealing the cold, hard stone beneath. He grabbed Iris's arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. She whimpered in pain, but her eyes didn't lose their fire. "You selfish little thing," he growled, his voice a low hiss. "After everything I've done for you. Everything I provide. We are a family!"

Something inside Iris snapped. She lifted her head, her eyes blazing with pure hatred, and spat directly in his face. "We are not a family, you psycho!" she screamed, trying to rip her arm from his grip.

His reaction was instantaneous and horrifying. He shoved her, hard, against the wall. Then he began to gag, clawing at his own face in revulsion. "Get it off me!" he shrieked, his composure utterly shattered. "Filth! Get it off!"

Poppy scrambled for tissues and a bottle of hand sanitizer from a nearby table. She wiped his face with shaking hands while he scrubbed furiously at his skin, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps.

When he was clean, he turned back to Iris. The rage on his face was a terrifying, unholy thing. He pulled a small, gleaming knife from his pocket.

Rose and Poppy flinched in unison. Lila froze, a silent scream trapped in her chest.

"No, please. I'm sorry, please don't," Iris begged, her defiance finally crumbling into terror.

He took a step forward, a cruel, cold smile twisting his lips. He moved with a chilling precision. Lila couldn't see the blade as his back was to her, but she saw his arm thrust forward.

Iris made a choked, gurgling sound and collapsed to the floor.

Lila tried to scream, but the sound died in her throat. Rose and Poppy huddled together, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces masks of horror. She had never seen anyone die before. The metallic scent of blood filled the air.

He turned to face them, his expression one of pure disgust as he looked at the small, growing pool of blood on the floor.

"Clean this up," he ordered, his voice flat and empty. Then, he practically ran up the stairs and slammed the steel door shut, the final click of the lock echoing in the sudden, dreadful silence.