Page 8 of A Secret In The Garden

A scream ripped from my throat, but it came out airy and soundless as I launched myself backward onto the moss-covered stone path. My eyes closed from the jolt to my backside, and when they opened again, they found nothing—the misty figure was gone.

I remained still, afraid to move and unsure what to think.

But I knew what I saw…didn’t I?

I wondered if there was some sort of gas in there that was causing me to hallucinate. There was no smell of gas, but suddenly there was a faint soapy scent of aldehydes in the air that blended into a familiar burst of citrus, jasmine, and rose that wasn’t there before.

Chanel No.5.

My aunt Louise, my mom’s wealthy older sister, used to wear it to our house, and my mom would complain about the lingering scent for days.

Mystified, I sat in terrified silence, unsure of what to do. The minutes stretched on, and I convinced myself that the sun reflecting off the glass had caught my eye in a…unique and odd way.

Albeit reluctantly, I continued working, moving from plant to plant, cataloging what was salvageable in my notebook with a loose sketch of my guess at what each area looked like in its prime. I took several soil samples and placed them in small plastic bags along the way. The sense of being watched didn’t go away. It only grew stronger, creeping over my skin and into my blood. I tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the task at hand, terrified to look around too much, but the feeling didn’t lessen, only making me jumpier by the hour.

I could feel time stretching before me as the sunlight outside began to turn deep orange.

I couldn’t help but think of the conversation with Jasper earlier this week. His challenge. His…offer.

“You’ll do it alone,” he had said. “I don’t want anyone else touching these plants or taking up space on my property.”

At the time, his words had seemed like an insult, but now, in the silent hours of the conservatory, I could almost understand why he said it.

This place felt cursed, like something secret was locked behind its walls.

I pushed through the thoughts and focused on what I was doing and on the corpse flower. That was my goal. I needed to save it. I needed to make sure it survived…that we both survived this place. As soon as I could ask about the cell service, I would send Lithgow the photos and get some help.

The more I worked, the more I realized this place was more than just a ruin. It was a labyrinth of life and death, each plant I touched able to tell a story, each vine clinging to its memories. The plants here were survivors.

I thought back to my family, to my father’s bored gaze, my mother’s obsession. I wasn’t here to fix anything with them. But if I could make this place thrive again, if I could bring these plants back from the brink, maybe I could finally prove to myself that I didn’t need their approval to survive.

A chill trickled over the back of my neck. I felt the presence of the ghost return like the weighted black shadow of an eclipse claiming the sun. My eyes immediately pinched shut and I prepared to see the woman in the red dress again, every nerve in my body screaming with fear.

A shadow moved through the far corner of the glass room, dark and tall, not a ghost, but a human.

For a flicker of a second, I was relieved to see another person—until I realized it was Jasper Blackwood. My heart pounded faster than it did at the sight of the woman. I didn’t know when he entered or how long he’d been standing around, watching. He hadn’t said a word. He just watched.

His eyes on me were heavy and intense. I tried not to look at him, to keep my attention on the plants, but his presence was like a physical force. And it immediately stirred a spooked irritation within me.

“Everything all right?” His voice broke the silence, but it was cold, detached.

I didn’t answer right away, unsure of what to say. I wanted to appear tough and unbothered, but more than that, I wanted to ask about what I thought I’d seen, but with things already tense, I didn’t. I just nodded, keeping my eyes on the plants in front of me.

Was there any possible way the rumors of victims haunting the premises were true? But that was ridiculous. Did I even believe in ghosts? I’d never had to think about it before; the beings that haunted my life were still very much alive. My good senses firmly told me: no, I didn’t believe in spirits trapped on earth, mostly because I could hear my mother telling me how foolish and silly it was to believe in spirits, ghosts, whatever you wanted to call them.

I hadn’t really eaten anything that day and with the stress of everything, all alone in an eerie manor, whose imagination wouldn’t have bled into their reality a little?

He was still watching me. I could feel the pressure on the back of my head like a sight from one of Blackwood Industries’ rifles. His presence made the shadows lurking seem darker. Suddenly every hair that brushed against my arm, every leaf that skimmed against me wound my tension even higher until I could have screamed from the weird energy passing between us.

“Are you sure you should be cutting all of that off?”

He was referring to a wild clump of climbing black velvet ivy that had gone absolutely feral, choking out everything else in the bed.

I immediately second-guessed myself before bristling in frustration at my reaction and reaffirming, “Yes, I should be.” My nerves were heightened in his presence, and I was a little frightened. There was something about him that made the little muscles in my stomach jump and tighten. I wasn’t even looking at him, but I could feel his volatile, coiled aura. Goose bumps took over my skin like tiny spiders crawling across the top of my forearms.

“The broken panes will be getting replaced next week. I thought you’d like to know,” he said with an annoyed tone to his voice. Like I should crawl over and thank him for fixing up his own building. As if he was doing me a favor by not making me do it.

“You’ll also want to get someone in to fix the water feature and check it for cracks. You should pick out and order some koi for it also,” I said, turning to face him. My stomach clenched even tighter when I looked at him head-on. I had forgotten how good-looking he was. Why did that piss me off even more? Like being rich wasn’t enough, the murdering prick had to be attractive too. Why were all the hot men assholes? Was it because they knew that even if we hated them, they’d still produce that carnal pull, making us want to touch them? Jasper Blackwood was that good-looking but far too intimidating to want to touch. There was something unpredictable and uninviting about him that squelched that desire, despite his modelesque features. Scary prick.