Where Dead Flowers Grow

i. The Girl and the Gallows

AUTUMN sunlight bathed the table in a comforting, buttery glow, warming Anna’s bare arms. But even today the warmth was not enough to steer the chill from her bones. Annabel Young could feel the beginnings of the Fever start to take hold. It was hard to concentrate to what her customers were saying and she tried to laugh and smile and nod whenever appropriate but her mind was foggy and slow. Her palms were slick with sweat and she could feel her body tremble with every gust of wind through the open door. She had tried to calm herself with a bite of blueberry cake but it did nothing to soothe her knotted stomach. 

Every inch of her felt electric, her head was pounding and her tongue felt like sandpaper. It was silly to come in today, but she needed the money and her boss was starting to get suspicious of her erratic behaviour. 

Four hours, she thought, four hours until I can lock myself away from the world. 

Four hours with the Fever felt like an eternity. 

With the season coming to an end, business was slow. There were a few regulars like Mr. Peters’ who had (once again) forgotten his wife’s birthday, or Edgar the coffee-shop-owner from across the street who was looking forward to a date night. But there was little she could do to keep her mind busy. Anna flitted through the store like an unrestful butterfly, arranging and re-arranging displays, shifting jars and vases, playing with the gift wrap and watering the flowers until they began to wilt and drown. She was surrounded by a sea of orange and yellows and caramel browns. Pumpkins of all shapes and sizes had been placed neatly along the window ledges and paper bats hanging from the ceiling danced on the breeze. This used to be her favourite time of year. Annabel adored the costumes and festivities, toffee apples and ‘fright nights’ held by the local farmer’s market back home. That was before the accident. Before the lake-house. Before she became a thing that went bump in the night. 

Edgar had been kind enough to leave her a mug of hot chocolate and she leaned against the counter taking tentative sips. It warmed her insides and soothed her jangled nerves. Every so often she’d smear cream across her top lip and would use the corner of her apron to dab it off. The scolding liquid was almost enough to make her forget about the full moon. It was almost enough to make her forget she was anywhere other than home. 

She’d managed to save thirty dollars this month to send back. Anna hoped it would be enough. A few days ago she decided to take a detour through Central Park. Waves of amber-coloured leaves danced on the breeze against a backdrop of ice blue glass and steel skyscrapers. If she let herself, just for a moment, forget about who she was and where she had come from, she could picture quite a happy life in New York. She treated herself to a paper bag full of roasted nuts and a postcard of Coney Island to send to her brother. The Big Apple was much like she had dreamed of when she was a kid. There was always something happening, always someone new to meet, always some exciting adventure to discover. 

Here, Young and Foolish Anna could have had it all. 

 Her illusion would come crushing down around her when she reached the threshold to her apartment. Floral wallpaper clad the walls with strips falling off in ribbons. She could still smell the former owner on the air, beneath the stench of mildew and dust. What little furniture she did own were falling apart at the seams, with springs clawing through fabric, rickety island stools and flaking yellow cabinets that clashed with the horrible 1930s decor. An old, rusting fridge which no longer worked was propped open in the corner of the kitchenette, surrounded by industrial chains and padlocks. (Anna had become very good at locking herself away during the Change). Candles filled every surface, their flickering flames the only source of light she could afford. She hadn’t had a warm shower since the fortnight she’d spent in Roanoke, Virginia, nearly seven months ago.