The Flowers of Evil

A short horror story for writers

The Flowers of Evil

Ovilia Benoit-Rentworth was a good writer. Not published yet, but there was still time. She scrolled through the titles in her portfolio. There were some great short stories there, surely? She'd worked hard on her ‘voice’ and was now producing some achingly beautiful prose, she felt. And her poems, they were tightly packed dynamite, charged with heartfelt sentiments and profound revelations about the human condition. It's just that AuthorCorner.com seemed to be full of wannabe writers who couldn't appreciate the quality of her work.

Another review of her latest poem, “Abandoned Heart,” had been posted. Ok, let's hope for better luck with this one, she thought as she clicked on the link. But again, another minimum-length critique showing no recognition of the depth and scope of her work, hastily written, with the sole objective of boosting the writer's points score.

Perhaps poetry wasn't her strong suit after all? No, she mustn't let the doubts back in. They were inspiration killers. It was because of the doubts that she was blocked again. Her novella “Trysts in the Vineyard” had been stuck at the same stage for six months. Her beautiful young heroine, Madeleine De La Croix, could have no plausible reason to reject the advances of the dashingly handsome Count De Villeneuve. Yet without that friction, where was the story?

Inspiration—it's all about inspiration, she thought, looking out through the Georgian windows across the wide expanse of lawn. The foxgloves and the hollyhocks stood proud and stately against the brick wall, swaying slightly in the summer breeze. Wisteria, clematis, and passion flower cascaded untidily over the swing seat. She made a mental note to ask Will the gardener to trim it back. Perhaps he'd get his son Taylor to do it. If it was a hot day, he might even take his shirt off.

Taylor was, she couldn't deny, her inspiration for Count De Villeneuve: noble features, piercing blue eyes, and thick dark wavy hair. The outdoor work had given his broad back and shoulders a deep tan, and his strong muscular arms and chest were covered with just the right amount of manly hair.

She shook her head to dispel the image. And tried to focus on the blank first page of chapter six. Perhaps a walk might help, she thought.

There are plenty of pleasant footpaths in Surrey, but her favoured dog-walking location was around the lake at Virginia Water—a drive but worth it, especially on such a beautiful sunny day. Gerard, her beloved shih tzu, jumped eagerly into the Range Rover.

Her phone connected to the car Bluetooth.
“Call Charlotte,” she said as she pulled out of the drive.
“Hey Sis!” answered a tired-sounding voice.
“Charlie darling, I'm taking Gerrard to the lake; wanna come? Bring Frodo; we could lunch.”

There was a pause before Charlie answered. “Another time hon, not feeling great today. Missed a couple of pills over the last few days; I think it's catching up with me.”

“Aw, poor you,” said Olivia with exaggerated sympathy. “Ok babe, feel better, see you soon, love you, ciao!”

Despite having been to the parlour less than a week previously, Gerrard still insisted on going in and getting all muddy. She called and booked another appointment on the way home.

To cheer herself up, she stopped off at the garden centre and bought a couple of houseplants and a shrub with vivid yellow-green foliage to go on the patio, thinking, A bit of that might brighten up my floral arrangements. I've got to up my game there; I'm sick of Dianne Madder-Brown always taking gold.

When Simon's electric Bentley crept up the drive, making no sound but the crunching of gravel, she still hadn't written a word.

“Hi, Darling, how was your day?” He said cheerily as he came in.
“Rather difficult, I'm afraid.”
“Oh really? What's up?” His voice carried genuine concern but no surprise.
“I'm struggling with my craft.”
“Oh dear, still creatively constipated?” He chuckled.
“Urgh, Simon, don't be vulgar,” she chided.
“Sorry, darling. I'm sure something will turn up to get those juices flowing. Did the gardener come today?”
“Why would you ask that?” she snapped. ”You know he comes Mondays and Thursdays.”
“It’s just, I don't remember that shrub being there, that's all.”
“Oh, I picked it up from the garden centre today. I got those two pot plants too,” she indicated the plants on the windowsill.

Simon strolled over to show interest. Hmm, this one doesn't look too happy,” he said. “Looks like it's on its last legs.”

“What do you mean?” She joined him at the windowsill.

“OMG! That's so strange! They were both really healthy-looking when I bought them. It must be a disease of some kind. You might as well put in the green wheelie bin, Si, would you? Before it infects any of the others.”
“Why should I do it?” complained Simon.
“Because I've got more important things to think about.” snapped Olivia, sitting back down at her laptop.

Four days later, Madeleine and the Count were still in limbo. Olivia had decided to make a dauphinoise and was depositing the potato peelings in the green bin when she let out a little yelp of surprise. The discarded pot plant, which had looked so shrivelled and brown, had transformed into a vigorous-looking and much larger organism, its pale, crooked stems wound and coiled round the interior of the bin. Its long, dagger-shaped leaves were a sickly green bordered with ruffles of purple-black and mottled with burgundy blotches.

Olivia prided herself on her botanical knowledge, but she'd never seen a plant like it. How had it grown so much in such a short time—and in the dark!

Curious, she took a closer look. The stems and the underside of the leaves were covered with short glassy-looking hairs, which reminded her of stinging nettles, so she fetched her gardening gloves from the shed before retrieving it from the bin.

She took some snaps, but apparently even Google Lens had no idea what it was either.

My God, this must be rare; I bet Dianne Madder-Brown doesn't have one of these. I bet she's never even seen one. If it flowers, I could incorporate it into an arrangement. That would put her nose out of joint.

She placed it near the dining room window, but within hours it had started to wither again. Must be the light; it doesn't like the light, she thought. I'll put it in the study with the blinds drawn.

Here the plant quickly recovered, and over the next two weeks it doubled in size. She considered supporting it with bamboo sticks, but it seemed to happily adhere to the wall by means of tiny filaments. Spiralling tendrils sprouted from the stem, curling round anything it came into contact with. It was the most fascinating plant she'd ever seen, but no amount of research would reveal its name.

I really can't decide whether it's really ugly or exotically beautiful, she thought. It's special, I know that; whoever heard of a plant that will only grow in the dark?

Its direction of growth was unpredictable. Its speed of growth was exhilarating. Olivia began to feel a certain pride in her uniquely rare and exotic plant. She liked special things, not mundane mediocre things. It had a strange energy in the way it snaked its way across the wall and ceiling. It was different, like her. A survivor, like her, and she felt very comfortable with the blinds drawn, sitting in the light of her laptop screen as she pondered the fates of her MCs.

“Oh alright, have it your way,” she said after trying to prune it back to something less wild. The plant had hissed and bubbled at the secateur's cut. Spitting out a pungent-smelling sap. “I'm only trying to help.” An email pinged into her inbox; she glanced back at her computer. Another review? No, it was from Charlie, probably just another long-winded email bemoaning her problems. I'll read it when I'm not so busy.

It was three days later when Simon had left for work and Olivia went to the study as usual that, on entering, she was met with a powerful fragrance, rich and earthy like cigar tobacco with a strong note of bitter dark chocolate tinged with a spicy aroma. This heady, almost overwhelming, atmosphere pervaded the whole room. Olivia breathed in deeply; it was intoxicating. Transporting her away to far-off lands of romance, mystery, and passionate adventures.

Looking up at the dense foliage, she gasped at the sight of dozens of darkly beautiful blooms. Velvety purple-black, as silky and delicate as the petals of a poppy but as large as saucers. A mist of tiny luminous particles of pollen drifted around the spear-shaped stamen, which curved in a loving caress of the vulvar stigma.

“I knew you were special,” whispered Olivia. A visceral thrill tingled through her, and a warming sensation pulsed in her loins.

“Oh my god!” The glowing pollen raced around her. Suddenly she knew with a certainty she'd never before experienced how to release the greatness inside her. “I have to write,” she said, firing up her laptop.

Ten minutes later she read from the screen the few lines that had come to her:

The Secret Life of the Porcupine

Always walking wide of friends
Is one of the skills
You acquire with quills.
Pointed both ends

The intoxication faded, and she was left staring at the strange words, which meant nothing to her. There was no beauty there. It was clunky and amateurish. Who the hell writes poems about porcupines?

But the more she read it, the deeper it seemed to resonate. At least it says something, she reasoned. Something about me, perhaps? Suddenly she felt exhausted. She saved the odd little ditty to her portfolio and went to the kitchen for a cappuccino.

The next morning she was awoken early by an almost continuous barrage of email alerts.

“What the hell's all that about?” grumbled Simon from under the duvet.

Olivia fumbled for her phone on the bedside table and peered bleary-eyed at the screen.

“Notifications from AuthorCorner about a silly poem I wrote,” she said.

“Saying what? Have you breached their decency guidelines again?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Simon,” she snorted. “No, actually, I've won an award! My poem was nominated for the short sharp poem award, and it actually won! Apparently someone put it on Facebook, and now it's being shared. There's a clothing company here that wants to put it on T-shirts!”

“That's really cool. Well done, babe. What's it about?”

“Make me a coffee, would you?”

Later, it was with renewed confidence that Olivia entered the plant's domain. The air was still thick with the redolence of the blooms, which had now taken on a barely discernible rotting odour.
She took several deep breaths, and without a thought in her head, she began to type.

There was no anxiety, no self-doubt. The story of Count De Villeneuve and Madeleine De La Croix told itself. She just followed the characters as they took on a life of their own and led her through dramatic developments, surprising twists and towards a suspenseful and poignant denouement.

The feeling was ecstatic. This was creativity in its essence. A psychological and physical, endorphin-fuelled thrill warmed her from inside. A state of freedom and power. Her hand slid between her legs.

The phone rang. Charlie’s name appeared on its screen. She rejected the call and continued her frantic typing. It rang again. “Not now, Charlie!” she said, pushing the reject button again. The third time it rang, she snatched it up and turned it off. This was no time for interruptions. After so many months of stagnation, her creativity was flowing again. She didn't eat, rest, or even take a toilet break until it was done. She looked at the clock; it was two thirty in the morning. Exhausted, she staggered upstairs to bed, where Simon lay snoring.

Dr. Amherst touched the white marble headstone of Charlotte Benoit's grave. He cared about his patients. This visit was his personal act of respect and closure. He wondered how it could be that no one was there to help her in that desperate hour. A large bouquet of almost black flowers adorned the grave. He bent down to read the card, which said “Sorry” and was signed “Porcupine.”