Chapter 2:
Chapter 2. Stillness
The House in the Woods. Book 2. Two sides of the Crown
They never do.
A few chuckles in the back of the mind, sure. Some clever remark about barbed wire bedframes and missing doors.
But they’re fading now.
Thinning. Like smoke.
And once they’re gone, all that’s left is the air.
---
I breathe in.
I breathe out.
No help.
The relief never comes.
The air in here doesn’t move.It presses in like plastic.
A heavy bag drawn over the head.
Not tight enough to suffocate—Just enough to remind you you’re trapped.
I try again.In.
Out.
Still nothing.Just the sound of lungs pretending.
---
I begin to move. Slowly. The kind of slow you’d use underwater. Or in a nightmare.
Or inside a dream that won’t quite let go.
The entire shack feels… thick. Sticky. As if everything is coated in some invisible layer of sap.Every step is a struggle. Every limb resists. Like I’m trespassing in my own body.
---
I sigh.
And even that feels stolen.
‘I really messed up this time.’
---
The thought is soft. Unsharpened.
Not regretful. Not angry.
Just… an old habit returning.A memory, maybe.
Of always screwing up.
The kind of thing you say when your car won’t start. When the stove’s on fire.When you’ve hurt someone you didn’t mean to.
Or maybe something worse.I can’t remember.
But my body does. It’s tired. And it knows the feeling of ruining something beyond repair.
---
creaaaak…
A floorboard behind me shifts. But I didn’t move.
creaaaak…
The sound again.Dry.
Long.
A whimpering bend in the wood.
There’s no rush.
What could be behind me that isn’t worse than what’s in front?
But eventually… I shift.
---
One of the floorboards is bulging.
Pushed up from beneath.
A strange little hump, like something alive trying to stretch under a blanket.
It doesn’t snap.
It breathes.
The wood warps, bends with slow pulses.
Like lungs.
‘Right. Sure. Normal house things.’
Still, I crouch.
Slow again. Sticky again.
No reason not to.
Nothing better to do than gawk at empty mirrors and fake beds.
I press two fingers beneath the board.
I don’t pull.
I just shift the weight.
Let it do the rest.
crrrrk... POP.
It breaks.
The board gives way with a snapping hiss—
And from the split wood…It blooms.
---
A flower.
Monochrome, like everything else.
But its petals glow faint white.
Pale light in the gray.
Soft, slow pulsing.
A Star Lily.
But wrong.
The petals curl outward like slow teeth.
And its thorns…
They move.
They search.
Not random—purposeful.
They reach with gentle flexes like fingers sniffing the air.
They’re looking for me.
‘Oh no.’
'You again.’
---
I know this flower.
I don't know my name.
I don’t know my birthday.
But I know this flower.
A Never After Flower.
I’ve called it that for as long as I can remember—which, granted, isn’t saying much.
Still.
No one argues with the name.
N.A.F.
Clean. Sharp. Sounds like a warning.
And it is.
This thing—Barely half a foot tall, Could kill a man where he stands.
Like a landmine.
A beautiful, blooming, sentient landmine.
And here it is.
Looking at me.
I crouch lower.
The glow bleeds faintly across the floor, pooling on my knees.
The smell hits next—
not rot, not soil, but chemical sweetness, like paper left too long in perfume.
It’s… growing out of the floorboards.
Not through them—from them.
As if the shack itself was the flowerbed, a cradle of rotten planks.
The wood splits just enough to show what lies beneath:
Dark soil. Soft. Fresh.
"Someone Planted this here.
With clear signs of intent, that rules out all accidents.
This is no weed, that Creeps in on Natures beck and call"
No—this thing was tended.
It’s strange to think of someone kneeling on this very floor, pressing seeds into the cracks, waiting for them to bloom.
What kind of person tends to a plant like this?
It’s small.
Half a foot, maybe.
Delicate, at a glance.
The stem is black—pure black.
Not shadowed. Not dark green.
Black.
So dark it reflects light like oil, with a surface that shimmers as if slick with ink.
Droplets form on it.
Fall.
Vanishing before they hit the floor.
The thorns are worse.
They don’t sit still.
They twitch—slow and deliberate, like the fingers of a sleeping hand.
Each one is thin as a needle, long as a finger joint.
They move in the air, feeling.
Not searching at random—sniffing.
Testing the warmth.
The heartbeat.
The blood.
I can feel them catch my scent.
‘They always can.’
They love crimson, these things.
Not just color. Not pigment.
They love the living blood—the pulse, the oxygen, the proof of a soul.
A Never After Flower never dies.
It only changes shape.
When starved or ignored, it turns pale and hollow—
plastic, paper, mockery.
They become ornaments. Decorations.
People hang them up thinking they’re art.
But they’re still alive.
Listening.
Waiting.
The line between beauty and predator has teeth here.
Six petals.
Always six.
They open wide, thin as paper yet soft as a pillow.
Almost beautiful.
But within each petal—
hidden just under the delicate skin—
lie blades.
Tiny ridged teeth.
They shimmer faintly as the petals move,
grinding together when they close.
You wouldn’t even feel the first touch.
Only the warmth leaving after.
‘Soft as a kiss. Sharp as regret.’
It sways once.
Listening.
And I swear…
It smiles.
I shiver.
Not from cold.
No—this place has no such luxury.
But from the way that flower seems to breathe toward me.
The tips of its thorns pulse slightly, curving as if sensing my warmth.
It doesn’t pounce.
It waits.
Like it knows there’s more I haven’t seen.
And it’s right.
Below the roots, where the boards have cracked wider from the bloom’s pressure, something peeks out.
A book.
No—smaller. More personal.
A journal.
Tucked partway under the floor, caught beneath the flower’s dripping stalk.
The dirt stains the edges.
Roots slither lazily over the corners.
The cover is brown—the first hint of color I’ve seen since waking.
Though even here… it’s grayed, like someone washed it through smoke.
It’s hard to tell if the color’s real, or if I’m just remembering what brown is supposed to look like.
Still—
It’s color.
And that alone makes it precious.
I let out a sound.
A laugh, I think.
It begins in the back of my throat—
Dry, cynical, sharp.
But it slips.
Twists.
Becomes a guttural groan that scrapes its way out like an animal coughing up glass.
“Khhkk—heh… hghnuh…”
Disgusting.
‘A puzzle.’
The thought is bright, half-hollow, tinged with absurd amusement.
‘A classic. A test. A dungeon. An escape room.’
I grin. Sort of.
Of course.
Of course this is a game.
Some Holokon riddle, or the sick joke of a mischievous spirit.
They’re known for this kind of thing, right?
Whispers and winks and tests of the soul?
That must be it.
Yes.
‘It’s a setup. A clever one. Pull the book, get the bloom. Take the treasure, wake the trap.’
Classic.
But the second that thought lands, I feel it—
A sudden sting on my arm.
Sharp.
Real.
Now.
Like a spider bite.
Or a needle slipping beneath skin before the nerves can protest.
The skin just under my elbow flares with heat.
‘…Maybe not Holokons, then.’
‘Maybe something worse.’
Please sign in to leave a comment.