The Drowning Jasmine

The clock in the distance struck three in the morning.

The night was pitch black, and the storm was raging without mercy. Rain smashed against the road like stones hurled from the sky, drowning the whole neighborhood in a loud, violent roar.

Yet, right in the middle of this wild storm, sat a truly enchanting house.

In daylight, this place was like something out of a storybook. It had soft cream colored walls, carved wooden pillars, and a front yard filled with the most charming jasmine trees. Their branches grew lush and green, heavy with thousands of tiny, star shaped white flowers. On ordinary warm nights, a gentle breeze would blow through the yard, carrying a sweet, magical perfume that made everyone walking down the lane stop and smile. The garden was always a little paradise of white blossoms and quiet peace.

Tonight, though, the cruel storm was tearing that paradise to pieces.

Fierce gales whipped through the branches, ripping the delicate white petals from their stems. They fell in helpless showers into the dark mud below.

The old street drains were completely blocked with dirt, leaving no way out for the water. The charming garden had turned into a deep, muddy pond. Cold floodwater rose higher and higher, drowning the green grass and spilling over the front gate in dirty brown waves. On top of the dark water, thousands of white jasmine flowers floated, soaked and helpless, spinning in circles like drowned stars.

Further down the lane, an old streetlamp leaned over the road.

Its dirty glass cover was cracked, and the yellow bulb inside buzzed like an angry bee. It was barely alive, flickering on and off every few seconds. When the bulb sparked on, it cast sick yellow shadows across the wet street. When it died, the darkness felt thick, heavy, and haunted.

Suddenly, in one of those weak yellow flashes, a pathetic shadow appeared.

It was a figure stumbling out from the dark, trembling so hard he could barely hold his cheap black umbrella. The umbrella was tilted all the way down, completely hiding his face.

He was young. His shoulders were broad and his frame was youthful. By all rights, he should have been sprinting through the rain. Instead, he was dragging himself forward like a dying old man.

His right leg was twisted and limp. He dragged his heavy shoe through the puddles with a sickening scraping noise, his foot trailing behind like dead weight.

Under the dark rim of the umbrella, his face was a picture of pure misery. His lips were blue and shaking from the biting cold. Wet trails from crying mixed with rainwater on his dirty cheeks. His red, bloodshot eyes darted wildly in all directions, filled with a raw, desperate fear. His chest heaved up and down in ragged, wheezing gasps, as if his throat were closing up. Every few steps, he jerked his head over his shoulder, weeping softly in the dark, convinced that something horrible was chasing him down.

The yellow lamp buzzed, died, and flickered back on.

The young man finally reached the iron gate of the jasmine house.

His pale, soaked fingers clawed at the cold latch. He was terrified of making even the smallest noise. Hunched over like a beggar pleading for his life, he squeezed his shivering body through the narrow gap.

The moment he stepped into the yard, dirty water rose past his ankles. He waded into the flooded garden, his knees parting the thick, floating blanket of white petals. The sweet perfume of the bruised flowers mixed with the foul smell of sewer mud. He tried to move quietly, but his shivering legs had no strength left.

Then, the sky cracked open.

A blinding white flash of lightning split the night, instantly followed by a massive roar of thunder that shook the stone ground.

The young man broke.

A high, pathetic cry came from his throat. His good knee gave out completely, and he crashed face first into the dark sludge.

Water splashed violently over the drowned blossoms. The umbrella flew from his grip, floating away into the dark. The young man lay there in the mud, weeping and coughing on dirty water. His soaked clothes clung to his shivering skin like heavy wet rags. Rain beat down on his bare head without pity, plastering his hair to his face. He looked so small, so helpless, like a beaten dog curled up in a gutter waiting to die.

Sobbing through his teeth, he dug his bruised fingers into the wet gravel. Groaning in agony, he pulled his dripping body back onto his feet.

He did not look back for the umbrella. He just dragged his limp leg through the flood, weeping quietly as he clawed his way up the front porch steps.

The wooden front door was slightly open.

With trembling palms, the young man pushed the heavy wood.

The rusty hinges shrieked like a dying animal, cutting sharply through the sound of the rain. The young man froze, terror clutching his throat. He turned his head one last time to glance at the dark, empty street, his vision blurred with fear.

No one was there.

He slipped inside the pitch black house, and the door swung shut with a dull, heavy sound.

Outside, the fury of the storm suddenly began to fade.

The gale died down to a gentle whisper. The heavy downpour slowed to a light drizzle, and then stopped entirely.

An eerie, breathless silence covered the lane.

High above, the thick black clouds parted, revealing a bright, silver moon. The moonlight fell directly across the flooded garden, turning the dark water into a breathtaking pool of liquid silver. It was stunningly beautiful. Thousands of white jasmine flowers floated peacefully across the silver mirror, completely still. The air turned cool and sweet once more. It looked peaceful, lovely, and innocent.

Then, the wooden front door opened once again.

The groan of the hinges was the same, but the footsteps that followed froze the blood cold.

A man stepped out onto the porch.

The umbrella was gone. Instead, he wore a bright, glossy blue raincoat, buttoned tight to his chin. The wet plastic glowed like ice under the pale moonlight.

His back was straight. His head was held high. And his face was a nightmare.

The weeping, the shivering, and the helpless misery were completely gone. His face was stone cold. His eyes were wide, dark, and hollow. They were not terrified, but deeply, chillingly terrifying. There was a sickening hunger in his stare, the look of a wolf that had just cornered its prey.

He walked down the porch steps with smooth, heavy steps.

There was no limp.

His right leg was perfectly strong. He marched through the water like a man who had never felt pain in his life.

He did not care about making noise now. With a cruel sneer, his heavy black boots came down hard onto the moonlit water, brutally stomping the delicate white jasmine flowers, grinding the beautiful petals straight into the black mud beneath his heels. He kicked up dirty water with every step. When he reached the gate, he did not touch the latch. He drove his heavy boot into the iron, kicking the gate open with a violent metallic smash that echoed down the street.

He stepped out onto the quiet road.

Halfway across the lane, he stopped. The lace of his right boot had come untied, dragging through a dirty puddle.

The man knelt down on one knee. With steady, slow fingers, he tied the wet knot.

Upstairs, on the dark upper floor of the house, a small boy stood pressed flat against the wall beside the window.

The boy barely breathed. His heart pounded like a hammer against his ribs as he peeked through a pencil thin slit between the heavy curtains. From the pitch black room, he kept his tearful eye fixed on the road below. Watching the man crouch in the mud, the boy felt a faint, desperate hope flutter in his chest. The room behind him was pitch black, and the glass was smeared with rain. Down on the road, the man seemed completely focused on his shoe. Surely no one could see through the dark glass. Surely he was safe in the shadows.

Down on the street, the man finished tying the knot.

He did not look down at his hands anymore. Very slowly, his chin tilted up.

His head turned, not wandering, not searching, but snapping straight toward that exact upper floor window.

His cold eyes pierced through the dark glass, locking directly onto the tiny gap in the curtain.

Behind the glass, the boy felt his chest freeze.

The man did not look away. Instead, a wide, slow, terrible smile stretched across his mouth, carving deep lines into his cheeks and showing his teeth in the moonlight.

He stood up, took two slow steps toward the iron fence, and rested his elbows casually against the spikes. He never broke eye contact with the dark corner of the glass.

Slowly, deliberately, the man lifted his right hand.

He held two of his fingers above his head and whipped it straight at the tiny slit, straight into the small dreaded eyes

The quiet in the boy's chest died instantly. Cold, suffocating terror hit him like a needle in the heart. The man had known all along. He had known the boy was standing there, hiding in the dark, watching his every move.

The curtain violently whipped shut. The boy broke away from the window and bolted into the pitch black depths of the house.

Out on the moonlit road, surrounded by the dead silence of the night, the man in the blue coat threw his head back.

A low rumble deep in his throat broke into a loud, unhinged laugh, a cruel, mocking sound that shattered the quiet night and echoed endlessly down the empty street.