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Hello lovelies. I hope you enjoy this free story—I will never charge for any of my stories. If you want something with the spice turned ALL the way up, enemies to lovers and a love triangle, haunted hallways and a monster romance, then I've got you covered.

Enjoy this mood board before we get started. And remember to comment and like my story so it helps me with the algo. Enjoy!

EVELYN

Every day starts the same as soon as the sun comes up.

I run outside. Check my plants. Knees on the ground, nose to the leaves, staring at my seedlings like a totally sane person would.

I sip my coffee and go through the motions of waking up every single day with no friends outside of the shit that grows leaves.

A buzz in my pocket. My cellphone. I am surprised it’s still working—I didn’t pay my bill. Running out of money and all of that. Usually I get by with selling plant starts, but the heat has fried them.

I bring out my phone and thumb through the notifications with my other freckled hand.

It’s from my therapist.

A jolt of embarrassment and shame pulses through me like a gunshot because I didn’t show up for our last visit.“Hey, sorry, but we will have to cancel your next appointment unless we can get another payment scheduled. Just checking in. How are you?”

I mean, she’s great until she isn’t, when she bugs me for more money.

“How am I?” A scoff mixed with a wince. I don’t answer that question. And I’m not going to answer it, either, because I’m not even fucking sure anymore.

I put my phone away and fish out a bright red curl that got stuck in my mouth.

Memory problems. That’s what I’ve had my entire life.

Before the age of seven, there’s a blank space with no texture to the edges, with flashes of red and a calm, level, instructional voice. Therapy was supposed to be the chisel to the memory block, hammering away at the void one chunk at a time.

Why can’t I stay asleep anymore?

What did the red flashes mean?

Another buzz in my pocket. This time, from a random number. It’s a text.

‘It’s almost time.’

What the fuck. Weird.

“Almost time for you to find the right number,” I say, shaking my head. What a creepy-ass message. Either somebody is messing with me, or it was just an accident. Either way, I’m not about to put up with this bullshit when I haven’t had my coffee yet.

I mentally shrug it off.

I look out at my garden once more.

My strawflowers are swaying in the breeze. The squash bees are out doing their thing, falling asleep in the petals. Morning glories strangle my white fence that blocks off the backyard; they have annexed the entire side of the house, their purple trumpet-like heads open and bobbing in the breeze.

Peaceful.

To be honest, this growing season has been kind of shit. I had two pumpkin babies that I started indoors; one of them died, so now my only pumpkin—Sir Squash—sits right by the corner stop sign.

Here’s to hoping he crosses the 800-pound benchmark.

Did I mention I grew monsters?

It’s still early in the season—chill, I tell myself. Plenty of monotony to go around...

Today, however, feels different. I don’t know why. I can’t quite put it into words. It’s like the moment before blowing out the candles, holding a wish close to your chest like a poker card you haven’t turned over yet.

Siiiiiip.My lips burn. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

My wish would be that this pumpkin doesn’t crack or split. I badly need money. I just did renovations on the house. Another wish is that powdery mildew leaves my plants the fuck alone this year so I can pay my mortgage.

My footsteps squelch on the grass as I head into my backyard, my thick thighs rubbing together. Schlick, shlick.

Another wish? That I could parse my dreams about the flashes of red, the voice, and the calming manner in which this mysterious person spoke to me. Male, always male. Soothing in a way that is impossible. Stern in a way that was strong enough to obey.

Why did I want to obey? I don’t obey. That isn’t the kind of person I am.

So, who was he?

My mother abandoned me when I was young. Cue grand sob story. My grandmother took me in and raised me, which explains my plant addiction. She had a large, impressive garden, and she taught me everything I know.

She was quick as a whip and smoked pot like a chimney and I miss her.

My name also comes from her. Evelyn.

I’ve spent my whole life searching for the reason for my abandonment, but like the memories, the hints never surface. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely.

I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt like hell.

It rained last night. I know because I woke up at two in the morning to check my phone for storms. My one-bedroom house screams lonely cat lady without the cats, but she’s faring okay. Her siding is freshly painted white and her new metal roof is gleaming.

The morning dew sticks to everything—every leaf, every trellis, every rock, and every plant. It’s beautiful out here—peaceful in a way that I can’t explain. I reach the edge of my tomato patch, kneeling down. I mulched with leaves. Who would pay for mulch when it drops from the trees each autumn?

I talk to my plants. Again, insane. “Good morning. How ya doing?”

I get no response.

“Good,” I say, nodding once.

I head to my pumpkin patch, which is really only one pumpkin. My coffee cup gets set down on a cylinder block. When I stretch, my shirt rides over my plump stomach.

Arched PVC pipe with a clear tarp stretches over Sir Squash like a pair of ribs. Toes bare and now soaked, I kneel yet again, lifting the edge of the tarp and peering inside.

She’s a beauty. Long and spindly, spiky and green. With about fifteen leaves on; the tarp blocks the wind. Skewers carefully arrange the main vine. They stab into the fresh dirt like knives but hold up the plant and aim it where it should grow. A female flower, already pollinated, rests carefully in the middle. The fruit is the size of a softball and white-yellow.

“You better help me win this year. I’m putting all of my hopes and dreams into you... you cute little son of a—”

“Excuse me.”

I jerk back and damn near rip the tarp right off, trying to find where the soft voice came from. It sounded odd. Like cold air moving over a winter lake. It came from behind me.

I turn, facing the street where the red stop sign is. A lady stands there. In a coat that doesn’t make sense because it gets hot during this time of year, and with a hat on.

The coat is plain and grey. It has a collar that covers her ears.

Her hair is the color of straw. Short, chopped, almost a bob. Her eyes cause me to do a double take—lavender, almost as if they couldn’t decide to be blue or pink and landed somewhere in the middle. Full lips tip up at the corners in an almost smile, and her eyes sparkle, giving me the impression that this person always wants to be helpful.

I’ve never seen her before.

“Yes?” Automatic. I wasn’t expecting visitors. Could this be a looker who heard about my pumpkin growing online? Was there some ad I put out that I don’t remember putting out? I scratch my brain for many scenarios, but I draw a blank.

“I just wanted to tell you it’s almost time, Evelyn Baker.”

What?

“Time for...?” Time for what, exactly? I try to say, but it gets caught somewhere in my teeth and refuses to come out. “It’s not time for harvest.”

Why do I feel like a dumbass saying that, and why is she smiling at me like that?

The woman doesn’t seem bothered by my frank confusion and alarm. If anything, she looks as if she expected it. I almost can’t believe this is my morning. This is my morning?

She purses her lips, and what she says next tightens my gut. “For the memories to make sense.”

And that’s what nearly floors me. My body goes taut like a pulled wire, and I stand there, mouth gaping, my breath coming too quickly and fast.

A noise to my left. Stunned, my eyes go to the noise—a squirrel trying to get into my squirrel-proof bird feeder, but ends up spinning on the railing until he flies off. It would be funny if it weren’t for the drop in my stomach and the lump in my throat.

But it isn’t funny now.

I turn toward her. “I —”

She’s gone.

“No way.”

They only do that in movies! “Hey.” I march towards the spot where she left. “Hey! Get the fuck back here! You can’t just say that creepy shit and... and...”

She’s absolutely gone. The stop sign towers over me like an authority figure.

“No.” Denial is a river in Egypt, and I am floating in it right now, my chest rising fast as my fingers stutter over my damp hair. I wring them through my locks, yanking until it stings. “No.”

I am going insane. That is the only explanation. I have officially lost it and now I am seeing people, but—

How did she know about the memories?

Could that have been my therapist with a new hairdo, or what? She lives on the other side of the country; there’s no way that could have been her. Nobody else knows about my memory loss. Nobody else knows about the flashes of red in my dreams, the calming voice that always makes my heart rate slow.

Nobody. Else.

Almost time for the memories to make sense.

No. I’m not — I don’t think I’m ready yet.

I dropped my phone somewhere during that debacle, and I keep glancing back at the stop sign to see if she is still there—but she’s gone, leaving behind the scent of crushed mint and something floral hanging in the breeze. My heart picks up a pace, and my red curls keep getting stuck in my mouth.

“Have to... have to text her. Ask her if that was her. My therapist.”

Yes, that’s what I need to do next. With shaky hands, I get out my phone and nearly drop it again. But it’s the little ‘x’ on the cell service that makes me pause. What? It was working earlier!

I want to rage. Could my day get any worse? “No! How could it have cut out?!”

An engine roars somewhere nearby.

I look up just in time to see an old Toyota barreling down the road.

The driver slumps against his seatbelt, chin pressed to his chest, completely limp. For a second, I assume he’s just an old man having a bad day—or maybe sleeping. Then I notice how fast he’s going.

Way too fast.

The car drifts across the lane, tires humming against the pavement, and ice twists in my stomach.

I stare at him through the windshield.

He doesn’t lift his head.

Doesn’t slow down.

And then, with a strange, horrible clarity, I realize—

He’s coming straight at me.

“Fuck!”

I need to move.

The sound of tires squealing claws at my ears. I try to move, but I’m soldered to the spot.

Glass shatters. Tires pop. Metal rips and screams.

The stop sign goes.