The Dead Rose

The Dead Rose

The Dead Rose

I walked to the cemetery with a fresh, red rose. It was midnight. The moon was hidden by the clouds, gathering together as if they were preparing for war. The wind was blowing hard against my face, slapping my red cheeks. I tugged at my hat and wrapped my coat closer around me. The crows cried out their melancholy songs. My eyes drifted around my surroundings, taking in the darkness.

I kneeled on my grandmother’s grave. Placing the fresh, red rose on the soil.

Alexandra Belin

From 1792-1976

I smirked.

Then, I grinned.

Then, I laughed.

Not a laugh you would expect from a young lady. A laugh that echoed through the forest, scaring away animals.

“Oh granny. Took you long enough to die. Of course, I helped with the process by pouring poison in your tea, like what I’ve done to all your ancestors for the experiment. Unfortunately, you didn’t help me enough with it. I need a soul, a young one, for this to be successful.”

I looked at the tombstone next to my grandmother’s, to see my name on it.

Malice Downstone

From 3rd February 1878 – 31st August 1979

Revenge is all mine...

31st August… Today.

I felt faint. Bats flew overhead. Leaves rustling. Blood on my lips. I gripped onto my gravestone as I felt myself being sucked into the cold concrete. Fading into nothing. I saw a young woman come past, a threatening knife in her hands… and I lost consciousness…

She walked to my grave with a dead, grey rose. It was midnight, the moon was shining brightly. There was no wind, no breeze. Her eyes were fixed on me, her stare slicing through me.

“Oh granddaughter, revenge is all mine,” she said with an evil grin before placing the dead, grey rose on my grave and walking away.