Page 89 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

THE HOUSE THAT FED ON HER

Maggie

The world jerked to a stop.

Literally.

I’d lost feeling in my fingers somewhere between the potholes and the blind panic. My hands were still tied behind my back, gag still wedged between my teeth, soaked through with spit and iron. But I’d managed to get the bag off my head during the ride.

I couldn’t breathe right. Not because of the gag, or because I wished I had my gun, but because my brain wouldn’t stop whispering “ He left you, he left you, he left you.” and that alone was suffocating.

Then came the sound of boots. Heavy and too close.

Then a click, a slow creak, and sunlight stabbing into the darkness like a blade, followed by hands. Big ones. Rough. Looping under my arms like I was luggage.

I kicked and fought again. Not because I thought it would work, but because not fighting felt like I had given up. And even though I wanted to just be done…

I couldn’t.

I landed a solid blow to the man’s shin.

He let out a grunt, then held me up to his face.

“Keep squirming and I’ll break something,” the man growled, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth.

I wanted to scream, but the gag caught it. All that came out was a wet, pathetic noise. Disgusting and weak.

He didn’t carry me. He dragged me across the gravel. Through the leaves. Over dirt. And into something that smelled like mold, rot, and piss. An abandoned farmhouse, if I had to guess. The kind that horror movies love.

The worst sound filled my ears. It meant it was really happening.

Cellar doors.

I was going to die in a basement. Couldn’t whatever god that was out there at least let it be Jason Voorhees or Michael Myers who wanted to have their way with me— not this asshole .

I tried to plant my feet, but my shoes were gone, and the dirt offered no traction.

“No—no no no no?—”

He wrenched open the doors the rest of the way and shoved me forward. I went tumbling, helpless, down the stairs.

My arm hit something with a crack on the way down—a support beam or a corner or maybe just God being cruel.

I let out a scream muffled by the gag.

Landing hard, the dust puffed up around me. The taste of dirt and blood filled my mouth.

Then—slam.

The doors above shut.

Metal scraped across them, a bar sliding into place, perhaps, locking me in.

I was in the dark.

Alone.

And I couldn’t move my arm.

Fuck.

It was damp in here.

Dark.

And it reeked —like death soaked in something sour and forgotten.

My arm was killing me, but I couldn’t tell if it was broken or just the kind of hurt that convinced you it was. Either way, it was useless.

A red glow bled into the room from the far end of the cellar. Dim. Flickering. And wrong.

I gritted my teeth, twisted my wrists behind my back, feeling for the knot. The rope was tight, biting into my skin with each move. But if I could just find something sharp…

I got to my feet—shaky and slow, breath catching every throb of pain—and stumbled toward the light.

It led me down a narrow hall. Just stone, wood, rot, and that awful red hum. The stench got worse the deeper I went.

Not just rot.

Something else.

It smelled like a dead deer on the side of the road, out in the sun for days. But fermented . Like it was soaked in wine and bad memories. There was something floral under it—roses, maybe. The kind that bloomed too thick, too sweet, just before they died.

Like the ones outside the manor.

I passed a staircase on my right. Leading up. But the light was ahead… and something told me I needed to see it before I ran.

God, I wished I didn’t.

I peeked around the corner.

And the scream that wanted to rip from me, died right in my throat.

A man stood in the center of the room. Well-dressed, tall. Cane in one hand. A fucking top hat on his head like he was here for a performance. He wasn’t looking at me.

He was facing them .

Hearts.

Human hearts. Displayed on the wall in neat, glassed-in rows like art. Each one lit from below by a slow pulsing red light.

In front of each heart—ribcages, cut into the precise diamond shapes like the missing pieces from the corpses.

From the cages, dried roses spilled. Arranged to look like blood, cascading into piles at the base. It was too detailed. Too deliberate. Someone loved this display.

Above each heart, there was a photo, and above the photos, the same mark from the journals, the same mark on my ass, drawn in blood.

The photos were black and white, maybe—but the eyes, the mouths… they moved. Not a lot. Just enough to make me freeze.

The faces shifted in place.

Breathing. Blinking.

Begging.

I didn’t remember falling to my knees.

Just the taste of the bile.

I retched, but nothing came. My body trembled so hard it shook my teeth as a disorienting dizziness took over, I was going to black out. I knew it.

I bit into the gag, like somehow it would make me leave this nightmare.

But it didn’t.

My skin crawled. Every hair raised.

I had to get out of here. Now.

Footsteps creaked overhead reminding me that I was not alone.

Not that I’d forgotten —but hearing them reminded me this nightmare wasn’t frozen in time. It wasn’t a dream. Someone was up there. Moving. Waiting. And eventually they’d come down.

I tore my eyes away from the wall of hearts, but the images stayed, burning into the back of my mind. I thought seeing the case files was bad—photos, dates, autopsies. But this?

This was soooo much worse.

This was a fucking ritual I did not want any part of.

My body betrayed me. Tremors crawled down my arms, into my legs, overtaking my spine until I shook uncontrollably. Dry sobs raked through my ribs. I bent over again and retched, but there was nothing left. Just acid and air.

Once I caught my breath—what little of it I could—I forced myself forward.

Toward him.

The man in the center.

Still as stone. Hat perfectly angled. Hand resting on a cane. He hadn’t moved. Not once. Not like the others.

Was he alive?

I didn’t know. But I had to find out.

I stepped in front of him.

And that was when my brain finally processed what I was looking at.

I stumbled back, breath snagging on the horror, and landed hard in something cold and wet. I didn’t even care about the pain in my arm this time.

Because it wasn’t a man.

It was a corpse.

And not just any corpse.

“Uncle Silas?”

My voice cracked thin in disbelief.

They dug him up? They fucking dug him up, and posed him like a puppet.

His skin was gray. Waxen. The smell—I hadn’t even registered it fully until now—was him. Mixed with the rot. The roses. The death.

I looked down at what I was sitting in.

Oh god.

A twisted sea of intestines, slick and glistening, intertwined with blood-soaked rose stems and scattered petals. The whole thing pulsed, as if it were alive. Like it had a heartbeat of its own.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped. My gag muffled it, but it escaped anyway.

This couldn’t be real.

I scrambled back, spine hitting the wall with a thud. My breaths came in sharp little bursts, and my bound hands clawed at the ground like they could somehow rip through reality itself.

I had to get out.

I had to get these ropes off.

“What’s the matter…” said a cruel, gruff voice behind me.

I spun around, nearly slipping again, and froze.

A large man stood there, hulking, almost unreal in size. His face?—

God, his face ?—

It looked like it was trying to be several at once. Or he had been pieced together with the scars stitching expressions onto him that didn’t belong. Blank in some places. Cold. Unblinking.

His eyes were the worst?—

Hollow, black and endless.

And in his hand, he held a short-handled sickle. Curved. Old. Stained so deep in blood, it looked rusted from the inside out. It should have been menacing, but compared to his bulk, it looked almost… petite.

He stepped forward, revealing himself fully now.

White sleeves rolled to the elbow.

Apron soaked so thoroughly it was almost black.

Blood had dried in places, but much of it was fresh.

I recoiled when I finally recognized him.

The cult photo.

It was him.

The unknown man.

The one on the right side.

“Don’t want to be a part of her art installation?” He sneered.

My heart hammered against my ribcage, begging to let it out .

Because that’s exactly what this was.

The display.

The photographs.

The final moments—frozen in pain, framed in roses.

Oh god.

The room shrank. The walls pressed closer. The air thickened until I felt like I was trying to breathe under water.

Are you fucking kidding me?

My thoughts scattered, scraping together in a desperate whirlwind trying to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

I had to do something. But every option felt impossible.

The cellar doors were bolted shut.

My hands were still bound behind my back.

The ropes were tight and dug in so deep the blood from my fall soaked them slick, but it didn’t help. They wouldn’t budge.

Panic curled up from the base of my spine, and into my chest where it settled like a boulder.

He stepped closer, one boot squelching in the mess I’d fallen in.

“You look… uncomfortable,” he said with a tilt of his head, voice laced with mock concern. “Let’s fix that.”

Oh, God, don’t you fucking touch me.

He crouched beside me, the sickle still in his hand, and reached for my face.

I jerked back, but the wall caught me. There was nowhere to go.

His fingers were stiff as they hooked under the gag, slick with god-knows-what. He dragged it down slowly, like he was unwrapping a present he already knew he was going to destroy.

“There,” he whispered. “Now I can hear you scream.”

The gag hit my chin, and I choked on air. My mouth was raw. My jaw ached. My lips were wet with spit and blood.

I coughed. Gasped. And then?—

“Look,” I managed, my voice shredded and weak, “I don’t want any trouble. I’ll cooperate. However you want.”

It came out strained. Weak. But not fake.

Because it wasn’t.

I meant it.

Because I’d say anything to stay alive.

“Oh, I know you won’t be trouble,” the man hissed, baring yellowed teeth behind scar-split lips.

“I’m just the one who’s going to prepare you for her arrival.”

My skin went cold.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

My voice felt like it was bleeding.

Blood roared in my ears. I sat rigid in the mess of entrails and wilted roses, too afraid to move, too wired not to.

He stepped closer, and I winced at every inch he closed

“We thought you’d stop once you found out the money was just one of her games,” he said, head tilting like a curious dog. “What we really want is inside you.”

I scrambled to my feet, legs shaking under me. My arm throbbed with every movement, but braced for him anyway.

He lunged at me. But it was slow, deliberate, and calculated. Every step looked like it came with weight behind it—like he wasn’t used to missing.

I dove to the side?—

Slipped.

Slid through the gore. My hip cracking against the concrete, but I didn’t stop.

I ran.

Down the hallway, slick with panic and rot.

And straight into her.

Portia stood at the base of the stairs, looking utterly unbothered.

“Well, Miss Maxwell,” she said, smiling like this was a goddamn cocktail party, “this simply will not do.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I spat.

She tsked, stepping closer—heels clicking over the wet stone.

“Me? Oh, nothing, darling. Did you enjoy my little art project?”

She was so close I could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to her hair. That cloying rose perfume. Decay disguised as elegance.

“NO!” I shouted. “Untie me. Now!”

She offered a breathy chuckle. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She slowly turned to the man, “Gregory? If you’d be so kind…”

I heard it?—

One squelching footstep behind me?—

Then blinding pain exploded through the back of my skull.

A flash of white.

Then black.

One more hit.

One deeper. This one final.

My knees gave out.

The floor rushed up to meet me.

And then?—

nothing.