A whisper of relief, fragile as a dried fern frond, escaped Elara’s lips. Across the crackling line, Dr. Albright sounded suitably bewildered by her sudden, almost giddy, gratitude. He stammered a few more medical assurances, but his voice already seemed distant, fading like a memory. The receiver, cool against her ear, hummed with lingering static. She replaced it gently, her gaze drifting over the worn leather of the parlour’s armchair. Silas Thorne, the manor’s enigmatic master, remained in a profound sleep. Hypersomnia, Dr. Albright had called it, a rare neurological condition. Weeks, perhaps months, he could slumber. The lie, her desperate, dangerous claim of being his wife, had a reprieve. A quiet stretch of days, perhaps even seasons, to shore up her defences, to understand the intricate, treacherous landscape of Blackwood Conservatory and its inhabitants. --- Dr. Albright smoothed the lapels of his dusty coat, his brow furrowed. Earlier, his patient, Silas Thorne, had awoken from a two-year stupor with astonishing speed. His recovery was remarkable. Strong constitution, sensitive motor nerves, the family physician had mused. The body, though long dormant, possessed an inherent resilience. A week of lucidity, of quiet observation, then the relapse. Twelve days now, lost to a deep, unbreaking slumber, a vegetative mimicry. Silas had suffered a severe head injury years ago. Some lingering effect, Dr. Albright reasoned, a delayed consequence. Yet, an unease gnawed at him. A small, persistent burr beneath his skin. “Can you tell me your name?” he had asked during one of Silas’s brief, disoriented awakenings. No response. A patient, though miraculous in his initial revival, was still a mystery. Dr. Albright leaned closer. “Can you hear me, Mr. Thorne? Speak what comes to your mind.” A guttural sound escaped Silas’s throat. “S….” Albright offered a strained, encouraging smile. “Yes, good. Just like that.” He would never forget the words that followed, whispered like a plea from a drowning man. “Please don’t wake up.” The doctor’s spine tightened. He had jotted it down, thinking of the trauma, the likely memory loss. --- Footfalls echoed through the silent, oppressive corridors. Albright walked, rubbing his chin, the cryptic words replaying. Director Thorne, Silas’s elder brother, had insisted on bringing Silas back to this isolated, decaying estate from the sanatorium. An odd command, considering the better facilities available in the city. But Albright was merely a physician-for-hire, a caregiver in this distant life, his generous stipend outweighing any inclination to question a Thorne’s directive. A sudden snap of his fingers broke the reverie. “Ah… I forgot to tell her.” The sequelae of Silas Thorne’s condition, technically Klein-Levin Syndrome, extended beyond mere hypersomnia. It often manifested with other symptoms: behavioural abnormalities, an uncontrollable urge to eat, aggression, and heightened sexual desire. He paused at the heavy oak door. “Still… he’ll be alright for today. It’s just a day.” Albright yawned, weariness settling deep in his bones. --- Elara hummed a tuneless melody, the sound thin and fragile in the vast silence of the Blackwood estate. Each step up the grand staircase felt like a step further from the gallows. She had escaped, for now. The memory of Silas’s disoriented gaze, the sudden claim, the terrifying proximity to exposure – all receded with the promise of his continued slumber. A reprieve. Sweet, unexpected reprieve. Moonlight, watery and pale, bled through the tall arched windows. The air, thick with the scent of old wood and dust, felt almost welcoming. She reached the great hall, turning toward the private wing, her hand reaching for the latch. A faint chill, colder than the moors outside, prickled her skin. A groan. Not from the old house, but from something closer, more visceral. Her breath hitched. Then she saw it. The heavy oak door to the rear entrance, reinforced with iron bands, lay askew. One hinge had been wrenched from its frame, splintered wood hanging like an open wound. It looked as though a cart had been driven through it. “No,” she breathed, the fragile peace shattering. Silas. He was gone. --- For more than thirty minutes, Elara wandered through the estate grounds, the night air biting at her exposed skin. The moon, now partially obscured by ragged clouds, cast shifting shadows across the gnarled oaks and ancient stones. She clutched her arms, a frantic heat rising in her chest. This was a nightmare, unfurling with methodical cruelty. Her secrets, her precious solitude, now trampled underfoot by the return of chaos. Director Thorne. She squeezed her eyes shut. The thought of contacting him, of exposing the current calamity and admitting her lie, was unbearable. He held too much power, too many unspoken threats. He would control her. He already sought to. She tied back her long, unbound hair, the damp tendrils clinging to her face. Her pace quickened, desperation a bitter taste on her tongue. “Silas!” she called, her voice thin against the wind’s low moan. A chorus of barks erupted from the unseen kennels, dogs stirred by her panicked cry. Elara searched the winding pathways, her eyes scanning the bruised earth. Then, a peculiar sight. A trail. Not footprints, but a long, uneven furrow, as if something heavy and serpentine had dragged itself across the muddy ground. A strange, almost primal track, twisting away from the shattered door, heading towards the wilder edges of the estate. Towards the overgrown remnants of the ancient kitchen garden, bordered by dense thickets of thorn bushes. “Horrible,” she murmured, a dry, humorless laugh escaping her lips. The absurdity of it. The grotesque, beautiful decay of her world. She followed the trail, each step fraught with a deepening sense of dread. As she drew closer, a faint, tearing sound reached her ears. A ragged, wet noise. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum in the desolate night. The air tasted metallic, something sharp and feral. Elara pushed through a screen of overgrown ivy, her gaze snapping to the scene beyond. Her breath caught, frozen in her throat. Silas. He knelt amidst the collapsed trellises of what was once a rose garden. His back was to her, but the tableau was unmistakable. He held something in his hands, indistinct in the murky light, but the scarlet sheen, the torn feathers scattered at his feet, painted a horrific picture. Blood. So much blood. “Silas Thorne! Put that down!” she shouted, the words ripping from her. He didn't respond. His head remained bowed, his jaw working with a rhythmic, sickening motion. His eyes, when he slowly lifted his head, were blank, unfocused, devoid of recognition. They reflected the pale moonlight like polished obsidian. A raw, dark smear glistened on his lips. He groaned, a low, animal sound, and spat out a piece of gristle. Elara choked back a wave of nausea. A pristine white rooster, kept for its decorative plumage, lay at his knees, its neck grotesquely twisted, its lifeblood seeping into the soil. Her hands trembled, an uncontrollable tremor that spread through her limbs. Terror, cold and absolute, wrapped around her. This was the other face of the sleeping sickness. The hidden, monstrous aspect Dr. Albright had conveniently forgotten to mention. His gaze, distant and primal, confirmed it. He was not truly present. He was merely a vessel, driven by an unknown, horrifying urge. “You must find it difficult to move right now, Mr. Thorne,” she said, her voice strained, forcing a calm she did not possess. “Why did you come out?” She tried to gauge his mood, a frantic attempt to find purchase in this churning madness. The lie. Her wife-claim. How would she undo it now? “Let’s go back inside,” she continued, her voice soft, coaxing. “You shouldn’t be here.” Silas dropped the rooster’s ravaged remains. The dull thud echoed in the silence. He turned fully, his gaze sweeping over her. A prickle of profound unease, colder than the night air, spread across Elara’s skin. He stood in a patch of deep shadow, the moon failing to penetrate his dark form. He seemed taller, broader, his figure etched against the skeletal branches. He moved, a strange, half-crawling lurch that brought him closer. His sleeves, trousers, the front of his torn shirt – all were covered in grime, damp earth, and streaks of crimson. When a sudden gust of wind ruffled his torn clothes, she glimpsed the taut silhouette of his body beneath, a lean, wiry strength that was both terrifying and unsettlingly captivating. Elara remembered the Crimson Blooms, a rare, ancient species rumoured to grow deep in the forbidden recesses of the Blackwood Conservatory. Their sap, a rich, dark red, pulsed within their gnarled veins, a tree that bled. A plant of terrible, vital beauty, said to flourish on bloodied ground. Silas, splattered with crimson, seemed a living embodiment of that grim legend. She had seen him for the first time two years ago, a motionless form, barely alive. A month ago, he had stirred from his coma, then plunged back into darkness. Now this. Always, it seemed, marked by blood. “Silas Thorne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. His head tilted. A low, raspy utterance. “Name…” “What?” Her heart leaped into her throat. “What’s your name?” His cold, unfocused gaze bore into her. An abyss. She searched for an answer, any answer, but her mind was a barren field. Think, Elara. Think. But the words were gone. She didn’t know what to say. ---

A Trail of Crimson Blooms