Chapter 11 The Greenhouse
A dark red, rose petal.
She lifted it, heart hammering. The petal’s edge was smeared faintly with chocolate. Or blood.
She couldn’t tell.
Lila turned toward the mirror by her desk, every muscle in her body trembling.
In its reflection, behind her own wide eyes someone was standing just outside the window.
A figure in the dark, watching her closely.
And then, as she blinked, the figure was gone.
Only the rose petal was left in her trembling hand. She laid down on the bed, exhausted and worried, she slept off immediately.
The air near the old greenhouse always smelled faintly of rot and rain. Lila hadn’t planned to come, she just found herself walking there, a camera bag slung over her shoulder, her feet crunching the gravel path that led to the outskirts of campus.
The greenhouse stood like a forgotten ribcage at the edge of the botanical garden, its glass panes fogged, its door half-swallowed by ivy. This was where they’d found Elise Grant. She was red-haired. She was found face-down in the soil with a rose folded neatly into her palm.
Lila stopped several feet from the door. Her breath clouded in the cold air, white against the glass. She could almost see a faint outline of a figure inside, maybe her own reflection, maybe not.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked it was a message from Asher
“You okay? The library's dead quiet today.”
She typed. “ I'm just walking. I needed to clear my head, but didn’t send it.”
Then, she pushed the door open. The hinges groaned, a long, reluctant sound.
Moist, heavy air washed over her, thick with soil, moss, and the faint perfume of decaying petals. The space was dim, the glass above stained green and amber from years of neglect.
She stood still listening.
Drips from condensation hit the tiled floor like the ticking of a clock. A metal sign on the wall still read “HALDEN HORTICULTURE LAB”, the paint was peeling.
Her shoes left faint imprints in the dirt.
She raised her camera, took one cautious picture. The flash scattered off the glass.
Another picture. Then another.
Something about the silence made her throat tighten.
She glanced toward the back, where the benches stood rows of warped wood, a few overturned pots, and the faint chalk outline of a body. Her body tensed. She remembered the newspaper photo: police tape fluttering, that same angle of light through the roof.
Lila crouched by the bench, brushing away a pile of dead leaves.
Something hard glinted beneath.
A small black object, squared, glossy, the faintest red glimmer at its side.
Her chest tightened. She brushed off more dirt.It wasn’t a rock. It was a camera.
A security camera, tiny, and barely visible among the vines.
She touched it with trembling fingers. The small red light flickered once. Then again.
Her mouth went dry.
She stood up slowly, eyes scanning the greenhouse, the corners, rafters, under tables. Her stomach dropped when she saw another tiny red glint across the room. Then another.
Someone’s watching this place.
Her pulse spiked. She lifted her camera to take a photo, but the viewfinder showed something strange when she zoomed in, one of the lenses pointed directly at her.
And then, it blinked.
The red light turned steady. It was recording .
Her breath hitched. She stumbled backward, knocking over a watering can that crashed against the floor, splattering mud. The noise echoed.
She froze, straining to hear. There was nothing. Just the faint hum of the lights overhead.
She whispered, “Who’s there?”
No response.
Then, she heard a voice. It was soft, almost imperceptible. It came from beneath one of the benches, like a small speaker warming up.
“You shouldn’t be here, Red.”
Her spine locked. She spun toward the door. It slammed shut. She knew from the voice that it was a man.
The sound reverberated through the glass like a gunshot.
Her camera clattered from her hand. She ran to the door, grabbed the handle, the cold metal that wouldn’t budge. It had been locked from outside.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass pane, pale face, wide eyes, and dirt smudged on her cheek.
Behind that reflection, the faintest movement. One of the cameras tilted. Another red light blinked to life.
Then another.
Soon the walls were speckled with tiny glowing points, all pointed toward her.
Recording and watching.
“You came here,” the voice whispered again.
She didn’t remember screaming, but the sound tore out of her throat anyway.
And in the echo of it, the lights on every camera flared bright red.
Lila backs against the door, hands trembling, eyes darting across the glowing dots. One by one, each tiny lens turns toward her at the same time as if following a signal until they all freeze on her face.
A faint mechanical sound hums from above.
And from the ceiling vent, something flutters down soft, and weightless.
A single rose petal lands in her hair.
Lila held the door handle and turned, twisted, pushed and hit the door until it gave way and she ran out. She didn’t remember leaving the greenhouse, only the sound of the door slamming behind her, the slap of her boots on the wet path, her camera bouncing against her hip. Her lungs burned, but she didn’t stop until she reached the student housing block.
The hallway lights flickered, one bulb buzzing near the end like an angry fly. She pressed her hand to the wall, catching her breath. Her fingers were shaking. Her coat smelled faintly of soil and something sweeter roses.
She took the stairs two at a time, shoes scraping, her heartbeat loud enough to drown the echo of her steps. The corridor to her dorm was silent, too still for a Friday night.
Then she saw it.
A single red rose taped neatly to her door.
The stem was long, the petals dark, just starting to wilt. The tape was smooth, pressed flat as if whoever left it had taken their time.
Lila’s throat tightened. The air felt too thin.
She looked both ways down the hall. Teg hallway was empty. There was no sound.
Her hand hovered over the rose. She wanted to tear it down, throw it away, but she couldn’t make herself touch it yet. It looked too perfect.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She nearly jumped.
It was a message from Asher.
“You back? I've been trying to call.”
She typed with unsteady fingers.
“Yeah. Someone was in the greenhouse. Cameras were everywhere as if someone was watching me.” She sent the message, waiting for his response.
The typing dots appeared, then vanished. He didn't reply.
Lila took a deep breath and reached for the rose. Her hand brushed the petals they were cold, damp, and almost sticky. She pulled it off, the tape making a soft rip against the wood.
Then, she heard a voice behind her, it was low and close.
“You forgot this.”
She froze.
The rose slipped from her fingers, landing silently on the carpet.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She turned slowly, every muscle locked.
The hallway was filled with people, she couldn't tell who was behind her a few seconds ago.
But something hung in the air. A faint warmth, like someone had just been standing there.
She perceived the smell of something thick. It filled her nose, her mouth, her chest, until she had to cover her face to breathe.
Lila backed into her room, eyes never leaving the empty hallway. She shut the door, locked it twice.
She stood there for a long time, staring at the handle, waiting for it to turn.
It didn’t.
But outside, somewhere down the hall, she heard the sound of footsteps, chatters and laughters. Suddenly, she heard a faint tap, like a stem brushing against wood. She stayed indoor for the rest of night.
Lila bends to pick up the fallen rose by her door in the morning but it’s gone. In its place lies a folded note, typed in the same neat letters as before. “I like it when you run.”