Flowers at the Woods Edge

Short Story By: Lys Reese

**2025 Copyright Lys Reese. You do not have permission to repost, sell, submit, alter, or copy this story

Content Warning: This story holds content that some might find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

My therapist suggested I begin taking walks. This wasn’t the first time she had recommended it. I’d been pretty resistant to her other ideas since starting the weekly meetings two months ago, but she was insistent that I find some kind of outlet. Walking at least felt easier than journaling. You’d think, as a writer, that would have been my preference. But there was something in the idea of jotting down my feelings that made them - tangible. Real. Ink had the power to make my pain fully visible to the world, and it was a crude reflection I wasn’t ready for. 

So on a chilly morning, the day after one of our latest sessions, I bundled up and set out into the March fog. 

I live in Michigan, on the outskirts of Kalamazoo. It was a dream location when we purchased the house and attached five acres of land just over a year ago. Close enough to the city to have access to anything we wanted, yet far enough away to avoid the constant crowd of people. The area was quite woodsy with a small break in between for an empty cornfield or two. Small lakes even dotted the area. The perfect spot for the outdoorsy type - like Marcus was. 

My breath wafted into the cold air as I stepped out onto the deck. The coolness quickly bit into my nose and exposed cheeks as I pulled the scarf tighter around my chin. I normally didn’t mind the cold; I actually greatly preferred it over the melting heat. But my tolerance for everything and anything only seemed to have died with him. 

I made it to the edge of the deck before I began considering just trudging back inside to the warmth of my sofa. I didn’t actually believe this was going to do me any good anyway. The idea that wandering around outside could miraculously cure the fresh grief inside me was laughable and naive on her part. But gawd, I just wanted her to shut up about the walking. 

I took in a deep sigh before plopping myself down onto the frosty stairs and gazing out into the backyard. I was becoming a living zombie. I was outside because my therapist told me to, and I had a therapist because my sister told me to, and I only bothered with any basic care because my mother begged me to. Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes, and I furiously dug my face into my gloves to stop them. The scratchiness of the wool on my skin helped center me, and I let out a small scream before popping my head back up into the wind. 

In the distance, I locked onto something green against the stark white of a snow pile. The sight was not unusual for early March. Spring was making its debut, and pops of color were finding their way through all that was once brown and decaying. But it piqued my curiosity enough that I trudged over to investigate. I would count it as my official ‘walk’ anyway. 

A small grouping of snowdrops had popped their way through the snow. Their downturned petals danced in the soft breeze like ballerinas. I squatted down to stare. I really loved snowdrops. Something was fascinating about their resiliency and battle to bloom against the harsh cold. That and they were just pretty. Marcus knew I liked them and sometimes ordered them from the flower shop for me. But now I felt more of a connection to them than ever as I found myself weathering my own winter. 

It took me a few minutes to locate the clippers inside and crunch my way back through the melting snow to retrieve the small bundle. I felt a little guilty for taking them from their home, but I was feeling a little greedy. The sight of the delicate petals and wispy leaves brought me a little comfort, and I decided I wanted them close. 

I found a small glass vase under the sink, filled it with water, and gingerly arranged the flowers. A light knock came at the door while I roamed the kitchen trying to decide on a good spot for them. I settled on the kitchen island for the moment and moved to peek through the eyehole. 

Becky and her curls came bouncing into the house as soon as I cracked open the door. 

I didn’t say anything as she plopped bags of groceries on the table and began rearranging the fridge to make room. I seated myself on one of the barstools at the island and quietly answered any questions Becky tossed my way. After she was finished, she pulled out Chinese takeaway and slid it over to me. Pulling out a stool herself, she began digging into her own food. She started with updates on her bookkeeping job, what the kids were doing, and how people at our Book Club were asking about me. I gave my usual answers, and Becky took them without hesitation. I was thankful for how gentle she was being with me. 

After a bit more back and forth, Becky caught a glimpse of the Snowdrops.

“It's funny, isn’t it? That something so small and delicate can have once been thought to be a bringer of misfortune.” She laughed and wiggled her fingers in the air.

I sat up a bit, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you don't know?”

“As if I would.” 

“Sorry,” She smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to be condescending. Just with all the research you do for your writing, I figured you might. The Victorians had a superstition around the Snowdrop, believing that because it grows around cemeteries, it could bring misfortune if ever brought into the house.” 

A shiver ran up my spine. I glanced at the handful of snowdrops on the counter, and a feeling of dread started to form in the pit of my stomach.

“Marcus brought in some the day before…” I trailed off. 

Becky placed her hand on mine. 

“Celene, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I.. I was trying to -”

“I know.”

I said it a little too sharply, and she flinched back a bit.

“You know January had been a little warmer this year, and he was pleased with himself that he had spotted them while exploring the woods near the backyard.”

She nodded and dropped it.

Becky hung around for another half hour, attempting conversation and doing a bit of cleaning around the kitchen before seeing herself out. I watched her pull out of the driveway from the living room window and noticed she stopped to stare at the house for a beat before finally driving off. I don’t blame her for not knowing what to do with me - or how to handle the situation, when I didn’t know either. 

The future I spent the last five years building was gone. Where there once was a bright dream of bestselling books, vacations, holidays, nights in front of the TV, fights, and make-ups, there was now nothing - a grey, hazy void. My emotions were a mess. At times, I so badly wanted someone to run through the fog and save me, to pick me up off the ground and propel me forward. Most of the time, though, I liked the idea of just rotting away. Fading into the background and just disappearing. I turned to peek at the snowdrops and let out a small snort. Maybe tomorrow I’ll go wander into the woods and offer myself up to the Fae. At least it felt better than living like a ghost. 

I moved from the window to plop myself on the sofa. The cushions were all too familiar now with my solemn shape. I flicked on the TV but stared instead at the texture of the wood coffee table. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I knew. Marcus’s body was so mangled. Claw marks covered his face and chest. I remember thinking that they looked - angry. Not the type of animal defending its home, but an attack done purposefully, vengefully. I found him lying in the kitchen. Blood was everywhere. I almost didn’t recognize him through the sight of his guts on the floor and face torn to the bone. 

No one could explain it. The back door had been found ajar with no forced entry. I had been out with Becky that morning, and with no other suspects or even clues, the Police quietly closed the case, leaving me with nothing. No loving husband, no future, and not even the courtesy to tell me why. 

—--

I must have drifted off. My eyes struggled to focus against the heavy fog coating my brain. The TV light flickered in the pitch-black room. I snuggled deeper into my cocoon of blankets and began to let myself drift again when I heard it - the soft creak of a door. 

I stiffened. The ice-cold panic snapped me awake. I had heard once that it was safer to pretend to sleep through a break-in than to attempt to run them off or fight back. So I lay still and forced myself to take deep breaths. The light from the TV felt piercing now - like it was telling on me. Instead of fading into the background, it was broadcasting exactly where I was to my potential intruder. 

I could tell by the small peaks I took at the movie playing that some time had passed in my faux state. Yet I hadn’t heard any other sounds. I tried to calculate my odds. Were they still in the house? Did they get what they wanted and leave? And what were the chances that there was nothing to begin with? 

I decided I needed to get up. Not the smartest move, maybe. If I were watching a horror movie, I’d be screaming at me to stay put till morning. But during my fake sleeping act, I had realized that I’d left my cell in the kitchen next to the flower vase. Whether someone had been here or not, I needed to call reinforcements, and maybe it was about time I took Becky up on her offer to stay with her for a while.

I tried to put on a brave face as I uncurled myself from the covers and looked around the room. The TV made moving shadows around the space, giving it an eerie quality - like a fun house with its alternating strobe lights. The main room was an open concept, making it easy to see and step from the living room to the dining room and into the kitchen. And although everything seemed to be in its place, an uneasiness settled in my stomach.

I moved around the couch, considering the pros and cons of switching on a main light. I decided to dare it. Stepping lightly around the dining room table towards the wall, I felt the gentle waft of cool air. The hair on my body stood on end. I turned slightly to look at the deck door. It was barely cracked open, just enough to slip a paper through. 

My heart pounded like drums in my ears. I slowly reached out and touched the handle, gently guiding the door back into place. But as soon as the lock clicked, a low growl came from above me. I whipped around to something large eyeing me from the corner of the ceiling - right above where I was sleeping. It lunged, jumping from the couch towards the table. I dropped, rolling between the chairs to shove myself underneath the oak wood. The table shook as the creature landed. It was already yanking the chairs on the right out from underneath when I shoved myself out the other side. I scrambled over the back of the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned to throw it. It nailed the creature in one of its large, sunken black eyes. It screeched, revealing long, pointed teeth in the pulsating light. 

I ran, stumbling into the kitchen as I reached for the knife stand. It was on me before I could fully turn around, claws dug into my shoulder and tangled in my hair. I pushed back against the weight, twisting enough to plunge the knife into what I guessed was its shoulder. I felt my left eardrum burst from the scream it emitted, but the attack was enough to release its grip. I tumbled forward, grabbing the side of the sink to keep my knees from giving out from under me. I still don’t know what possessed me to take the chance, but I turned to look at my attacker. In the unreliable TV light, the thing was humanoid with long grey limbs. But even beyond the teeth, the eyes, and its imposing form, I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Wings. Light, delicate, and translucent. Blood drained from my face, and I glanced at the Snowdops, somehow still untouched on the island. 

The creature began to recover from my knife, and the panic returned me to my predicament. I was too far from the knives now, but when I looked to the left, there among the hanging pots and pans, I eyed the cast-iron skillet. I was taking a long shot, but without hesitation, I ripped the skillet off the wall as the thing came at me again. With all my strength, I slammed the blunt side against its head. A sickly burnt smell filled the air, and I could hear a muffled sizzling sound. It screeched again, jumping back to avoid my next swing. I caught sight of the ugly, red, simmering wound on its face. This gave me some confidence, and I stepped forward, taking a swing at the claw on the island. The shriek it emitted was worse than the first, and the world spun from my ruptured ear. I slumped down against the cabinets, struggling to get my bearings. The only thing keeping me sane was my unyielding grip on the skillet. Through the ringing in my brain, I thought I heard some shuffling and glass breaking, but I couldn’t be too certain. I was situated between the sink and the island, giving me a truly false sense of safety. 

I didn’t move again till I saw the sun begin to peek through the living room windows. Everything ached, and my head felt like it was fully split in two. I realized some of the blood from my shoulder had dried - gluing parts of my clothing to the cabinet behind me. I used the skillet to help prop me up and got a good view of the damage. Parts of the couch were ripped, and stuffing was all over the floor. The dining room table was on its side, and the glass breaking I heard was the deck doors. Most likely from the creature trying to take the easiest way out. It was a while before I decided to call Becky, partly because I stood for quite a while staring at the empty vase with the missing Snowdrops.