Alice Spills the Tea: Flowers in the Garden, Bones in the Yard 🫖
Well, well, well. Gather 'round, darlings, because this tale is darker than a raven's wing and just as twisted. You see, every garden has its secrets, but not every garden blooms with something so… sinister.
This story starts in the quaint little town of Thornewood, a place that looked as peaceful as a fairy tale and yet, underneath it all, was teeming with secrets better left buried. There were roses in the garden, hydrangeas by the fence, and ivy crawling up the walls of every house—everything was green, pretty, and serene. But you know what they say, darling, things aren’t always as they seem.
The town was owned by a family—the Thornhills—rich, powerful, and well-respected by everyone who had ever stepped foot there. They were the type of family who threw lavish parties, wore the finest clothes, and kept their garden impeccably well-kept. It wasn’t just the flowers that bloomed with beauty, you see. It was the stories they told, the smiles they shared, and the perfect image they projected to the world.
But behind that smile? There was a darkness so thick, you’d swear it was planted in the soil of their own garden.
It all began with the garden. That’s where the trouble started. Every year, like clockwork, the Thornhills would plant the most beautiful roses, lilies, and sunflowers, each bloom more radiant than the last. But the gardener—the one who worked tirelessly to keep that garden looking perfect—always had an air of sadness about him. His name was Jacob, a quiet man who spoke little and rarely ventured beyond the garden gates. He was content in his role, though, tending to the flowers as if they were the only thing that mattered in the world.
But Jacob had a secret. Oh, yes. And that secret was buried beneath the very soil where those beautiful flowers grew. You see, Jacob didn’t just tend to roses. He tended to… bones.
Yes, bones, darling. Human bones.
The Thornhills were a family with a very particular set of problems. For years, they had been getting rid of their enemies in the most permanent way imaginable, and Jacob? Well, he was more than happy to help. He buried their victims beneath the roses, the hydrangeas, the very flowers that brought so much joy to the town. The family’s dirty little secret was hidden beneath their perfect little garden, and not a soul in Thornewood had any idea.
Jacob was loyal, almost to a fault. He planted the flowers over the bodies, ensuring the ground was always rich and fertile. After all, the more bodies buried beneath the soil, the more vibrant the blooms. It was a macabre kind of symbiosis. The Thornhills thrived, and the flowers… they thrived as well.
But what Jacob didn’t account for was what happens when you bury something so dark, so evil, for so long.
One evening, as Jacob was working in the garden, the ground beneath him began to tremble. At first, he thought it was just a simple tremor, something to be shrugged off. But then, a single rose bush began to twist and writhe, its stems curling like fingers reaching out of the earth. The flowers themselves bloomed with an unnatural intensity, their petals darkening to a deep crimson that looked too much like blood. And then? Then came the whispers.
At first, it was a low murmur—a whisper on the wind. Jacob’s hands shook as he pried up the soil around the bushes, his heart racing. The whispers grew louder, more distinct. They weren’t just the wind anymore. They were voices—voices calling to him, demanding to be heard. Voices from those who had been buried in the yard.
As he dug deeper, pulling at the roots of the flowers, he uncovered something that made his blood run cold. It wasn’t just bones anymore. No, darling. The bones had come to life. Not in the way you might think, though. No, these were not the bones of the dead that simply rotted away—they were the bones of souls, restless and angry, clawing their way out of the earth.
The roses, the hydrangeas, the ivy—they weren’t just plants anymore. They were a manifestation of the souls that had been trapped below, feeding off the bodies buried in the garden, growing stronger with each passing year.
And Jacob? Well, he was trapped. Trapped between the living and the dead. The more he tried to escape, the tighter the vines of the cursed garden wound around him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The flowers had grown hungry for him, and with each passing second, they pulled him closer to the earth, deeper into the very soil that had been stained with blood and betrayal.
The Thornhills never noticed the change in the garden, of course. They never noticed how their perfect little paradise began to wilt and rot, how the beautiful flowers started to decay. But Jacob knew. He was the last one left who remembered the truth.
And now, the garden is waiting, darling. Waiting for the next unwitting soul to stumble upon it, to tend to it, to care for it, thinking it’s nothing more than a pretty little garden. But the truth? Oh, the truth is far darker than you could ever imagine.
So, if you’re ever in Thornewood, darling, and you find yourself near a garden full of roses that look just a little too bright, a little too perfect—take a step back. Because what you don’t know about the flowers in the garden? Is that the bones in the yard still whisper, and they never, ever forget.
And neither does the garden.
That's all for today, my darlings. Remember: Beauty is a lie, and the darkest truths bloom in the most unexpected places. Stay out of the garden.
