The rose garden had teeth.
Eleanor realized it the moment they stumbled into its overgrown embrace—the thorns weren't thorns at all, but fangs, each one dripping a viscous saliva that burned holes in the ground. The petals bled when touched, their scent not floral but metallic, like a fresh wound.
Emily knelt beside the largest bush, her fingers digging into the soil. "Here," she whispered.
The earth gave way with a wet pop, revealing a cache of Keys.
Dozens of them, all rusted and broken, piled atop a human jawbone. Eleanor recoiled, but Emily grabbed the largest key and bit down, her needle-teeth grinding the metal to dust. She spat the fragments onto the ground, where they sprouted into Words.
"the house is not a place"
"it is a child"
"the first child"
"who refused to forget"
The crow's voice echoed from the bleeding bushes: "And the gardener is the first liar."
Thomas staggered into the garden, his robes in tatters. "You don't understand—"
Emily stood. The roses bent toward her, their fangs retracting. "You made me the angel," she said. "But I was never yours."
The ground split open.
And the real horror began.