Faith was seated at the bakery counter during a rare lull, a half-empty mug of coffee beside her and her notebook open to a page full of twisting vines and thorny roses. Her pencil scratched against the paper in hypnotic patterns, the motion soothing, even as the images themselves left her uneasy. She wasn’t sure why she kept drawing them—only that it felt better to let them out onto the page than to let them stay in her head.
Delia wandered by, drying her hands on a towel, and slowed when her eyes caught the sketches. She didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the counter, watching Faith with the kind of silence that practically hummed with judgment. Finally, she broke the stillness. “You’ve been drawing a lot of those today.”
Faith glanced up, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Yeah. It’s just… relaxing. You know, like gardening.”
Delia’s brows knit together, her frown skeptical but not unkind. “Relaxing, huh?” Her voice softened, though her tone still carried an edge. “I didn’t know you had a garden, hun, how nice!” Faith had been growing distant lately, and Delia was getting concerned.
Faith hesitated, her pencil still for the first time in minutes. “Okay,” she said, setting the pencil down and leaning back. “It’s not just doodles if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Delia’s eyebrows shot up, the expression equal parts surprise and worry. Faith had never spoken so defensively before. Delia hesitantly asked, “What is it, then?”
Faith sighed, pressing her fingers into her temples for a moment before looking back at her friend. “I helped Ava in her garden the other day.”
“You did what?” Delia’s voice rose just enough to make Faith wince.
“Relax,” Faith said, her tone guarded as she waved a hand. “Her yard was a disaster, and she was out there wrestling with these ancient shears like she was trying to reenact a scene from Jumanji. I couldn’t just stand there and watch her flail.”
“That’s exactly what you should have done,” Delia said, crossing her arms and fixing Faith with a look. “That woman—”
“—is weird, yes, I know,” Faith cut in, her voice rising just enough to signal that she wasn’t in the mood for an argument. “But she’s not some evil witch or something. She just needed help.”
Delia stared at her unmoving for a moment, mouth set in a thin line, before shifting her gaze to the notebook. “And the vines? Let me guess. That’s what she’s got growing back there?”
Faith looked down at her sketches, her fingers tracing the edge of the page. “Not exactly,” she admitted. Her voice dropped, a little quieter, as though she wasn’t sure she should say the next part. “I’ve been having nightmares. Every night now. The vines are always there—crawling, tangling, wrapping around me. Sometimes they’re roses, sometimes just black thorns.” Her voice cracked slightly, the admission leaving her more vulnerable than she’d intended. “Drawing them… it helps. It makes me feel like I’m in control of them. At least a little.”
Delia’s expression softened, but not by much. “And you didn’t think to tell me this before?” she asked, her voice quiet, but sharp enough to cut.
Faith shrugged, picking up her pencil again and twirling it between her fingers. “What would I even say? They’re just dreams, Dee. Nothing to freak out about.”
Delia didn’t look convinced. “Dreams don’t terrify you and make you late,” she muttered, more to herself than to Faith. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little as she added, “Well, if it helps, then fine. But you need to be careful, Faith. Weird neighbors, creepy dreams—it don’t feel right.”
Faith rolled her eyes, though her smile softened the gesture. “It’s fine, Boss Lady. It’s not like I’m summoning demons or something.” She paused, glancing back down at the page. “And Ava’s not as bad as you think. She’s just… different.”
“Different doesn’t mean safe,” Delia replied, turning to head back to the kitchen. She muttered under her breath, “Not with her.”
Faith didn’t hear her, or at least didn’t respond. But the shadow that seemed to linger at the edges of her thoughts—the whisper of something far older and darker than she wanted to name—was harder to ignore. Somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, she could almost hear Ava’s voice, low and sharp like the thorns she couldn’t stop drawing. Be my guest.
“I’m always careful,” Faith said softly, almost as if convincing herself.
But the vines on her page seemed to twist just a little tighter, and for a fleeting moment, the pencil in her hand felt heavier than it should.
The garden was still at dusk, heavy with the smell of damp earth and the faintly cloying sweetness of flowers fighting to reclaim their ground. Ava stood in the center of it all, her silhouette etched in sharp relief against the fading light, the edges of her figure seeming to bleed into the shadows like ink on wet paper. Around her, the tangled rose bushes and new weeds waited, their thorny limbs like skeletal fingers reaching out of the soil. She tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes scanning the mess with the cold detachment of someone sizing up a broken thing they meant to fix—or break further.
She raised her hand, fingers pale and precise, and the air itself seemed to hold its breath. The first shimmer was faint, a ripple through the garden as if reality had wavered just slightly. The roses quivered, their leaves trembling like frightened animals, and then the petals began to unfurl. It wasn’t natural—nothing about this was natural. The roses unfolded with a slow, deliberate grace, their movement almost obscene in its elegance. The color that emerged was impossible: a deep, rich blue that seemed to drink in the remaining light. It was something that didn’t belong in any world where sunlight touched the earth.
Ava watched, her face unreadable, her lips pressed into a line that might have been satisfaction or something colder. For a moment, she stood perfectly still, the dark figure at the center of a blooming nightmare, and then she allowed herself the faintest twitch of a smile. “Just a little,” she murmured, the words soft and private, meant only for the roses—or perhaps the garden itself.
Her gaze drifted to the small house next door, where a warm light glowed from a single window. Faith’s window. Ava’s smile faded, and her expression turned to something harder, sharper, like glass ready to break. “She’ll see,” she whispered, her voice low, almost reverent, but with an edge that made the air around her feel colder. She turned back to the roses, their impossible color seeming to pulse faintly as if alive.
The shadows crept in closer as the last rays of sunlight disappeared, and the garden exhaled, filling the air with a deeper silence, the kind that pressed on the ears and crawled under the skin. Ava stepped back, her dark figure merging with the night, leaving the roses behind to gleam unnaturally against the deepening gloom. And though the wind remained still, the roses swayed, their movements slow and deliberate, as if bowing to their maker.
The morning was perfect: birds singing, a light breeze rustling the leaves, and Mrs. Whitley standing in her garden, ready to wage war on the latest crop of weeds. She wielded her trowel like a knight preparing for battle, humming a cheerful tune that was just slightly off-key. Her roses were in full bloom, their red and yellow petals practically bursting with self-congratulation. And why not? They deserved it. Her garden was the crown jewel of the neighborhood. Everyone knew it, and more importantly, so did she.
But then, while reaching for a particularly aggressive dandelion, she froze. Something was different. Something was wrong. She straightened up, wiping her hands on her gardening apron, and turned to look at the disaster zone that was Ava’s yard.
Or at least, what had been Ava’s yard.
Mrs. Whitley blinked. The bushes that had, until yesterday, formed a solid wall of wild, unkempt chaos were trimmed back, revealing an actual yard beneath them. It wasn’t exactly nice—there were still weeds here and there, and the grass looked like it hadn’t seen a mower in a decade—but it was… better. Manageable. For Ava, that was practically a miracle. Mrs. Whitley squinted, her lips pursed, and muttered, “Huh. Maybe she’s finally decided to live like a civilized human being. About time.”
She was about to turn back to her own roses when something caught her eye. There, on the side of Ava’s yard, was a patch of roses. Blue roses.
Mrs. Whitley frowned. “Nawww,” she said to herself, shaking her head. “No such thing.”
“ISN’T,” she quickly corrected her own grammar.
But the roses didn’t disappear. They just WERE, mocking her with their impossible color. They weren’t the kind of pale lavender people sometimes tried to pass off as blue. These were blue blue, like someone had dipped them in a can of car paint. They shimmered in the sunlight, their petals too perfect, too vibrant, too… smug.
“That’s not right,” Mrs. Whitley muttered, dropping her shears. She wasn’t about to step one foot onto Ava’s property—no way, no how. That house gave her the creeps, and Ava herself was about as welcoming as a porcupine in a tuxedo. But curiosity was a powerful thing, and Mrs. Whitley had a well-used pair of binoculars for moments just like this.
She marched into her house, grabbed the binoculars from the kitchen counter (where they usually sat for birdwatching and the occasional bout of neighborhood surveillance), and stomped back out to her garden. She raised the binoculars and zeroed in on the roses.
What she saw made her gasp. Up close, the roses were even worse. They weren’t just blue—they had a weird, velvety sparkle, like they were part flower, part science experiment gone wrong. Mrs. Whitley felt a pang of jealousy, quickly followed by a healthy dose of outrage. She’d spent years perfecting her garden and never—not once—had her roses looked like that. But these? These blooms looked like they’d been custom-ordered from some fancy flower lab run by mad botanists.
“Probably some fancy fertilizer,” she muttered, lowering the binoculars. But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. Fertilizer didn’t make flowers glow like they were plugged into the electrical grid.
For a moment, she considered going over there, demanding answers. But then she glanced at the house. The dark windows seemed to be watching her, and she shivered. Nope. Not happening. Let Ava keep her creepy roses, her creepy yard, and her creepy house. Mrs. Whitley was staying firmly on her side of the property line.
Still, as she turned back to her own garden, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. The roses were just sitting there, impossibly blue, impossibly wrong. She sniffed and went back to her work, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that those flowers weren’t done causing trouble. Not by a long shot.
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Excerpt from “The Covenant Broken: Signs and Wonders in Salem”
Location: (scribbled in handwritten letters) This item was discovered missing from the archival warehouse. June 10th 1905. Frances Schumby - Librarian
The Descent of Avariel
By an Anonymous Witness to God’s Truth, 1692
In the Year of our Lord 1692, in the godly town of Salem, the Prince of Darkness was thought to walk among the righteous, sowing his wickedness with deceitful cunning. The cries of the afflicted and the lamentations of the accused filled the air, and the dread of God’s wrath lay heavy upon the hearts of all. The trials of witches had commenced, driven by the righteous zeal of Reverend Samuel Parris, who, with unyielding fervor, sought to purge the Devil’s brood from the midst of the Elect.
Yet, above the turmoil, in the courts of Heaven where the Eternal doth reign in wisdom, there stood an angel, once bright and steadfast, who now regarded mankind with a troubled heart. Her name was Avariel, a watcher of men and bearer of divine commands, whose faith in the ways of Providence had begun to waver. She beheld the bloodshed, the betrayals, and the endless cries of vengeance rising from the Earth, and her spirit grew weary.
And lo, the Eternal spake unto her, saying, “Go thou unto Salem, for mine handmaidens and servants falter in their judgment. Guide the Reverend Parris, for he holdeth the scales of life and death. Temper his wrath and bring wisdom to his heart, that he may not spill innocent blood.”
But Avariel, in her weariness, replied, “Lord, thy will is just, yet thy people are stubborn and deaf to thy counsel. How shall they hear me when their hearts are hardened and their eyes blind to truth?”
The Eternal’s voice was steadfast and unwavering. “Go,” He said, “for thou art sent by my command.”
Thus did Avariel descend, her wings trailing a light now dimmed by sorrow, and she entered the cursed town of Salem.
In the meetinghouse, Reverend Parris stood before his trembling flock, his face alight with the fervor of a prophet and his voice as thunder upon the hills. “The adversary walketh among us!” he cried. “Behold these afflicted children, whom Satan hath tormented! By their cries, we shall uncover the Devil’s agents and root them out like chaff from the wheat!”
The afflicted girls, chief among them Abigail Williams, screamed and trembled in their seats. “She burns me!” cried Abigail, pointing a quaking finger at an old woman in the assembly. “Her eyes pierce my soul, and her touch is as fire upon my skin!”
Avariel, standing unseen beside Parris, spoke with the voice of Heaven’s gentleness. “Samuel, open thine eyes to the truth. These are but children, ensnared by fear and deceit. Judge not hastily, lest thou condemn the innocent and stain thy soul with blood.”
But Parris, consumed by zeal and blinded by his authority, heard her not. “We shall have no mercy for the Devil’s instruments!” he proclaimed, his voice rising. “Let the gallows and the fire cleanse this town of its wickedness!”
Avariel turned away in sorrow, for her words fell upon deaf ears. Yet as she looked upon Abigail, her heart was moved. The girl’s trembling was not of torment but of guilt, her soul burdened by the weight of her own falsehoods.
Long had Avariel walked among men, yet always she had obeyed the laws of Heaven: to guide, to speak, but never to interfere with the workings of mortal will. But now, as she beheld the innocent dragged to their deaths, her resolve faltered. She stepped beyond the bounds of her charge, her wings trembling under the weight of her choice.
She entered the spirit of Abigail Williams, mingling her essence with the girl’s troubled soul. Abigail gasped, clutching her chest, and heard a voice within her mind—not cruel, not accusing, but sorrowful and firm.
“Child,” the voice said, “I am no demon but a servant of Heaven. I come to unbind thee from thy falsehoods and lead thee to repentance.”
Abigail’s lips quivered, and her voice came low. “What wilt thou of me, spirit? I am naught but a sinner, too weak to bear the truth.”
“Speak,” commanded Avariel, “and let thy truth shine forth, that it may bring salvation to the innocent and lift the weight of sin from thy soul.”
The meetinghouse swelled with the murmurs of the gathered townsfolk, all eyes fixed upon the accused, whose fates rested upon the trembling testimony of children. But Abigail Williams rose from her seat, her face pale and her voice clear, though it quavered with the strain of her burden.
“I have lied,” she declared, her words falling like a stone into a still pond. “No witch hath tormented me. No spirit hath pinched or burned me. The cries and accusations were born of fear and falsehood, not of Satan.”
The assembly erupted in chaos. Reverend Parris, his face pale with fury, stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger. “This is the Devil’s work! Thou art bewitched, Abigail, and thy confession is a lie!”
But through Abigail, Avariel spoke again, her voice calm and resolute. “Nay, Samuel Parris. It is not the Devil who worketh here but the pride of thine own heart. Repent of thy wrath and cease thy judgment, for the blood of the innocent crieth out against thee.”
The congregation fell into turmoil. The other afflicted girls screamed and denounced Abigail, but the girl fled the meetinghouse, her steps guided by the angel who dwelt within her.
In the shadow of the ancient woods, Abigail fell to her knees, weeping. “They will call me a witch,” she cried, “and hang me for my confession. What hope is there for me now?”
Avariel’s voice came soft, like the wind through the pines. “Thou hast spoken truth, and truth is a heavy burden. Yet it is the path of righteousness. Fear not, for Heaven seeth thy courage, and thy soul is redeemed.”
Abigail lifted her face to the heavens, but when she opened her mouth to speak, the angel was gone, her presence fading like mist in the morning sun.
Avariel ascended to the celestial heights, her light dimmed and her wings heavy with consequence. The Eternal’s voice met her there, neither wrathful nor kind. “Thou hast broken the laws of Heaven, Avariel. What hast thou gained?”
“I have gained naught,” Avariel replied, her voice weary but firm. “Yet I could not abide the slaughter of the innocent. If thou wouldst cast me down, so be it, for I have acted in accordance with the mercy thou hast taught me.”
The Eternal was silent for a time, then spake, “Thy disobedience hath borne the seeds of doubt in Salem. Though the trials rage on, they shall not endure, for truth hath been sown among the lies. But thou, Avariel, art no longer mine.”
And so Avariel walked the Earth, her light fading but her resolve unbroken, forever among the fragile hearts of mankind, seeking to guide them in their hour of need.
Transcript from Dr. Evelyn Strauss’s Notes: Initial Interview with Patient R.M.
Date: 16-11-2024
Time: 9:00 AM
Location: Interview Room 2, South Florida State Hospital
Attending Psychiatrist: Dr. Evelyn Strauss, MD
Patient ID: R.M. MRN 11592701
Session Notes: First interview with patient following intake.
Dr. Strauss’s Notes:
I entered the interview room at 9:00 AM sharp. The patient was already seated at the far end of the table, her posture rigid. She did not acknowledge my arrival, her gaze fixed on the wall. The fluorescent lighting accentuated her pale complexion, and her hands, resting on the table, appeared tremulous.
Her chart noted minor defensive wounds on her forearms and hands, but they were well-bandaged. I observed no signs of active bleeding or self-harm during this session. The room was quiet save for the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Transcript:
Dr. Strauss:
“Good morning, Rosie. My name is Dr. Evelyn Strauss. I’ll be working with you during your time here. Do you understand why you’ve been admitted to this facility?”
[Patient remains silent, her focus unwavering on the wall.]
Dr. Strauss:
“Rosie, you were found wandering the streets, covered in blood. The police believe it might belong to someone else, but they’re still investigating. You were not physically harmed beyond a few cuts. I’m here to help you—if you’ll let me.”
[No response. Patient blinks slowly but does not shift her focus.]
Dr. Strauss’s Notes:
At this point, I opened her file and reviewed the police report. The report stated that the blood on her clothing was excessive and could not have come solely from the minor injuries she sustained. Forensics are still pending. Her demeanor was detached, almost catatonic, though there was no indication of sedation beyond what was prescribed upon intake.
Dr. Strauss:
“Rosie, can you tell me what happened at the motel? The police report describes the room as being… in a very disturbing state. Do you know what happened to Kyle Daniels, your boyfriend?”
[Patient’s gaze shifts slightly downward, but she remains silent.]
Dr. Strauss:
“Kyle is missing, Rosie. The authorities are very concerned for his safety. If you know anything—anything at all—it could help him.”
[Patient’s fingers twitch slightly on the table, but there is no verbal response.]
Dr. Strauss’s Notes:
I attempted to gauge her reaction by mentioning Kyle’s name. There was a faint physical response—a minute twitch of her fingers—but her expression remained blank. I decided to proceed with more direct questioning, hoping to elicit any reaction.
Dr. Strauss:
“Rosie, your nurses have noted that you occasionally murmur in your sleep. Sometimes it sounds like names. Does the name ‘Kyle’ mean anything to you right now?”
[Patient remains motionless.]
Dr. Strauss:
“What about the name ‘Faith’? Does that mean anything to you?”
[Patient’s head tilts slightly to the left, her eyes now shifting for the first time to meet mine.]
Dr. Strauss’s Notes:
This was the first time the patient made direct eye contact. It was unnerving. Her previously brown irises had darkened considerably, appearing almost green. I assumed it was a trick of the lighting or a result of some physiological response—perhaps a side effect of her medications. I made a note to follow up with her attending nurse.
Dr. Strauss:
“Faith. Who or what is Faith?”
[Patient’s lips part, her voice barely audible.]
Patient:
“…Lawrence.”
Dr. Strauss:
“Faith Lawrence? Is that someone you know? Is she connected to Kyle or the motel?”
[Patient closes her mouth and resumes her earlier, blank expression, her gaze shifting away from me and back to the wall.]
Dr. Strauss’s Notes:
Her voice was faint, almost a whisper, but the clarity with which she uttered “Lawrence” was striking. Her tone carried a weight of finality as if the word held significance beyond my understanding. Her eye color continued to appear unnaturally green, and I could not shake the sense of unease that filled the room.
At this point, I ended the session. The patient was escorted back to her room without incident.
Assessment and Plan:
1. Observation and Monitoring:
* Increased vigilance required for shifts in behavior or further physiological changes.
* Recommend staff document any unusual occurrences during rounds.
1. Medication Adjustment:
* Prescribe an increased dose of lorazepam to manage anxiety or potential dissociative episodes.
* Consider initiating antipsychotic therapy pending further evaluation.
1. Further Evaluation:
* Order a full ophthalmological exam to investigate possible causes of eye discoloration.
* Request additional labs to rule out metabolic disturbances or other underlying conditions.
1. Follow-Up:
* Next interview scheduled in 48 hours, focusing on the significance of “Faith Lawrence.”
Dr. Strauss’s Notes (Post-Session):
I cannot ignore the disquieting atmosphere of this session. Rosie’s unresponsiveness, coupled with the peculiar change in her eyes, suggests something far beyond the typical dissociation seen in trauma patients. Whether psychological or physiological, her condition warrants deeper investigation.
End of notes.
Maggie Draper swung her shiny white patent leather purse—her prized retro accessory—into the passenger seat with a flourish that suggested she’d just tossed a priceless artifact onto a throne. Settling into the driver’s seat, she pulled out her pink, glitter-encrusted phone, which matched her nails perfectly, and promptly got lost in her favorite pastime: scrolling through pictures she shouldn’t have been taking in the first place.
As her thumb flicked through a series of slightly blurry shots—kids bobbing for apples, poorly lit pies at the Fall Festival Pie Eating Contest, and a close-up of a pumpkin with what she swore was a celebrity face carved into it—her thumb paused. There it was: Ava. Standing at the edge of the festival, dark and composed, watching Faith like she was deciding which sauce to serve her with.
Maggie squinted at the photo, her lips pursing into a line that could’ve meant trouble for anyone within a five-mile radius. “Now, what are you up to, Miss Mysterious?” she muttered as if Ava could hear her through the screen. “And why does it feel like Faith doesn’t know she’s on the menu?”
With a decisive tap, she locked her phone, tossed it into her purse, and put the car in gear. Maggie Draper wasn’t just on her way to town—she was on a mission. And when Maggie Draper was on a mission, no one, not even Ava and her weird vibes, was safe.
As the tires crunched over the gravel of her driveway, an unwelcome thought wormed its way into her bubble-gum-flavored brain. Hadn’t she been to Ava’s house before? She shook her head, dismissing the idea almost as quickly as it arrived. No, she would’ve remembered something as exciting as a visit to that creepy-looking place.
But the feeling lingered as a faint prickle in the back of her mind, like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. It wasn’t just déjà vu; it was stronger, deeper, like a memory she couldn’t quite pull into focus. Something important. She frowned, gripping the wheel tighter. “Must be all the gossip getting to me,” she muttered and pushed the thought away.