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Emory and Chris watched old man Johnson shamble between the compost heap and the dilapidated greenhouse that occupied so much of his time. Overalls hung from his spindly body like rags on a scarecrow and his thick white hair stuck out at odd angles from his baseball cap. From their perch on the roof of the garage next door, his wrinkled face looked like a giant prune.
"He's a strange old bird," Emory said. "Heard lots of stories about him. They say he killed his wife by choking her."
"Choking her?"
"Word on the street is that he jammed a rosebud down her throat so he could get her insurance money, but the cops never proved he did it. Since she croaked, all he does is garden. Just roses."
"Can't tell from looking at that dump," Chris said. At fifteen, he was two years younger and a full head shorter than Emory. He had thick black hair, dark brown eyes and a pouting lower lip that made him seem on the verge of crying.
"He's always out there." Emory pushed a shock of red hair away from his dark eyes and took a hit from the joint Chris handed him. "Even at night. In and out. In and out. I think he's burying his insurance money out there."
He studied Chris with hooded eyes while his brain went to work. In the past his scheming had earned him free room and board in the county juvenile detention center. He thought of the money the old geezer probably had hidden in the greenhouse and smiled. "Smitty said he saw him dragging some bags out there."
Chris nodded and reached for the joint.
"Bet he keeps it in the greenhouse." Emory held the joint out to Chris. When the younger boy reached for it, Emory pulled back.
Chris squinted at the greenhouse. "I've seen his flashlight out there at all hours. He must be doing something."
"I guess we'll have to find out."
"You're not going to break in, are you?"
"No, stupid. We are."
––––––––
That night, the two boys lay on the garage roof in silvery darkness. A flashlight bobbed eerily through the greenhouse like a gravedigger's lantern. After it made a circuit around the building, it disappeared into the house.
Emory and Chris slid down the drainpipe on the other side of the garage and crept around back waiting to make sure the old man wouldn't return, then they slipped through a hole in the fence and bolted for the moonlit greenhouse.
Emory gave one last look around when they reached the door, then grabbed the handle and pushed. The door creaked open and the two boys stepped into the moist darkness.
The thick scent of roses undercut by the damp smell of fresh earth filled their nostrils.
"God," Chris whispered. "Get a whiff of those flowers."
"Yeah," Emory said. "Reminds me of a funeral."
Row after row of neatly pruned rose bushes stood bathed in moonlight like sentries, poised for a command. Emory spotted a couple of spades standing in the corner. He elbowed Chris. "There's some shovels. Let's get digging. The money's got to be buried somewhere under the flowers."
They dug up bushes and tossed them randomly aside, becoming so engrossed in their work, neither heard the old man until he caught Chris in the beam of his flashlight.
"My roses!" he cried. "My roses!" The flashlight bobbed.
"You little shit! What are you doing to my roses?"
Chris froze.
Emory spun and let his spade fly in the direction of the flashlight.
A startled cry, then a muffled clang, and the shovel clattered to the ground. Emory's eyes widened and his mouth dropped. "What a shot," he whispered.
"Let's get out of here!" Chris shrieked.
Emory walked toward the old man, still disbelieving the accuracy of his throw.
Shit, he thought. I didn't think I'd hit him. Got him right on the noggin.
When he got to the door, he saw the old man's body sprawled in front of it, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. A huge gash creased his forehead, a flap of skin exposing the bone underneath.
Emory gawked at the old man's glassy-eyed stare. The body remained still.
Chris rushed up behind, startling him out of his stupor.
"Is he? Is he?" Chris's hand flew to his mouth.
Emory squatted down and put his hand on the old man's neck, feeling for a pulse he knew wasn't there. "Dead," he said. His voice sounded hoarse. Raspy. His throat felt stuffed with cotton.
"Let's get out of here." Chris sounded as if he might burst into tears.
Coldness swept over Emory, filling him with icy resolve. "No," he said letting his confidence rise. "We can't leave him like this. Someone will find him, then we'll get busted. We have to hide him."
"Wh—where?"
Emory scanned the room until his gaze came to rest on the mound of dirt next to where he'd been digging. "There." He pointed. "We'll bury him there." He turned back. Even in the muted light of the greenhouse, he saw that Chris's face had lost its color. His hand remained at his mouth.
"Come on," Emory said. “Grab a leg. Help me drag him."
"I can't," Chris's voice quavered. "I can't touch him. He's dead."
"You don't grab him," Emory growled, "you'll be going in the hole with him."
Chris jerked. His eyes bulged. He shot Emory a sideways glance, then leaned over and grabbed one of the old man's legs. Together, he and Emory dragged the body toward the hole, dropped him next to it and dug deeper. They rolled the corpse into the hole, plopping it down face first in the dirt, and quickly shoveled dirt back in on top of him.
When the hole was almost full, Emory took the rosebushes they dug up and planted them neatly over the body, making the bed look uniform. He took off his shirt and wiped the handles of the shovels before putting them back, then he and Chris crept out of the greenhouse and went their separate ways.
"Catch you later," Emory said.
Chris didn't answer.
––––––––
Emory awoke the following morning to the fragrance of roses. The scent caused him to sit straight up. After a moment's disorientation, he remembered the previous night and his throat went dry.
He threw back the covers and stepped out of bed. His feet touched something soft and feathery. Looking down, he saw rose petals scattered around his bed. A thin trail led to his window. He jerked his feet back and held them off the floor for a moment, then jumped out of bed.
Afraid his mother might find them, he cleaned the petals up and flushed them down the toilet.
He grabbed his cell phone to call Chris. It rang the moment his hand touched it, startling him.
"Emory, its Chris. I'm scared shitless. Something weird is happening. When I woke up this morning I found..."
"Rose petals around your bed."
A sharp intake of breath, finally a whisper. "How did you know?"
"Same thing here. Listen, keep your trap shut. Don't say nothing to nobody. Stay home and lay low."
A week passed with no further incidents. Chris and Emory slipped back into their old routine, staying clear of old man Johnson's place, neither of them talking about that night.
Exactly one week after the old man was killed, Emory awoke from a scratch on his cheek. He felt a stinging wetness and smelled roses. When he turned on the night lamp, he found a bloody thorn stuck through the pillowcase.
The same thing happened to Chris.
Another week passed. No one seemed to notice that old man Johnson was gone. Two weeks after the old man's death, Emory awoke to the smell of roses, this time stronger. He found no petals or thorns until he put on his slipper.
A large thorn pierced his toe.
He saw Chris limping at school. The two boys stared at each other from a distance. Neither spoke.
On the third week, Emory awoke before dawn, overpowered by the sickeningly sweet smell of roses. His hands and legs bled from scratches by thorns stuck into his sheets. Rose petals covered his bed, their red matching the blood staining the sheets.
He wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, smearing blood on his palm. His head pounded. He climbed out of bed and washed himself off, then cleaned the mess from his bed and hid the sheets in his closet.
––––––––
As a rose-colored sun peered over the horizon, Emory slipped out the back door and headed for old man Johnson's greenhouse.
The glass on the roof and sides glinted burnt orange. The plants inside cast wild shadows onto the glass wall. Emory paused, his eyes darting about, then he stepped through the side door.
The cloying scent of roses bore down on him, thick, moist, and heavy. The once neat rows of bushes grew out of control, crawling every which way.
Muted sunlight highlighted blood red blooms that darkened into deeper shades, the closer his gaze moved toward the old man's grave. Over it, the bushes grew exceptionally thick, like brambles. Hundreds of blooms blocked out the sunlight in that corner of the greenhouse. Emory felt drawn into the darkness.
He thought he saw a dim shape behind the thorn-studded copse and edged closer. His chest felt tight. Over the top of the growth, he saw Chris leaning against the wall, his head bowed toward his chest.
"Chris!" Emory stepped over some creepers and started toward his friend. "You asshole. You scared the shit..."
Streams of blood ran down the front of Chris's shirt. Emory stared dumbly at circles of thorn-spiked runners forming a grotesque collar wrapped tightly around Chris's neck. His lifeless face looked purplish-white and puffy. Bloodshot eyes bulged out of their sockets and his blackened tongue lolled out of his mouth. His throat was stuffed full of rose petals.
Something moved behind him.
Emory screamed. A sharp pain pricked his ankle as a growth snaked out from the old man's grave, trapping his foot. He pulled away, tearing a gash in his ankle. Tendrils of rosebuds slithered toward him, cutting off his escape. He leaped and dodged. Thorns bit into his legs and buttocks. Ten feet from the door branches leaped toward his back, slicing through his shirt into his skin, stinging him. Five feet from the door, spiked runners tripped him. More runners crept over him.
He thrashed, breaking some as others pulled tighter. Thorns shredded his clothes, sliced his arms, legs and chest. Blood covered his hands.
He pulled himself up into a sitting position. A heavy, musky scent of decomposing rose petals hit him in the face. Rotted overalls towered over him, then he saw the old man's face.
Sallow skin hung like dripping wax. One eye socket caked with dirt. A tiny sprout grew out of it. Two large earthworms slipped from one nostril, glistening like reddish-brown mucous. One eye stared straight at Emory. Beetles crawled over his head and arms. Maggots oozed from his cheeks.
Emory pulled back. Vines snapped. Flesh ripped, burned. Blood spurted. He lunged again toward the door and tumbled outside.
Emory slammed the door before old man Johnson's corpse reached it. He grabbed the wheelbarrow by the mulch pile and jammed it against the door. A bloody, pulpy fist smashed through the glass, fingers clenching and unclenching. Emory looked frantically around the yard and spotted a gas can. He prayed silently and dashed for it. Another hand punched through the glass. Emory grabbed the can, unscrewed the cap and doused the clutching hands, then he fumbled in his pocket for a lighter. When it flared to life, he touched it to one of the hands. It went up in a ball of flame. A strange sound, part gurgle, part moan, part scream, came from behind the door and the hands retreated.
Emory whipped open the door and threw more gas on the flaming corpse. It stumbled backward in a stagger-dance and fell into a row of rose bushes. Emory emptied the rest of the gas over the flowers and threw the can into the fire. Flames roared to life, backing him out the door.
––––––––
Fire engines arrived a few minutes later, followed by the police. They picked Emory up three blocks away and took him to the hospital. Once his wounds were treated, the police questioned him, but he was incoherent so they brought him to the county mental health facility for observation.
Toward the end of his stay, Emory realized that no one would believe him, so he fabricated a story about Chris starting the fire and how he tried to stop him. The fire had roared out of control and Chris got caught in it. No evidence could be found to the contrary, so Emory was released.
After eating his first home-cooked meal in weeks, he went upstairs to bed. When he opened the door to his room, his breath caught.
A single red rose lay on his pillow.
