The town of Oakhaven, Louisiana, didn’t just look like a postcard; it looked like a carefully curated lie, glossy enough to hide the rot beneath.
As Sloane drove them into the heart of the town in her pristine vintage SUV, Elara watched the scenery with new, rigid eyes, every color suddenly too sharp to trust. Every flower bed was a riot of impossible colors, vivid, deep purples and blood-saturated reds that seemed too heavy for their stems. The black-veined lilies, the town's pride and joy, were everywhere, their thick petals pulsing in the humid Louisiana heat like slow, living hearts.
“We should stop by the Botanical Society office,” Sloane said, her voice smooth and rehearsed, sweet enough to sound false, as she steered the vehicle with one hand. “Mother said Mr. Abernathy wanted to see us about a scholarship ‘blessing’ for the three of us because we’re graduating.”
Maren leaned her head against the car window, letting out a soft moan. The Shared Nerve from the morning had settled into a warm, dull, vibrating ache in their collective marrow. “That’s so nice of him. I hope I don’t pass out on his floor. I feel like I haven’t slept in a week!”
“It’s just all the excitement, Mare,” Sloane cooed, reaching over to pat Maren’s knee.
Elara watched the interaction in the rearview mirror. She saw Sloane’s eyes didn’t move toward Maren’s face but stayed fixed on the road, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her mouth-an expression that sent a flicker of unease through Elara, hinting at secrets beneath her calm facade.
It was time to start the game.
The Botanical Society office was a brick-and-ivy building that smelled of damp mulch and expensive tea, the air thick with cultivated decay. Mr. Abernathy, an older man whose skin looked like crumpled parchment and whose eyes were the color of stagnant water, stood behind a heavy, antique oak desk, watching them with harvest-hunger. He didn’t look at them as students; he looked at them like a farmer assessing a prize-winning harvest.
“The triad,” Abernathy whispered, his voice a dry rasp. He stepped around the heavy oak desk and took Maren’s hand first, then Sloane’s. When he reached for Elara’s, she felt a cold shiver of pure, instinctive revulsion bloom deep in her marrow.
“Mr. Abernathy,” Elara said, her voice deliberately trembling. She didn’t take his hand like the other girls. Instead, she stared past his shoulder at a blank spot on the wall, her eyes widening.
“Is something wrong, Elara?” Sloane asked, her tone dripping with mock concern. She stepped closer, her hand settling at the small of Elara’s back, a gesture that felt less like comfort than a warning.
“The shadows,” Elara whispered, her voice thin and trembling. She pointed only to the corner of the ceiling, where nothing ever seemed to happen except dust bunnies dancing in the moonlight. “Sloane, don’t you see them? They’re growing like vines. They’re coming out of the vents.”
The room fell silent. Maren looked confused, but Abernathy’s eyes flickered with sudden, sharp interest, as if recognizing a new bloom. Sloane’s grip on Elara’s back tightened for a split second, then relaxed. “El, there’s nothing there. You’re just tired from last night’s storm. Right, Mr. Abernathy?”
“Of course,” Abernathy said, though he was now leaning in, his gaze roaming over Elara’s face with clinical precision. “The air in the town can be quite… heavy… during the bloom. Hallucinations are a common side effect of the high pollen count,” Abernathy murmured, his gaze dissecting her. “Especially among those with… sensitive constitutions.”
“They’re moving,” Elara insisted, her voice rising to a frantic squeak. She stumbled back, nearly knocking over a pedestal holding a rare obsidian orchid. “I need to leave immediately. I can’t stay. It’s too loud in here!” Her voice cracked as the air vibrated beneath her skin like a swarm of bees. She bolted for the door, not stopping until she hit the humid sidewalk, the air outside clinging to her like a wet cloth.
A moment later, the bell above the door chimed. Sloane and Maren emerged, with Sloane looking appropriately embarrassed and extremely worried.
“Elara! God, you scared us,” Maren cried, rushing over to wrap her arms around her friend. “What happened in there?”
“I don’t know,” Elara gasped, burying her face in Maren’s shoulder. She let out a small, somber sob. “I just… I saw them. I swear I saw them.”
Over Maren’s shoulder, Elara looked at Sloane. For the first time since the ritual, Sloane looked genuinely pleased, a predator watching prey stumble. The predator thought the prey was breaking. Sloane walked over and tucked a stray baby hair behind Elara’s ear. Her gentle touch lingered a few seconds too long, soft as a warning.
“It’s okay, El,” Sloane whispered, her voice a soothing venom, warm enough to mask the sting. “We’ll get you home soon, and I’ll make you some of that special tea. You need to rest. Let the town take care of you.”
Elara let out a slow, steady breath and nodded, her eyes downcast, masking the cold, sharp clarity blazing behind her pupils. Sloane thought she was winning the psychological war. She didn’t realize that Elara had just confirmed exactly what the “Root Council” wanted: a girl losing her mind. Meanwhile, her gaze fell on the black-veined ledger on Abernathy’s desk. The book looked as if it had grown rather than been bound, its pages filled with names written in ink that looked suspiciously like dried blood, an ominous record hinting at darker secrets beneath the town's facade.