A long time ago, in primary school, there was a rumor being passed around. It’s all they would talk about, really. “The Rose Bush” is what the story was called. It was based off of a creepy old rose bush in the courtyard. The rumor said that if you went to the rose bush in the dead of night, when not even the janitor was in the building, and picked one of the roses, someone would come out of the rose bush and kill you. Of course, nothing had happened. At least, nothing had been reported.
I decided to check it out one night. After the janitor got into his truck and drove down the lane, I tip-toed over to the bush. The wilting roses shimmered in the pale moonlight, giving off an eerie look. I gingerly plucked a blood-red rose from off the vines. I stood there in silence, looking at the rose. A minute had passed with nothing happening. I gave up on it and was about to turn away when I heard a soft singing coming from behind me.
I turned around quickly, only to see....
Nothing. Had this been my imagination, or something else? It didn’t matter, it was late and I had to go to bed. I walked silently back to my apartment, when I heard screaming coming from my room. I burst through the door. My mother was down on her knees and was sobbing. I walked over to her to ask what was wrong. My father, who was also weeping, put a hand on her shoulder and looked at the bed. I looked up too, wondering what it was.
My dead body was lying in the bed, half of my face was ripped off and my eyes were nowhere to be seen. The blankets were torn off and ripped, the glass in my window was shattered, as if someone had broken in, but we lived on the 5th floor. The injuries couldn’t have been done by a human, or anything even close to one.
At the foot of my bed, there was the same blood-red rose I had just picked.