“Come closer,” whispered the flower.
He looked around, then said, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
That, of course, should have been his first clue that something was not quite right. I mean that’s what they say in horror films, right?
“Over here,” said the flower, softly. “Come closer.”
He looked at the flower and shook his head. “Flowers do NOT talk. At least they don’t talk to humans. Maybe they talk to each other, but not to people.”
“I’m not like the other flowers,” said the rose. “Look at my color. I’m gorgeous, my petals are like the softest velvet.”
He had to agree. The flower was beautiful.
They chatted for a while and then he reached out to touch her.
“Would you like me to tell you a story?” asked the rose, sweetly. “It’s quite late, near midnight, I think. That’s the perfect time for a story.”
“Sure,” he said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, I don’t have to get up early, so go ahead.”
“Come closer, so you can hear me better,” she purred.
He sat down next to the flower and stared into her petals.
A jogger found him the next morning. He wasn’t dead, which was too bad. Instead, he was locked into a never-ending nightmare, from which he would never escape. The flower, drenched with dew, glittered in the morning sunlight. She was much larger than she had been the day before, having feasted on the man’s screams.