The Crypt Rose

The Crypt Rose

Stephen stood at the entrance of the great mansion. His parents had lived here their entire married lives, his father since his birth. The hall situated before him was decorated with photographs and paintings from various stages of time within the mansion. Stephen moved slowly along the corridor looking at the images he had seen a million times as he grew up. He paused before one in particular. This one had always held a certain fascination for him. The image was that of a young child, approximately seven years old. The boy bore an impish smile and seemed to watch you as you watched him. A small gold plaque beneath the photograph bore the inscription Stephen Harold. Stephen smiled. He had always felt a secret pleasure knowing he shared a name with one who came before him. He had asked his mother about this photo before, she had replied she was uncertain of its origin. His father had told him it was a cousin who had died very young. Stephen touched the image. The face was to an uncanny extent akin to his own. Anyone from outside the family would have sworn they were one in the same. He pulled himself harshly from his thoughts and moved to the dining room. His mother and father would be waiting. They were expecting him and both were firm believers in punctuality. He stood at the doorway, leaning on the frame momentarily before continuing into the room. His mother graced him with a cold stare; he felt his very breath sucked away in that moment. He composed himself for a short few seconds compelling his lungs to draw a breath of air once more, and then he moved toward the center of the table. Mother was seated at one end and father sat opposite her at the far distant other side of the extensive table. "Stephen, so nice of you to join us." his mother said. Her words were pleasant enough but her tone was mocking and sarcastic. She glanced away and impatiently nodded to the general direction of the kitchen. As if on cue a servant began to bring plates of steaming food to the table. Stephen felt an intense sense of pride; his mother had always been able to get exactly what she wanted with just a look. "You were late, Stephen. I heard you arrive. You got caught up in that old photograph again. Did you not?" Stephen nodded but did not speak. The one thing he hated about his mother was her ability to berate him. Only she could reduce him to the child he had been. He was now 25 and yet in her presence he was that six year old once again. "I do not want you looking at that thing. Do you hear me? If I must I will take it down and burn it." Stephen opened his mouth to defend himself but shut it again as his father emitted a distressed groan. Stephen looked at him, a question on his lips. His father shook his head slightly and waved his hand dismissively. Stephen picked up his fork and began to prod his food. "When is the funeral?" he asked suddenly, hoping to change the subject. "Tomorrow at noon." his mother said, her voice even more harsh. "Are you in some hurry to be rid of your grandfather?" "No mother, but having a corpse in the house isn't exactly my idea of fun either." he shot back, his defenses high once again. He had only come for the funeral. Grandfather had always been kind to him. Though he did not have material goods like his paternal grandfather he had something else: unconditional love for his grandson. Still the thought of his cooling corpse in the house gave Stephen the creeps. Stephen shivered involuntarily. He ate slowly, not daring to make another comment on any subject. Obviously his mother was going to be testy at every turn. While he did not expect her to be jovial in light of her father's death: he did expect at least an attempt at graciousness. He laid the fork beside the plate and drained his wine. "I am going to bed,” he announced as he stood. "Have the servant wake me in time to get dressed." His mother snarled but said nothing. His father shook his head dismissively. Stephen climbed the stairs, despite the miserable dinner and his mother’s stern warning his thoughts again wandered to the photograph. His father had explained that this cousin had been born and died in the early forties, yet...there was something there. A thought not quite formed in Stephen's mind plagued him through a long and ultimately restless night. Stephen lay in bed watching the shadows move across the room as dawn filtered a pale light through the window. He rose, walked up to the glass and stared out. The family cemetery stood in back of the house. He had been there many times but could not recall ever seeing the grave of this other Stephen Harold. He made a mental note to check it out again after the funeral. He would have every right to be there this time and mother could not refuse him. As he moved to return to the bed he noticed something behind the cemetery. What he observed was a newly bloomed wall of roses. "Oh! Intrigue." he said sarcastically. Funny he had never noticed the roses there before. Perhaps because as a child every time he would get into the graveyard his mother would order him out. And it wasn't as if he had spent so much time at home. From the moment he had been of adequate age he had been sent to some school or another, only spending brief periods at Harold Manor. He returned to the four-post bed, his mind still on the wall of roses. White roses, but in the back of his mind something spoke to him of red roses. Stephen awoke with a jolt and sat up quickly surveying the room. Everything seemed in place and daylight streamed through the window. "Damned dream." he spat as he glanced at the clock. "11:30!" He hurried to take a shower and get dressed. As he stood brushing his teeth he heard a servant enter the room. He shoved the door open violently, still dressed in only a towel. "Were you not given instructions to awaken me early?" he seethed. The servant shook her head. Stephen forced himself to calm down, berating the servants, as mother did would not help the situation. "You are dismissed. Obviously I can handle dressing myself." The young woman nodded and almost fled the room. He dressed quickly then moved to the window. The house was strangely silent and now he knew why. People stood about in the small cemetery as the priest...it looked like he was conducting the funeral. "Ah Mother, you will pay for this." He whispered as he started downstairs wondering exactly why she would lie to him about the service time. He stood off from the rest, scarcely able to hear the ceremony. He did not wish to interrupt the ceremony though he was becoming more curious as to why his mother would so openly try to mislead him. After the service he approached his mother, not oblivious to the stares given him by those attending the funeral. "Mother." he said, as he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the side. "Why did you lie to me?" She pulled her arm away roughly. "I did not lie to you. I have no idea what you are going on about. It is most certainly not my fault you decided to stay in bed rather than attend your grandfather's funeral." "Excuse me? I was given a choice? I specifically asked you to have someone come up this morning and awaken me. You could not even do that." Stephen said, his anger threatening to overspill. "I sent Celeste up this morning. The funeral began at noon. I waited until 10 then sent her up. You father said he knew you had a rough night last night. He heard you moving around in there at dawn. It was his idea to let you sleep through breakfast. Celeste had to leave for a bit this morning but she said you refused to attend." "How convenient, she is gone. Either you are lying or she is. No one came into my bedroom this morning. Mother, I came home specifically for the funeral. Why would I miss it?" "I'm sure I don't know, Stephen. If you will excuse me, I have a houseful of guests to attend to." Stephen stepped aside and watched as his mother walked quickly back toward the house. She stopped several times to chat with people milling about. Though she put on the facade of grieving for her father the night before, today she seemed rather cold and uncaring. Stephen's family left him in the cemetery as the casket was lowered into the ground. "Goodbye, grandfather, you were the only one who mattered to me in this godless family." he muttered, then turned to walk back towards the house. That was when the wall of roses at the back of the cemetery caught his attention. They were all fully bloomed dark and crimson red like oxygen rich blood. They were red! He was certain at dawn this morning they had been white. He touched one of the delicate petals. It was smooth and silken, still there was something...repulsive about them. He stepped away from them and almost tripped over a grave marker. "Damn you..." he looked at the marker so he could name the one he was now cursing. He drew closer as the name captivated him. It was the elusive Stephen Harold. “So there you are. About time we met, don't you think?” Stephen's ecstasy at finding the elusive grave was short lived. "The date." he said softly as the icy finger of dread ran along his spine. He ran his fingers over the dates as if to reassure himself it was true. The marker read 'Stephen Harold January 24, 1975 to July 3, 1981 Beloved son of Samuel and Julia Harold.' Stephen's breath came in short hitches. Samuel and Julia were his parents; July 3rd was exactly ten months to the day before he was born. Something was wickedly amiss. His parents had lied to him. This Stephen Harold was also their child, his deceased brother. Why would they give both their sons the same name? He walked slowly in the general direction of the house trying to give some reason to his quandary. His mother was downstairs. She had surrounded herself with family members and acquaintances, keeping a continuous distance from Stephen. While Stephen's father remained by himself upstairs clear of any contact with family. Julia's entire family was just the same as her, snobbish and domineering. Samuel was the extreme opposite. Stephen mounted the stairs, sick of the uncomfortable glares from Julia's family. He heard parts of whispered conversations that only increased his curiosity about the other Stephen Harold. He found his father in his bedroom reading a novel. "Father, I think it is time we had a talk. It is time you give me a few truths about that photograph in the foyer." His father laid his novel aside. "What exactly would you like to know? The truth. I suppose? I know you went to the grave after everyone left. Finally found it, did you?" His father asked. ''How do you know I found it? Why is their so much secrecy around it? He is actually my brother instead of my cousin. So why would you name us the same? I would think it in honor of him. Yet, you lied to me. This makes me very suspicious of you both." "I knew because you were left alone in the cemetery. Naturally you would be curious. You have been looking at that photograph since you first noticed the resemblance. I knew this day would come. I am not entirely sure I can explain though." "Try, I do not like the idea of knowing you have been lying to me all these years." Stephen sneered. His father looked at the novel he had laid aside; as if hoping for some easy answers. "Stephen, your namesake was born in January of 1975. Julia and I were so proud of our boy. He was bright and precocious with a flare for art and an affinity with nature. In June of 1981 he became gravely ill. In July he died late one evening as your mother and I begged and prayed for his life. The day of his funeral a man came to us and said he could help. He worked for the coroner's office and had done an autopsy on your brother. He said he could give him back to us. He had kept a drought of your brother's blood and from it..." Stephen backed away in horror. His intestines twisted in a knot as realization sank in. "How could you? He is not my brother? We are one and the same?" "No, his body still lies out there." Samuel said as he moved toward the window and pointed at the graveyard. "You are..." Samuel paused searching carefully for the right words. "You are his, clone, I suppose you would say. The man from the coroner's office had some very strange ideas and I will readily admit I did not understand all he said. Your mother seemed to grasp only the important part that she could have her son back and agreed readily. Within a month she had planted that wall of white crypt roses provided by the man from the morgue and days later she was pregnant with you. I can only speculate that the two things were related. You were born nine months later. Without any consultation with me she named you Stephen and swore you were not a second child: but our Stephen restored to us. I found this incredulous but nevertheless allow her to wallow in her madness." Samuel turned away. "Later I had to admit she was right. As you grew you became the child you once were." he said softly. Stephen fled the room. His father was lying. He had to be. The roses were red. He had looked upon their crimson petals just minutes before entering the house. He stood in the foyer looking at the photograph. "Give up your secret to me. If we are one in the same I should remember." The voice came to him. It was soft and vague, yet the tone sounded very much the same as his very own voice. "For every indiscretion there is a price. For your mother the price may have been too steep this time." Stephen stepped away from the photo and looked wildly about the foyer. There was no one. Imagination, he thought to himself. He heard his mother laugh in the next room. Entering the room cautiously he saw her with his Uncle Randall. Randall was an incredibly fat balding man. Stephen thought he always smelled of alcohol and cheap cigars. His mother stopped laughing when she caught sight of him. Stephen was relieved; her laughter was not as he remembered it. Her laugh had always been jovial and cheerful, despite her sullen demeanor. When she found something genuinely humorous she really let loose. Now though, her laughter sounded strange, haunted. Mad. The words he had heard in the foyer drifted back to him. He had to see the grave and the roses again. He hurried from the house. He ran until he reached the small grave marker. The horrid words burned in his mind. He knelt beside it and noticed at the very bottom was an engraved rose. Crudely done, it had not been part of the original marker. Stephen looked at the roses and they were a gentle pink. They were no longer the deep red, as they had manifested earlier nor the soft white he thought he saw in the early hours of this very morning. He stood studying them carefully. "Stephen, stay away!" he turned as he heard his mother call his name. She sounded afraid, desperate. "Stephen, please, come here!" she cried. Stephen hesitated then slowly began to walk toward her. She smiled and held her arms out to him. Without warning she sprinted toward him and almost tackled him as she embraced him. "You must stay away from the roses. They were planted to restore you to me. Ever so often they must be fed." "Fed? What are you implying? Be straight with me, just this once please tell me the truth Mother." Stephen begged. His mother looked over to the wall of roses, then at the grave. She allowed a despairing sigh to escape her darkly rouged lips. "Alright, I will tell you." She paused, searching for a place to begin. "When Stephen died I thought I would die too. My baby died of pneumonia and that was my fault. His room was always so dreary and damp. He caught a cold, a cold that turned lethal. Everyone tried to convince me it was not my fault but I knew differently. I knew I killed him. The day of the funeral the coroner came to me. He knew arcane secrets of life and death. He had retained blood so that he could restore this child. My child! A child lost to the world far too soon. He had kept the blood and knew how to use it to restore my son. I cannot say for certain what this process was, I do not know. I know he brought to me an elixir and bade me drink. I did so gladly. Then...I would rather not say...I was impregnated in a way not natural. You were born healthy and strong nine months later. You looked exactly as you had the first time. You behaved exactly in the same manner. This time though you developed much more quickly: before I knew it you were again the Stephen I remembered and loved so well." She paused and took a few steps toward the wall of roses. "You know there was a price? For everything has a price, even the most trivial of things. The price I had to give was blood. Blood for blood the coroner said. Your blood for the blood of all others I hold dear. Only days ago it was my father. He came to our home to visit while I was out and got to close to those vile roses. When I came home I found his belongings and knew he was on the grounds. I searched for him half an hour before I thought to come out here. He was there." She pointed to the wall. "His warm body was still wedged amongst them. The accursed thorns held him upright as they drank away his blood, and his life." She turned to Stephen; her eyes filled with unshed tears. "You were ill recently weren't you?" Stephen nodded. Only a few days before he had been taken to the infirmary at the college, he lingered there gravely ill for hours. A doctor, concerned for his life, had called an ambulance. Before it arrived Stephen had, his doctor deemed it a miracle, recovered completely. There was no trace of illness within the body that had just moments before been wracked with a grievous illness. He had been released and sent back to his dorm room. The only side effect of his illness had been a relentless exhaustion. The next morning the college dean and several other men had burst into his room fearing the worst. His mother had called them, unable to reach him, concerned that he did not answer his phone. They had been informed of his illness and naturally thought he had a relapse. They told Stephen of his grandfather's death and helped him pack a few belongings. The dean had personally driven him to the airport and put him on a plane. He had not mentioned his illness to his mother. He thought it unnecessary to worry her in light of her father's death. "That was the roses of the crypt Stephen. When their hunger becomes too great they will start to take the life from you unless someone I care for dies. Your Uncle Randall will be next, then your father and myself. That is all the family left I still care for." "No!" Stephen shouted. A new mixture of madness compelled him, one formed from disbelief, fear, and outrage. "We will destroy the wall. If we destroy them they have no control over you." "No, Stephen, please don't." his mother begged. "If you destroy them, you will die with them. Your very soul is intertwined with them. There is no escape for you. I believe once your father and I have gone you will have to sacrifice all whom you love. This I pray is not true. I pray you do not have to live with the guilt I live with." "Then why do you mother?" Stephen asked abruptly. His patience was growing very thin. "Why would you make such a bargain? Did you not think of the consequences? You loved grandfather dearly, any fool could see that, yet you placed him in such a perilous position without his knowledge! Grandmother? Was she a victim of the roses as well? Did they drain her blood and savor her horror. The terror she must have felt being consumed by a seemingly innocent, yet deadly, beautiful plant." Julia shook her head, as if denying Stephen accusations. "Yes, she succumbed to them as well. As did my sister Claire, and cousins Marjory and Tina. Everyone I cared for. All of them, but I did it for you...for my son. I could not bear to think of you lying in the cold ground forever." "Mother listen to yourself! That child is still within the ground is he not? You changed nothing. It has to be a coincidence I look and act as him. We are brothers, it is natural we could look and act very much the same." "No, Stephen, you are him." she disagreed. She looked longingly at the roses. "Vile, hateful things!" she spat. She turned back to the house and hurried to meet Randall, who was lumbering toward them. Stephen stared at the roses. "So you hold the secrets of life and death? We shall see how deep your secrets really are." Stephen removed his shirt and took a lighter from his pants pocket. He picked up a dead branch and wound the shirt around it. He retrieved a can of gasoline from his father's work shed and soaked his shirt in it. He returned to the wall and doused the roses with the remaining gas. Immediately they turned a bleached white. His vision faltered as an incredible weakness swept through him. He lit his shirt and held his makeshift torch to the wall. The roses caught immediately. Stephen laughed insanely he heard the screams coming from them. His own world slipped as pain enveloped his body. Stephen collapsed to his knees. This was not so funny anymore. He began to shriek in fierce agony. Julia ran toward the cemetery alarmed by Stephen's screams. She arrived just in time to see him, submerged in flames, collapse to the ground and fall silent. Frightened, she forced herself to look at the roses. The entire wall was engorged in flames. A scream of soul wrenching pain ripped from her throat, echoing throughout Harold Manor. Samuel, still upstairs, looked out the window. He saw his wife collapse beside the burnt body of their only son and knew she would become the last victim of the crypt roses. A faint smile crossed his lips. He picked up the phone. "Yes I require an ambulance at Harold Manor. My wife just killed our son then collapsed. Hurry please." he tried to sound upset but it was hard. He had gotten rid of that brat once and she brought it back. It was high damned time he got what he wanted. A little peace and quiet!