My Little Haunting chapter 6 by Emerson Van Wie

Chapter 6: 

The plant was alive.

He had thought it dead for weeks. Its leaves had curled inward, and the soil had hardened into a crust. He had stopped watering it because he couldn't remember whether it needed water or sunlight …or both.

That morning, he found a new leaf. It was small and pale, folded tightly around itself. As he touched it,. the leaf recoiled. He quickly withdrew his hand.

The plant stood on the kitchen windowsill, where his wife had placed it years ago. She'd brought it home from a friend's garden, claiming it would thrive anywhere. She had been wrong about several plants, but she had never admitted defeat. Even when they died, she always kept their pots.

He moved the plant to the table. By afternoon, three more leaves had appeared so he photographed them. And by the evening, the leaves had opened. They were dark green, veined with thin red lines. The stems had grown long enough to curl around the pot.

He went to bed early.

Around 3am, something scratched the bedroom door.

He woke, the scratching came again, slow and deliberate.

He turned on the lamp and listened.

A faint rustle moved through the hallway.

He opened the door.

The corridor was empty, at the far end, the kitchen window reflected the moonlight. The plant sat on the sill, its leaves hanging over the edge of the pot.

He walked toward it.

The leaves moved as he approached.

He stopped.

They stopped too.

He leaned closer. One of the stems had curled around the amulet, which he had left on the table. The leather cord was wound tightly around the plant's base.

He curiously stared for a little while, he’s been getting less and less frightened by these happenings, but after a pause he pulled it free.

A thorn caught his finger, blood welled against the skin.

He stared at the tiny red bead.

Then the kitchen light flickered, a vague sound of  something behind him whispered his name. He spun around.

Nothing.

When he turned back, the plant's leaves were folded shut.

He threw it into the trash bin.

The next morning, he found it back on the windowsill, the soil was damp.

He checked the bin. It was empty except for a torn plastic bag.

He searched the kitchen for evidence that he had moved the plant, but the only sign was a smear of soil across the floor.

He wiped it away.

His wife had once told him that plants responded to attention. He had said that was nonsense, so she had shown him an article about roots responding to vibrations, then made him apologize to a fern he had forgotten to water.

He had laughed at the time, but now he stood in the kitchen, staring at the plant, later he wrote he could not remember whether she had ever apologized to him for anything.

A new leaf unfurled.

On its surface was a dark mark, shaped almost like a fingerprint.

He did not touch it.

That night, he watered the plant.

He told himself it was because he wanted to understand it.

“..Surely ghosts.. could be real?”

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check out more creativity by Emerson at @evwphotos