The Bloom in Her Hair

My grandparents told me this story, and they swore it was true. It happened during their honeymoon in a quaint mountain town, at a bed-and-breakfast that had been converted from an old convent. The room was charming, with a four-poster bed, lace curtains, and a view of the pine forest. But what caught my grandmother’s eye was a vase of crimson peonies on the windowsill. Their petals were so deep a red they seemed almost black in the fading light. As they were leaving for a walk, she plucked one and tucked it behind her ear, laughing at her own whimsy.

They spent the day exploring the town, visiting a small chapel, and having a late lunch. The peony stayed in her hair, its fragrance a constant companion. That evening, they returned to the inn and had a quiet dinner in the dining room. As they retired to their room, the moon was high, casting long shadows through the sheer curtains. My grandmother felt a sudden chill, but blamed it on the mountain air.

They lay in bed, the only sound the wind outside. My grandmother began to feel an odd pressure at the foot of the bed, as if someone were sitting there. She dismissed it, but then the mattress dipped lower, and a weight pressed her legs down. She tried to turn to my grandfather, but her limbs were heavy. A suffocating pressure clamped over her chest, and she couldn’t breathe. She felt a cold presence, like a hand made of mist, pressing on her throat. She tried to call out, but no sound came. Just before she blacked out, she saw the peony on the nightstand, its petals now a withered, sickly gray.

When she woke, the room was bright with dawn. My grandfather was sleeping peacefully, unaware. She looked at the peony, which had crumbled to dust. She never spoke of it at the inn, but as they left, the owner, an elderly woman with sharp eyes, asked, ‘Did you enjoy the flowers?’ My grandmother nodded, unable to speak. The woman smiled thinly and said, ‘They were planted by the last sister who tended the garden. She loved them so much, she never left.’ My grandmother felt a wave of nausea. She pulled the car door shut and didn’t look back.

Years later, when my mother told me this story, she added a detail my grandmother had only confided to her. That night, as the pressure closed in, my grandmother heard a woman’s voice, whispering in her ear, ‘You took my flower. Now I’ll take your breath.’ And in the morning, on the pillow beside her, was a single crimson petal, wet as if with tears.