Story 1054: The Nightshade Sentinel

In the abandoned gardens of the Dervan Estate, flowers still bloomed—lush, vivid, and wrong.

Where other gardens wilted under the weight of the apocalypse, this one thrived, choked with vines of black roses and midnight lilies. It was said that the estate once belonged to botanist Ira Dervan, a recluse obsessed with immortality through plantlife. But when the dead began to rise, Dervan’s house vanished beneath a curtain of blossoms and fog.

Now, only whispers remained of the Nightshade Sentinel.

Renna Cross, scavenger and amateur folklorist, came looking for medicinal herbs.

She found a garden that breathed.

The flowers moved—not in the breeze, but by instinct. Petals twisted toward her. Leaves followed her steps. And at the center of the maze-like hedgerows stood a statue of stone and vines: a cloaked figure clutching a scythe made of bone and root.

Renna blinked.

The statue had changed. Its head was now tilted slightly… watching.