The Vines

Vines crept out from underneath his bed, branching out like tentacles reaching for their prey.

He was making a point of not looking at them. Burying his head under the covers and pretending they didn’t exist, just like his dad had told him to do. Panic began to set in as he could feel them now, sliding and writhing across the blanket. Searching. Hunting.

One of them began to wrap around his ankle and he froze, not even daring to breathe. The vine moved slowly upwards, moving past his waist and following the curve of his spine.

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not re—

Thorns shot out from the vine, tearing into his skin and hooking deep into his muscles. His scream echoed all around the house before he goes limp as the thorns tear through the nerves in his spinal cord.

The vine dragged him hard. His body thumped against the wooden floor with a crunch before it pulled him beneath the bed.

His father bursts into the room and stands there for a split second in complete shock as he sees his son, eyes wide, mouth open, not even breathing. Just a limp, bloodied body vanishing under the bed like it had fallen into a hole in the earth. He darted forward, flipping the bed over with a desperate grunt.

Nothing.

Just a smear of blood that stopped halfway across the floor.

Behind him, his wife choked back sobs, tearing open the closet, throwing back the curtains, calling his name in complete denial at what she just witnessed. She looked everywhere their son had once said the monsters lived. Shining light into every dark corner in some vein hope that he will just be hiding.

The police came but where no help at all. Aside from being suspicious of the parents, they dismissed the case as a runaway, probably down to unknown home abuse and told the parents not to plan any trips. They didn't notice the blood, as if it was hidden but shown to the parents to taunt them.

Every night the father lay in his sons bedroom.

The toys were left on the floor, just as they’d been. The books stayed half-zipped in his son’s backpack. He didn't clean or organize anything. He just waited.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” his wife said.

But he didn’t respond.

Some nights, he was sure he heard something.

Sometimes there would be scraping, sometimes the occasional breath at the back of his neck. Each night he would lie awake for as long as possible, saying his sons name and each time, hoping he would call back.

The days passed and then weeks.

He rarely ate and when it was time to go back to work, he handed in his notice. Eventually, even his wife stopped coming to the door to wish him goodnight.

Then one night, exactly one month after his sons disappearance, he heard another scream.

It was his wife.

He was moving before he was even fully awake and yet when he got there, she was halfway under the bed already. Vines wrapped around her, pulling her arms against her waist so that she couldn't move. Yet, it didn't pull her all the way under.

“Help me!” she cried out.

He dove forward, his arms outstretched, so close to grabbing her before it yanked her under and her face disappeared beneath the bed.

Gone. It had waited for him and gave him false hope on purpose. He knew in that moment, it was him it was taunting, and it wasn’t going to stop.

Standing up, eyes wet with tears but no longer watering. He walked to the garage and came back with two jugs of petrol, pouring it along the floor and he walked back up stairs.

He stepped back into his son’s room for the last time.

The mattress was still there. So were the toys. The blood had dried and flaked into the cracks of the floor.

Held the lighter in his hand, toying with it between his fingers.

He looked around the room. There was a drawing on the of his family back when times were blissful. Back before they moved here. His son had drawn it last summer as a reminder of their old house.

“I just wanted a better life,” he said, no one answered.

But he felt them. The vines watching him from the corners. Their presence thick in the air as they curled out from beneath the bed. Maybe to try and stop him, maybe to test him. He cared not anymore.

His light the lighter, and dropped it.

The fire took the house fast but he stayed where he was and then lay down on the bed.

And for the first time in a month, he smiled. Briefly, until he felt the vines smiling back. And then nothing. Their presence had simply vanished, leaving him alone and empty inside.

The vines had won. He was not going to see his family. The vines didn't come to take him away, the fire did.

-- The End.

@Copyright: Daniel Millington 2025