I first heard the phrase when I was seven years old, sitting on the cracked porch of my grandmother’s old farmhouse, staring out at rows of withered fields that never seemed to yield more than sorrow. My cousin Lila, all knees and elbows and sunburned freckles, leaned close to whisper in my ear.

“Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.”

She said it like it was a secret. Or maybe a threat.

Either way, it wormed into my brain and never left.

**1. The Town of Witherford**

Witherford is the kind of place that clings to your skin long after you leave. The roads crack and buckle under relentless frost heaves, houses lean like drunks caught in mid-stumble, and the people… well, they keep to themselves. Always have.

When I returned at twenty-seven, after nearly a decade away, nothing had changed. The same splintered sign at the town’s edge. The same smattering of sagging homes wrapped in rusted fences. And the same smell: damp earth and something faintly sweet, like rotting fruit.

I’d come back because Grandma had died, leaving me the house. It wasn’t grief that brought me — truth be told, I barely remembered her face. It was more the pull of unfinished business, a chance to untangle whatever tethers still bound me to this rotting corner of the world.

The townsfolk didn’t greet me when I arrived. They watched from behind lace curtains and dirty shop windows. Eyes following me. Judging. Maybe warning.

**2. The Black Diary**

Grandma’s house was worse off than I remembered. Shingles missing like bad teeth, ivy strangling the porch posts, and inside — mildew eating at the wallpaper, the air thick with mold and age.

I spent the first night on a sagging couch, surrounded by boxes of yellowed papers and moth-eaten quilts. That’s when I found it.

Tucked beneath loose floorboards in her bedroom was a small black diary. Its leather cracked and flaking, the lock rusted away. Inside were pages and pages of tight, frantic script. Most made little sense, but certain lines jumped out, written over and over again like a chant:

“They come when the flowers bloom.

Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.

Keep the lanterns burning. Keep the blood warm.”

I didn’t sleep much after that.

**3. The Fields Awake**

On the third morning, I woke to the strangest sight: Grandma’s fields — long dead as far back as I could remember — were covered in tiny green shoots. Thousands of them. Sprouting overnight, reaching greedily for the sun.

I stood barefoot on the porch, breath fogging in the chill, and felt my stomach knot. Something about them was wrong. The way they swayed, not quite in sync with the breeze, like listening to a song in a language I couldn’t understand.

At the edge of the yard, I spotted old Mrs. Grable, stooped and shriveled, her milky eyes locked on me. She raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the field.

“It’s starting,” she croaked. “Best get ready, dearie.”

Then she shuffled off, muttering prayers under her breath.

**4. Night Whispers**

That night, the house groaned with restless voices. I told myself it was just the wind, but deep down I knew better. I could hear them — faint, breathless whispers seeping through the walls, under the door, curling around my bed like cold fingers.

“Once the flowers bloom…

Once the flowers bloom…”

At some dark hour I must have drifted off, because I woke to a soft tapping at the window. Half-dreaming, I stumbled over and drew back the curtain.

Outside, the field was ablaze with color. Flowers. Hundreds — thousands — of them. Unfurling black and crimson petals that glistened with something thicker than dew.

My breath caught. They weren’t swaying anymore. They were twisting, as if watching me.

And at the edge of the field stood a figure. Tall, impossibly thin, skin the pallor of grave wax. Its eyes gleamed like oil lamps. When it smiled, its mouth split too wide, rows of needle teeth glinting.

It raised a finger to its lips.

Shhh.

**5. The Lantern Procession**

The next day, I went into town. I needed answers, damn it. But people wouldn’t meet my eye. They clutched children closer, crossed the street to avoid me. It wasn’t until I caught sight of Lila, older now, sharp-eyed and wary, that someone finally spoke.

We ducked into the shadow of the old hardware store.

“Why didn’t you stay gone?” she hissed.

“Because I needed to settle Grandma’s affairs. What’s going on with the fields, Lila? What are those flowers?”

Her face crumpled. “The same as always. They come every twenty years. Grandma was one of the Keepers. Your mama should’ve been, but she ran off — left us with the debt. Now it’s your turn.”

“Debt? What the hell are you talking about?”

She leaned closer, voice trembling. “It’s the Blooming. They come to collect. That’s why we keep the lanterns burning all night, why we offer blood. Small sacrifices to keep them from taking everyone.”

My mouth went dry. “And if we don’t?”

She looked past me, toward the horizon. “Then they’ll feast. On us.”

**6. The Harvest Begins**

That night, lanterns glowed in every window but mine. I didn’t own any, and by the time I thought to borrow one, it was too late.

Outside, the flowers shivered, releasing clouds of dark pollen that curled through the air like smoke. I watched in horror as shapes emerged — tall, gaunt things with too-long arms and faces smooth and featureless, save for wet, gaping maws.

They moved from house to house. Where lanterns burned, they paused, sniffed the air, then moved on. But at the edge of town, I saw one unlucky home whose light had sputtered out. The things poured inside, and screams tore through the quiet night.

I stumbled back from the window, bile rising in my throat.

That’s when I felt a hot breath on my neck.

“Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.”

I spun around — no one there. Just the whisper still echoing in my ears.

**7. A Bargain in Blood**

I ran to the attic, digging through trunks until I found an old hurricane lantern. My hands shook as I lit it. The flame wavered weakly, barely a glow. I huddled there on the floor, clutching it like a talisman, listening to the things moving outside.

Then the voices came again. Not whispers now, but chanting, hollow and hungry.

“Blood for bloom, blood for bloom…”

A bloom of darkness spread across the ceiling. I watched, transfixed, as long shadow fingers stretched down the walls, reaching for me. The lantern sputtered. The air thickened, syrupy and cold.

Desperate, I did the only thing I could think of — I sliced open my palm with Grandma’s old kitchen knife, letting blood spill onto the attic floor.

The shadows hesitated. Then they receded, curling back up into the beams.

**8. The Price Revealed**

Dawn came sluggish and gray. I staggered outside, palm bandaged, the lantern still clutched in my other hand.

All around me, the town was silent. Too silent. Doors ajar, windows shattered. Blood stained the doorsteps of at least half the homes I passed. I saw Mrs. Grable’s nightgown trailing from her porch, torn and soaked red.

Lila found me at the edge of the field. Her face was hard, eyes rimmed with tears.

“You paid your part, didn’t you?”

“I… I think so.”

She nodded. “Good. It’s always blood. Always been blood. Keeps them from taking more.”

“What happens now?”

She looked out over the flowers, already wilting under the morning sun. “Now we clean up. We bury the bodies. And we wait another twenty years.”

**9. The Last Entry**

That night, I sat at Grandma’s kitchen table, her black diary open before me. I flipped to the last page, one I hadn’t seen before. A fresh entry, scrawled in ink that was still tacky under my fingers.

“If you’re reading this, child, it means the Blooming has come again.

We made our bargain long before you were born — to spare the many, the few must bleed. The flowers feed them, the blood feeds the flowers. Without the offering, all would perish.

You carry this burden now. Keep the lanterns burning. Keep the blood warm.

Or all will be lost.”

A soft laugh bubbled up my throat. Bitter, broken. Because now I understood. Witherford wasn’t just cursed — it was complicit. We all were. Generations paying a debt we could never clear.

**10. The Cycle Continues**

I tried to leave the next morning. Packed up my car, drove down the cracked road toward the highway. But somewhere past the last mailbox, I found myself right back at Grandma’s driveway.

Tried again. And again.

By dusk, I realized I couldn’t leave. Not ever. The Blooming had bound me here, same as it had bound Grandma, and her mother before her. A living tithe.

So I returned to the house, lit every lantern I could find, and waited for the next bloom. Because that’s all there was left to do.

**11. Epilogue: Twenty Years Later**

They say if you stand at the edge of Witherford’s fields on a moonless night, you can hear the flowers sighing, calling for the blood they’re owed.

I know because I stand there often now, lantern in hand, whispering the same old warnings to the children clutching my skirts.

“Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.”

Their eyes widen, tiny mouths forming frightened O’s.

Good. Let them be afraid. Let them remember. Because fear keeps the lanterns burning. And as long as the lanterns burn, maybe — just maybe — we’ll last another season.

But deep down, I know the truth.

Nothing keeps them at bay forever.

**~ THE END ~**