Roses in the Night — A Short Story
Authors Note: Roses in the Night was loosely inspired by the unsolved disappearance of Mary Shotwell Little. Rather than reconstructing her case, I wanted to explore how easily a woman’s fear can be dismissed when there is no immediate physical proof of danger.
Throughout the story, the protagonist repeatedly asks others for help. The police minimise the threatening calls and flowers, while her friend begins to question whether she is sleeping enough. Gradually, she internalises their disbelief and starts to wonder whether she is confused, forgetful, or mentally unwell. Her growing uncertainty is not necessarily evidence that she has imagined the danger, but a consequence of being repeatedly told that her experiences are not credible.
At the story’s heart is a question that remains painfully relevant: how much evidence must a woman produce before her fear is taken seriously? Much of my writing explores overlooked women’s experiences and the power others hold in deciding whose stories are believed.
She was startled out of her sleep. Something had woken her this time. There was a noise. Was it from the outside? She pulls off the sweaty covers and pats the night table for her flash-light and hammer. The twin-bell alarm clock ticks away just after 2 in the morning. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark, but she scans her bedroom like a prowler. She makes her way down the hall and past the kitchen. The light skims across the counter tops. Her empty wine glass sits next to the sink where she had left it. She should have stopped after the first glass, but the calls had started before lunch and continued until dusk. The back door into the little yard remained shut and locked, as she always makes sure it is before bed. The house sits still, the kitchen clock keeping track of the late hour, but she won’t go back to bed until she makes sure.
She continues her inspection down the hall and into the living room. She had forgotten to put her work shoes away so they lay strewn abandoned by the lumpy sofa, the cushions still askew from where she lay after work. Street lights illuminated this part of the house well enough, a reminder to turn off her flash-light and place it on the coffee table on top of the growing pile of newspapers reporting about the Russian satellite with the strange name circling overhead. She kept hold of the hammer. She had one more place to check. She flipped on the light to the porch, but the frosted round window on the door remained dark. She flipped the switch on-and-off twice more times to no avail; she could have sworn it was working before she went to bed. She’ll have to see to that in the morning.
Taking in a deep breath, she pulls both locks open. Beyond the door, her street sits still, with only a lone house off a dead road and the empty cars which lay dormant. There were no crickets, no raccoons scavenging the garbage bins. It was as if she was the only living thing left on earth. But then she looked down, where there was proof of another soul, which she had known, yet hoped wouldn’t be. At her feet lay the roses, white, wrapped in their usual red tissue paper.
She stood there staring at the offering for a moment though she knew she needed to get back into the house. Maybe it was that feeling that froze her there on her threshold. The sense that someone was watching to see if she would we accept them. She needed light. Looking up she could see that someone had unscrewed the lightbulb. She trips backwards into the house, slamming the door shut harder than is necessary and pulls the locks secure. She’s safe, she’s in her home and no one can get to her. She’s safe. She repeats the phrase out loud while trying to steady her breathing. She has to think. She needs to call the police. She wills her shaking legs to move towards the side table to her phone but her hand pauses over the hand set before she lifts it. The police had told her to stop calling.
When she received the first roses three months ago they had brought a smile to her face. They weren’t left with notes then and she had wondered out loud who could have sent them. She had even placed them in her best vase and showcased them proudly by front window. She even told Agnes at work, musing over who her secret admirer could be. The second bouquet received a week later was identical except for the note that simply read, “a little beauty for beauty.” And again, Agnes and she swooned and giggled over the gesture. The third bunch of roses, once more seemingly delivered in the night, were accompanied with a note that read, “why haven’t you noticed yet?” That gave her pause. What was she meant to have noticed?
Then there was the outing with Lawrence. When he asked her for coffee, she had gladly accepted. He was an acquaintance of Agnes's, a pleasant young man who had recently moved to town for work. They spent an hour talking about books and the frustrations of office life before parting with a promise to do it again sometime. That evening, a lone card was waiting on her doorstep. “Why would you do this to me?” Her stomach dropped. Whoever this admirer was, he knew where she was just that afternoon and had made a point to not only let her know that they were aware that she was with a man, but that he was unhappy about it. Agnes had brushed this off saying that “men can easily get jealous.”
She looks toward the front door. Had the roses on the porch come with a note? What had she done this time? These days, she came straight home after work.
Most evenings she left the rotary phone off the hook. The calls started shortly after their first date. The person on the line didn’t speak. She thought it was a mistake so hung up. Moments later, the phone rang again, but still the person on the line did not speak. It happened once more just as she was getting into bed. She hung up, dismissing the incident as a prank. Agnes had agreed. But the calls didn’t stop. He began to speak. He knew her name. He knew what she was wearing that day. And he knew that she had continued to see Lawrence. He became more and more volatile each day. He had said that she will regret what she’s done and called her unspeakable names. She decided to call the police when she arrived home one day and on her front porch there was a destroyed bouquet of roses, petals and stems strewn everywhere. The note this time simply read, “you’ll regret this.”
There is a sudden crash outside. It sends her to her feet, the hammer back in her hand. That was close to the house. Should she check outside? She has lost her nerve to open the door again. She checks the window. A fox has knocked over the neighbour’s trash can. It was just a fox. There’s always a simple explanation. She lets out a shuddered breath and sinks to the floor. Her heart is jumping in her chest. She drops the hammer.
After the first note threatening her life arrived six weeks ago, police came to her home and listened to her story. They were sympathetic to her fears. Ultimately, they had convinced her that this was clearly an over-exasperated joke. “These things hardly escalate.” They suggested that she change her number, and soon left.
She did change her number, and things were quiet for a little while. No calls and no roses. Then Lawrence had spent the night. The phone calls began again but not just at her home. He began to call her at work. The police said that calling someone was not against the law. A week later she arrived at her desk to find a white rose lying across her typewriter. The receptionist swore she hadn't seen who left it. She hadn't bothered calling the police again. What would she have told them? They had already told her there was little they could do unless someone actually harmed her. Agnes had stopped asking about the calls. The last time she mentioned the roses, her friend had only sighed and asked whether she was sleeping enough. Lawrence had stopped returning her calls once she began calling him in the middle of the night every time a noise startled her. He thought she was getting too obsessed over this secret admirer.
She’ll call Agnes. There have been many nights she has spent the night at her friend’s apartment, though last week she had seemed annoyed by her appearance on her front step. But she should call. Agnes wouldn’t turn her away. The phone line is dead. She pressed the receiver tighter against her ear.
Nothing. No dial tone.
Her stomach tightened. Had she forgotten to pay the bill? She has felt so scattered these last few weeks. She had gone to visit her parents, but the roses had followed her there. Had she paid the bill this month? She is usually good at keeping up with everything. Maybe she should see that psychiatrist Agnes had mentioned.
Perhaps she should take one of the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed and go back to bed. There are flowers outside, but she is inside with the doors and windows locked. What could the police do? She stands from the couch on steadier legs and walks into the kitchen. She keeps the pills on the kitchen table. The sink turns on with a screech as she fills a glass of water. She laughs at herself for being so jumpy. She ought to have taken the pills earlier. Then she would have found the flowers in the morning. Stepped over them and rushed to work. Where had the lightbulb gone though? Had it gone out and she took it out to replace it? She’s been so forgetful. She really needed a good night’s sleep.
But she would have remembered replacing it. She would not have left the front porch without light. He must have taken it.
She stops. A cold shiver coiling up her spine.
She drops the glass and shatters on the laminate floor.
On the table, next to the pill bottle, lies the lightbulb.
Among the flowers at her funeral was a bouquet of white roses wrapped in red tissue paper.
This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.
