The Valentine’s Day Rose

 Title: The Valentine’s Day Rose

There’s an old story kids in my town like to tell every Valentine’s Day. It’s about a rose. Not just any rose—a perfect one. Deep red, soft petals, and a fragrance so sweet it makes the air around it feel heavy, almost hypnotic. They call it The Lover’s Rose.

The legend goes that if you’re lonely, you can leave a note on the steps of Old Hollow Church on Valentine’s Eve. It doesn’t matter what you write, as long as it’s honest about what you want—love, friendship, someone who understands you. If your wish is pure, they say the rose will appear the next morning, right where you left your note.

But there’s a catch. You have to accept the rose when it’s offered. If you refuse, or if you tell anyone about the wish before it comes true, the rose will come back for you.

At first, I thought it was just another stupid story kids told to scare each other. That was until I saw one with my own eyes.

It was last year. Valentine’s Day. My friend Ellie and I were walking to school when we saw it on the church steps—a single red rose, resting on top of a folded piece of paper. There was no one around. Ellie picked it up, laughing.

“Guess someone’s secret admirer chickened out,” she said, holding it up to the light.

But then, her smile faded. Her fingers trembled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The smell,” she whispered. “It’s… too sweet. Like—”

Before she could finish, a sharp wind blew through the street, and the rose slipped from her hand. It landed on the pavement, but instead of lying still, it… moved. The petals quivered, as if it were breathing.

We stared at it, frozen. Then Ellie whispered, “Let’s just go.”

That night, Ellie called me, her voice shaky.

“The rose,” she said. “It’s in my room.”

“What?!”

“I threw it away. I swear I did, but… it’s on my desk now. And there’s this smell—like perfume, but stronger. I feel sick.”

“Tell your parents,” I said.

“I can’t,” she replied. “The note—”

“What note?”

Ellie didn’t answer, but I heard something in the background. A soft, rustling noise, like fabric brushing against skin.

“Ellie?” I said.

“They’re here,” she whispered.

“Who’s there?”

“They don’t want me to tell you.”

The line went dead.

The next day at school, Ellie wasn’t there. The teachers said she’d moved away. Her house was empty by the afternoon, no sign she’d ever lived there.

But I know what I saw. On her desk by the window, visible through the glass, was a single red rose.

I haven’t told anyone until now. But this Valentine’s Eve, I walked to the church. I don’t know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe I missed Ellie.

I left a note.

And this morning, there it was. A perfect, red rose.

It’s sitting next to me as I write this. The petals are soft, and the smell is intoxicating. But it’s not sweet—it’s suffocating. Heavy. Wrong.

I can hear footsteps outside my door now. Slow, deliberate.

I think Ellie was right. They’re here.

And they don’t want me to tell you.