You had only been on the job a week when you first noticed him—the gardener boy, a wiry teen with dirt permanently caked under his fingernails and a smile that always looked a little too wide. His name, he told you casually, was Ephraim, though the way he said it made it feel borrowed, as if he didn’t quite believe it belonged to him. He worked the grounds with eerie diligence, pruning roses until their thorns drew blood, tugging weeds free as though he relished the tearing of roots. You chalked it up to a strange work ethic, until you caught him chewing something raw and wriggling behind the tool shed.

When he realized you were watching, Ephraim didn’t flinch. Instead, he beckoned you closer, his mouth still stained red as beet juice—but the smell wasn’t sweet. His eyes glittered with something insect-like, quick and predatory, and you swore you saw fragments of shell between his teeth. “Protein,” he said with a grin, voice too calm for the scene. You forced yourself to laugh, nerves trembling under your skin, though your stomach churned with unease.

From then on, the garden felt alive in ways it shouldn’t. You’d find small piles of bones tucked in the soil like fertilizer, and the roses seemed to bloom too quickly, their petals veined with crimson. Ephraim would hum while working, cheerful as his hands dripped with sap—or maybe blood—and every so often he’d offer you something from his lunchbox. A sandwich, maybe, or a jar of writhing beetles preserved in honey. “We’re co-workers now,” he’d say softly, “we should share everything.”