“Come, come, my love!” He whispered, as the two skipped and ran onward through the meadow like two butterflies, dancing and weaving around each other. Their kisses tasted sweeter than ever on the warm Midsummer’s night. They touched and teased; the first stars born in the dusky-blue sky guided their steps.
They did not listen to the well-meant advises of the old - wait until the wedding! They laughed and brushed off the warnings - don’t go into the woods on Midsummer’s night! The wedding was set in two days. What difference does a day or two make? What harm would an early wedding night in the soft moss cause? With the stars shining above, the forest singing its love song in the language of the nightingales, the deep-green ferns hiding their young and hot bodies from the judging eyes of the old.
“Come, I’ll show you where the ferns bloom,” she whispered sweetly.
“Ferns do not bloom!” He teased back, holding her close in the darkness.
“They say the ferns bloom on Midsummer’s night, but only for lovers to see,” her soft whisper tickled his ear. He laughed, kissed his beloved, and they ran into the sea of dark ferns underneath the forest trees. There he laid his beloved in the sea of ferns. The magic of the Midsummer’s night brought all their desires to life; the fireflies mirrored the stars above, the ferns exhaled clouds of softly glittering spores, the two lovers inhaled it deeply. The cries of lust broke into the nightingale’s song, until they turned to screams of terror and pain.
The ferns did bloom. The tiny spores found fruitful soil in the lungs of the young lovers. The magic of ferns was dark; not an hour had passed, when the lovers tortured by pain in their chests tore their own skin open with their fingernails. Alas, too late! The devious fern-children ripped their chests open from inside, and monstrous flowers opened their meaty petals. Bloody flowers of lust, they bloomed in the opened chests of the dead lovers, emitting their sickly-sweet scent. Dark moths danced in the starlight, the nightingale’s song turned wicked, mocking the hasty fools in love. The ferns feasted and bloomed, until the light of the dawning day chased away the short Midsummer’s night. The fern flowers withered, the luscious green leaves hid the bodies, never to be seen again, for the flowers of the ferns were a secret kept by the lovers and the dead.
Thank you for reading! This story was my punishment from the Canadians for my shameless Maple horror story… the theme “Fern” was chosen by
. Thank you for the challenge! I turned a folk legend of my country (Nort Eastern EU), about the blooming ferns into a horror story.It was an excuse for young lovers to get naughty on Midsummer’s night and disappear during the celebration (Midsummer is a big deal here!) to look for the fern flowers. Everybody here knows what is meant by “they went looking for the fern flowers”…🩶
You're horror story is ready to listen to in this week's podcast. I hope you like what I did to it to make it feel a little more like the season we are in.
With your permission, I would like to add this to my que to read in the podcast for October 18th please?