The following episode contains descriptions of body horror and confined spaces and a brief mention of suicidal ideation. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. The following is from Wind in the Rose Bush by Mary Ellen Wilkins Freeman. Rebecca followed her hostess in and the boy who had waited recently climbed the steps with the trunk. But before they entered the door, a strange thing happened on the upper terrace close to the piazza post grew a great rosebush and on it late in the season, though, it was one small red perfect rose.

Rebecca looked at it and the other woman extended her hand with a quick gesture. Don't you pick that, Rose? She briskly cried. Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity. I ain't in the habit of picking other folks roses without leave, said she.

As Rebecca spoke, she started violently and lost sight of her resentment for something singular happened. Suddenly, the rose Bush was agitated violently, as if by a gust of wind. Yet it was a remarkably still day, not a leaf of the hydrangea. Standing on the terrace close to the rose trembled. What on earth began Rebecca? Then she stopped with a gasp at the sight of the other woman's face, although her face, it gave somehow the impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy.

Come in, said she in a harsh voice which seemed to come forth from her chest with no intervention of the organs of speech come into the house. I'm getting cold out here. What makes that rosebush blow?

So when there isn't any wind as Rebecca trembling with vague horror, yet resolute.

I don't see it as it is blowing, returned the woman calmly and as she spoke. Indeed, the bush was quiet. Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is Haunted Places Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from podcast. Ghost stories have arisen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victorian Whitechapel to the swamps of Bangladesh with a seated around the campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones. We return to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race.

Each week, Ghost Stories reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. Today's story comes from 19th century author Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman. She's best known for her character studies of rural New Englanders living under the constraints of religious and societal expectations. But today's tale is far stranger than the usual neighborly conflict.

I'll be telling the story from the perspective of Rebecca, an unmarried schoolteacher who travels to New England to retrieve her teenage niece from her stepmother. Rebecca has not seen her niece in years, but lost time will turn out to be the least of her problems. Coming up, we'll go in search of a missing girl. My dearest Harriet, I must explain my strange behavior upon my arrival a few weeks ago. My nerves are in such a state that I could scarcely speak.

Each time I tried to tell of my terrible ordeal out loud, I'm gripped with sadness and terror. It is my hope that in writing to you, I can make sense of this strange situation. My uncle died six months ago. He left me a piece of property and I thought it was time to travel to the small town of Forde Village and collect my niece, Agnes. I hadn't been in a position to care for her when her mother, my sister, had died.

Now I was her father. John remarried, but I wanted to make sure Agnes got the benefit of her family's love, considering my sister's body was barely cold by the time he married again, I admit that I was almost relieved to hear of John's passing. I wanted to take Agnes then, but at the time I had no means of supporting her. After three frustrating years of hard work, I could finally provide for her. And given my position as a schoolteacher, I could also give her good instruction and teach her the finer points of being a lady.

16 was not too old yet for such lessons, and I'd heard she was already a natural at the piano, just like her mother. Foord Village had no train station, so I was forced to take a ferry on my ride. A passenger approached me with questions about my visit. I mentioned my sister and her husband, John Dent. A strange look passed across her face, and she let it slip that she had not seen any of the Dent family in quite some time, I guess that grief had cast a long shadow over the house and that the deaths had isolated themselves.

The news only strengthened my resolve to collect my niece and bring her to a new home, one we could fill with joy. When the boats made it to shore, I was dismayed that it was not Agnes who greeted me. Instead, her stepbrother Warren, drove a car to bring me to the house. He was pale and blond and did not speak to me at all. This poor family was clearly trapped in unhappiness, making them cold to strangers, perhaps even to each other.

I was wracked with pain for Agnes, but when we arrived at the house, I was surprised to see how happy her unhappy home looked. The white cottage was pristine. A pretty picture come to life. The grass out front reminded me of deep green velvet. The windows were inlaid with wrought iron, like something from a fairy tale. The boy collected my trunk and brought it to the house where the second Mrs Dent greeted me by the door. Her eyes were an icy blue, her spine pinned straight.

She wore a long black gown, apparently still mourning. Three years after her husband's death. Her hands were cold as she class them against my own. Mrs. Dence told me that my letter had only arrived this morning. I apologized and said I felt as if I could not wait to hear from you before I came. I need only take Agnes and will be on our way. At this, the color drained from Mrs. Dence face, I turned to her son, but he was as pale as his mother.

I asked Mrs. Dent if she was all right. It is nothing, she said, pushing me away. I am subject to Spell's. Won't you come in, Miss Flint? I move to follow, but something caught my eye as I turned. There was a rosebush next to the terrace. One single perfect rose stood out in a sea of green where no others seemed to bloom. Agnes did so love flowers, and I wondered if she had planted it.

I walked toward it where Mrs. Dent's voice rang out again, commanding. Don't you pick that, Rose?

I opened my mouth to ask why, but the words died on my tongue as the bush began to shake violently, even as all the plants surrounding it stood perfectly still. What makes that rosebush blow? So when there isn't any wind? I asked. Mrs. Dent replied, I don't see it blowing. Even if it was, I can't try to account for everything that blows out of doors. I have too much to do. Then she dragged me into the house.

As we passed a window, I thought I saw a shadow go from the rose Bush toward the front door, but when I mentioned that someone perhaps was at the door, Mrs Dent told me it was a trick of the light. Nothing more. She prepared for us in the parlor, but I was impatient to collect Agnes and start packing. I didn't like the way Mrs. Dence stared at me disdainfully. I didn't like that rosebush in its trembling blood red flower.

I cleared my throat and asked, when will Agnese be home, Mrs. Dence smiled a little tutting when she gets over to Adès Slocum's, he's always late. Come home and he has her most intimate friend. I had never heard of he in letters from my sister John or Agnes, but Agnes had grown into a teenager since I last saw her. I supposed I didn't know her as well as I thought I did. Why would I even recognize her at all?

Maybe we can have Addie come to visit when Agnes is with me. I suggested I suppose she'll be homesick. Does she call you mother now?

I tried to hide the unease in my voice. If she noticed Mrs. Dent didn't let on. She calls me Aunt Emmeline, she said curtly. She then put down her teacup and looked at me, eyes sharp. You can head home now if you'd like. I'll just send her off to you. I put on a polite, firm smile. My niece will go home with me. And if I can't wait for her in the house that used to be my sisters, I'll be somewhere else until she returns.

I did not feel particularly ladylike at this exchange, but before I could apologize, I saw a familiar shadow cross by the window. The door opened and there was a rustling of fabric in the hallway.

I called out Agnes. No one came into the front parlor, so I crossed the room and opened the door. But I was greeted by an empty hallway. But I saw her, I said, you thought you did, Mrs. Dench replied, They must have gone to the social, and a girl is unlikely to leave a soiree full of boys to see her old aunt. Anger burned in my body, but I would not give this woman the satisfaction of seeing how she wounded me.

All I said was she's too young for that. Mrs. Dent's side, she's 16 and she's always been great for the boys, stay as long as you need. She shot me a pitying glance as she got up to prepare supper. Hours passed as I waited by the parlor window for Agnese, I do not know when I fell asleep, only that I awoke to the sound of something scratching at the glass. I glimpsed the red rose on the other side of the window, shining bright in the moonlight.

But I could not see what was causing the scratching. I held watch as long as I could in the parlor until I fell asleep once more. When I awoke, it was already morning, but Agnes did not appear. Mrs Dent was still in her dressing gown when I climbed the stairs to her bedroom to ask if we should phone the constable. She claimed that Agnes often spent the night at Adès without sending work. This was not an acceptable answer to me.

I heard a scratch and turned to the window. The rustle of the bush had grown louder. I threw the window open, looking below me and down the street beyond for any sign of weakness. But nothing moved but the rosebush shaking in the non-existent wind.

Mrs Dent ran up to me so quickly I feared for a moment that she would push me out the window. But instead she sees the two sides of the casement and slammed them close so forcefully that the glass cracked. She turned to me and held my gaze in the now silent hallway, the scent of 100 roses floating like fog between us and outside the bush scratched even harder against the window ledge like it was warning me to get out while I could. Up next, Mrs Dent finally reveals what she's hiding.

Hi, listeners, I'm thrilled to tell you about a new Spotify original from podcast that I think you'll really enjoy. It's called Our Love Story.

Every Tuesday, our love story celebrates the ups, downs and pivotal moments that turn complete strangers into perfect pairs. Each episode offers an intimate glimpse inside a real life romance, with couples recounting the highlights and hardships that define their love. Whether it's a chance encounter, a form of friendship or even a former enemy, our love story proves that love can begin and blossom in the most unexpected ways. Ready to hear more, follow our love story free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts.

Hey, Podcasters, Alistair here, if you haven't had a chance to check out the entertaining new podcast, Blind Dating, now's the time to binge what you've missed before, catching all new episodes every Wednesday in this Spotify original from podcast, we're expanding the places you can meet your match with a twist you'll never see coming. Join host Terry Michel as she introduces one hopeful single to two strangers in a voice only call. Through a series of illuminating games and questions, the trio will get to know one another without the distraction of appearances.

But once the cameras are turned on, is personality still enough for these strangers to fall for each other? Or will they say farewell? Connect with new episodes of blind dating every Wednesday you can find and follow blind dating, free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.

Now back to the story, dearest cousin Harriet, I cannot fully express how frightened Mrs. Dence violent display may be, not for myself, but for Agnes. My poor niece had lived with this inhospitable, dishonest woman for years.

As we stood alone in the hallway, Mrs. Dent was pale. Her eyes darted over to the broken window pane before settling back to their icy serenity. She muttered, I'll call the Slocum's and Russell down the hall.

It took far too little time for her to return and say, Agnes is gone with Addie to Lincoln and he's got an uncle who's a conductor on the train and lives there. And he got and passes. And they're going to stay at Addy's Aunt Margaret's a few days. She blinked innocently, then tutted, Girls will be girls. My heart sank to my feet. I couldn't believe Agnes would leave town for days without word, but I held my tongue.

Then I will wait. I said simply. You can stay in Agnes's room tonight, Mrs. Dence said with a strange little smile. She won't mind, since you are so close. My fears chased me through the night. My legs finally fluttered, closed from utter exhaustion when I heard a loud noise outside the window.

Somehow I knew what I would see. Even before I approached the glass and looked down to the terrace. The rosebush was shaking again. Its one brilliant flower shone like a beacon.

I realized the bloom wasn't swaying as much as it was shivering like a person, a child plagued by nightmares, twisted from foot to foot, trying to find the courage to ask for attention. It sounds silly, but it reminded me of Agnes when I knew her, still young and easily frightened, apologizing for taking up any space at all. I padded out of the room to the hallway window to get a closer look at the flower. I sat as a witness to this plant's pain for hours until the sun came up.

Finally, as the beams touched the deep red petals the bush stilled. Only then did I go to the kitchen and get a drink of water before returning to Agnes's room to attempt to sleep again.

But when I returned, I got confirmation that Mrs Dent was a cruel woman. Indeed, lying on my bed was a pressed white nightgown, too youthful to be Mrs Dent or my late sister's. It had to be Agness. The sleeves were folded across the chest as though she'd been buried. A brilliant red rose sat on top. If there were a child in the gown, the balloon would sit right over their heart. I felt sick if Mrs Dent was willing to taunt me so brazenly.

What kind of stepmother had she been to? My beloved niece. I abandoned all traces of decorum as I stomped downstairs and screamed at Mrs Dent. Is my pain such a game to you? I came here only to ensure my niece's safety. And this is how you treat me. May God have mercy on your soul. Then you've given me, you hateful woman. Mrs Dent looked up at me with wide eyes. I waited for a laugh or a smile, some sign of her malevolence that would allow me to keep screaming.

But instead she only asked what I had seen. I was not ready to see the nightclothes again, so I sent her up alone, waiting in the kitchen for whatever excuse she might make. I heard her gasp as her feet thundered back downstairs, peering out from the kitchen. I could see her desperately trying to collect her breath. She was shaking, her eyes were wide and her hair had come undone. For the first time, Mrs Dent seemed truly human, fragile.

She could not know I was watching. This performance was not for my benefit. I heard back in the kitchen and waited for a response. After several minutes, Mrs Dent entered the room. I'm sure you were nosing about in Agnes's things, you threw the gown down and it felt that way, I could not stomach the charade any longer. Who picked that rose then? She pointed and I slowly turned my head to look out the window. The single Rose still sat among the leaves, mocking me.

In a panic, I demanded the address for Adès House, I packed my bags ready to enlist the Slocum's help. If Addae was Agnes's friend, her family would help me find her and take her away. I did not want to return to this dreadful cottage and the horrid woman that lived here, but nature refused to obey my will before I could walk out of the place. It rained so hard that I could not see anything outside the window but smudged shapes.

My resolve crumbled as rain flooded the streets. There was nothing I could do but remained at Mrs. Dent's house to wait out the storm. I was trapped as that rose Bush about to drown in circumstances beyond my control. I laid down on Agnes's bed, still in my traveling clothes. That night, I heard the tinkling of piano keys. There was something familiar about the tune, but I could not play set against the cacophony of the rain and wind.

I wandered to the bottom floor of the House trying to find where the sound was coming from. There was no piano in the parlor or in the kitchen. The somber melody called to my weakened spirits and the strangely comforting scent of roses pulled me through the house. I followed the sound and sent to a storage room at the back of the house where I found a piano coated in a thin layer of dust. In the dim light, it almost looked as though someone was sitting at the bench.

She didn't have blonde hair like the boy or Mrs Dent. Her features were a blur hidden in shadow. Her hands appeared to shimmer as she pressed down on the keys. I watched her in silent wonder, too afraid to ask if she was Agnes. My Agnes. The fact that I couldn't recognize her was shameful enough, whatever spell the Moonlight had cast brought her to me and I was in no hurry for her to leave. Her figure started to fade, but the music continued.

Perhaps I was dreaming and I'd wake up in the parlor looking out at the rosebush. But if this was a dream, I didn't want it to end. I watched the keys move and realized it was a familiar tune. My sister played it when we were children. It was her proudest accomplishment. The cords would ring out for hours as she played it over and over again. Tears came to my eyes. This was the first time I could feel a connection to this strange home.

It might not look as it had when my sister was still alive, but some part of her was here. She hadn't disappeared entirely. I blinked, trying to keep the tears from falling. The music stopped and when I opened my eyes, the ghostly figure was gone.

The rain and wind swallowed me and my sorrow and I have no memory of when or how I got to bed. All I do know is I woke to find Mrs. Demps standing over me with a letter in hand.

Oh, Harriet, the mixture of elation and terror that caused through me as I saw your handwriting on the front was more than I could bear. Mrs. Dent claimed that the postmaster, Thomas Ambigram, had dropped off a message from you. To have a friendly voice on the page in this inhospitable home was enough to bring me to tears. Written at the bottom of the letter was a hastily scrawled postscript from your friend Hannah. According to her notes, you had fallen and broken both of your hips.

I thought only of the pain you must be in. Your Constitution has never been the best, and it tore my heart to think that my elderly cousin might be suffering alone. Mrs. Dent finally got her wish. I told her she could send Agnes to me when she was ready. She looked relieved and maybe I was too. Ah. Battle had reached a dangerous stalemate and some part of me knew that to unravel that House's secrets was to take my own life in my hands.

Mrs. Dende nearly kicked me out the door as her boy Warren carried my suitcase to the cards and conveyed me to the docks. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at your house to see you in the very peak of health. The shock reverberated through me and I could barely stand upright. It seems to me that Mrs Dent must have written the postscript on the letter to force me to leave. I wish I could show it to you, Harriet, but in my haste to leave I forgot the letter at her house.

It was clear to all when I got home that I was not well. I had been stretched to the limit of my mental capacities at Mrs. Dent's house. I could no longer tell reality from fiction, and I did not trust my own mind. I am forever grateful that you allowed me the chance to recover at your home, and I hope you understand my state now. While I was recuperating, I started to write to any person in Ford Village that could give me answers about Agnes.

As expected, I received nothing from Mrs Dent or the Slocum's either. I did, however, receive a letter from the postmaster that made my blood run cold. I asked him several questions about Agnes current state and about the Slocum family. Then I had carefully broached the subject of Mrs Dent. His answers made me question everything that I had endured within the walls of that cottage. My dear sweet Agnes has been dead for a year. The postmaster also explained that Andy Slocombe had died a decade ago, several years later.

Mr. and Mrs. Slocombe had followed my suspicions about Mrs. Demps seemed to be shared by the villagers as Thomas asserted that Agnes's death was under strange circumstances. The town believes Mrs. Dent's negligence killed her, but they still have not done anything about it. The house frightens them, as does the woman inside. I do not know what to make of my visit.

Perhaps your perspective will help me make sense of things. I cannot understand Mrs. Dent's cruelty or evasiveness. I weep for Agnes and for myself as I have failed her. There is one thing, however, that I am loathe to mention for fear of seeming silly, but when I could move around your house unaided, I went through my bags. That singular rose that kept me company outside the cottage was tucked inside my clothes. It's been several weeks now and the flower has not faded.

As for I plan to bury it, perhaps that will allow Agnes's soul to be at rest. Can only pray that it might grow and bloom again to allow her to finally live with me. A true family. First published in 1993 in a collection titled The Wind in the Rose Bush and Other Stories of the Supernatural. This story is perhaps Mary Eleanor Wilkins, Freeman's most famous take on horror and suspense. Mary was otherwise known for her more grounded explorations of local life in 19th century rural New England.

Mary began writing in her teens to help her family's precarious financial situation. She was much more comfortable offering support in this way than she was in more domestic arenas while her sister Anna met their parents expectations of being a good New England woman, Mary quietly but firmly rejected their rules and values. This allowed her more time to write, but it also resulted in internal conflict and regret after her mother's death when Mary was 24. She included her mother's name, Eleanor, in her professional byline.

From that point forward, regret and lost time is a constant theme in the wind and the rose Bush, as Rebecca discovers that waiting years to retrieve her niece has resulted in her entirely preventable death. Responsibility, Mary suggests, is not easily cast aside. There is no one doing such damage. Even when we acknowledge the injustice at play, just as Mrs. Dende hides in her haunted house while her neighbors gossip, Rebecca collapses and must lie in her grief, unable to achieve justice for her family or for herself.

She, like Agnes, is trapped by her circumstances. When it comes to such, Cage's death is merely a formality.

Thanks again for tuning into haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories was created by Max Cutler and is a Spotify original from podcast. It is executive produced by Max Cutler, Sound Design by Russell Nash with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Travis Clark.

This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by Lil Dorita and Jennifer Rachet with Writing Assistants by Alex Garland. I'm. I was demoted. Listeners, don't forget to check out our love story, the newest Spotify original from podcast every Tuesday, discover the many pathways to love as told by the actual couples who found them.

Listen to our love story.

Free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts, listeners.

There's no better time than right now to make a meaningful connection with the Spotify original from podcast Blind Dating every Wednesday. Find out if there's more to love than just looks follow blind dating, free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.