It's been two weeks—two whole weeks since I have been taken under a gardening freak.

"I want to teach you the ropes of killing people." Mara reminisced about the moment Greg recruited her, but now, a week has gone by, and by far, all she has learned is the difference between soils and which seeds best complement them.

She looks down at her hand, the garden edger weighing heavy in her gloved hand. She is sick of learning how to wield each tool and mostly remembering the names of said tools. Ugh! It's such a pain.

Mara looked around the basement room; it had grown on her. It's not as creepy now that she has spent most of her days here. In broad daylight, too.

The collective walls still creeped her out, though.

Apart from that, nothing really changed; the house still creaked under her feet, the dried blood smell was still there, and there was still no getting out of gardening lessons.

Mara placed the edger beside the planter and stood up from her hunched position, brushing off invisible dust from her jeans while doing so. Getting bored of the gardening lessons, she started to walk towards the basement exit.

Once she stepped foot on the old, creaking wooden staircase, faint music caught her attention. Her ears perked up at the sudden sound, and her footfalls faltered.

"Greg?" Mara meekly called out, "Is that you?" She walked out of the basement into the long corridor that peeked into the kitchen.

"Greg?" Mara called out again, her voice faltering with each step out of the corridor. The cold wind rattled the half-broken windows in the corridor, letting in cold gusts of air inside the already cold and empty house.

I take back whatever I said about getting used to this house. I am not. Absolutely not.

The kitchen was empty, but the warm melody of the music still flowed in her ears. Mara walked further into the kitchen, her eyes scanning for Greg.

"This is not funny anymore. Please, come out," Mara pleaded once again. She slowly crossed the kitchen to the open living room. The melody continued its soft hums throughout the house as if flowing from within the walls. Its gentle cords seep into the core of this broken house.

The floorboards continued to creak in complaint under Mara's heavy steps. The onslaught of spring winds swept by now and then, bringing with it pieces of fallen leaves, the faint laughter of neighboring kids, and the jingles of a creaking swing set.

With each step, Mara regretted coming out of the basement. The room was in the same broken state as the house's exterior; the old school wallpapers were clipped off in random, scattered patches, and dust and cobwebs blanketed the white sheets-covered furniture like a second skin. Her shoe-clad steps met the plush surface of a Turkish carpet, numbing the creaks in her walk. Specs of dust swirled around her like pixie dust, the tune vibrating under her feet with each step she took in exploring the house.

The gentle chords of the music humming through the walls pulled her deep into the house like a fish caught in a hook and being dragged to the surface. To a surface where an unknown world exists, ready to munch at her flesh and bones. But this unknown world is an abandoned townhouse with its glory covered in spider territories and the deteriorating state of negligence.

The tune continued to pull Mara, her feet unconsciously following the hum out of the room into the foyer. A tall and gorgeous chandelier greeted her, its crystal pendants twinkling in the sunlight coming through the windows from the open upper floor, casting a rainbow streak on the opposite wall. Her feet bumped into the beginning of a wooden spiral staircase leading to the upper floor. She peeked up the stairs; the warm glow of the afternoon sun from the windows shielded the upper floor from Mara's curious gaze.

She turned her head back, looking around her surroundings. Behind her stood the oak double-doored entrance; stained glass narrow windows bordered the front door, which provided a pretty shadow onto the circular foyer. In front of her was another corridor, which she believes is another way to get to the kitchen. An arched wall divided the grand room and the foyer to her right, and a dark wooden door stood closed to her left.

What a beautiful layout, thought Mara as she touched the intricate details on the staircase railings. It's such a waste that it's empty.

The thought of Greg flew through her mind as she let herself get consumed by the house. The tune engulfed her into an invisible hug, shielding her from the coldness of the empty room.

Scratch. Screech. Scratch. Scratch.

Mara's eyes jolted open at the faint scratching noise. When did she close her eyes?

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. ScratchScratchScratchScratchScratch.

The scratching noise intensified with each second; Mara stood frozen. A faint cold air blowing at her spine involuntarily shook her body. Somehow, the foyer seemed to be clashing in on her, trapping her in with the airy sound of the tune and the insistent scratching that seemed to grow more urgent.

I am scared.

An invisible force seemed to hold onto Mara, and her breathing shortened; taking in short gulps of air felt like chewing on bags of dust. Her throat constricted, and tears filled her ducts, threatening to break free. She managed to escape from the foyer and into the grand room; the scratching and the song followed her like magnets.

They say curiosity kills the cat, and standing in the middle of the cobweb-filled, dust-scattered grand room with the soft and soothing melodious tune—which clearly does not match the coldness of an empty house—and the insistent scratching coming from all around the room, curiosity did kill the cat.

Meow. Mrrow.

A black feline cautiously approached Greg, its nose slightly twitching as it curiously sniffed the air around his extended hand. Its black coat glistened under the shy peeks of sunlight from the shadowing tree. With a gentle quiver of whiskers and a definitive sniff, the cat completed its investigation of Greg's hand. With perked yet relaxed ears, the feline rubbed its cheeks against the coarse hand. The low rumble of its purrs vibrated through Greg's hands.

The purrs grew an octave when Greg tentatively started scratching behind its ears; the furred ears flicked in response. As if it trusted Greg, it rubbed deeper into Greg's hands, seeking more headscratches, maybe even the warmth.

No. Greg shook his head, pulling his gaze away from the kitten and towards the house from which it had come. He doesn't deserve this warmth.

With a final scratch, Greg pulled away from the feline.

"Off you go, now." Greg shooed at the kitten, but to no avail, the cat stayed. Its tail swished back and forth, looking straight into Greg's eyes with a tilted head. The dichromatic eyes stared with the intensity of a curious toddler, asking why it was being pushed away.

Greg sighed, "I'm here to work, not to play." The kitten gave out a guttural purr in response.

"Yes." Greg agreed. "Now, go back to your owner."

Greg returned to pulling the weeds, disrupted by the demanding feline. Since it was a bi-monthly clean-up, Greg came alone to tend the garden of one of his regulars—the Smiths. They are a lovely biracial couple with pre-school-going twin girls.

The scorching mid-afternoon sun fell heavily on Greg as he swiftly pulled the weeds. It wasn't much work, but he loves his job and is meticulous about the result. The passing cars and occasional police and ambulance sirens lulled him into a serene routine.

"Great work, Mr Madden!" Came the excited squeals of his little customers. Greg stopped snapping a twig midway to greet the twins who had returned from preschool. The yard door slid open as their mother ushered the girls back in, sparing a welcoming glance toward Greg before picking up her children's belongings and entering. Greg was left alone once again.

Snip. Snip. Snip. Sni-- Slide.

Greg's ears perked up at the sound of a door opening. He peeked from between the hedge he was cutting and into the neighbor's yard. His eyes followed the figure that stepped out; all the while, his hands swiftly snipped away the overgrown twigs.

Truth be told, his routine clean-up was supposed to be over within an hour, considering the area of the yard, but here he was three hours in. Waiting for a certain someone to come out.

Greg has been watching Sam Keller for a few months. The twenty-something man caught Greg's attention one day while he was trimming arborvitae; his speckled-kissed skin, twinkling greenish-gray eyes, and flowing tuft of brunette hair made Greg take notice of him.

Greg's gaze followed Sam as he pulled out a pack of Marlboro, lit one, and took a swig. He blew out a puff of toxic smoke as his eyes caught a glimpse of Greg looking at him. Sam nodded in acknowledgment, a pretty smile accompanying it, before he turned to his phone and took another puff of the cig.

Greg nodded back, returning to snipping some finishing touches on the hedge. A private smile etched into his usual frowning face.

Found him. Snip!