What lurks beyond the flowers- Pt I

Iris,

We look forward to your arrival! It has been far too long since we have had any visitors here at the farm, and we are eager to break the monotony of our isolation. I am writing to you via snail mail, as I fear the internet connection in this area of the countryside is extraordinarily poor. I have not been able to answer any emails you have sent in the last few days, as the connection here has only worsened since you booked the room. I have sent you this letter a few days early to inform you that Your room has been cleaned and prepared for you, and if you have any questions, concerns, or requests, please share them with me so that I may answer them.
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirit.

Yours sincerely,

Silas W. Chapman



My eyes scan the letter in my hand once more. I've read through it several times, yet I remain confused and unsure of what awaits me as I prepare to arrive at Silas’s residence.
Silas Chapman and I have never met in person, having communicated only through a series of online correspondences; It was a surprise when I stumbled across an ad showcasing a guest room in his house for rent- one for an enticingly low price. My curiosity was piqued, and so I clicked through pictures of the home, certain that it was a complete scam and that if I were to show up I would be viciously murdered or assaulted. However, the photos didn’t seem remotely sketchy. The house was old and didn’t offer any luxurious features, such as an Olympic-sized swimming pool or a meticulously cared-for tennis court- and the guest room available was small, with a twin-sized bed and tiny bathroom attached. It made sense that it was less costly.
The photos of the house and surrounding property charmed me, and I reached out immediately to let the owner know I was interested. He replied a shocking twenty hours after I sent him the email, but was so friendly and gracious that I decided to not let it phase me.
He even offered a ride, and the silence now between myself and the unnamed driver hangs heavy in the air like a dense fog. I doubt that will change, as we've been with one another for over two hours without exchanging a single word.
I have yet to catch even a glimpse of my silent driver's face, except for the brim of his black sailor-style cap. Save for the rigid shoulders sitting above the leather-clad hands that grip the wheel, I am completely unaware of anything about the driver. I could not tell you if they are male or female, though I refer to them as male, for even though they are seated, they are bent forward slightly to prevent their head from brushing the ceiling of the vehicle. Their attempt is in vain, for they are truly of remarkable stature.
I safely stow the letter into the open messenger-style bag at my feet before leaning back comfortably in my seat.
This experience would be decompressing and restful, if not for the gnawing queasiness brewing in my stomach; no doubt the aftereffects of the long car journey.
The vehicle turns a sharp corner, dirt and forest debris crunching loudly underneath the tires- and revealing a long driveway leading to a white farmhouse in the distance. It is the only house in sight, and entirely resembles the house I saw in the photos online, therefore I assume it is Silas's. I sit up straight, hand hovering eagerly over the door handle, itching to escape the confines of the car.
The driver brings the car to a steady stop at the end of the drive, silently asking me to walk up the rest of the way.
“Thank you,” I say, closing the flap to my bag and slinging it over my shoulder as I exit the vehicle. I do not receive a verbal reply, simply a curt nod as the driver restarts the engine and peels away behind me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

The air is cold for a day in early October, and I find that my thin cardigan isn’t doing much to keep me warm against the biting wind. I pull it tighter around my middle and begin walking briskly up the driveway, looking forward to getting out of the cold more than anything else.
I step cautiously around a visibly rotting spot in the wooden front steps as I reach the front entrance, taking a moment before knocking to appreciate the house’s otherwise charming exterior.
The house sits quietly amidst the rolling hills of the countryside, or rather, in the middle of nowhere; its weathered facade bearing testament to the many decades it has stood against the tides of time. I look beyond the wooden porch columns to a small, well-kept garden, with neat rows of vegetables and herbs ripening in the sunlight.
The yard is overgrown, but it is not unsightly; a motley array of wildflowers grow plentifully amongst the healthy green grass, attracting a great number of bees and butterflies. The sound of their beating wings mixes with the hum of cicadas and the melancholy song of a nearby mourning dove; a nostalgic and comforting orchestra of nature.
It won't be long before the flowers and plants begin to wilt and drop their petals as the months grow colder and the daylight slips away, but for now, they seem content.
I turn back to the house as I hear the front door begin to open, and the sound of clinking metal leads me to believe numerous locks are being undone and slid out of place.
The door creaks open a sliver; just enough to see half of a tanned face looking out at me with one watchful, watery-blue eye.
I step backward, alarmed.
“Hello, is this the address of Mr. Chapman?” I ask, doubting now if I have arrived at the right place, even though the house resembles the pictures online completely.
The eye narrows in suspicion, its unusually small pupil darting wildly as it searches me up and down. “I’m Iris,” I speak, thinking that perhaps my name will help whoever this is to recognize me. It's becoming clear that I have not been expected, as even my title offers no comfort or recognition. “Iris Larson? I sent a message about an available guest room.”
I receive a critical lour from the eye, but not a word.
I stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do.
This graceless interaction is broken by a male voice sounding directly behind the door.
“Is this any way to greet a guest, Horace?”
A pale, bony hand (I would go so far as to describe it as skeletal) with long fingers and unsoiled nails appears, curling around the edge of the door and slowly opening it the rest of the way.
Standing before me in the slanted doorway are two individuals, both male. One stands at barely five feet tall, so squat that I can see the top of his scalp, and the other towers a head above me. The shorter of the two has bulging eyes, one the same watery, pale gray-blue and the other a milky white, leading me to believe he is visually impaired. He has a portly frame, with leathery tanned skin and chestnut freckles dusted across his exposed shoulders, face, and arms. He must be at least in his late sixties or early seventies, for his face is wrinkled and his long hair pulled into a ponytail is wispy and white. His appearance reminds me strongly of a creature who belongs in a storybook, like a small troll or gnome.
The other gent is tall and thin, wearing an unruffled mulberry-purple button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His navy slacks contrast nicely with a pair of umber dress shoes, and a silver wristwatch glints on his left wrist. His dark hair (with streaks of silver above the ears) is combed over neatly, not a strand out of place. A pair of sunken, earthy-brown eyes circled with smile lines and crow's-feet wrinkles gaze kindly into mine. His thin lips curl upward across hollow cheeks into a small smile. I find it difficult to determine his age, but I am certain he can’t be older than forty, or maybe thirty-five.

“It’s lovely to see you, Miss Larson. Please, come in.” Silas’s voice doesn't quite match his appearance; it is quiet, barely above a whisper, and very gentle. I find it somewhat unfitting for a man so tall and so unique-looking. He moves briskly aside, and Horace follows, very begrudgingly.

I pass over the threshold into the foyer.

The foyer is spacious, and I am met immediately with a rich sense of warmth and welcome. The surrounding walls are adorned with intricate woodwork, bedecked with a variety of picture frames containing artwork, pressed objects, and photographs. Beneath my feet lays an ornate rug, woven in hues of crimson, orange, and olive green. I take a step further into the room, which earns a displeased grunt and threatening glare from Horace, who is standing halfway behind Silas, like a young child shying away from a visiting distant relative. I ignore him.
“You have a beautiful home,” I remark to Silas, who looks around the room alongside me, as though he too is seeing it for the first time.
“I suppose it is,” he replies thoughtfully, and a moment of silence follows.
It is broken by Horace, who chooses to point a gnarled finger at my leather loafers, speckled with dirt and filth from my short time spent outside. “Off.” he grunts, crossing his arms over his chest.
My cheeks redden with embarrassment as I bend down to remove my shoes, but the feeling is short-lived, as Horace is briskly reprimanded by Silas for the same crime.
“Look at you, caviling at our visitor, when you’ve got your great mucky boots on.” Silas chides. “You’ve tracked in a greater amount of grime than she has.” he then gestures to Horace’s wife-beater, which has a dark red smear across the stomach region. “And what is that on your shirt?”
“Vital fluid.”
“Who’s?” Silas’s unabashed reply.
“A pig's.” Horace is unbothered, and Silas too seems indifferent, although I am slightly unnerved by their short exchange. I find myself thinking I may have indeed entered the lodgings of a band of killers.
“Go change.” Silas requests.
Horace ascends the staircase, stomping his feet and muttering a slew of profanities.
“I apologize on his behalf.” Silas turns to me, amusement glinting in his eyes, and extends his arm. “Come, I will give you a tour.”