As if summoned by my own grim prophecy, the stone gnome—which had absolutely been facing away just moments ago—slowly turned its grotesque little head toward us. The sound was a dry, grinding crack that rasped through the air like fingernails on slate.
Instantly, Ronette and I seized each other in a death grip, clutching together like two terrified cats caught mid-thunderstorm.
"H-Hicks! C-Can a statue move?" Ronette stammered, his voice cracking like a cheap violin left out in the rain.
"Of course not," I lied, the words tumbling out brittle and hollow. "But… nothing here follows the laws of sanity, so… I guess it could."
The gnome's cracked lips twisted upward into a wider, toothy grin.
We jerked back in synchronized horror, limbs flailing.
Its stone body began to shudder and twitch, chunks of dirt crumbling from its stubby arms. Then, with a horrible series of cracking sounds, it grew—sprouting upward like a cursed beanstalk.
We looked up.
And up.
And up.
Until we were staring into the looming maw of a gnome the size of a small house, still grinning like the patron saint of nightmares.
Our minds went blank.
Brains: offline.
Spines: liquidated.
The gnome's jaw cranked open, a deafening creak splitting the air, revealing disturbingly human teeth—and then, with all the enthusiasm of a toddler devouring a birthday cake, it lunged.
"AAAAHHHHH!" Ronette and I screamed in eerie harmony.
We dove sideways as the massive gnome slammed down, shaking the garden to its roots like a meteor with dental issues.
BAAAAMMM!
The ground quaked beneath us. The impact sent both of us flying backwards. I landed flat on my back with a painful THUD.
"Youch!" I wheezed, staring at the sky like it owed me an apology.
Dust and splintered earth roared outward, choking the air. It stung my eyes, clawed at my throat—every breath scraped like inhaling ground glass.
When the dust finally settled, I pushed myself upright, blinking away tears.
The monstrous gnome was gone.
In its place stood a towering wall of thorn-choked bushes, dense and silent.
"Uh-oh…"
My stomach twisted into a knot.
I scrambled forward, palms slamming against the stubborn greenery.
"Ronette! You there?!"
Silence.
"RONETTE!"
Still nothing. Not even a wheeze or pathetic whimper.
My breath snagged painfully in my throat.
"He… he should be fine, right?" I whispered to myself, fighting the cold dread crawling up my spine.
'He has to be.'
[Ronette's side]
Ronette lay sprawled on the grass, blinking up at a sky that offered no comfort.
"What just happened?" he muttered, voice hollow. "Did I get swallowed by that gnome? Am I in its stomach now?"
He sat up, hands patting his body as if expecting slime and teeth.
"But… this doesn't look like a stomach. There's grass. Flowers. And… Sunshine?" His gaze darted around, confusion scrawled across his features. "Wait... No. I think I'm still in the garden."
He pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling. Dirt and fear clung to him in equal measure.
"Where's Louis? Did she make it?" A pause. "Am I… alone?"
The garden hushed, as if it too waited for his next move.
Then Ronette remembered the voice from earlier. His eyes flickered with a tiny, stubborn spark.
"Right! If I get to the center and hit the buzzer, the traps stop! Maybe Louis's already headed there." He clenched his fists, tears swimming at the corners of his eyes. "I'll find her. I'm not just a crybaby—I'm a survivor."
Summoning courage that was half desperation, Ronette took a bold first step into the unknown.
And the garden cackled.
Leaves shivered. Shadows twisted. A low growl curled from the hedges—hungry, patient.
"…Was that the wind?" Ronette whispered, heart hammering.
The bushes erupted.
Hyenas. Dozens. Eyes gleaming with delighted malice. Their laughter was a chorus of nightmares spliced with squeaky toys.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH!" Ronette shrieked, bolting forward like the ground itself had caught fire.
Snapping jaws at his heels. Poisoned darts whistling past his ears. A carnivorous flower lunged from the side, petal-blades snapping. A vine snaked forward, trying to high-five his throat.
"This isn't an adventure—it's a buffet!" Ronette gasped, leaping over a pit that yawned open underfoot. "AND I'M THE MAIN COURSE!"
A monkey balanced on a branch, spear in hand, and hurled it with insulting precision.
"WHY DOES A MONKEY HAVE A SPEAR?!"
He ducked by sheer terror-fueled instinct, then somersaulted over a spiked bush, hair wild, eyes wide.
The hyenas were right on his tail—somehow cackling louder than he was.
As if the garden had accepted his challenge, it leveled up.
From the shadows of the foliage, glowing eyes began to appear—dozens of them. A rustle in the branches above sent Ronette's heart into a freefall. A snake as thick as his leg uncoiled from a tree like a slimy ribbon of doom, hissing with theatrical malice. Ronette yelped and skidded left, straight into—
"A PORCUPINE?!" he shouted, swerving just in time to avoid a face full of quills.
A wild boar charged, tusks gleaming. Above, parrots—angry, and steroidall—dive-bombed, shrieking insults in four different languages.
A crocodile blinked from a shallow puddle.
"WHY IS THERE A CROCODILE IN A PUDDLE?! THAT'S NOT EVEN A THING!"
Ronette sprinted faster, a blur of panic and poor life choices.
"This isn't a garden! It's a forest zoo from hell!" he cried, dodging a badger that lunged with deranged fury. "WITH TOO MANY ANIMALS AND ZERO MORAL RESTRAINT!"
Behind him, a bush spontaneously combusted. The hyenas pranced around the flames, cackling madly.
The garden watched him suffer—like an audience at an absurd tragedy.
And it laughed.
Soft at first, rustling like wind in dry leaves.
Then louder. Vines, petals, and hidden thorns joined in—a full chorus of botanic mockery.
A tree dropped a nut on Ronette's head.
"OW! Okay, I get it!" he shouted, voice ragged. "I'm the comic relief!"
A flower nearby nodded solemnly.
Ronette zigzagged through a gauntlet of territorial ducks and bloodthirsty squirrels, wheezing.
"This is it," he gasped. "This is how I die. Not in a noble battle. Not peacefully. Eaten by overly dramatic hyenas and mocked by flamboyant parrots—"
The garden offered no apology.
Only more rustling. More giggles on the wind. As though the trees were holding in laughter and doing a poor job of it.
That's when he heard it.
"Ronette."
He froze mid-crawl. Dirt smeared across his face. A leaf clung stubbornly to his lip.
"Wh-what?" he croaked.
"Ronette. Listen."
"Oh, great," he groaned, clutching his head. "Now I'm hearing voices. Perfect. Officially gone round the bend. Any minute now I'll be hugging a tree and calling it Mother."
"If you want to survive, you'll do exactly as I say."
He blinked. Once. Twice.
"…Okay. Either I've been assigned a guardian angel or I've entered a horror movie with bonus commentary."
"Left. Now."
There was something about the voice—calm, unshakable, the kind that inspired blind obedience and mild existential dread.
Ronette lunged left.
A net slammed shut behind him, whipping air and dust where he'd just stood.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF—?!"
"Jump."
He jumped. A hidden pressure plate clicked. A spiked log swung down, missing him by inches.
"Duck."
He dropped flat. A boomerang sliced overhead, embedding itself in a tree trunk.
"WHO EVEN USES THOSE ANYMORE?!"
"Run straight. Don't look back."
Ronette obeyed without thinking—legs pounding, mud streaking down his face in tear-shaped trails.
Behind him, the garden shrieked in frustration.
Trap after trap misfired in his wake—snapping, swinging, howling like a child denied dessert.
But somehow, impossibly, the voice guided him through it all: past slithering vines, past a tiger sleeping beside despair-scented bushes, past death he couldn't even see.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the terror parted.
Ronette stumbled into a clearing.
No traps. No snarling beasts. No mocking laughter.
Only silence.
A blessed, bone-deep silence.
He collapsed face-first into the grass, lungs burning.
"…I'm alive…?" he croaked, voice small.
"For now," came the voice, amusement curling at the edges.
Ronette rolled over, eyes wide, searching treetops and shadows.
"Okay, mystery voice. Who are you?"
Silence.
"Hello?"
Only wind answered, rustling leaves like a secret no one dared say aloud.
Ronette sat up slowly. Mud dripped from his chin; terror clung heavier than sweat. His hair was a tangle of leaves and panic.
He didn't know if he'd found an ally…
…or just gone into a committed, long-term relationship with madness.
But he was breathing.
He was alive.
And for Ronette?
That was a win.