Chapter 12
HAWTHORNE CREATION JOURNAL
M. has discovered something extraordinary in the old churchyard.
A vine unlike any I have encountered—bioluminescent, fast-growing, with properties that defy conventional botanical classification.
We need to collect the specimens, though the location makes procurement…
delicate. The plant grows exclusively on graves, specifically fresh ones.
If this vine truly possesses the properties we have observed, we may have stumbled onto something revolutionary.
Initial cultivation of what we have dubbed “Specimen V” (M.
’s suggestion—she has a flair for dramatic nomenclature).
First attempts failed—the seeds remained dormant despite optimal conditions.
M. theorized the seeds require specific mineral composition found only in the cemetery. We will need to investigate further.
March 25th, 1845
M. went back to the cemetery and collected soil from one of the graves.
The seedlings are now thriving. Both of us are staying late in the greenhouse most nights, too excited to sleep properly.
The growth rate is remarkable—nearly twice that of comparable climbing species.
Most extraordinary is the bioluminescence.
Even at this early stage, the leaves emit a faint green-gold glow in darkness.
M. suggested we call it Verdant Vespera. “Green evening,” for how it lights the night. I agreed. It is perfect.
April 3rd, 1845
The vines are spreading faster than anticipated.
We had to relocate them to another greenhouse.
Since propagation in the cemetery soil was a success, M.
has theorized something quite disturbing about the vines—they seem drawn to sources of organic decay.
We tested the theory with a dead mouse, and within hours, the vines had extended tendrils toward it.
We are both fascinated and unsettled by the implications. Whatever this plant is, it is unlike anything in conventional botanical literature.
April 15th, 1845
We returned to the churchyard for more mature specimens. The work was unpleasant—neither of us were comfortable digging around graves in darkness—but scientific necessity outweighs squeamishness. We collected three healthy vines and returned before dawn.
M. wants to begin sap extraction at once.
May 2nd, 1845
First successful extraction of Verdant Vespera sap. The substance is remarkable—highly viscous, luminescent, and warm to the touch. We tested its properties on dead tissue. Nicholas brought a sparrow he had found in the garden.
When we applied the sap, the cellular degradation stopped and appeared to reverse the process of death in the bird’s body.
We stayed up until dawn discussing the implications. Neither of us could quite believe what we were seeing.
May 10th, 1845
Nicholas conducted an experiment with a frog’s severed leg while I was documenting our previous results. He combined Verdant Vespera sap with electrical stimulation, and the limb responded with muscular contractions identical to living tissue.
I was thrilled when he showed me. We are on the verge of something unprecedented. The question is whether we are ready for what that means.
May 24th, 1845
We have agreed to attempt reanimation of a complete organism. We began with a rabbit—dead for approximately six hours and preserved on ice. M. theorized that complete vascular replacement with Verdant Vespera vines would allow the sap to circulate throughout the body, essentially replacing blood.
It took both of us working in tandem to complete the procedure. Eight hours of painstaking vine threading, grafting, and sap introduction.
M. is enraptured. I am not so sure that what we are experimenting with is safe or ethical.
June 8th, 1845
The rabbit lived for five days. It moved and responded to stimuli. By all observable measures, it was alive.
But something was missing. The creature’s movements were automatic. There was no spark of awareness or personality. M. noticed it too. We have animated tissue, but we have not created life. Not truly.
When I took the test subject to put it out of its misery, M. wept.
August 15th, 1845
M. proposed something ambitious tonight. She wants to create what she calls a “botanical construct” using Verdant Vespera as the foundation, supported by a structural framework derived from other materials.
Bone for skeletal structure, she suggested. Preserved tissue for anchoring points. Vines woven through it all to create a functional circulatory system.
I admit the idea fascinates me as much as it terrifies me, but I told her we need to study Verdant Vespera more thoroughly first. We still do not fully understand its properties, its long-term effects, and the potential risks. We have only been working with it for a few months.
She argued that we have learned enough through the smaller experiments. That the only way to truly understand the vine’s potential is to attempt something of this scale.
I am not certain we are ready. But I also cannot deny my own curiosity.
September 3rd, 1845
M. convinced me.
Construction has begun on what she insists we call “Hawthorne,” after the tree in the garden we both admire.
I am still uncertain about the timeline—I feel we are moving too quickly, building something this complex without fully understanding our materials.
M. is confident however, and her confidence is infectious.
The skeletal framework is in place. The acquisition of materials was, by all accounts, complicated.
The vine grafting is taxing work. Each tendril must be threaded through bone and tissue, creating an internal frame that will support circulation once the sap is introduced.
October 12th, 1845
The construct is taking shape. Both of us are working long hours now. I keep suggesting we take breaks, pace ourselves, but M. refuses.
November 30th, 1845
Final assembly complete. Hawthorne stands six feet tall, humanoid in shape but clearly not human. His skin has a greenish pallor from the vines beneath. We will have to keep him locked in the house, away from curious tongues.
When we introduced the Verdant Vespera sap to his system and applied electrical stimulation to his core vines, he moved.
M. and I both stood there watching, hardly daring to breathe.
Hawthorne stood, walked, and turned his head when we spoke to him. He can follow simple instructions, and even responds to basic commands, but his eyes are empty. Whatever we have created, it is not fully conscious. It is not aware.
M. is convinced plants have memory function, that if we can create memories for Hawthorne, consciousness will follow.
I disagreed with her. Hawthorne will never experience human consciousness or be able to maintain memories without the neurological function of a brain.
The entries ended there. The remaining pages were blank, as if the research had ended abruptly.
I closed the journal slowly, my hands trembling, my mind unable to process the shock of what I had just read.
They had created Hawthorne.
Dr. Ambrose and whoever the mysterious ‘M’ was had created him from a vine that grew on freshly dug graves. Hawthorne was not a man, or a person at all. He was a botanical construct with a plant woven through his circulatory system, a creature built with bone and tissue…
The image of the woman I had seen in Dr. Ambrose's bedchamber flashed through my mind, luminous vines spilling from her bloodied lips.
Was it the same vine?
The connection formed unwillingly, each piece clicking into place with the inevitability of a lock turning.
Was M. his wife? She must have been. The few entries that had been in her flowing script had referred to him by his given name so familiarly. She had contributed to the journal just as much as he had, suggesting an intimate relationship.
Had she also been his assistant at one point or his partner? Was that what had happened to her? Had Dr. Ambrose used his own wife as another experiment? Had he grafted that death-fed vine into her living tissue to see what would happen?
The thought made bile rise in my throat.
I told you, the voice said, amusement threaded through. He killed her.
Oh God.
I glanced down at the red rose Hawthorne had given me and lifted it from my bed, twisting the stem in my fingers.
The petals were full, the stem cut at the perfect moment.
Something about it made my chest constrict uncomfortably.
I stood on shaking legs and crossed to the window, staring out at the gardens and the greenhouses beyond as I stroked the silky blooms.
Somewhere in those glass structures, they had cultivated a vine that reanimated life.
Hawthorne was a plant…
I turned back to the bed, looking at the closed journal.
I needed to know more. I needed to understand what had happened between these entries and now, between M.'s enthusiastic collaboration and her death.
You know what happened, the voice observed darkly.
I bit my lip, trying to think rationally.
I could not confront Dr. Ambrose with what I knew. There was no one I could ask, not even Agnes.
Agnes, who had kept this secret from me. Who had deliberately avoided answering my questions, who I had, without a doubt now, seen watering Hawthorne like some common houseplant.
I crossed back to my door and opened it, checking the hallway.
Empty.
I slipped out and made my way down the corridor, back toward the study where the other volumes waited on the shelf. I needed to find the next one. I needed to trace the progression from successful creation to whatever tragedy had followed.
But as I descended the stairs, I heard the distinct echo of boots moving through the corridor into the entry hall.
I froze mid-step, my heart leaping into my throat.
Dr. Ambrose passed the stairs without looking up, disappearing through the door and into the darkened night.
Fate had decided to bid me mercy.
This was my opportunity to retrieve another journal, find out what had happened to M., and discover the truth about—
A sound above made me freeze. It was soft, barely there, like fabric brushing against wood. I turned around cautiously, already dreading what I might see as I glanced up at the landing.
A silhouette hovered at the top of the stairs.
The woman I had seen before.
She stood motionless, her face obscured by the dim light, wearing a dark dress that seemed to absorb what little illumination reached her.
I stared, mouth slack, unable to move or breathe or do anything except watch as she began to descend the staircase. Her feet made no sound against the wooden steps. She flowed rather than walked as she descended.
The dim lighting from the hallway lamp below began to cascade over her translucent form, revealing her features inch by inch. I stepped back, pressing myself against the wall as I cautiously looked up at her face, intrigued and terrified at what I might see.
There were no bloody vines or hollow eyes this time. Where her features should have been, there was only smooth, blank skin the color of ash, like someone had erased her identity entirely.
The woman continued her descent, oblivious to my presence, her faceless head turning neither left nor right.
She passed by me on the stairs, close enough that I could have reached out and touched her if I had dared.
In her wake came the scent of roses—heavy and rotten, preserved rather than fresh—and a chilled air that pressed against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
I pressed harder against the wall, watching as she continued her silent descent. She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned, moving down the corridor toward the study, disappearing from my view.
For a moment, I stood anchored to the spot, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing.
She was real—I had not imagined her.
Follow her, the voice urged, snapping me out of my shock.
I hesitated before my feet began moving of their own accord, carrying me down the remaining stairs. I paused at the bottom, my hand still gripping the banister for support, watching as the woman glided down the corridor toward the study. Her dark dress trailed behind like a cloud of smoke.
She paused on the threshold, faceless head turning toward me. Even without features, I sensed her looking at me, the weight of her attention pressing against my skin.
Then she lifted one hand, one pale, skeletal finger beckoning me forward.
Come, it seemed to say. Come and see.
I took one cautious step toward her, my heart pounding so hard it made me dizzy—then Agnes crossed the threshold from the study into the hall, walking straight through the spirit as though she were made of nothing more substantial than air.
The ghost dissipated into a wispy haze that scattered like smoke blown in a breeze, leaving only that lingering scent of foul roses and the fading chill in the air.
Agnes turned and beamed at me, showing no sign that anything unusual had just occurred, not even the slightest indication that she had just walked through the spirit of Dr. Ambrose’s dead wife.
“There you are, dear! Supper is ready.” Her tone was warm and cheerful, completely unfazed. “I was just coming to find you.”
She turned without another word, heading back down the corridor toward the dining room with her usual purposeful stride. I stood stunned in the hall, the journal still clutched against my chest, my mind reeling.
I glanced back toward the doorway where the woman had beckoned me. What had she wanted me to see? What was in that room that warranted a spectral summons?
The journals. The answer had to be in them.
“Are you coming, dear?” Agnes called from down the corridor. I looked down at the leather-bound volume in my hands, realizing I could not go to supper carrying it. I could not let Agnes see it.
I hurried to the study, my steps quick and quiet. The bookshelves loomed in the dim light, the gap on the shelf accusing me of some terrible crime.
I crossed to the shelf and replaced it in its proper place, pushing it flush with the others so no gap betrayed its absence. My fingers lingered on the spine for a moment, reluctant to leave it when I still had so many questions unanswered.
But I had no choice, not with Agnes waiting.
I turned toward the door, glancing back at the shelf full of journals documenting years of research I was only beginning to understand.
Later, I promised myself. Later, I would come back. I would find out what happened to M. and discover the truth.
“Is everything alright?” Agnes’s concerned voice was closer now.
I emerged from the room, forcing a calm I did not feel. “Yes, sorry. I was just… looking for a book to read this evening.”
Agnes’s expression softened. “Of course, dear. Well, come along. The stew will get cold.”
I followed her down the corridor toward the dining room, my mind still churning with everything I had read, everything I had seen.