Twenty odd miles after leaving Crieff, and the single-track road still crept between fences and hedgerows that secured disinterested cows and sheep. Eventually John Grant spotted a pair of huge black wrought-iron gates, and slowed his Range Rover down. Approaching them slowly, he read the large brass nameplate: Orchidia. He swung the car through the open gates and followed the winding drive up to the house: the stately pile of Colonel Sir Aubrey Melville-Mason.

Sitting in its original Victorian austerity, the house was vast, and looked in need of some general repairs. Grant took an immediate dislike to the place as he climbed a worn set of stone steps towards a pair of massive oak doors. He hammered three times with a rusty lion’s head knocker. While waiting, he looked around him: the extensive grounds were well wooded, but also looked rather unkempt. It was so quiet that he became aware of his own breathing; he never could get used to the utter silence of the countryside. Nervously he cleaned his shoes on the backs of his trousers.

A very short, rotund and stern-faced man came round a corner of the house, probably from the gardens.
“Yes? Can I help you, sir?” To Grant, this had to be the archetypal butler figure. He handed the man his business card, which was scrutinized to the nth degree, before being read out loud. “John Grant. Capital Fertilizers … Ah yes, the Colonel’s expecting you. This way, sir.”

Grant was led round the side of the house, along a crazy-paving path. He took in the cobwebs that hung between pillars and on every window, unsettled by the air of neglect that the entire place seemed to exude. The path led towards a large domed greenhouse. Weak sunshine peaked through parting clouds and glinted off the uppermost panes. His view of the interior was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of greenery. All exterior woodwork seemed to have been recently painted.

Heat leeched out as the butler opened the door. Beyond this Grant detected a kind of air lock, leading to another inner door. When this was opened, heat struck him like a slap in the face. His mouth gaped open automatically, and he inhaled a lungful of damp, heavy scent-laden air. Sweat ran freely down his back. He gazed into a green gloom of steamed-over windows, where giant sprays of fern, hanging vines and bamboo stems fought with each other for dominance. The place was a riot of plants, a typical rain forest; though Grant detected some order towards the centre of the greenhouse. Here, banks of exotic flowers shrieked their colours at one another, vying for attention: purple leaves with yellow and white veins; red leaves with blue and green, and pale fleshy pink leaves with red and blue veins. Grant caught odd glimpses of silvery pipes behind all this vegetation.

Grant was ushered over to some solid wicker furniture that occupied the central clearing. An old man reclined in one chair, a rug over his lap, apparently dozing. Grant had the distinct feeling that he was reliving a scene from The Big Sleep. With skin the colour of porcelain, and limp grey hair, Colonel Sir Aubrey Melville-Mason appeared totally washed out, dehydrated. A canopy of palm leaves sheltered him from any direct sunlight. Immediately behind him, a severe looking array of woody spines put Grant in mind of a porcupine.

“Colonel, this is Mr Grant. He’s the gentleman from Edinburgh, calling on behalf of Capital Fertilizers.” Colonel Melville-Mason slowly opened his eyes, and stared at Grant with an intensity that immediately startled him. He raised a slim, bony finger and indicated the chair opposite.
“Sit, Mr Grant. Parker, sort out a drink for our guest. You will take a wee dram, sir!” It was clear the Colonel still liked barking out his orders.

Grant fell into the wicker seat with relief, any more time spent standing and he thought he might well have collapsed. He mopped sweat from his brow, and removed his jacket; his shirt was now sticking to his back. Parker stared at him, almost demanding an answer. “A small one, please. Plenty of water.”
Parker vanished. Grant was aware of the door opening with a swirl of humid air, and then closing again.

He continued to mop his brow as he gazed at the profusion of colour around him.
“You sir, are looking at my life’s work,” Colonel Melville-Mason said. “For forty years I’ve collected plants from all over the tropics. And I’ll say I’ve learnt the odd thing or two along the way. But now I’ve retired, I take my pleasure in sitting amongst the things I enjoy.”
 
Parker soon returned bearing a tall glass on a silver tray. Grant, almost wilting in the extreme heat, took it and sipped gratefully. The whisky was good, and he regretted adulterating it with water. Parker retired once more, Grant envied him the fresh air.

“Orchids!” the Colonel exclaimed. “They’re my favourites. At my age, they have the softest, most tender flesh of anything I’m ever likely to stroke.” Grant took another sip, slightly disgusted at the Colonel’s allusion. “Did you know Mr Grant, that there are almost 30,000 different varieties? Some even complete their life cycles entirely underground. By and large though, plenty of sun, plenty of rain … and, of course, natural fertilizers, that’s what they need. Organic fertilizers, Mr Grant, plants depend on them.”

Colonel Melville-Mason relaxed, all intensity seemed to leave his eyes, as if this address had physically drained him. “Sorry Mr Grant, lecture over. It’s very impolite to keep you here so long. Please excuse an old man’s ramblings, but you’ll gather, I am rather passionate about my house plants.”
As Grant nodded, he gazed around at the different varieties. He could have sworn that things were moving at the periphery of his vision: he also had the distinct impression of being watched. Rustling noises and the sound of dripping water occasionally broke the silence. He glanced back at the Colonel, who appeared to have dozed off again.

A huge fern dropped down and brushed the Colonel’s face; he casually flicked it away and carried on. “Mr Grant, I need manure, fertilizer; I’ve no faith in these modern day chemicals. You can supply a range of organic fertilizers?”
Grant nodded as he loosened his tie, desperately gasping for some fresh air, “Made up to your own requirements.”
“I want blood Mr Grant! You can’t top blood for healthy plants. You do you sell it?”
“Indeed, sir. Mostly mammalian, all in highly balanced compounds, unless otherwise specified.”
“Bulls’ blood?” Grant nodded, and noticed the Colonel’s eyes; that fierce intensity had returned. They were those of a hungry, determined man. A predator even.
“I’ll take five hundred litres initially. A basic compound with … mmm … thirty per cent bulls’ blood.”
Grant drained his glass, took a notebook and pen from his jacket, and scribbled, his sweaty fingers barely able to grip the pen. “Thirty per cent bulls’ blood … basic compound … thank you sir,” he rose, carefully dodging vines and creepers that he was unaware of only minutes previously. “I’ll arrange for a delivery early next week.”
He walked heavy-footed to the door, almost exhausted, and jerked it open. He stumbled out into fresh air, gasping for fresh air and a cigarette.

*****

Six months later and Grant was once again at Orchidia. Parker had phoned him with a fresh inquiry from the Colonel; and only a personal visit would suffice. The grounds appeared even more neglected than on his last visit. The drive was almost overgrown in places: strange un-Scottish like vegetation now hugged the roadside; large areas appeared to have died. The house looked even more run down: windows were shuttered; the steps even more crumbly and loose. As he lifted the knocker, large flakes of rust fell at his feet.

Worry seemed to have replaced the sternness of Parker’s face. It had etched great lines into it, and had given him a slight stoop.
“Ah Mr Grant, glad to see you again, sir. You are the first visitor in several months.”
Grant got the impression that Parker felt the need to explain the situation, perhaps glad of the company.
“The Colonel no longer leaves the greenhouse. He seldom eats at all these days. What energy he has is directed to his plants, and his greenhouse. Perhaps…” he hesitated before continuing. “Perhaps you’ll notice a difference. In my opinion, I don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

Parker talked as they walked along the crazy-paving path, weeds now poked up between every crack. The greenhouse shone in the late autumn sunlight, an exquisite oasis in a desert of neglect.

Grant had anticipated the blast of heat as the inner door opened, but it still hit him hard, almost taking his breath away. He walked into the deepening gloom, and was practically assaulted by an array of huge palm fronds studded with yellow, violet, and blood red. At first he couldn’t see the Colonel buried under his canopy, shielded by curtains of vines and layers of ferns. The intense damp heat and cloying scent of the blooms made him gag.

He eventually navigated his way to the seat opposite the Colonel, now a feeble looking figure with totally washed-out skin. When he spoke, his voice was dry and croaky; though his eyes still retained their fierce intensity.
“Ah Mr Grant. My plants are thriving on your compound. Your people made up a good mixture. I’m pleased with it, and with you young man.” Grant didn’t like the way he stressed the young man.

Parker returned with a glass of whisky on a silver tray. Grant drank thirstily. He gazed spellbound at the Colonel as several wickedly spiked stems dropped down lazily and seemed to hover above him. One even settled on the pale skin of his bare arm. Grant likened this to a mosquito settling to feed.

The Colonel seemed to be totally oblivious. “My orchids are doing especially well, don’t you think?” He waved an emaciated arm in their general direction. “Just give them love, heat, water, and fertilizer. That’s the secret.” Grant stared past him at the exquisite range of flowers. One caught his attention: larger than all the others, its virgin white leaves were shot through with bright red veins.

Grant noticed that the spiked stem had now broken the skin, and a tiny drop of dark red blood appeared. Again the Colonel was seemingly unaware.
“I want another five hundred litres, delivered next week. Stick to bulls’ blood, but double the amount this time, sixty per cent. You can do that?”
“Indeed, sir.” Grant made a quick note. “But, I suggest it’s not administered too near the stems, as ...”

The Colonel’s eyes widened, and flashed fire. “You’re in my house sir! Kindly don’t tell me how to feed my plants!” He sank back, utterly exhausted after the outburst.
Grant shrank into his chair, alarmed at the vehemence in the old man’s voice. “I’m … sorry, sir. By all means, you indeed know best …”
The Colonel barked back a throaty cackle. “Parker’s been at you, hasn’t he? Worrying you about the state of my health. He’s becoming a bit of an old maid. Take no notice of him Mr Grant, I’m not intending to die just yet!”
Grant gulped down the rest of his whisky, the fiery liquid bringing even more heat to his already burning face. “Delivery should be in three to four days, sir. Thank you, again.” He rose wearily, and hurried to escape the infernal heat.

As he walked back along the crazy-paving, he had an uncomfortable feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature.

*****
 
Grant forgot all about Colonel Sir Aubrey Melville-Mason and his infernal orchids, until his laboratory people asked him to check the results of their new compound. Passing close to Crieff he decided, rather reluctantly, that he’d best get it over with. He followed the same single-track road until he swung through the still open gates to Orchidia.

A depressing silence clung to the entire grounds. Mist hovered in thick patches all the way up the winding drive. He carefully climbed broken and crumbling steps to the oak doors. He tried the knocker, now almost rusted solid; no one came to answer its call. Finally he tried the door and it slowly swung open, the hinges squealing their resistance every inch of the way.
“Mr Parker?” His voice echoed emptily round the huge hall. Untouched dust lay thick on every surface. The house looked to have been deserted for some time, the air smelt musty and dry. He didn’t want to go in any further.

So he just waited there, uncertain what to do, but knowing where he had to go. Eventually he traced the familiar route along the now shattered and overgrown crazy-paving towards the greenhouse. Immediately he saw broken panes, with creepers and vines thrusting out, as though trying to escape. A solid green wall still prevented him from seeing anything inside.

The outer door opened fairly easily, the expected heat no more than a warm breeze. He had to put his shoulder to the inner door and, when it gave, it splintered under his weight. The stink hit him hard: an overpowering stench of fetid decay clawed at the back of his throat, and he gagged several times. He heard a series of frantic rustling noises coming from within, and peered through a jungle of creepers, exotic blossoms, bamboo stems and thick palm fronds to try and locate what had made the sound. There appeared to be far less variety of colour now, but he noticed one dominating feature among the greenery, much more red.

A fluttering of wings above his head made him glance upwards. He saw a pigeon through a gap in the canopy glide just under the apex of the greenhouse roof. It disappeared in a flurry of feathers as a woody spine shot upwards, skewered it, and pulled it down into the mass of greenery. Grant followed a few of the slowly descending feathers before they were lost in the mass of leaves. His instincts told him to turn tail and get the hell out of there.

“Colonel?” He called out meekly. He felt a bit of an idiot: no one could possibly be in there now; surely Parker would not have left without having some serious motivation. Perhaps the Colonel had died, and Parker had simply moved on? He heard more rustlings: they now seemed to be running round the perimeter of the greenhouse. They stopped for a few moments, only to be replaced by sickly squelching noises. A growing sense of unease prompted Grant to push forward, and force a passage through the wild and twisted jungle. He could have done with a machete, but he gradually cleared a path and slowly advanced towards the centre of the forest of plants.

He saw the wicker chair, and in it, a naked figure reclining motionless, smothered beneath a network of creepers, spines and ferns.
“Colonel!” He didn’t reply. Grant was gagging on the stink, but forced himself to push closer. The body of the Colonel was severely bloated; the sallow flesh had a green tinge to it, and was covered with livid purple veins and a series of parallel circular welts running up his torso. Long, wickedly sharp spines penetrated his back and neck, and disappeared into the jungle. Grant traced these to a huge pink orchid with bright red veins. Could this be the same one as had dominated the display on his previous visit? Amazingly, he detected a faint pulse from the Colonel’s over-thick neck.

The eyes shot open. Behind nictitating membranes, Grant once more detected a deep intensity in them, a hunger almost. He stood transfixed as black swollen lips slowly parted in a self-satisfied grin. A forked tendril snaked out through yellowed teeth, tasting the air like a reptile. It made to grab his tie, and Grant staggered back in horror and tripped over. Rising stiffly, he saw he’d stumbled over the naked and shrivelled up husk of Parker: he’d been sucked completely dry.

Grant turned to look back at the Colonel, and was gripped round the throat by the forked tendril. It was so tight that he was unable to breath. His sweaty hands kept sliding off its slimy surface as he tried desperately to prise it loose. It began to slowly reel him in, his feet slipping on the damp leaves of the floor, unable to gain any purchase.  He saw the parallel welts on the Colonel’s torso suppurate, then gradually open to reveal emerging quill-like tubes: he was being guided onto their razor sharp points; their sucking, gurgling noises testimony to their ultimate purpose.

Black spots started appearing before his eyes, and Grant knew that he would soon pass out. His feet caught the legs of the wicker chair and this halted his momentum slightly. He fumbled frantically in his jacket pocket, groping for his one last chance at freedom. His clammy fingers found the cool metal, closed round it and drew it out.  The Colonel’s eyes flared in horror as Grant flipped the lid of his Zippo and thumbed it to life in one movement. He played the flame up and down the slimy tongue as the Colonel’s wretched screams filled the greenhouse.

The tongue tensed once, then released its grip on Grant’s throat. It slapped down onto the Colonel’s bloated belly, and hung there limply, steaming and giving off the foul stench of burnt flesh. Grant once more fell back over Parker’s corpse as he scrambled away out of range. He sat with his back against the other wicker chair, drawing in great gulps of air, and watched disgustedly as the tongue was slowly retracted. He thought he detected a note of disgust on the Colonel’s face as the burnt and singed areas passed into his mouth.     

As Grant frantically fought for a way out, he heard the Colonel’s dry croaking voice call out behind him, “Need one hundred per cent human, now!”

By Troglodyte.