The Easter Garden's Sinister Secret

The scent of earth mingled with the metallic tang of blood as I carefully arranged the natural materials on the makeshift altar, my mother's hands guiding mine with a gentle touch. It was supposed to be a simple school project—an "Easter garden" created from whatever treasures we could find in the backyard.

But as I looked down at the scene before me, a chill swept through my veins—a primal instinct warning me of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. For amidst the flowers and leaves lay the twisted forms of crucified frogs, their lifeless bodies pinned to the wooden cross with crude nails fashioned from twigs.

My mother's smile faltered as she surveyed our handiwork, a flicker of unease passing across her features before she brushed it away with forced cheerfulness. "There," she said, her voice strained. "All finished. Now let's get you to school so you can show it off to your classmates."

But as we arrived at the school gates, I could sense the tension in the air—a palpable unease that seemed to hang over the building like a dark cloud. The other children whispered and pointed as I proudly presented my Easter garden to the teacher, their eyes wide with horror at the sight of the macabre display.

And then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realized the terrible truth. The teachers didn't like the crucified frogs. They didn't like them at all.

As the hours dragged on and the sun dipped below the horizon, I found myself alone in the empty classroom, the sounds of laughter and chatter echoing faintly in the distance. The other children had long since gone home, leaving me behind with my twisted creation and the suffocating weight of guilt that threatened to crush me.

I tried to ask the teacher when I could go home, to plead for release from this prison of my own making, but she only looked at me with hollow eyes and turned away, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

And so I waited, the minutes stretching into hours, the darkness closing in around me like a suffocating shroud. In the stillness of the empty classroom, I could hear the faint sound of frogs croaking in the distance—a haunting reminder of the horrors that lay just beyond the walls of my confinement.

And as the night wore on and the shadows danced in the flickering candlelight, I knew that I would never escape the sins of my past—a child condemned to wander the halls of his own personal purgatory, forever haunted by the memory of the crucified frogs and the darkness that lurked within his own soul.