Flowers In The Attic Audiobook Novels & Stories

The sun was already high when we finally stepped out of the dining room. The air carried the scent of blooming gardenias that Phoenix had insisted on planting near the porch. Atticus, of course, was a burst of energy—racing down the steps like the morning air had caffeine in it. “Bye, Aunt Phee!” he called over his shoulder, waving dramatically. “Bye kiddo!” Phoenix waved at him. The driver opened the door, and Atticus scrambled in, settling into the window seat like he did every morning. He carefully placed his school folder on his lap, adjusting it with the kind of seriousness.

He will dry that witch's blood and savor every drop of it to compensate for what she did to him. Meanwhile, inside the elegant room, Celestine suddenly opens her eyes. Her eyes widely opened when she realized that she was not inside her room. Then a flashback of what happened before she passed out entered her mind. A vampire shows up in front of her. A vampire manages to get in their house despite that they have big dogs as their guards so they will know once there is someone inside their yard.

I wore only shorts and a vest top, Gen assuring me the attic was far too warm to need anything else. The attic room was musty and dark. It didn’t have a nice warm fire or cosy sofas to lounge in. The warmth came from the huge stone brick chimney that rose up the centre of the space. A stack of books and a huge comfortable bed were the only positives about having swapped my room. I began to curse my good nature in agreeing to this madness of Gen’s.

She coughed a few times, waving her hand in front of her face; a little dirt never stopped Ella from taking action. Carefully, Ella placed her foot on the bottom rung. The steps were narrow, and the railing was unfinished. The idea that she might get a splinter crossed her mind, so she positioned her hands carefully and tried not to grip too tightly. After about six steps, the attic began to reveal itself. It was dark, so she couldn’t make out too much, but it looked as if the space was finished, and it was larger than she expected as well.

She decided to leave her room and get some fresh air in the hallway, hoping sleep would finally come. Barefoot, she walked along the cold floor of the corridor. A hand, rough with calluses, suddenly seized Isolde's wrist with a strong jerk. Before she could even cry out, her body was already being dragged up the steep wooden stairs leading to the mansion's attic—the isolated studio belonging to Azriel. The smell of linseed oil, thinner, and fresh paint immediately assaulted Isolde's senses the moment the attic door was shut with a soft thud. The room was illuminated only by two yellow spotlights directed toward a blank canvas.

My palms feel inexplicably damp, and no matter how hard I try to stop feeling as flustered as I do, I fail. I tighten my grip on the silver handrail, stare straight ahead at the brass doors, and force my heart rate back into a civilized zone. It’s just an elevator. It’s just Sydney. The doors slide open with a heavy thud, revealing the expanse of the grand attic. The space is cavernous, filled with the kind of dust that feels like it’s been settling since the nineteenth century. Shafts of sunlight pierce through the small, arched windows, illuminating trillions of dancing particles.

“Yeah.” There was a pause. Then, gently, she said, “They’re in the attic.” The word hit me like an insult. I stared at her. “The attic?” She nodded. The attic was where unused furniture gathered dust. Where broken objects were shoved out of sight. Where a pack hid things it no longer valued but hadn’t yet discarded. So that was what I had become to Victor?. I forced a tight smile at Rose. “Thank you.” The words tasted brittle. I turned and climbed the narrow staircase to the attic.

Veronica walked to it. Picked it up. Smaller than she remembered. Older. She turned it over. Found the slot. Pulled the memory card. It was not plastic. It was shell. Mother of pearl. Etched with faint lines. Names. She crushed it in her fist. Shell cracked. Powder fell between her fingers. The attic exhaled. Long. Slow. The air cleared. The smell of salt faded. The camera dissolved into dust. They stood in ordinary attic darkness. Flashlight beam steady.

Callie opened her eyes and she was inside the attic, she looked around and realized it wasn’t hers but she also recognized it. She had been there before. It looked like the same attic where she saw the boy with the green eyes, she spun around and saw a mirror with bronze framing, it had carvings all over it. She walked over curious, her fingers traced all over the carvings committing everything to memory. It was very fine work and she smiled her eyes appreciating it. She took a step back and decided to explore the rest of the attic.

She trudged up five flights, kicked her boots off inside, and froze. Something felt… off. She closed the door behind her slowly. The apartment was still. Not quiet — still. Air too heavy. The smell of something floral. Faint. Sweet. Wrong. Her eyes drifted to the bookshelf. The flower was back. No — flowers, plural. Two of them now. Deep crimson. Growing directly from the spine of Sea Glass Psalms, like they had rooted themselves into the poetry. No pot. No soil. Just… existing. Aria moved closer, slowly.