THE GRAVE BEHIND THE ROSE GARDEN
(By …)

The rain fell steadily against the tall windows of the Whitmore estate, each droplet sliding down the glass like tears. Inside, candles flickered in front of a marble portrait — the gentle face of Margaret Whitmore, gone eighteen years to the day.

Evelyn Whitmore, her only daughter, stood quietly before the altar. She wore a pale silk dress, her black hair cascading down like ink. People often said Evelyn inherited everything from her mother — the beauty, the poise, and that haunting sadness in her eyes.

But tonight, something felt wrong.

The mansion was filled with whispers — from guests, from servants, from the very walls themselves. Yet amidst all that, Evelyn heard something else: a soft cry, faint and broken, coming from the garden outside.

She froze.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard something from that direction. The rose garden, fenced off and locked for as long as she could remember, was strictly forbidden. Her father, Richard Whitmore, had warned everyone: No one goes past that gate.

But the crying grew louder — a fragile, human sound.

Evelyn grabbed a lantern and stepped into the storm. The iron gate — which should have been sealed — creaked open. The scent of roses hit her like a wall, thick and suffocating.

Through the thorns and overgrown bushes, she reached a small mound of earth in the center. A single weathered stone jutted out, half-buried. She brushed away the dirt — and froze.

Carved into the stone were the words:

“Evelyn.”

Her name.

The lantern trembled in her grip. Then came the sound again — a cry, from beneath her feet.

Her breath caught in her throat. She dropped to her knees and began clawing at the soil. Dirt filled her nails, blood ran down her hands. After minutes of digging, she hit something hard — a small wooden lid.

She pried it open. Inside was a child-sized coffin, lined with faded fabric. No bones. Only a small, ragged doll — and a piece of paper tied around its neck:

“Forgive me. I couldn’t save you both.”

Her scream tore through the garden.

Moments later, she burst into the study, dripping wet, eyes wild. Her father looked up from his glass of bourbon, startled.

“Dad!” she cried, slamming the paper onto his desk. “What is this? There’s a grave out there — with my name on it!”

His face went pale. He took a step back, hand shaking.
“Evelyn… you weren’t supposed to find that.”

“Then tell me!” she shouted. “Why is there a grave with my name?”

He exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging.
“Because… you weren’t the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were born a twin.” His voice trembled. “Your mother gave birth to two girls. But one was weak — her heart was failing. The doctors said only one could survive the operation. We… we had to choose.”

Evelyn felt her body go numb.
“You chose me.”

Her father looked away. “It was the only way.”

“But if she died…” Evelyn’s voice cracked. “Then why did I hear her crying?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was colder than the rain.

Later that night, Evelyn crept into the old library. She searched the locked drawers until she found a yellowed medical record hidden in a family ledger.

Infant: Emily Whitmore — Twin B
Status: Alive. Cardiac observation required.

Alive.

Evelyn’s pulse raced. She drove into town that night, searching for an old nurse who’d worked at the hospital the year she was born. The nurse, frail and nearly blind now, gasped when Evelyn spoke her name.

“Oh, dear God,” the woman whispered. “You’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The Whitmore twins. Your father told everyone the second child died, but she didn’t. A housemaid named Martha took her — said she couldn’t let an innocent baby be buried alive. They disappeared. No one ever saw them again.”

Evelyn’s world spun.

When she returned to the estate, it was past midnight. Rain poured harder. Something — instinct, madness — drove her straight to the old servant quarters.

Inside, in a drawer layered with dust, she found an old notebook. On the last page, written in Martha’s shaky hand:

“The little one grows stronger every day. She looks just like Miss Evelyn. But I must hide her. Mr. Whitmore must never know she lives.”

A sound came from the doorway.

Evelyn turned — and dropped the book.

Standing there was a young woman — her age, her height, her face. The same deep green eyes, the same trembling lips.

“Emily?” Evelyn whispered.

The girl smiled — faint and bitter.
“I’ve been waiting for you, sister.”

Evelyn could barely breathe. “You’re alive…”

Emily nodded. “Alive. But never free. He kept me here, Evelyn. In the cellar. Fed me, clothed me, but never let me out. He said the world only had room for one Whitmore daughter — the one who smiled and obeyed.”

Evelyn staggered back. “No… Dad would never—”

“He already did.” Emily’s voice sharpened. “He killed Mother for trying to help me. He buried her lies with that doll.”

At that moment, a crash echoed through the house. A shout. Evelyn rushed to the living room — and found her father on the floor, glass shattered beside him, his lips blue.

Emily stood behind her, watching silently.

“Emily… what did you do?” Evelyn gasped.

Her twin smiled softly. “Nothing you wouldn’t have done.”

When the police came, they found no trace of a second woman. Witnesses saw only Evelyn Whitmore, shaking, claiming “her sister” did it. DNA samples from the scene confirmed: there was no twin. Only one genetic identity.

Years later, the Whitmore estate remained locked. Evelyn — or whoever she had become — was often seen wandering through the rose garden, talking softly to the air.

Sometimes, on quiet nights, servants swore they saw two silhouettes standing beneath the roses — one holding a lantern, the other a doll.

And deep beneath the soil, carved into the underside of that old stone, were new words etched by a trembling hand:

“Here lies Emily Whitmore. The one they tried to forget.”

Twist (final note from the police psychologist):

“Subject: Evelyn Whitmore
Diagnosis: Dissociative Identity Disorder.
The ‘twin’ Emily was a fractured persona — a mental construct born after witnessing her father murder her mother and a newborn child.
The grave she uncovered was not her sister’s — it was a suppressed memory she buried herself.”

Evelyn hadn’t discovered her twin.
She had unburied the part of herself that died long ago.