The April Garden

In the spring of 1997, I moved to a remote village in the Appalachians for a forestry research position. The job was ideal, and the small cabin I rented sat at the edge of a dense forest, with a overgrown garden that had once been tended by the previous owner, an elderly man who had passed away under mysterious circumstances. I thought nothing of it, chalking it up to rural legend.

By September, I realized I hadn’t taken a break from my work, so I planned a road trip through the Blue Ridge Parkway, down to the low country, and back up through the mountains. It was a solitary journey, but I welcomed the solitude. I didn’t book any accommodations, as the tourist season was waning.

One evening, a few days from the end of my trip, I found myself driving through a stretch of forest that seemed denser and darker than the rest. The road narrowed, and the canopy closed overhead, blocking the last of the twilight. My map showed a town called Hollow Creek, where I intended to stay, but I must have taken a wrong turn. I stopped to consult my map under the dome light. I had three choices: backtrack twenty miles to the last town, take a forest service road that might loop around, or continue on this road which, according to the map, ended at an abandoned mine. The mine road seemed shorter, but I was low on fuel. I decided to backtrack.

As I reversed and turned, the headlights swept over a sign half-hidden by vines. It read: ‘Arden Hollow – 5 miles.’ I had never heard of it, but it was on my map as a small dot. I thought it might have a gas station. I turned onto a gravel path that led deeper into the woods.

After a mile, the gravel gave way to dirt, and then to a trail of gnarled roots. I drove slowly, the trees pressing in on both sides. The air grew colder, and the smell of damp earth filled the car. I saw a faint light ahead and soon came upon a cluster of houses, all dark except one, which had a flickering lantern in the window.

A man emerged from the lit house, holding the lantern high. He was old, with a face like crumpled paper, and he gestured for me to roll down my window. ‘You lost?’ he asked, his voice like gravel.

‘Just looking for gas,’ I said.

‘You won’t find any here,’ he said. ‘But you can stay the night. It’ll be dark soon, and these woods are not kind to strangers.’

I hesitated, but the thought of driving back in the dark, with no cell service, was worse. I thanked him and parked outside his house. He introduced himself as Abel and offered me a sparse meal of bread and stew. The house was cluttered with old photographs and dried flowers. I noticed a portrait of a young woman on the mantel, her face half-obscured by shadow.

‘My wife,’ he said, noticing my gaze. ‘She passed last spring.’

I offered my condolences. He nodded and refilled my glass with a bitter homemade wine.

As the night deepened, he told me about the village. It had once been a thriving mining community, but the mine collapsed in the 1950s, killing many. The survivors moved away, leaving only a handful of families who refused to leave. He spoke of the woods as if they were a living thing, with a memory. ‘The earth remembers,’ he said, his eyes distant. ‘She keeps what she loves.’

I tried to sleep, but the house creaked and whispered, and I could swear I heard rustling outside the window. When I finally dozed, I dreamed of a garden behind the house, filled with flowers that bloomed in impossible colors, and in the center, a patch of overturned dirt.

I woke to a gray dawn. Abel was already awake, standing at the kitchen window. ‘You should go now,’ he said, not turning around. ‘The fog is lifting.’

I thanked him and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, and the village looked more benign in daylight, though still abandoned. As I started my car, I noticed a garden in the back of Abel’s property. It was overgrown, but among the weeds, I saw a patch of freshly planted flowers, arranged in a perfect circle. They were blood-red, with petals like velvet.

I drove back to the main road and thought no more of it until a month later, when I received a letter from a relative of Abel’s. He had died, and since I was the last visitor, they thought I might like to know. The letter described his death: he was found in his garden, face down in the dirt, with flowers growing from his mouth.

But the strangest part was the enclosed photograph. It was of Abel’s wife, the same woman from the portrait, but taken years later. She looked exactly the same, as if she hadn’t aged a day. And in the background of the photo, I could see the garden, with the same blood-red flowers.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had left a part of myself there, in that garden. That night, I looked up the history of the village. The mine collapse wasn’t an accident. It was a deliberate act, a ritual to appease the forest, to ensure the harvests would be bountiful. And the ‘harvest’ was the villagers’ own souls, planted in the earth.

I haven’t returned, but every spring, I find a single red flower blooming in my yard, even though I never planted it. And I can’t help but think of Abel’s words: ‘She keeps what she loves.’ I’m afraid that, like him, I am now a part of that garden.