The Constant Gardener

In the autumn of 2004, I was nineteen, fresh off a cross-country bus with a backpack full of idealism and a head full of half-remembered poetry. I found work at a secondhand bookstore in the town of Barlow’s Creek, a place that prided itself on its leafy avenues and its quiet, respectable facade. My lodgings were a basement apartment in a Victorian house that had been converted into flats. The landlady, Mrs. Albright, was a sprightly widow with a flock of unruly cats and a collection of porcelain dolls that seemed to watch me from every shelf. I felt a strange kinship with that house, with its creaking floors and its smell of old books and dust.

Two months after moving in, I attended a party thrown by some of my coworkers. I left around two in the morning, a bit tipsy, humming a tune I couldn’t quite place. The street was empty, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the chill breeze. As I approached my building, I noticed a figure in the backyard, a small, hunched silhouette that was oddly out of place. I squinted, thinking it might be one of the neighbors’ dogs, but no, it was a very old woman, dressed in a faded floral dress, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was standing perfectly still, staring at the ground, her hands clasped in front of her. I thought she might be a resident from the care home down the road, which was known for its wandering patients, so I gave her a friendly wave and continued on to my door. She didn’t respond, but I felt her eyes on my back as I fumbled with the key.

The next morning, I mentioned the old woman to Mrs. Albright over a cup of tea in her cluttered kitchen. She stiffened, her teacup rattling in its saucer. ‘That would be Edith,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘She died two years ago. Heart attack, right there in the garden.’ She pointed to a patch of bare earth beneath the oak tree. ‘She was the previous tenant. Used to tend to the roses, you know.’ I laughed nervously, assuming it was a joke, but Mrs. Albright’s face was pale, and she quickly changed the subject.

A few weeks later, I was invited to a dinner party at a colleague’s house, a beautiful modern home on the other side of town. I had spent the evening flirting with a girl named Claire, and lost track of time. It was two in the morning when I excused myself, walking home with a contented smile. As I turned onto my street, I saw her again—the old woman, Edith. She was standing at the edge of the garden, now not in the backyard but at the front, near the gate. She seemed angrier this time, her jaw set, her hands clenched at her sides. I was sober, and a chill ran down my spine. I stopped, watching her. She didn’t move, but her head slowly turned toward me, and her eyes—black, like polished stones—locked onto mine. I felt a wave of fear that was almost physical, and I forced myself to walk past her, my heart hammering. As I closed the door behind me, I heard a faint, strangled sound, like a word caught in a throat.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to rationalize what I had seen. Maybe she was a sleepwalker. Maybe she was a relative who had the key. But the way she moved, or didn’t move, was deeply wrong. The next day, I asked around. The neighbors were evasive, but one old man, Mr. Hargrove, told me that Edith had been a bitter woman, ‘a crab apple,’ he said, ‘who hated everyone and everything.’ She had been particularly cruel to Mrs. Albright, who had tried to befriend her. ‘She took a wicked pleasure in ruining the garden,’ he said, ‘digging up the roses, poisoning the soil. She died the day she was about to be evicted.’

A week later, I was in the basement, sorting through a box of old books, when I found a tattered journal wedged behind a shelf. It was Edith’s. I opened it, and the pages were filled with cramped, angry handwriting. It was a record of her grievances, her hatred for the world, and her obsession with the garden. The last entry was dated the day she died: ‘They think they can take my garden from me. But I will always be here. I will watch. I will wait. They will know my wrath.’

I should have left then, but I was young and foolish. I thought I could ignore her. But the appearances grew more frequent. Every night at exactly two in the morning, I would see her somewhere—in the garden, on the porch, once even in the hallway of the building, standing outside my door, her face pressed against the wood. And I began to notice that the garden was changing. The bare patch under the oak tree had started to bloom—but not with flowers. With dark, thorny vines that seemed to writhe in the moonlight. They were creeping toward the house, wrapping around the foundation, reaching for the windows.

I tried to dig them up, but they were like iron, and they tore at my hands, leaving angry red welts. I went to Mrs. Albright, nearly hysterical, but she just shook her head, her eyes distant. ‘She’s not restless, dear,’ she said. ‘She’s determined. She wants to make sure no one ever enjoys that garden again.’ And then she looked at me, and her voice quavered. ‘You need to leave. Before she decides you’re part of her garden.’

That night, I packed my bags. I planned to leave in the morning. But at two in the morning, I heard a sound outside my window—a slow, rhythmic scraping, like a trowel in the earth. I peeked through the blinds, and there she was, kneeling in the garden, surrounded by the vines. She was digging a hole, and she was looking up at my window, and she was smiling. A wide, black smile. I don’t remember what I did next. I blacked out.

I came to in a hospital bed, three days later. The doctor said I had been found wandering the streets, muttering about a ‘garden of bones.’ My apartment was a mess, my belongings scattered, and the garden was gone—replaced by a perfectly manicured lawn, as if it had never been touched. But I knew better. I never went back to Barlow’s Creek.

Yet even now, sometimes, when I’m in a quiet place, I look out the window at two in the morning, and I see a small, hunched figure in the garden, digging. And I know that the garden will always have room for one more.