The Gardener’s Pattern

I know my apartment better than I know my own skin. Every scuff on the linoleum, every nail hole where a picture used to hang, every crack in the ceiling that resembles a split lip. The unit is so compact that I can stand in the center of the living room and touch both opposing walls with my arms outstretched. My bed, a narrow cot, is wedged against the single window that overlooks the courtyard. The window is my only source of natural light, and it frames a view of the dead garden below, where the previous tenant’s tomato plants have withered into brittle brown spirals.

The first thing happened on a Tuesday, around eleven at night, I was lying in that cot, knees bent, watching a documentary on deep-sea creatures. The light from the screen flickered across the walls, painting shifting silhouettes. Just at the edge of my vision, near the door frame, I caught a movement—a small, frantic jumping. I turned my head slowly. There, in the gloom, was a patch of darkness that seemed denser than the rest, bobbing up and down like a child hopping with joy. I blinked, and it was gone. My heart did a strange little skip, but I told myself it was a trick of the light, maybe a moth. I turned back to the documentary, but my eyes kept straying to that spot.

I switched off the TV a few minutes later. The room plunged into a silence so complete I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, which was really just an alcove with a hot plate and a mini-fridge. I rolled onto my right side, facing the wall. The wall was bare except for a faint water stain shaped like a map of an unknown continent. And then, a wave of dread washed over me. It was as if the air had thickened, pressing down on my chest. I was certain that someone, or something, was behind me, standing in the doorway, watching me sleep. My skin prickled. I didn’t dare turn around. The feeling held for a long, agonizing moment, then dissipated like a breath on a cold window. I stayed frozen, listening. Nothing.

The second incident occurred two months ago, in the middle of a sweltering afternoon. I had just left my shift at the all-night diner, where I clear tables and mop floors. My father was supposed to pick me up outside the laundromat across the street. As I stood on the curb, squinting against the sun, I noticed a car parked at the curb—an old, rusted sedan that I didn’t recognize. In the back seat, two children were waving at me, their faces indistinct in the glare. One was a boy, the other a girl, both with dark hair. They smiled and waved with exaggerated motions, as if they knew me. I squinted, trying to see their features, but the sun was too bright. Then a bus passed, and when it cleared, the car was gone. I felt a chill despite the heat.

I brushed it off, telling myself it was kids playing a prank. But that night, as I was preparing for bed, I heard a faint scratching at my door. It was a rhythmic sound, like fingernails dragging across the wood. I opened the door, expecting to see a cat, but the hallway was empty. The lightbulb at the end of the hall flickered, and I saw a small figure at the far end, standing very still. It was the same two children from the car, now standing together, holding hands. They were too far away to see clearly, but I could feel their gaze. They began to sway, back and forth, in unison. Then the light went out. I slammed the door and locked it. I didn’t sleep that night.

I started to notice more things. In the mornings, I’d find tiny footprints in the dust on the kitchen floor. They were too small for any adult, too small even for a child of ten. They seemed to lead from the door to the window and back again. I began to avoid looking at the courtyard, but I could sense movement out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes, when I was reading, I’d feel a tap on my shoulder, but no one would be there. The feeling of being watched never left me, especially at night. I tried to rationalize it—maybe a family of mice made the footprints. Maybe I was stressed from work. But deep down, I knew it was something else.

Last week, I came home from work to find my apartment rearranged. It was subtle—a cup moved from one side of the sink to the other, the rug turned slightly, the pillows on my cot fluffed. I lived alone. And then, on my bed, there was a drawing. It was a crude sketch of a house, with a big tree, and two stick figures standing under it. Underneath, in crayon, were the words ‘WE KNOW YOUR NAME.’ I didn’t remember ever telling the children my name. But how could they know? I felt a surge of terror. I searched every corner, pulled back every curtain, but found nothing.

That night, I heard sounds from the courtyard. I looked out the window. In the dead garden, under the withered tomato plants, a small hand was emerging from the earth. It was gray and mottled, and it clawed at the dirt. Then another hand. Then a head. It was one of the children from the car, but its skin was gray and dry, and its eyes were white. It pulled itself out of the ground, shaking off soil, and stood up. It looked up at my window, directly at me, and smiled a wide, toothless smile. I stumbled back, tripped over my own feet, and fell to the floor. When I managed to look out again, the garden was empty. But the soil was disturbed, and there was a small hole where the child had emerged.

I called my father, but he said he was out of town. I called a friend, but she said she was busy. I was alone. The next day, I found another drawing this time of a handprint on the wall, but the handprint was reversed, like it was made from the other side. I put my hand over it, and it was smaller than mine. I tried to leave, but my keys were missing. They were on the hook by the door, I swear I put them there. Now they were gone. I locked the door from the inside and pushed a chair against the handle. I sat on the cot, facing the door, and waited.

Hours passed. The sun set. The room grew dark. I didn’t turn on the lights. I felt a presence in the corner, near the door. It was the other child, the boy, standing there. He was gray like his sister, his eyes pale. He didn’t move, or blink. Then he pointed a stubby finger at the window. I turned slowly. Through the glass, I saw the girl outside in the courtyard, looking up at me, her toothless smile widening. She began to walk toward the building. Then she disappeared under the window. I heard a thump on the wall outside, then scratching at the glass. The boy in the room started to giggle. The sound was high-pitched, mechanical, like a music box. He started to jump, up and down, like the first time I saw him. And I knew, in that moment, that they were not children, but something else, something that had been waiting for a long time in that dry, dead earth. And they had finally found a way in.