The Gardener’s Request

I have never been one to entertain the notion of ghosts or spirits. My world was built on logic, on the tangible and the verifiable. That was before the summer at my aunt’s estate, Thornwood House, perched on the edge of a sprawling, mist-choked moor. The house itself was a relic of a bygone era, all creaking timbers and drafts that seemed to follow you from room to room. My cousin, Daniel, and his two friends, Sarah and Mia, had joined me for a week of supposed relaxation.

We spent the first afternoon by the stagnant pond that bordered the moor. Daniel and I were skimming stones while Sarah and Mia waded in the murky water, laughing at the floating scum. Then, a figure emerged from the treeline on the opposite side. It was tall, impossibly thin, and wore what appeared to be a decaying gardener’s overalls. It held a pair of rusted shears in one hand. Sarah let out a shrill cry. ‘Hey! Stop staring at us!’ Mia followed with a shriek. The figure simply stood there, motionless. Daniel and I exchanged glances. ‘It’s probably just the groundskeeper being a grouch,’ I said, trying to deflect my own unease. We retreated to the house, but the image of that figure lingered like a cold spot.

Thornwood’s layout was confusing. The main staircase led to a landing with a dusty attic door directly ahead. To the right, a narrow corridor passed two guest bedrooms on the left and my aunt’s master suite on the right. At the end of the corridor, a servant’s stairwell wound down to the kitchen. That first night, I was awakened by a sound from the attic. A steady, rhythmic scraping, like a blade being sharpened. I dismissed it as mice. But then, beneath my door, I saw a pair of muddy boots pause, and a low, guttural voice said, ‘The garden needs tending.’ I froze, my heart hammering. When I peered out, the hallway was empty.

The next day, I resolved to investigate. The attic was packed with dusty furniture and old trunks. In one, I found a faded photograph of a man in gardener’s overalls, his face obscured. On the back, in spidery handwriting: ‘Obey the shears.’ That night, the scraping grew louder. I heard doors opening and closing on the floor below. Daniel’s room was at the end of the hall. I crept out and saw the attic door slightly ajar. A foul smell of rot and damp soil wafted down. I went to wake Daniel, but his door was locked. Then, a whisper from the attic: ‘Your turn.’ I slammed the door shut and ran back to my room.

By morning, Daniel was gone. Sarah and Mia were huddled in the kitchen, pale-faced. They said they heard him screaming in the night, but when they tried his door, it was bolted from the inside. We searched the house, cellars to attics. In the attic, we found a fresh trail of dirt leading to a hidden trapdoor. Below was a small, earth-floored chamber, lit by a single bare bulb. In the corner, Daniel’s jacket lay crumpled. On the wall, scratched into the plaster, were the words: ‘THE GARDENER WANTS MORE.’

That evening, we sat in the drawing room, trying to rationalize. ‘We should call the police,’ Mia said, but the phone line was dead. Sarah thought she saw the gardener’s silhouette pass by the window. Then, the lights flickered and went out. We lit candles and huddled together. From the attic, we heard a grating sound, followed by a dragging weight. The attic door swung open slowly. A figure descended, the same figure from the pond, but now its face was a featureless void. It pointed a long, rusted finger at me, and croaked, ‘The soil is ready.’ I couldn’t move. Daniel emerged from behind it, his eyes hollow, his mouth moving in silent words. The gardener handed Daniel the shears. Daniel walked toward me, raising them. I screamed.

I woke up in a hospital bed three days later. Police found me wandering the moor in a daze, covered in scratches and mud. Sarah and Mia were found in the house’s wine cellar, alive but traumatized. Daniel was never found. The police dismissed my story as shock. But when I returned home, I found a small, dirt-stained envelope in my coat pocket. Inside was a single dried leaf and a note in the same spidery handwriting: ‘Return to finish your work.’ I have not slept a full night since. The attic door in my new apartment is always slightly ajar, and sometimes, when I least expect it, I smell damp earth and hear a rhythmic scraping. The gardener is patient, and his garden is always hungry.