The Gardener’s Vigil

In the quiet outskirts of Toowoomba, where the eucalyptus trees line the streets like silent sentinels, I often found solace in the dead of night. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and damp earth. My nightly wanderings usually began around eleven, when the town was asleep and the only sounds were the rustling leaves and the distant hum of the highway. Tonight, though, I had left earlier, at nine. A simmering unease had driven me from my home, a low-grade anger at a coworker’s petty slight, but it soon faded as I walked, replaced by a growing disquiet that crawled up my spine.

As I turned onto a familiar road, the streetlights began to flicker, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed like living things. I told myself it was just the wind, but the air was still. My footsteps echoed off the pavement, each one unnaturally loud in the silence. I found myself glancing over my shoulder more often, my heart beating faster with each glance. I decided to cut through the old botanical gardens, a shortcut I’d taken many times before, but tonight the iron gates seemed to loom, their ornate bars like teeth. I slipped through a gap in the fence, a shortcut I’d used as a teen, and entered the overgrown trails.

The gardens were a labyrinth of neglected paths, with towering palms and dense ferns that whispered secrets. I walked faster, my anxiety building, until I noticed something odd. A patch of earth beside the path was disturbed, freshly turned, as if recently dug. Curiosity overcame my fear, and I knelt to examine it. The soil was dark and rich, unlike the clay I was used to. I brushed aside a fallen branch and saw a glint of metal. It was a small, tarnished locket, its chain rusted. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of a woman with sorrowful eyes, and a single lock of hair. I felt a chill, not from the air, but from an inexplicable wrongness. I pocketed the locket, feeling as though I had trespassed on something sacred.

I continued walking, but the gardens seemed to close in on me. The paths twisted in ways I didn’t remember, and the familiar landmarks were gone. I came to a clearing where a massive fig tree stood, its roots gnarled and entwined. At its base, I saw a figure. An old man, dressed in worn overalls, was kneeling, his hands deep in the soil, as if planting something. He didn’t look up as I approached, but I heard him muttering to himself. ‘Another one,’ he said, his voice like gravel. ‘Another one who comes too close.’ I stopped, my breath caught in my throat. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just passing through,’ I stammered. He slowly turned his head, and I saw his eyes were milky white, devoid of iris or pupil. ‘They all say that,’ he replied, his voice dripping with menace. ‘But the garden takes what it needs.’ He stood, and I saw that his hands were caked with red earth, and his fingernails were long and sharp, like claws.

I backed away, my heart pounding. I tried to run, but my feet felt heavy, as if the soil itself was clinging to me. The paths that once welcomed me now seemed to twist and loop, leading me back to the fig tree. The old man was there, waiting, a cruel smile on his lips. ‘You found my locket,’ he said. ‘I buried it with my wife, but you dug it up. Now you must take her place.’ I looked down and saw that the ground was covered in shallow graves, each marked with a small stone. I realized then that the garden was his domain, a place where he buried those who wandered too close, who disturbed his peace. I screamed, but no sound came out. He lunged at me, his claws grasping for my throat. I twisted away, and felt a searing pain as they raked my arm.

I stumbled and fell into one of the graves, the cold earth swallowing me. The old man stood over me, his blind eyes seeing everything. ‘Stay,’ he commanded. ‘Stay with my wife.’ I pushed against the walls of the grave, but the soil was collapsing, filling my mouth, my nose. I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, in my own bed. The morning light filtered through the curtains. I was safe. But as I sat up, I felt something in my pocket. It was the locket, still cold and tarnished, and engraved on the back was a date: the date of my birth. And on my nightstand, a clump of red earth, still damp, as if it had been there for years.

I haven’t walked at night since. But sometimes, when I pass the old botanical gardens, I see a figure standing at the gate, motionless, watching me. And I know that the garden is patient, and it will take me back, one day. Until then, I keep the locket hidden, and I never look at the photograph, for the woman’s eyes have changed, and now they are my own.