The Granite Garden

In the autumn of 2021, I had transformed my front yard into a mosaic of colored stones and wildflowers—a stark contrast to the uniform lawns that lined our quiet cul-de-sac. The neighbors often paused to admire it, but I kept to myself. One afternoon, as I knelt to prune a lavender bush, I heard a shout. Across the street, Harold, a retired geologist who kept to his own routines, waved from his driveway. ‘Your yard is a masterpiece, Linnea!’ he called. I smiled and crossed the street, maintaining a respectful distance. Harold was a spry man with sharp eyes, and today they held a flicker of concern.

He told me about the new industrial park rising a mile away, how it had disturbed the land and sent wildlife scattering into the neighborhood. ‘I’ve been finding mice in my house,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Little brown ones, darting along the baseboards. I set traps, but they keep coming. I found one in my study this morning, its little heart pounding against the sticky pad.’ I nodded, recalling the two I had caught in my own kitchen. I did not mention the black one I had seen in my garden, its fur oddly glossy, its eyes too intelligent.

Harold gestured to his open garage, where a workbench was cluttered with rocks and tools. ‘I’ve laid sticky traps across the opening to my storage room,’ he said, pointing. ‘The mice seem to be breeding in there. I need to clean it out, but I’m hesitant. Some of those specimens are irreplaceable.’ I could see the room beyond, dim and cluttered with boxes and rock samples. ‘I could help you sort through it,’ I offered, but Harold shook his head. ‘No, I think it’s best I handle it alone. But thank you.’ He seemed distracted, his gaze drifting to the ground near my feet. I followed his eyes and saw a small, dark shape skittering along the edge of the driveway—a mouse, but not like any I had seen before. It was larger, with a sleek black coat and a hairless tail that twitched unnervingly. It paused, as if listening, then vanished into a storm drain.

That night, I couldn’t shake the image of that black mouse. I had trapped two brown ones earlier, but they were small and ordinary. The black one was different. I decided to set a trap of my own in the backyard, near the rock garden where I had first seen it. I placed a sticky trap along the fence line and went inside. The next morning, I found the trap empty but smeared with a strange, oily residue that glistened like fresh tar. The smell was faintly metallic, like old copper. I cleaned it off and tried again, but the trap was always empty, though I heard scurrying in the walls at night—a sound that seemed to come from inside my bedroom walls, as if something was nesting within the insulation.

Over the next week, Harold became increasingly reclusive. I would see him at his window, staring out, but he never waved. One evening, I saw him through his garage window, hunched over his workbench, illuminated by a single bulb. He was examining a rock, but it seemed to move in his hands—a dark, undulating shape that coiled and twisted. I blinked, and it was still. I decided to visit him the next day, bringing a homemade pie as a peace offering. But when I knocked, there was no answer. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear a faint scratching from within.

I pushed the door open and called his name. The house was dark, the air thick with dust and a sweet, cloying odor. I followed the scratching sound to the storage room. The sticky traps he had laid were covered in a mass of writhing black shapes—dozens of mice, all dark and glossy, their eyes reflecting the dim light. But they were not stuck to the traps; they were clumped together, moving as one, undulating over the adhesive. In the center of the room, Harold knelt, his back to me. He was murmuring to himself, and when he turned, I saw that his eyes were black, like polished obsidian, and his fingers were coated in the same oily residue. ‘They are here,’ he whispered. ‘They came with the stones. They are in the granite.’ He held up a chunk of rock, and I saw tiny holes in it, like worm castings, and from those holes, more black mice emerged, crawling over his hands.

I backed away, my heart pounding. Harold did not follow. He just stared at me with those black eyes and said, ‘They have chosen your garden, too. They like the colors.’ I ran home and locked the door, but that night, I heard scratching in my walls again. I tore open the drywall in my bedroom and found a nest made of shredded fabric and dark fur, with a single black mouse at its center. It looked at me, and in its eyes, I saw an intelligence that mocked my fear. I slammed the wall shut and grabbed a broom, but when I turned, the room was filled with them—hundreds of black mice, covering the floor, the walls, the ceiling, their tiny claws clicking like a thousand metronomes. They swarmed over me, not biting, but crawling into my hair, my clothes, my mouth. I screamed, but no sound came out.

I woke up in my yard, lying among the colored rocks, the sun warm on my face. My mouth tasted of copper. I sat up and saw Harold standing across the street, watching me. He smiled, and his teeth were black. I looked down at my hands, and they were covered in the same oily residue. I ran to my front door, but when I looked back, Harold was gone. In his yard, the grass was dying, and the ground was mound with dark, burrowing shapes. I never went back inside my house. I live in the garden now, among the stones, and sometimes, when I look at my reflection in the polished granite, I see the eyes of the black mice staring back at me, waiting for me to join them in the dark places beneath the earth.