The Locked Garden

Every summer, my parents sent me to stay with my great-aunt Hilda and great-uncle Bram in their sprawling, ivy-choked manor at the edge of the marshlands. I was a restless child, and sleep felt like a thief stealing hours of exploration. Often, Aunt Hilda would doze off mid-sentence during her endless tales of the old country, leaving me to roam the creaking halls or press my face against the cold glass of the upstairs windows, watching the world beyond.

The view from my room faced the neighbor’s property, a walled garden that always seemed to be in shadow, even at noon. A heavy iron gate, rusted and scarred, was its only entrance. I knew a girl named Elowen lived there, but I never saw her outside. Uncle Bram told me she was afflicted with a strange malaise, confined to her bed until the doctors found a cure. He warned me to be quiet when I played my wind-up music box, for the girl needed absolute silence to rest.

One evening, as the last of the sunset bled into the mire, I saw a flicker of movement behind the garden wall. A thin, pale hand slipped through a gap in the bricks, clutching a small, withered flower. It dropped the flower into a patch of mud and withdrew. The next morning, I found a single, blackened petal on my windowsill, though my window was locked from the inside.

My curiosity became an obsession. I began to spend hours at the window, watching. I saw the hand appear every night at dusk, always dropping something: a pebble, a piece of ribbon, a child’s tooth. I felt a pull, a silent summons, and I knew I had to see the garden from the inside.

One afternoon, when Aunt Hilda was napping and Uncle Bram was tending to his beehives, I slipped through a gap in the hedge and approached the iron gate. It was unlocked. The garden inside was not the neglected plot I had imagined. It was immaculate, with rows of strange, dark flowers that seemed to turn toward me as I walked. In the center stood a stone well, and beside it, a girl with hair the color of wet ash sat in a wheelchair, her back to me.

She spoke without turning. ‘You came. I knew you would. He says I’m not allowed to leave, but you can.’ Her voice was a dry rustle, like leaves skittering on stone. She turned her head, and I saw her eyes were cloudy, like a doll’s. ‘He takes my dreams,’ she said, ‘and feeds them to the flowers. That’s why I’m always tired. But you… you have new dreams. He wants them.’

Before I could answer, the ground trembled, and a low growl rumbled from the well. I backed away, but the gate had swung shut, and the latch was bent. The girl began to laugh, a sound like cracking twigs. ‘He’s waking. You shouldn’t have come.’

I ran, tearing through the flowers, which seemed to reach for me with thorny stems. I flung myself at the gate, and it burst open as if it had never been locked. I stumbled into the marsh, sobbing, and when I looked back, the garden was gone. In its place was only a tangle of brambles and a rusted fence.

That night, I slept with the light on, and for the first time, I was grateful for the oblivion of sleep. But in the morning, I found a fresh, white flower on my pillow, its petals soft as a child’s skin. And from the marsh, I could hear a low, rhythmic hum, like the sound of a root weaving through soil. I knew, with a certainty that froze my blood, that the garden had followed me home, and it was waiting for me to sleep again.