The Porcelain Garden

The wind howled through the ironwood trees, bending their skeletal branches like supplicants in prayer. I stood on the porch of Aunt Meredith’s house, my cheeks stinging with cold, my cousin Leo at my side, his face a mask of boredom. The old Victorian had a peeling white facade, its windows like vacant eyes, and it leaned slightly as if trying to escape the restless prairie that surrounded it.

We’d played nine holes at the local course, but the gusts had turned each swing into a battle. Now, back inside, I collapsed onto the dusty sofa and pulled out my tablet. Tonight was the title match, the one I’d been waiting for all year. The screen flared to life, and the roar of a stadium filled the room. But Leo, with a sigh of disdain, reached over and tapped the router. The feed died. I looked up, and he was grinning. ‘Wrestling is for kids,’ he said. I grabbed the table, my knuckles white, but he snatched the tablet from my hands and held it high, laughing. My vision blurred with anger.

I stormed through the hallway, past the grandfather clock with its chime stuck at half-past, into the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed, its surface cluttered with magnets—a cartoonish fish, a tiny Eiffel Tower, a smiling sun. I grabbed the sun and the fish, two of his favorites, and turned to flee. He was there, blocking the door, his eyes wide. ‘Give them back!’ he yelled. I bolted, up the stairs, down the hall, into the guest room, but my mom appeared as if from nowhere, her hand gripping my arm. ‘Apologize,’ she said, and her tone was firm. I handed the magnets back, my jaw tight, and she sent me to our room.

The room was at the end of the corridor, its door heavy with old paint. I pushed it open. It was dark inside, the only light coming from the window, which was wide open, the gauze curtains flapping like ghostly sails. I slammed the door and went to close the window, but the latch was stuck. The wind pushed against the glass, and I left it. I sat on the bed, my heart still pounding, and noticed the box of Pyssla beads on the dresser. They were tiny plastic cylinders, arranged in a plastic tray with pegs. I’d brought them to pass the time, a childhood hobby.

I took out the board and started placing the beads, a pattern of a flower. The wind rattled the window pane, and the door creaked, but I was focused. I was fitting a blue bead when I heard a sound—a soft, rhythmic scraping, like nails on wood. I paused, listening. It came from the wall, behind the headboard. I ignored it, slotting another bead. Then a low chuckle, just under my breath, but it wasn’t mine. I turned. The room was empty. The door was closed, the window still open.

I tried to concentrate, but the beads seemed to shift on their own. The pattern I’d made, a flower, began to look wrong. The petals were too pointed, like teeth. I looked up and saw a shape in the window—a tall, thin figure, silhouetted against the gray sky. I blinked, and it was gone. My skin prickled. I wanted to call out for Leo, but my voice caught. The wind grew louder, and the curtains swirled, revealing a dark gap behind them.

I forced myself to continue, to prove I wasn’t scared. I placed more beads, a stem, a leaf. But the more I placed, the more the pattern seemed to spread, like a fungus. The colors bled into each other, and the beads felt soft under my fingertips, like flesh. I dropped them, and they scattered on the floor, but they began to roll toward the window, as if pulled by a small breeze. I watched, horrified, as they formed a line, a trail leading to the sill.

Then I saw her. An old woman, hunched, with hair like spiderwebs, sitting in the corner of the room, knitting. I hadn’t seen her before. She looked at me with milky eyes and smiled. ‘Oh, you’re making a garden,’ she said, her voice a dry rustle. ‘My garden, too.’ She gestured to the beads, and I saw that her knitting needles were beaded, and the yarn was made of tiny, multicolored cylinders. She was knitting a blanket of Pyssla beads, and it was enormous, spreading across the floor.

I tried to move, but my body was frozen. The old woman continued, ‘You’ll be a fine flower, won’t you?’ She reached out a hand, and her fingers were long, their joints clicking. She touched my forehead, and a cold spread through me. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. The wind roared, and the window slammed shut, the glass cracking. The curtains fell, revealing a wall of Pyssla beads, arranged in a pattern of faces, all screaming.

The old woman laughed, a sound like breaking sticks. ‘I’ve been waiting for another soul to weave.’ She stood, and her robe opened, and I saw that her body was made of beads, shifting and clacking. She reached for me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could still see the garden of beads, growing, covering everything. When I opened my eyes, I was on the floor, the beads scattered around me. Leo was shaking me, calling my name. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. I looked at the window. It was closed. The cracks were gone. There was no old woman. But on the dresser, the flower pattern I had made was complete, and at its center, a single red bead that I hadn’t placed, like a drop of blood.

I never told anyone what happened. But that night, I dreamed of a garden, vast and silent, where every flower had a face, and they all turned to look at me. I woke up in the morning, and my aunt was standing over me, a strange smile on her face. ‘You found my grandmother’s beads,’ she said. ‘She used to make the most beautiful gardens.’ She handed me a box, and inside were thousands of Pyssla beads, all of them the same red as that drop. I dropped the box, and the beads scattered, and they started to roll, toward the window, as if they had a will of their own.

I left the house that day, and I never went back. But sometimes, on windy nights, I hear a soft, rhythmic scraping outside my window, and I see a tiny bead rolling down the sill, and I know that the garden is still growing, and it’s always hungry.