The Garden: Part One (rough draft)

I had worked as a gardener most of my life. My father was a gardener and I worked with him when I was young. I started taking on my own jobs, building up my own reputation. I had a knack for flowers that people began to vie for. I could name my own price and people would pay it. 

It can all go away so fast. After some rumors got out, I was no longer the gardener everyone wanted. I struggled to find work, having to turn to odd jobs and miniscule pay to make ends meet. So when I received a somewhat strange offer for employment, I took it.

My new employer only contacted me through the phone, although sometimes it sounded quite choppy and hard to hear him. He lived remotely, out on an island somewhere. The job would pay well, but there were stipulations I would have to live by while I was there.

It would be for six months at a time, but those six months would pay me for a full year. It was hard to say no, especially since I had been down for so long lately. Amazing how rumors can spread like fire and burn everything you had, even the things you thought fire couldn’t reach. 

I was ready to leave, though, and leave the charred ground behind. The boat that was chartered to take me to my new home, my new work, was small and dingy. It looked like nothing more than a small fishing vessel. The captain of the boat looked like a human manifestation of the boat. Someone small, bent, sunbaked and slow. He didn’t say much, only grunted at me where to put my luggage and then where I needed to sit during the trip. 

The day was grey with a chill in the air, nothing out of the ordinary, really. Out on open waters, though, the grey became dark and the chill turned unbearable. I had brought a coat with me but it was in my luggage, so during the voyage to the island, I was huddled over, clinging to myself to remain warm. The captain would not let me inside where he was so I could warm up.

After hours in what felt like a silver abyss, I saw light. A beam crossed over my head, slicing through the fog then circling away. I stood up to get a better view. The waters sloshed onto the rocky shore. Above, the lighthouse was like a ziggurat suspended upon the fog. 

The captain hobbled from his keep, coming to stand out on deck with me. He stared up at the lighthouse, his chin jut out, and his hazy eyes looking towards it in a childlike awe. He then snapped towards me, his callousness returned. 

“Never lose sight of the lighthouse, boy. Never lose sight of it.” He then hobbles back inside, guiding the boat towards the dock. I don’t know what he means, I suppose it’s just crazy old sailor talk. I was going to be on land, why would I ever need to keep track of the lighthouse?

Once I get my luggage off the boat, he doesn’t wait long to leave. The boat pulls away, vanishing back into the grey. I’m left alone, unsure of where to go or what I am supposed to do. I just stand there at the dock, looking towards the water and then up at the massive lighthouse. It still looks like it is hovering above the ground and not tethered to the world of man or even heaven. Strange thought, I suppose, I don’t consider myself poetic, but I cannot describe just how strange this all is.

I see headlights through the fog. They come closer and closer until they’re shining right in my eyes. I block my vision with my forearm as the car honks its horn.  I squint through the bright lights as a man steps from the car.

“Gather up your things, Mr. Brone.” The deep, stern voice is the same one I had heard on the phone.

“Mr. Barkridge.” I step forward, extending my hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Thank you for this opportunity to work with you.”

My new employer is like some gargoyle in the shadows. He’s taller than me and wearing what looks like only black. His shoulders curve forward, creating an arch to him that makes his body appear concave in the fog. 

He takes my hand, although he doesn’t seem to want to. He grips hard and his fingers remind me of a spider’s legs. They’re long, gangly, and have coarse black hair on the knuckles. Not usually something strange, but in the fog, with this lighthouse, even a baby doll would seem strange. 

“I take it you have followed my stipulations accordingly?” Mr. Barkridge asks. His voice is what I imagined as a child the old leather bound books my grandfather had would sound like, could they speak. 

“I did.” I stand stiff before him, unsure what to do with my hands.

“No phone, no television, no alcohol or drugs, only a radio. Not that any of those things work out here,” he sniffs. “If you need to use a phone, you can use the one in my home.”

“Yes, sir.” I move to gather my luggage as a beam from the lighthouse moves over top of us. I see a quick glimpse of my new employer that fog didn’t allow. He is extremely pale, almost ashen in color, and his clothes are not black, but dark green.

I load my things into the trunk of his car then sit down in the passenger seat. In the back there appears to be mud caked onto the floor and seat along with some dead leaves. We drive past the lighthouse, which is not held in the fog, but rather a cliff. As we drive by, I think I see someone standing outside it, but Mr. Barkridge drives too fast for me to be sure.

There are houses on the island, but I see no lights coming from them, only the faint glow of the few street lamps. We go up a steep hill and through a cave. I hold my breath like a child, not because of any superstition, but because I don’t want my new boss to hear my ragged, frightened breaths. 

“Are you afraid of confined spaces, Mr. Brone?” His voice sends shivers down my spine.

I take a small, quick breath and turn to look at him behind the wheel. “Just a silly superstition,” I try to hide my nerves with a laugh. “Something from childhood that still pesters me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. I just wait for the light at the end of the tunnel to reach us. When it does and we go through it, suddenly, the world becomes green. Ivy drips down from the mouth of the cave, covering every inch of the landscape aside from the road. It creeps over everything, taking over the trees, ground, and stones. Everything is blanketed in the dense green vines.

I’m so stunned by this, I don’t see the house at first. Sitting just beyond the green, there is an old mansion clinging to the hill. Vines take over one of the walls, but the rest is stark grey and fading into the sky. 

Once we pull up into the driveway, I see the greenery does not stop with the ivy. The stairs to the door are covered in a carpet of lush, dense moss. The fountain, which was once a grande centerpiece to the driveway, I’m sure, is overflowing with what looks like vines of honeysuckle. 

“This way, Mr. Brone.” Barkridge says as he ascends the stairs. “This isn’t part of your job.”

I take my bags and follow him into the mansion. I’ve been in many a home before, many large houses, lots of rich family’s old estates. This place was something else. I’d never been in a relic of the past before. For the most part, the entrance is empty, aside from some statues by the door and the grand staircase that curves in on either side. On the staircase landing, I see a painting hanging on the wall. It is a woman surrounded by oleander flowers. The woman is beautiful, her long red hair cascades down her shoulders, eventually blending into the oleander blossoms. 

“Mr. Brone, this way,” Barkridge says staunchly.

I quickly follow after him, going under the stairs into a long hallway. We go through a parlor that has a grand piano, massive fireplace, and several large sofas. There is another painting of that same woman, only surrounded by begonias. 

Leaving the parlor there is monstrous solarium. The panes of glass seem impossible in size and I strain my neck to see the ceiling, which is made of stained glass to look like an orange lily, but maybe it is a sun, I’m not sure.

Mr. Barkridge leads me outside where there is a huge garden spread out before me. Surrounded by high vine covered walls, there is not an inch of the place not touched by green. I see all matter of plant life here, and that isn’t even the end of it. The further we go, the more I see. 

Mr. Barkridge then shows me to a small house in the garden. It is built into the ground so that the roof is lush plant life, mainly by hydrangea. It looks nothing more than a hill with a glass door attached. He opens the door for me then hands me a key. 

“You will receive deliveries of food twice a month every other Tuesday,” he says. “So be sure you are here to receive it. You may take off two days a week, if you like. There is a schedule left for you inside, I expect it to be followed rigidly. If there is anything you find you need, submit it to me in writing.”

I furrow my brow a bit. “That’s fine,” I nod along. 

He points towards the wall where I see a small shed jutting from the vines of the wall. “Your shed and all supplies are over there. You will receive supplies for that once a month.”

The house had seemed empty upon first walking through it. I couldn’t keep myself from asking this all important question. “Am I the only one here?”

Mr. Barkridge glares down at me. “In the garden, you will be.”

“So,” I murmur low and soft, “I am alone out here.”

“I take my lunches out here each day,” he says stiffly. “And I will be inspecting your work each week on Sunday.”

Still alone, I thought to myself. My boss is no company, no matter what the rumors about me had said. 

I go inside my new home for the next six months. There is something about the place that is strangely familiar. I feel as though I already know the layout without having seen it. There is a kitchen to one side, a tiny table with a single chair included. On the tabletop is the extensive schedule. The calendar within is marked and more detailed instructions fill the remaining pages. 

There is a tiny bathroom, and behind it there is a bedroom with nothing but a bar between walls to serve as my closet. I start unpacking here, hanging my clothes and putting them away in the petite burrow. 

I finally find the radio I was allowed to bring and place it on my bedside table. I turn it on, hoping to drown out the silence around me. I search for a radio station, but all I ever find is static. The hiss and chime of electrical resonance is the only sound I am given. 

I sigh heavily as I set down the radio, silent and turned off. What was the point of bringing it if there is no radio station or anything to listen to? I hate the thought of only having silence to surround me. 

I check the fridge, finding it and the freezer fully stocked with everything I could ever need, but with things I wouldn’t usually buy. There is lots of meat, and very few fruits or vegetables. There’s not a spice rack either, only shakers of salt and pepper by the stove. There is also a bottle of vitamins, or at least I assume they are. There is a note saying to take one in the morning and one in the evening. 

I open the door to let fresh air in. Inside it is stale and the air feels stiff. Stepping outside and looking around the garden, I am a touch overwhelmed. The whole place extends forever and ever, I am not sure I will ever find an end.

As I walk to the shed, I hear piano music come from the house. I suppose Mr. Barkridge is playing that grand one in the parlor. I suppose it is better than the silence that filled my new home. Inside the shed I find it meticulously kept. It’s clean, well organized, and the tools look like they are washed and oiled every night. Tacked to the wall I see an old piece of paper with radio stations listed upon it, as well as a time beside each of them. I wonder if these are stations I can actually listen to.

When I make myself dinner that evening, I notice there are no lights on in the mansion. Everything is dark, much like the small town we passed through that afternoon. Is there anyone living there? Will I ever be allowed to go and find out?

I had found a few books under the bed when I was putting on sheets. They are older and missing covers, so I have no idea what to expect from them. I should have been smart and brought something more along with me. Instead I sit down to read the books, one of which is filled with strange, symbolic poetry that disturbs me, along with the images of flowers inside. The flowers resemble nothing I know, more like wounds, and open sores. They appear meaty in a way, dripping and heavy.

The other book is a gothic romance novel about a poor country girl forced to marry a brutish baron who drives her to madness with his gaslighting and lies. It is better than nothing, but I don’t have the desire or need to read it yet, so I put it with the other book. 

I was used to noise when I went to bed. The sound of cars and neighbors was always there. But here, there is nothing but silence. The low, continuous hum of it is only interrupted by crickets or a rush of wind. I lay there for hours, tossing and turning as I try to tune out the silence. I eventually turn on the radio, just for the static as white noise.

It is beginning to work and I am able to fall asleep, until the static stops and a voice comes on. “Hopefully, this grey weather will eventually come to an end this week. The sunshine will come, and we might see some warm weather this week.”

It is almost two in the morning. Why is there a weather report now? Where did it come from?

“There’s nothing out there,” they then say. “Nothing to stop you, nothing to keep you going. You could swim if you wanted, but that will only get you so far before exhaustion takes hold. Perhaps that is better than staying, at least you put up a fight. But sunshine is coming this week. Sunshine is coming.” The radio turns to static again and I sit there, staring as if it had turned into a head and began talking.

Was that a weather forecast? Was I already dreaming?

I’m not sure if I slept or not, but I sat in bed, realizing I had gotten through my first night here. I wouldn’t say I survived it, but I had gotten through it. I made myself coffee for breakfast and I stepped outside to see that, indeed, the clouds were dissapaiting. The sky was less grey and more blue than before.

I make myself coffee for breakfast. I look over the bottle of vitamins that Mr. Barkridge gave me. They’re small yellow pills in an old brown bottle. Are these handmade? Or just refills from a larger bottle? I’ve never liked the idea of vitamins, even as a kid, I never took the cartoon shaped ones. It seemed like a crock, so I set the bottle aside to never touch it again.

I go to work, hoping that, by keeping myself busy, I can ignore the horrible surprise I had gotten on the radio last night. I start out by weeding, something that is meticulously planned out by Mr. Barkridge himself. I am to start just behind my house and move myself forward, circling around again after to make sure I had gotten everything. 

I had noticed, while going through all his instructions and rules, that nothing ever said to go beyond the iron gate in the garden. Just beyond my house, there is a wrought iron gate. It stands quite tall and the tops of it are jagged. It is locked, and behind it, the garden extends further and further. But nothing in Barkridge’s schedule ever mentioned anything about it. 

I am making my way towards the front of the garden where it meets with the solarium. It is close to noon already and I see there is a table set up under a weeping cherry tree. There, in the shadows, I see Mr. Barkridge sitting.

I wave to him. “Good afternoon.”

He looks up from a book which he sets down. “You’re here already?” He asks, perplexed and a little angry. “Are you sure you’re weeding thoroughly?”

“You can double check if you want,” I offer. I take off my gloves and set down the basket of weeds at my feet. 

Mr. Barkridge chuckles. “Come and sit, Mr. Brone.”

I take his offer, sitting down at his table while he pours a glass of iced tea. “How was your first night?”

I take the glass in hand and shrug. “It was quiet.”

Mr. Barkridge tilts his head to the side. “Was it?” He sighs and shakes his head. “You’ll grow used to it in time.”

I take a sip of the tea, it’s not sweet, but it’s fine, and cold at least. “I know I asked yesterday, but you’ll have to forgive my curiousness. But do you live alone here, Mr. Barkridge?”

“You asked if you would be alone here,” he corrects. “And I do not blame your curiosity, Mr. Brone. You’re in a new world, I’m sure you have many questions about this place.” He pushes a plate towards me that has a pork cutlet sandwich on it. No lettuce, mainly just hot sauce.

“This garden belongs to my wife,” he says. “Which is why I insist on it being kept and well maintained.”

“Is she sick?” I ask, cautiously picking up the offered food.

“This garden was the only thing she asked for when we got married. She did not ask for children, nor pets, nor jewelry. She just asked me if she could have a garden.”

I lick my lips, wondering if he had heard me. Perhaps it is not a subject he wants to talk about. I take a bite of the sandwich, finding the hot sauce to be surprisingly potent. 

“Quite the green thumb on that woman.” Mr. Barkridge ignores my distress over the liquid lava he had just served me. “She also had a lot of ambition. Lots of big ideas.”

I guzzle down the iced tea before me and nod my head. “Most women do,” I wheeze.

Mr. Barkridge chuckles. “Whatever you do, I suggest you follow everything in that schedule to a tee. It was hers and she followed it rigidly.” He enunciates the words harshly.

“What about the iron gate?” I ask.

Mr. Barkridge’s demeanor changes. He glares at me, frowning harshly. “It’s locked. I can’t find the key.” He sneers his words, punctuating each word with sharp diction. “Leave it alone, your job is detailed in the schedule.”

“That’s all I needed to know,” I chuckle nervously. Mr. Barkridge is intimidating and scary, I wonder if that’s why his wife only asked for a garden. “What do you do with your days, Mr. Barkridge?” I ask, hoping to change the topic. 

He sighs, still glaring down at me. “I work. I have a laboratory in my home.”

That didn’t answer much, it only brought up further questions. “So, are you a scientist then?”

“I am not Dr. Frankenstein if that is what you are getting at, Mr. Brone.” He shakes his head. “By the way, did you take those vitamins I left for you? I highly recommend taking them. They’ll help keep your strength up.”

“I’m not one for vitamins,” I say with a shake of my head. 

“I highly recommend taking them,” he insists. “Sometimes we do not always get the things we need.”

“Sure,” I agree just to end it. 

I finish work for the evening and, after making myself dinner, I look over the strange books that were left under the bed. In the romance novel, I find that same list of radio stations and times as I did in the shed. I check my watch, finding that one of the times is up. I search for the appropriate station and, when I find it, there is soft piano music. The frequency whines, though, and, in the background, I hear strange noises like strangling or drowning. I turn it off. But I realize, with the radio off, everything is silent, and there isn’t anything else to do.

I go to bed and turn the radio on to white static when I cannot find sleep. At least it’s noise, at least it’s something. 

In the morning, I make coffee for breakfast and ignore the vitamins yet again, pushing them back even further on the counter. I check the schedule, finding a list of chores to be done in a very specific order. 

For six months, this is it. This is my job. 

Week one goes by, and I am getting used to the quiet. Week two slips away and I have found a deck of cards that I use to pass the time. Week three is empty. I have coffee for breakfast. 

It rained for three days straight, and I was cooped up in my house with nothing else to do. I was going stir crazy, either playing solitaire or masturbating. I was becoming unnerved by how familiar this place was, I couldn’t understand how I knew it so well. 

The first day I could work without rain, I was elated. I got started early, even before the sun rose, and I worked until late. That evening, after I have finished for the day and am putting things back into the shed, I hear a soft noise. Looking around, I realize it’s coming from the iron gate. It sounds like someone whimpering. I go back, seeing the gate and hearing the voice again.

“Help me,” a woman says weakly. “Oh please, help me.”

I rush to the gate and look around, I don’t see anything or anyone beyond it aside from the overgrown garden. “Hello? Is someone there? Are you hurt?”

“Help me,” the whimper continues.

I use a rock to break open the lock and make a mad dash inside. I search for the voice, hearing it seem to come from deeper and deeper within. Finally, I come to what looks like the ruins of a brick house. The shape of it is there, but the bricks are toppled over and covered by the overgrowth. I hear the voice again, sobbing and whimpering.

Then I see a flower bigger than any I had seen before. It’s blood red and it begins to move. The petals spread open and within there is a beautiful face of a woman. Her eyes open and her lips part. 

“Help me,” she cries.