The Gardener

by Michelle DePaepe

  Shadows obscured the assailant’s face. Beyond his dark silhouette, she could see brilliant crimson roses shooting up behind his shoulders like star-shaped flames from hell. He tightened his grip around her neck. She couldn’t breathe, and she realized that she was about to die as she felt the water from the fountain soaking into the back of her white cotton dress.

  She gasped for air as a ringing phone startled her out of the nightmare. Her head shot up from where it had been resting on top of her arm, snoozing during an abominably slow afternoon at her art gallery in New York City.

  She picked up the receiver and answered in a voice that she hoped sounded perkier than she felt, “Masquerade”.

  “She’s dead,” the woman said on the other end.

  Georgia jumped out of her chair as she recognized her sister’s voice from hundreds of miles away. “Who’s dead?”

  “She finally kicked the proverbial bucket. Can’t say I’m gonna—”

  “Marsha...” she moaned. “Who’s dead?”

  “Grammie.”

  Georgia lowered the phone to her chest and took a deep breath. She swatted away a tear like an annoying insect. “What happened?”

  “Annie found her out back by the river early this morning.”

  Georgia closed her eyes, simultaneously trying to picture her grandmother, VirginiaElizabethBlake, lying in the weeds on the riverbank and trying to avoid the horrible image.

  “Heart attack, maybe? She was eighty-three, not exactly a spring chicken.”

  Her sister was right. Grammie was a winter chicken as she was fond of saying. But, her health had been remarkable. “What was she doing out there?”

  “Can’t say. Annie went over around six to bring her some eggs and found the back door open. She spotted her red robe across the field and ran out there, but it was too late. I guess she’d been out there all night like that.”

  Georgia winced and squeezed her eyes again at the thought of her grandmother laying there all night, stone cold dead, as dewdrops collected in her snow-white hair and spiders spun webs across the slippers that Georgia had given her last Christmas.

  “Maybe she was looking for the cat...”

  “Hunh?”

  “If you made an effort to talk to see her more often, you’d know she found a stray a couple weeks ago.”

  “For your information, Miss Uppity Town, I just saw her last night.”

  Georgia hated being called that. When she married David, her college sweetheart, and left Calathia for New York City, Marsha wavered between jealousy and rage at her sister’s escape to a fabulous new life away from their small country town. The half-joking name-calling had continued ever since.

  “Last night? You saw her?”

  “Just briefly. Steven wanted to tell her about an Electrician who might be able to work on the wiring in that old house. When we knocked, she answered but wouldn’t let us in. I tell you...she had been acting a little weird for a while. Maybe she was getting senile and just croaked from old age.”

  “Are you kidding? Grammie was in better shape than either of us. She said she was going to work in her garden until the grave, and her doctor wanted to know what sort of potion she was taking to stay so young.”

  “Well, maybe that’s how things sounded long distance, but I say she’d been acting strange for some time. She wouldn’t let the kids come over as often, and stopped going to church and to her Garden Club meetings.”

  Georgia knew that didn’t sound normal for her grandmother. Yet, she would never get an accurate account from Marsha, who still nursed twenty-year old wounds that should have been crusted over and healed long ago.

  “The funeral will probably be early next week.”

  Funeral. She sighed. “I’ll see if I can get a flight tomorrow.”

  “I guess it might be weird for you to stay in Grammie’s house by yourself. There’s always Hanson’s Motel Hell over on Main.”

  Georgia let out a muted laugh between her tears. “Old EdHanson must be a hundred and four by now. I’d be lucky to have clean sheets and running water.”

  “I can put one of the boys on the couch if you want to stay here.”

  “That’d be great.”

  After she hung up, she realized that her next appointment was due in a few minutes. Reeling from the horrible news, she walked in a trance to the bathroom to freshen up.

  She stared into the mirror and rubbed away the smudges of mascara under her eyes. As she smoothed out her cropped rumpled hair, she missed the longer locks that she used to have. After her ex-husband left her for his pixie-ish Brokerage Assistant, she told her flamboyant hairdresser to hack it all off. “I don’t give a damn anymore,” she told him. Since then, every time her silky dark hair started to get longer, she found herself sitting back in his chair like a bad habit she couldn’t break.

  Neither Marsha, nor her friends had been there for her during the dark time of the divorce like Grammie had. Back then, she remembered phoning her grandmother several times a week to cry and rant.

  She stepped back and surveyed her cherry-red thin wool suit, smoothing out the wrinkles and wondering why she was bothering to primp. Then, she reminded herself that the client due to arrive had pockets as deep as the Grand Canyon. If he was interested enough to take a morning off from his fleet of hotels, then she’d better put on a good show. Business had been slow, and she could use a sale.

  As she applied a fresh coat of lipstick, she remembered the dream before Marsha’s call. It was the same nightmare that had started in childhood. The sweat-filled nights began when she and her sister came to live with Grammie and Grandpa Blake after they lost their parents in a car accident. It was always the same—the dark silhouette, the rush of water, the hands squeezing around her neck.

  Grandpa Blake once caught her running up and down the hallway in the middle of the night, screaming. Grammie turned on the lights while Grandpa held her thrashing arms and tried to wake her up. They sent her to see a child psychologist in Topeka. But, after several months of banal conversations and ink blot tests, he told her grandparents that it was the vivid imagination of a child who had been traumatized by her parents’ death. “The water,” he said, “...simply represents the flash flood that caused their car accident. She feels guilty that she didn’t die with them and re-enacts her pain in her dreams. Don’t worry. She’ll grow out of it.”

  Apparently, at thirty-nine, he was wrong.

  She glanced around the gallery as she walked back to the front counter. The bright colors and whimsical sculptures seemed to mock the seriousness of her mood. A unique collection, it included a menagerie of acrylic poppy canvasses, sculptures of fairies and swans with purple marble wings, twisted puffs of plaster that reached toward the ceiling like giant ice cream cones, and a large blue frog with an outstretched tongue.

  The fantasy theme was her own concept, and she wondered to this day if her ex gave her the start up money only to give her a means to go on after he left.

  She turned the CD player on, releasing a tinkle of notes from Mozart and glanced out the window. The portion of sky in view in between the tall buildings had turned pale and gloomy. The first September cold front had arrived as predicted, and hundreds of workers roamed the streets in dusty coats smelling like mothballs and cedar.

  New York. She’d once seen it as an intoxicating cornucopia. Now, it felt bland and gray like her heart—like it had all turned to stone.

  She knew that Grammie’s death was going to be much harder to deal with than Grandpa Blake’s, because she hadn’t been as close to him. He died twenty years ago, but she still remembered the day that Grammie sent her out to give him a glass of pink lemonade on a sweltering summer afternoon. She found him slumped over the wheel of his tractor, stopped literally dead in his tracks from a stroke while harvesting his corn crop.

  Her grandmother took his death the hardest. It was several years before she stopped drinking and was able to smile much again.

  Georgia knew how her grand
mother felt back then and didn’t blame her. In some ways, going through a divorce was a lot like becoming a widow. Her days had become mechanistic and empty after her ex-husband left. When her marriage fell apart, her heart shriveled up into a small black ball as hard and impenetrable as obsidian.

  But, the pathetic truth was that she still had wedding photos in her armoire; the one they purchased on their honeymoon in London. Sometimes she rolled over at night, grasping only a pillow...and was sure that she smelled the musky scent of his designer cologne, even though the pillowcase had been washed at least a hundred times since his evil head last touched it.

  When the client arrived, a whirlwind of confidence in his Armani suit and hair-sprayed wavy blond hair, she found herself giving him, “The Smile”—her unconscious robotic grin.

  She gave him her usual spiel about each artist as she toured him around the gallery, but her mind was focused on the thought that she needed to talk to her grandmother’s neighbor, Annie. Something just didn’t seem right about Grammie’s death.

  The client stopped in front of a bronze sculpture, leaning over a swan’s wing. “Georgia, did you hear me?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, swiveling her head around to meet his gaze.

  “I asked if you’ve ever been to Chez Michel.”

  She shrugged, her head still far away. “No...I don’t think ...”

  “It’s an exquisite French restaurant with excellent seafood; the chef is from Marseilles. How about tomorrow night?”

  When Georgia didn’t reply, he repeated himself again. She tried to focus on what he was asking, but her mind wouldn’t let go of the image of her grandmother’s body lying beside the river.

  “My Grandmother just passed away. I’m leaving town.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe another time...”

  She was sure this man wasn’t used to being turned down. She gave him “The Smile,” again and led him by the elbow to a row of watercolors.

  Despite the rebuff, a half hour later, he purchased a small sculpture and made her promise to take a rain check for a future date.

  As soon as he stepped out the door, she picked up the phone and dialed her assistant’s home number.

  “Hey. It’s Georgia. I’m going to need you to cover the gallery for a few days. Do you think you’ll be alright here alone?”

  “Are you going out of town? Where are you going?”

  She felt a tear tickle down the side of her face. “Kansas...I’m going to Kansas.”

  *****

  At the moment, the thought that her grandmother had once told her that she would inherit the old Victorian house some day didn’t cross her mind.

  Chapter 5

  “La sfortuna. Senza Virginia...Io sono solo.” The spirit paced about the house, alternating between human footfalls and agitated pulses of ectoplasmic light.

  After a while, he calmed himself and assumed a solid form. He sat on the couch in the parlor, dangling one leg over the other, kicking his foot.

  Alone now in the empty house, there was no one to have discourse with—no one to feed his ego or to revive his lagging energy.

  In the last two months, he’d drawn sustenance from the mere vapors of Virginia’s doting attention. But, there was a growing weakness to his limbs that would not be stifled by anything so simple. There were subtle flaws in his appearance including a faint translucent quality to his skin. Though, the hole in his chest seemed to be growing a thin membrane of scar tissue across its width. There was also a lingering hollowness to his voice that in life had once been much more deep and bold.

  He knew what he needed. Though, he found that he could eat and drink with gusto, it was the energy emanating from the living that made him hunger. He wished he could absorb more of that wondrous spark that made their flesh radiate with vitality.

  But, he wasn’t ready to go out into the world. Two months had not been enough time to prepare himself physically or mentally for this new age. He knew that he needed more time to strengthen his human form before he could mingle with the living.

  He considered paying a visit to the old couple next door, Annie and Fred—a bad idea, knowing that any misfortune so close after Virginia’s death might bring unwanted attention. But, the hunger inside of him for energy was getting so strong—he knew that soon he might not have a choice.

  The veins on his temple throbbed as uncontrollable thoughts raced through him causing his skin to turn transparent enough to see the bluish ghostly veins underneath.

  What if the house sat vacant for months...or years? He didn’t know what he would do.

  But, as he glanced around the parlor, he allowed himself a moment of congratulation. At the very least, he had achieved a goal that he had sought over a hundred years ago when this home belonged to Virginia’s ancestor, WilliamCrawford. He beat a fist to his chest. Now, he, AlphonsoGiovanni, was the master of this dwelling in his fortunate second life.

  Yet...what good was it if he was here alone? The loneliness without dear old Virginia was becoming unbearable. It was truly sad that he had no beautiful signora to share this homestead with. He pined for his former love, Crawford’s daughter. So many years had passed since he had gained employment at the home as the family gardener. Oh, dear Margaret...I miss you so.

  He considered his next move. History had taught him that fortune was always available if one were open to achieving it...by any means. His creed had not changed after so much time. Where opportunity does not come, one must make it.

  Just as he composed the thought, he heard footsteps on the porch. Through the stained glass in the door, he saw a diminutive figure approach. Then, the doorbell rang twice.

  Did he dare try to officially pass himself off as human or should he—

  The impatient visitor pushed the doorbell four more times in rapid succession.

  The spirit focused his remaining energy within, stoking it with fiery thoughts like adding coal to a stove. It made his skin momentarily flush and look more lifelike. Then, he unlatched the door, opened it a couple of inches and retreated to the kitchen before he was seen.

  “Hello?” the boy called out as he poked his head inside. “It’s Eddie with the Dalton County Sentinel. I’m here to collect for your subscription. Hello? Ma’am? Blake?”

  When he spoke from the other room, his voice was confident and friendly. “Come on in, son. What do I owe you?”

  “Sir? I’m not really supposed to...is Blake here?”

  “No. But, I can help you out. I’ve just got to find my money clip.”

  He heard the door creak followed by the squeak of the boy’s sneakers on the wood floor. “Where’s Blake? She usually gives me cookies for a tip.”

  Before the boy could speak again, the door slammed shut behind him.

  There was a brief scream from his lips as the spirit appeared and walked towards him. The boy backed up a couple of steps then bolted for the door, but found it locked.

  He smiled as the shaking boy faced him with his back against the door. What must his little mind be thinking? He couldn’t bother with such trifles. The boy had something he needed.

  The boy’s unblinking eyes seemed unable to tear away, and the spirit also couldn’t avoid his own reflection in the mirror next to the foyer as he began to transform.

  A wide black chasm appeared across his face where his mouth had once been. Then, his green eyes flashed a brilliant golden light just before they became dark holes filled with glowing flames dancing inside. Then, his humanlike form disintegrated altogether into an amorphous fog that smelled of sulfur and pitch. The mist gathered itself and became thin and taut, a long gray ropelike form that curled as high as the ceiling. A second later, it gathered into a coiled form and snaked towards the boy.

  The boy screamed as the spirit swirled around him. His young body stiffened, and he lost consciousness as the spirit enveloped him and devoured his energy.

  Moments afterwards, the spirit looked at his image in the mirror again. The vitality o
f the boy’s energy was now within him. There was a warm rosy flush to his skin and a more human-like vibrancy in his green eyes that was lacking before. He was amazed that his skin looked solid without any ethereal translucency.

  He looked around the foyer. There was no trace remaining of the boy or his visit, except for the zippered moneybag that he had been carrying. Every atom of the boy’s form and essence had been consumed. Even his clothing seemed to have combusted into oblivion.

  But, he would find out later, the flesh of his victims did not always disappear. Future transferals of energy would sometimes be quite messy.

  He glanced back at his image and admired his strong jaw as he rubbed his knuckles across his bearded chin. “Avvenente diavolo”. His handsomeness would surely serve him well in this new life...and he was anxious to get on with it.

  Unfortunately, he knew that he must bide his time. Even with this day’s newfound energy, he didn’t yet feel that he could venture far from the property.

  He decided to stretch his legs out in the gardens. As he reached the back door, he checked himself. He couldn’t be sure if the old nosy bodies next door were home or not.

  In a manner of seconds, he reduced himself again to mist and seeped out through the doorframe. If the neighbors or anyone else saw him in this form, they would blink once, and he would be gone. They would tell themselves that they had just seen a fast-moving dragonfly or a bumblebee darting about the sky.

  As he soared over the path towards the garden, it occurred to him that if he one day succeeded in permanently becoming human again...he might lose the ability to transform.

  Ahhh...well...it would be a small sacrifice. One day soon he would know for certain. He only had to figure out how to harvest enough energy to allow him to fully make the transition.

  He alit on the edge of the stone fountain within the rose garden. The moss-covered monstrosity seemed to draw him close time and time again. He supposed it was because it was there that his last life had ended.

  Glancing down into the puddle of water in the third and largest tier, he thought again how nice it would be to have a beautiful woman by his side. His fingers trickled through the dampness as he remembered his former love, Margaret. It was such a pity that she had to die as she did.