Mrs. Keene's Garden

Mrs. Keene’s garden bloomed brighter than any patch of earth had a right to in a place like this. Half of the town’s houses leaned on rotting stilts, paint stripped to pale boards. But behind her fence, neat rows of beautiful flowers stood tall and heavy-headed, their petals a strange mix of colours the neighbours whispered about. Crimson that bled to black. Yellow with streaks of green veins. White so pale it seemed to glow in the dusk.

The elderly woman moved slowly along the rows, watering can balanced against her hip, pausing to pinch a dead leaf here, to stroke a petal there. Her back was stooped, but her hands were steady. Each flower seemed to lean toward her touch. She hummed as she worked, a soft tune with no words, as if to soothe a crying baby.

A young girl passing by tugged on her mother’s sleeve. “Why are her flowers so big?” she asked. The mother shushed her quickly and pulled her away from the lawn’s edge. Mrs. Keene glanced up, caught the girl’s eye, and gave a polite smile. The mother didn’t return it; her daughter followed her example.

The widow dipped her can over a row of tulips that curved unnaturally toward her like hungry mouths. The soil was dark, almost black, and it smelled faintly of smoke when the watering can's contents hit the surface. She didn’t mind. She loved the garden.

Though the girl’s mother meant well, her secrecy about their neighbour only reinforced the curiosity. Recently turned 12, she’d been given clearance to go for small walks around town by herself, granted she tells her mother her plans.

She noticed the old woman watering her plants at the same time the next morning, exactly 7:15 am. She poked her head into the kitchen to see her mother making breakfast.

“Mom, I’m going for a walk!” She shouted from the front hall as she slipped into her brand new Mary Janes, a birthday gift from her recently departed grandmother.

“Ok, Margaret, please be back in ten minutes!”

“Yes, mother!”

Margaret slammed the front door behind her and quickly trotted down the front steps to the end of the driveway. She looked back at the house and, confident her mother was not watching, ran across the street to the old woman, who was mumbling to the row of giant pastel-purple tulips. Though her back was to Margaret, the woman straightened and turned before Margaret even made a sound. She looked down at the girl with a smile.

“Hello, Margaret, how are you today?” Mrs. Keene asked, eyes sparkling behind her thick glasses.

Margaret looked down at her shoes. “I’m okay, Mrs. Keene, I like your flowers,” she said as she scanned the garden and took in the bright colours and huge petals.

“Why, thank you, dear. They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

“How do you get them so big?” Margaret asked, more confident now as she met the old woman’s eyes.

“Oh, well, that’s easy, dear.” Mrs. Keene cast her eyes back to the garden, her eyes seeming to focus on one plant in particular. “I just love them very, very much!”

Margaret followed her gaze to the bright purple flower in the row of the garden closest to the house. She swore she saw it move and bend toward Mrs. Keene as she spoke.

“Margaret!!” Margaret whipped around as she heard her mother bellow out her name. “Get back in this house right now!”

Margaret looked back at Mrs. Keene briefly, whose eyes now bore into hers. “You'd better run along now, dear.” She said, voice dropping an octave.

Margaret turned on her heel and scampered back across the street, not daring to look back at Mrs. Keene.

Once back inside, her mother slammed the door and locked it with a loud click. “I told you not to speak with Mrs. Keene anymore. Why would you blatantly disobey me?” her mother demanded, glaring down at her.

Margaret looked at her shoes again, clasping her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry, mother. I really like her flowers, and we used to talk to Mrs. Keene all the time.”

Her mother sighed. “I know, dear. But ever since she started planting those blasted flowers, she hasn’t been the same. She’s not safe anymore, okay?”

“But, why not?”

Her mother bent down so she was at eye level with Margaret. “I’ll explain it when you’re a little older.”

Margaret huffed. “I’m old enough now!”

“Please just trust me, honey. You’ll understand someday.”

Margaret sighed and stomped her foot before running up the stairs to her bedroom.

***

Mrs. Keene placed her watering can on the front hall table with a sigh. She looked down and picked up a framed photo of her husband. “Oh, Richard. This used to be a nice town. No one ever speaks to me anymore, and I cannot imagine why.”

She ran her finger over his signature tie, the bright purple colour entirely uncommon for the time, but oh, how he loved it.

She hummed an old favourite tune while she bustled around the kitchen and made tea. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she admired a group photo hanging on the wall: her old college baseball team. She smiled sadly as she remembered how vibrant and obnoxious those orange uniforms were. She poured the two cups of tea and set them on the kitchen table, facing each other. While they steeped, she stood to dial a number on the rotary phone hanging from the wall.

“Yes, Mr. Castlehoff? It’s Mrs. Keene. I want to place another order for some of your special seeds.” She paused. “Yes, I’ll take some sunflowers this time - 12 plants, bright orange, thank you!”

Satisfied, she placed the phone back in its holder and sat in front of her tea. She looked across the table and raised her glass in the air, “Cheers, my dear Richard, to another morning.”

Once done, she picked up her favourite book of matches and began lighting the small candles placed deliberately around her kitchen. Starting with the one beneath the back window, she worked counter-clockwise until she reached the row of three black candles on the front window's sill, facing her garden. They were the largest of all the candles, and they always burned at the same rate, going out on their own exactly two hours later.

It was precisely 7:15 the next morning as Mrs. Keene finished watering her garden for another day. She went inside and set the water to boil for their tea. Instead of placing the watering can on the front hall table, she brought it to the back room for its weekly refill. She placed the can on the long table across the back wall and opened the large wardrobe in the corner. Smiling, she perused her collection of odds and ends; mostly mementos of the life she shared with her dear Richard.

She carefully picked up the large black tin from the top shelf, lowered it, and walked back to the watering can. She screwed off the can’s top and flipped open the tin’s lid. She smiled again as she slowly buried her fingers in the fine, grey granules. She frowned as her pointer finger hit something solid. She plucked it out and examined it with a sigh.

“Another bone, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she mumbled, placing it in the pocket of her apron to deal with later. She tipped the tin over the watering can and poured the ashes until it was almost full, but they stopped just short of the top.

“Hmm,” She grumbled, turning the tin over and shaking it. Only a few specks of dust came out. “Oh dear,” she said a little louder. “I suppose we’ll have to make it last this time.” Her voice cracked on the last word, hands shaking. She’d yet to run out of someone. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said to the empty air, “I won’t let them run out any time soon.”

The next morning, Mrs. Keene walked outside, humming to herself, trying to decide what flavour of tea she’d brew for her and Richard later. She approached the garden and briefly remembered her promise to make the last of the ashes stretch as far as possible. And yet, staring out at her vast collection of beautiful flowers, she couldn’t help but give them their normal helping. How could she allow their colours to fade?

The days passed as usual, the morning tea rotating among green, Earl Grey, and chamomile. The candles burned lower. The flowers grew taller.

Exactly one week after refilling, the watering can emptied again, right on schedule. Mrs. Keene stopped right before the last of the ashes could spill out. She paused her usual watering routine as she felt something shift in the air. She raised her face to the rising sun and breathed in the crisp, quiet air. Closing her eyes, she brought the can up to her chest. She breathed deeply once more, nose twitching. She swore she could smell Richard’s cologne.

She looked back down at the garden, paying particular attention to the bright purple Highland Poppy she’d placed in the very front. Its petals had grown slightly inward, toward the house, as if the flower watched over her.

She sighed, took one last breath in, and tipped the watering can to empty its contents onto the base of the Highland Poppy, watching as the ground swallowed the ashes. She bent and ran her fingers gently through the soil, patting it down as a few small tears slid from her face and darkened the brown dirt, absorbing instantly.

The moon seemed to glow a little brighter that night, silver ribbons dancing in through the cracks in the curtains. Mrs. Keene lay wide awake in bed, unable to sleep through the anticipation, as though she could feel the garden itself burning in her blood. She’d saved an extra-special blend for this occasion, a limited-edition green tea—Richard’s absolute favourite.

After finally drifting off and getting a few hours of sleep, Mrs. Keene woke the next morning, the events of the last week flooding into her mind as she sat up. She took no time to linger as she threw the curtains open and smiled at the round, shining sun.

Padding down to the kitchen, she hummed her favourite tune as she prepped the mugs and tea bags. She made her way outside, this time, without Richard’s beloved watering can.

She closed the door behind her and turned, eyes going directly for the bright purple Highland Poppy. She took in the sight before her and immediately stifled a scream; every single plant turned and bent toward her, all of them letting off a faint, sizzling smoke. She took a single step forward, and the smoke grew thicker. She yelped and ran back inside, slamming the door behind her. She paused to catch her breath and noticed smoke seeping in from the kitchen windows.

She ran forward and slammed the window shut. She went through the whole house, closing the windows and yanking all the curtains shut.

“Richard!” She screamed, turning her face upward. “Are you there?” She waited, right hand on her chest as she struggled to steady her breathing. The lights flickered for a moment before the whole house went dark. The sizzling returned as thin black tendrils cracked across the walls. Smoke seeped from them, pulsing as it gathered in the center of the room. Mrs. Keene’s hand came up to her mouth; she wanted to scream, but no sound escaped.

Soon the smoke formed the loose silhouette of a man, though the figure was much taller and leaner than Richard had ever been. Two eyes appeared in the middle of the smoke’s featureless face, light reflecting off of them in all directions. Soon, a ghostly mouth opened with a sneer.

“Who’s Richard?”