FICTION BY CHRISTOPHER BECK

Christopher Beck is the author of The Birthday Girl & Other Stories, and The Corn Witch. One of his most personal stories, I Am Monster, was recently featured in the anthology Paramnesia, and his creature feature story “Night of the Crickets”was featured in The Horror Zine’s Book of Monster Stories. His most recent book is Fire Ants.

Christopher enjoys spending his free time hiking, kayaking, and searching for ancient evils.

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
by Christopher Beck

Zachary’s scream shatters the stillness of the sleeping house. It is raw and sharp and it yanks Julie up out of a pleasant dream that is forgotten the instant her eyes snap open.

“Zach!” she cries out; her throat dry and raspy. 

She reaches for Bill but his arm isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Her hand frantically searches the right side of the queen mattress, sliding over and under the ruffled comforter and sheets, but her husband isn’t there, and Julie remembers then that his side of the bed has been vacant for almost a year. Intense feelings of grief surface but they do not trump the dread her son’s cry has pulled from the depths of her being.

There is no lingering sleepiness as Julie kicks the bedding to the floor, only budding panic. It fills her chest first, then her head, and it feels like a rock has grown in her throat as she swings her legs over the side of the bed. She swallows hard but it doesn’t help.

An icy finger touches the back of her neck and traces a line down and back up her spine. When she stands, her feet become tangled in the discarded bedding, throwing her off balance; Julie winces when her thigh collides with the corner of the nightstand.  In the darkness, the framed picture of her, Zach and Bill tumbles over.

“Mommy!”

The anguish in the boy’s voice is weightier than his normal bad dream/scared of the dark cries. Something is seriously wrong in the bedroom down the hall and Julie imagines her son sprawled on the floor, his arm twisted and broken beneath him.

Fuck. I knew that the new big boy bed was too high for him.

Zach is sobbing now. Hyperventilating. He sounds so small; helpless—an injured chick that has fallen from its nest—crying, calling; desperate for his momma. 

Careful not to stub a toe on the leg of the wooden bed frame, Julie hurries across her moonlit bedroom, nightgown whispering around her legs, the faux hardwood cool on her bare feet, and into the hall.

The hallway feels different than it had before they’d gone to bed. It looms before her, the darkness greater here, thicker, ready to swallow her whole. The carpet is rougher than she remembers, and the length of the interior space seems to stretch further than possible. For a moment she wonders if she’s trapped within a wicked nightmare.

Zach calls for her again.

This is no nightmare.

Julie reaches out to the wall on her left, running her hand along the rough sheetrock, looking for the light switch. She is still becoming acclimated with this new house, all of its nooks and crannies, but she knows the switch is there, just below shoulder height. As she reaches higher, then lower, Julie sees in her mind’s eye the light switch, and its decorative plate, scurrying away from her fingertips. Not moving far but just enough to keep from being discovered. 

Stop being stupid, Julie.

She stretches her arm out further, finds the hard plastic lever, flips it upward. The overhead light comes to life, banishing the inky darkness. The warm light is too bright at first and Julie shields her eyes from it. Multicolored spots sway in the air, rushing away from her direct line of sight before fading away completely.

As her vision adjusts, the hallway ceases to be menacing. It’s muted blue walls, seawater colored flooring, and homely decor are normally soothing, charming even, but Julie finds no comfort in them this night.

“It hurts, Mommy!”

The icy finger becomes a fist that punches Julie dead-center in the chest. Her heart labors harder as she hurries through the enclosed space and into the opening of the opposite wall. A pulsatile whooshing sound fills her ears.

“I’m here, baby.”

The light from the hall bleeds over the threshold and mixes with that shining from Zach’s Spider-Man nightlight. Together they show Julie the front half of the bedroom: the two-shelf bookcase filled with Little Golden and Dr. Seuss books, the over-filled dirty clothes hamper, a multitude of scattered toys, and the side profile of the twin bed, which is furthest from the door, beside the room’s only window. Zach isn’t laying on the floor in a broken heap as she originally feared, but on his bed and is a writhing form. The combined light only reaches so far, however, and lingering shadows blanket the scene on the mattress.

“It hurts!”

“What hurts?”

“It’s in me!”

Three simple words have never raised such fear in Julie. At once her body, frigid now from the inside out, begins to tremble. Goosebumps tattoo her arms; the fine blond hair that covers them stands on end. Multiple images form in her head, slowly at first, then in quick succession: a horrid flipbook of pain and suffering.

Despite the tremor in her hand, she has no issues flicking on the overhead light in here. It’s a spotlight coming down on a darken stage, burning away those remaining shadows and highlighting an act far more wretched than those concocted by Julie’s overactive imagination.

Zach is lying on his back, his Marvel blanket bunched up around his feet. His face is aimed up at the ceiling but his wet, terror-filled eyes are searching for Julie. Hairy, gray vines—thick as shoestrings with bright green palmate leaves—slither over his body and under his pajamas. Others hold his arms and legs tightly in place. Those locking down his head explore his ears, mouth, and nose.

“Jesus Christ!” Julie says. Her eyes follow the kudzu to the window she’d left cracked open to allow in the fresh spring air. The sheer curtains, billowing in the cool breeze, are undisturbed, but the window screen has been torn by the vines. The night hides where they go from there but Julie knows it’s down to the flower garden beneath the window.

*****

Having grown up in the city, Julie isn’t much of a green thumb, and her experience with gardening starts and stops at the few indoor plants she’d kept in her old work office. Still, the idea of one day growing her own vegetables and caring for delicate flowers has floated around in the back of her head for some time. It was a task she and Bill were supposed to have tackled together, but a midmorning liquor store run by a middle-aged drunkard desperate to keep their buzz going killed not only that dream, but all of the hopes and dreams Julie and Bill had talked about over the years, most often while cuddle together post coitus.

Still, the in-ground, stone-lined flower beds surrounding the new rancher excited Julie. They were one of her favorite features of the house and she was determined to tend to them, not only for her, but also for her late husband.

She bought tools and gloves and seeds. She watched instructional YouTube videos, flipped through glossy magazines, learning the dos and don’ts of gardening. She imagined all of the colorful blossoms and vibrant blooms, green stalks and shiny leaves that she would cultivate.

First, though, was the clean-up work. Each of the beds was filled with brittle brown leaves, rotting tree branches, and the skeletal remains of annuals. Julie wasn’t sure if there were any perennials within all the mess but she didn’t care either way. It was all going to come out.

Fresh flowers for our fresh start.

Julie started in the bed on the East side of the house, the one below Zach’s bedroom window. She set about raking, pulling, and cutting as he intermittingly watched her through the open window repeatedly singing, “Mary, Mary how does your garden grow?”

After hearing the lyric over a dozen times, Julie smiled and thought, We’ll have to learn the rest of that rhyme later, buddy.

Birds also sang; butterflies fluttered on the mild air; squirrels barked from not-so-distant oak trees; a bumble bee buzzed around the wheelbarrow full of garden waste.

She paused for a moment to fully enjoy the sights and sounds around her, and wiped her brow. The physical and mental exertion of working the flower garden felt good, as did the sun on Julie’s neck and back. She breathed deep; went back to work.

What didn’t feel good was the piece of brown, broken glass hiding in the soil beneath the decomposing foliage. Its jagged edge ripped through the nitrile glove and broke the skin on the heel of her hand.

“Son of a…” The pain was sharp but Julie was still mindful of the little ears listening from above. Carefully she removed the ruined glove and examined the wound. It wasn’t deep but it bled like it was. A crimson stream rolled off her wrist. Droplets of blood passed through the air, landing next to the glass shard and showering the small patch of kudzu that had been hiding under the dead leaves.

*****

“Help me, Mommy!”  

Blood trickles down the inside of Zach’s small forearm, pierced by one of the wicked vines, and Julie starts her rescue there. She grabs it with her whole hand and pulls. Zach howls as the vine slides beneath his skin, tenting it. It’s a sickening sight and deep fear for her child grows in Julie’s stomach. Despite the cool air drifting in through the open window, the room has become quite warm. A trickle of sweat runs between her shoulder blades; more dampens her forehead and bangs. Steady breathing has become difficult.

The vine comes free of Zach’s tender skin and a tiny, blood covered hand-shaped leaf unfurls.

Without thinking Julie tears the leaf away and tosses it to the floor. The vine vibrates in her hand, the damaged end whipping back and forth, looking to break free of her grip. She grabs it with both hands and begins to bend and twist. The vine is very flexible, however, and, at first, its skin only cracks. Julie pulls harder, yanking the strand of kudzu in different directions until she is holding two separate pieces.

It’s only a small victory, though—one that she can’t even celebrate because the other leafy tendrils seem incensed at her interference. Their grip on Zachary’s limbs tighten—bringing from him fresh wails of pain—and their sidewinder-like movements become more frantic beneath his bed clothes. The ones covering his face rise up and coil slightly, angry snakes looking to strike his eyes, nest in his nose and mouth.

“No you don’t!”

Julie grabs the corkscrewed vines with her left hand, pulls them away from her son’s face, reaches her right hand out toward the bookshelf and the pencil case sitting atop a small pile of books. She hopes like hell that Zach’s safety scissors are still stored within.

Her sweaty fingers at first slip off the smooth plastic box but they quickly find purchase and bring it against her thigh. She braces it there with her palm and her thumb fumbles with the small latches that keep the lid secure.

Don’t fucking drop it.

The trapped vines lash out at Zach’s face, shooting forward like hairy darts. Julie yanks them back further.

“Close your eyes and mouth, baby.”

“I’m scared, Mommy!”

“I know, baby, me too, but I need you to listen to me right now, okay?”

Zach, his tired eyes puffy and red, gives a weak nod and does as he’s told.

“That’s my good boy,” Julie says, wishing she could kiss those eyes and wipe the tears from his cheeks. 

The hand gripping the kudzu is beginning to ache; Julie’s bulging forearm is cramped and knotting. Strands of the climbing plant have momentarily forgotten about Zach’s face and have wrapped themselves around Julie’s wrist. Others poke at her fingernails, looking for away beneath them.

Zach moans and writhes on the bed, attempting to break free of the horrid plant that has invaded his room and taken him hostage.

Finally, one of the tabs locking the lid of the pencil case flips up with a snap. The second one snaps off completely.

Thank Christ!

With her thumb, Julie pushes the lid open. Through the opening, among the dull pencils and dirty erasers, she can see the bright, two-toned kid safe scissors. She hooks the thumb through the small loop of the handle and allows the case to fall to the floor. Her first and second fingers squeeze into the bigger loop, and, for the first time since being roused by Zach’s scream, Julie feels as if she has gained some control over the situation.

The scissors twist in her hand as she closes them around the vines, the stiff plastic digging into her fingers, but the blades do their job and make a cut. It’s not very crisp or deep but it’s enough for Julie to keep going. She works them faster, harder, applying more pressure with each cut. One by one the vines come apart and Julie issues a cry of victory.

“Mommy,” Zach croaks, “I can’t breathe.”

A strand of the kudzu has wrapped itself around his neck.

Julie tosses the scissors and ruined vines to the side and begins to pull at the one strangling her son. Its grip is too tight, and she cannot get her fingers between it and his throat. The flesh of Zach’s neck is already starting to bruise.

Why the fuck did you drop the scissors, Julie?

With the same hand that had earlier reached for her late husband, the same one that had been pierced by the jagged shard of glass, and, without taking her eyes off her only child, Julie franticly feels around for the scissors. The Band-Aid covering her wound has come lose, the wound itself reopened. Fresh red droplets fall to the sheets and are smeared across them, staining the faces of Marvel’s finest.

The vine around Zach’s neck loosens. He gasps for air, his mouth expanding and contracting, mimicking that of a fish out of water. His eyes are still wide and bulgy but the blueness in his face begins to fade away.

Julie watches as the vine unwinds itself from her son’s neck. It slides back down under the collar of his pajama top, rippling the fabric as it moves down his small torso.

“It’s letting go, Mommy!”Zach wiggles and strains and his right arm is freed. “It’s letting go!” He wiggles some more and is able to bend his knees.

“It’s retreating,” Julie says, watching more of the wicked vines withdraw from their human battlefield. Still, they move too slowly for her liking. She wants to yank them all away from her son, once and for all, but she is also afraid of incensing them once again.

“Hang tight, buddy. As soon as these things are off of you, we’re going to get the hell out of here.”

“Are…are they going back out the window? Are they going to leave me alone now?”

“They’re going…”

Of course!

“...after my blood.”

Mary, Mary, how does your garden grow?

“W-what?”

The vines poke and prod at the stains on the sheets. Any droplets left behind are quickly soaked up by their leaves.

“Are your arms and legs all free now?”

“I can still feel the leaves tickling my feet, but I don’t feel them on me anymore.”

“Good, that’s good.”

Julie pulls the soiled Band-Aid from her hand, her skin stretching outward until the adhesive lets go.

“I want you to slowly slide over to the edge of the bed, careful not to kick any of these things.”

She spreads the cut as wide as she can and winces at the pain this causes.

“When I say go, I want you to go straight to the living room. Grab your shoes and my shoes and wait by the front door.”

The blood flow is greater than when she first suffered the cut and this brings to her face a devilish smile.

“I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to grab my purse and keys, and then we’re going to hurry to the car.”

Julie turns her hand over and draws, with her blood, a line from Zach’s bed to the window. She squeezes her hand closed and holds it over the window sill allowing a puddle to form. The vines go wild, scramble over and under each other to get to the gore.

“Go!”

*****

The house that she and Bill once dreamed of owning grows smaller in the rearview mirror. The front porch light burns bright in the darkness and Julie doesn’t care if the whole goddamn thing burns to the ground. She blinks emotional tears away, wipes one from her eyelash. Her hands shake on the wheel. Her nervous system is still overloaded and she attempts the box breathing method that helped her through his funeral.

The dashboard clock shows that it’s 6:05. Julie can see first light creeping into the night sky.  Sunrise isn’t far off and this makes her feel marginally better. She doesn’t know what the day will bring but it sure as hell has to be better than what their night had to offer. She continues with the breathing technique and focuses on the quiet road ahead. 

“My ear hurts,” Zach says from the backseat. He sticks a small finger in his ear canal and jiggles it around.

“Don’t stick your finger in it,” Julie says. “You could hurt it more. As soon as we find a place to stop, I’ll take a look at it, and you.”

Have to assess the damage done…

“But it hurts. There’s something in there. I can feel it moving.”

Julie flicks on the interior light of the car, a fresh wave of uneasiness washing over her, and glances over her shoulder at her son.

“What do you mean, baby?”

Zach pulls his finger from his ear and a thin hairy vine with tiny palmate leaves growing out of it.

“It hurts really bad, Mommy.”

Julie screams. The car leaves the road and strikes a telephone pole, crippling the front of the vehicle and bringing them to a sudden stop. The airbag deploys, she can feel it hit the back of her head, and then there is momentary darkness.

There is no blaring horn when Julie regains focus, just the ticking engine, and the cries of early morning birds. Pain fills her entire body, and the steering wheel is much closer than it should be.

The onlookers will come later, sometime after the first siren wails wake them, but for now it’s just Julie and Zach.

“Zach,” Julie wheezes. The pain flares when she looks back at him. She reaches for him with her damaged hand. “Zachary, talk to Mommy.”

Zach doesn’t talk to her, nor does he reach out for her bloody hand.

The kudzu snaking out of his ear does, however.