The Gardener

The flowers appeared overnight. Impossible roses in shades that didn't exist, blooming in December, their perfume so sweet it made your eyes water. Mrs. Henderson discovered them first, gasping with delight when she found her formerly barren yard transformed into a wonderland of blossoms. She posted photos on the neighborhood Facebook group, and within an hour, her doorbell rang. The Gardener stood on her porch, a tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed their face. "I'm glad you appreciate my work," they said in a voice like rustling leaves. "I've been cultivating this neighborhood for some time." "You did this? But I never hired—" "No charge for the first growth. Consider it a sample. But if you want it to continue, if you want your garden to be the envy of the street, we can make an arrangement." Mrs. Henderson, who had spent years battling her brown thumb and watching her neighbors' gardens flourish while hers withered, didn't hesitate. "What kind of arrangement?" "Simple. I tend your garden. In exchange, you give me..." The Gardener tilted their head, considering. "Let's say, a memory. One memory per season. Nothing you'll miss terribly. Just a small thing. The taste of your grandmother's cookies. The name of your first dog. Little things that clutter the mind." It seemed harmless enough. Mrs. Henderson agreed. By spring, her garden was legendary. Tulips in January. Orchids climbing her fence. Vegetables that grew to impossible sizes. The entire neighborhood wanted the Gardener's services. One by one, houses on Maple Street contracted with the strange figure. One by one, gardens bloomed with unnatural beauty. And one by one, people began to forget. Tommy Chen couldn't remember his fifth birthday. Rachel Morrison forgot her wedding song. Mr. Abernathy lost the memory of his daughter's first words. Small things, barely noticed, traded away for flowers that never faded and lawns that never browned. I was the last holdout. I watched my neighbors transform their yards into botanical paradises while I stubbornly pushed my ancient lawn mower through my weedy grass. I saw them in their gardens, smiling peacefully, tending to their impossible flowers with vacant eyes. And I noticed something no one else seemed to see. The flowers were watching us. I know how that sounds. But I swear their blooms turned to follow people. Roses craned toward windows. Vines shifted when no wind blew. And sometimes, late at night, I heard them whispering. When the Gardener came to my door, I refused. "Your loss," they said, shrugging. "But know this: resistance has consequences. A garden must have weeds to define the flowers. You've chosen to be the weed." I didn't understand until the next morning, when I found my yard had been invaded. Not by beautiful flowers, but by their opposite—thorny vines, poisonous mushrooms, plants that reeked of decay. They grew from the boundaries of my property, where my yard met my neighbors' paradises. A barrier of ugliness surrounding my small patch of normal grass. "You're ruining the neighborhood," Mrs. Henderson complained. "Your weeds are spreading." But they weren't my weeds. They were the Gardener's punishment, the cost of my refusal. And they grew faster each day, threatening to consume my house entirely. I had to understand what was happening. I started documenting the neighborhood, taking photos, making notes. I noticed patterns. Mr. Abernathy no longer talked about his daughter—he'd forgotten her entirely now. The Johnsons couldn't remember where they'd lived before Maple Street. Mrs. Chen stared at her photo albums with confusion, unable to identify people in her own pictures. They were losing themselves, one memory at a time. And the gardens grew more beautiful with each loss, as if feeding on stolen moments of humanity. I researched the Gardener. Found old news stories from other towns. Always the same pattern: a mysterious figure, miraculous gardens, and then... disappearances. Eventually, everyone in the affected neighborhoods would vanish, leaving behind only extraordinary gardens that bloomed forever, tended by no one, growing in patterns that suggested intelligence. The flowers weren't just watching. They were learning. Becoming. I tried to warn my neighbors. They smiled at me with peaceful, empty eyes and returned to their gardening. They couldn't understand. They'd traded away the memories that might have helped them recognize danger. The vines around my house grew taller. Soon they'd block out the sun entirely. The Gardener appeared on my porch again. "Last chance," they said. "Join them. Trade your memories. Become part of the garden's growth. Or resist and be consumed by the weeds. Either way, you'll feed the flowers." "What are you?" I demanded. The Gardener smiled, and for the first time, I saw beneath the hat's shadow. Not a face, but flowers. Blooms and petals and stems woven together in a vaguely human shape. "I am what grows when people forget themselves completely. I am the Gardener, and humanity is my soil." I ran inside and locked my doors, though I knew it wouldn't matter. The vines were already creeping through my windows. The poisonous flowers were releasing spores that made my vision blur. I had hours, maybe, before I'd be overwhelmed. I'm writing this as a warning. If a mysterious gardener appears in your neighborhood, if flowers bloom out of season, if neighbors start forgetting themselves, run. Don't stay. Don't negotiate. Don't think you're strong enough to resist. The Gardener doesn't just tend plants. They cultivate forgetting. And once enough people have traded away enough memories, once the neighborhood has been hollowed out sufficiently, the gardens take over completely. The people become part of the ecosystem, living flowers that bloom and fade and bloom again, all memory of being human gone. I can hear my neighbors outside now. They're singing—a wordless melody that sounds like rustling leaves. They're gathering around my house. The vines have covered my windows. The air is thick with sickly-sweet perfume. I'm going to try to escape. Drive away, leave everything behind. But I'm afraid I've already lost too much. I can't remember why I chose this house. I can't remember my mother's face. The Gardener took memories as punishment too, I realize now. Took them through the poisonous plants, through the spores I've been breathing. If anyone finds this, remember: gardens need boundaries. They need to be controlled, or they'll consume everything. And if you see the Gardener, if you see impossible flowers blooming in December... Run. Don't look back at the beauty. Don't breathe the perfume. Don't listen to the whispers of the flowers. Just run. [The journal ends here. The house on Maple Street was found empty. The property was eventually sold and demolished. The new owners reported no unusual plant growth. But sometimes, on quiet nights, neighbors claim they hear singing in the empty lot—a wordless melody like rustling leaves.]