It all started with the roses. Blood-red, with petals soft as silk, they grew larger and more fragrant than anything anyone had ever seen. Neighbors walking past my little garden would stop, marvel, and inevitably ask the same question:
“How do you do it?”
At first, I laughed it off. “Oh, just good soil and some love,” I’d say with a smile. But soon it wasn’t just the roses. My tomatoes were the size of melons, the marigolds had an unnatural glow, and the herbs—mint, basil, and rosemary—had leaves so large and lush that they almost shimmered in the sunlight.
Soon, word spread. People started coming from nearby towns, peeking over my fence, asking about my secret. It didn’t take long before the local news got involved. They interviewed me, the humble gardener with the mystical green thumb.
“Is it some kind of fertilizer?”
“Do you talk to your plants?”
“Do you use moon water?”
The questions kept coming, and I always gave the same answer: “Just good soil and love.”
But that wasn’t the truth.
You see, it wasn’t soil that was doing the work. It wasn’t love either. I can’t quite explain how it happened, but one evening, while working in the garden, I found it—a strange seed buried deep in the earth. It was black as coal, pulsing as if alive, and I knew instantly that it was something special. I planted it without thinking twice.
That night, my garden changed.
Vines crept along the ground, growing faster than any normal plant should. Flowers bloomed in unnatural colors—deep purples, blues that shimmered in the dark. It was beautiful, but it was also… wrong. The plants moved when they thought no one was watching. The roses seemed to sigh, their thorns sharper than knives.
And then there were the voices. At first, they were whispers in the wind, faint and distant. But soon, they became clear. They spoke to me, urging me to feed them. To nourish them. Not with water. Not with sunlight. But with something else.
It started with small animals. A mouse here, a bird there. The plants thrived on them, growing larger, more beautiful. People praised me, admired my garden even more. But it wasn’t enough for the plants. They wanted more.
One night, a man from the town came to my door. He didn’t knock. He didn’t ask for permission. He barged in, demanding my secret. His eyes were wild with greed. He wanted what I had. He wanted to steal it.
I tried to warn him.
But he didn’t listen.
I don’t remember what happened next. One moment, he was shouting, threatening to expose me. The next, the vines had him. Wrapped tight, pulling him into the garden. His screams were muffled by the earth as the plants buried him alive.
The next morning, the roses were redder than ever. Almost… too red.
People still come to ask about my gardening secrets. I tell them the truth now—about the seed, the whispers, the sacrifices. But they never believe me.
They laugh, thinking I’m eccentric, maybe a little crazy. They don’t see the vines shifting behind them, waiting, hungry for more.
So, if you come to my garden, don’t ask for my secret. You won’t like the answer.
But if you’re curious, stay a little longer.
The garden is always hungry.