The Garden

Ethan Miller

From his high castle window, Lothwell watched a hobbling speck appear on the dawnlit horizon, trekking across an endless windswept expanse of tall grasses by way of a narrow dirt road. As it drew closer, the distant speck shifted into the familiar image of a horse-drawn cart with a single rider. The cart itself was covered in a large sheet of coarse fabric smeared with dark stains, and the rider was clad entirely in black. Lothwell rose from his desk, turned from the window, and strode out of the room in a single, swift motion.

Lothwell grabbed a burning torch from a nearby sconce and lit a path through the darkness in front of him, dragging his hand along the heavy stone wall to his left. The hall was littered with locked rooms and scattered debris, transforming what would have been—with more light—a clear, elegant path into a decrepit labyrinth fit for a monster. After a short walk, the darkness gave way to a carpeted central staircase littered with broken pieces of colored glass. Two massive, stained glass windows that had been violently blown inwards stood on either side of a grand set of doors that led out into the castle courtyard. Beams of late morning sun filtered through the shattered frames and gleamed off the hazardous shards. The glass crunched under Lothwell’s boots as he stopped halfway down the staircase, standing completely still with his gaze resting on the doors, waiting. After a few minutes, the sound of slow trotting arrived, and the doors groaned open.

The light of day spilled between the doors, and the black-clad figure from the cart walked in wearily. He wore a wide brimmed hat, and a thick, coal-colored cloth covered his mouth and nose. Lines of age criss-crossed his face between unkempt strands of gray hair, and he moved with arthritic determination.

“Lord Lothwell,” began the weary man, his voice crisp and raspy as he pulled the cloth away from his mouth and bowed in respect. “I’ve gathered more gardeners from the north.” He gestured behind him to the cart where a black horse waited sullenly. It was a scrawny, wretched thing, and sunken ribs showed clearly through its sides. Both the horse and its driver panted heavily, and Lothwell puffed out his chest to better fill his silken attire.

“Thank you, Hucksley. Please show them to their posts this evening. Was there anything else of note?”

“No, my lord.” 

Lothwell’s face fell as Hucksley spoke.

“Very well. In the meantime, please go about preparing our afternoon meal.”

“My lord,” Hucksley stammer, “I regret to inform you that we don’t—”

Lothwell raised a hand, his expression flickering earnestly in the torchlight. “You have never disappointed me, and I trust you will not today.” Hucksley nodded. With a new task at hand, he returned to his cart and cracked his whip, rousing the horse from its stupor and forcing it into a trot. Lothwell heaved the great doors shut himself, crinkling his nose at the faint, fetid scent that wafted through the air outside. 

The dining hall was extravagantly vacant. Glittering candelabras and bouquets of freshly cut chrysanthemums lined the center of the table. Impeccable carvings with hundreds of gilded leaves lavished its entire length. At least three dozen chairs of similar ornate design surrounded the table, all of which were barren, lacking even a single piece of silverware between them. Mesmerizing tapestries of times long past, both fictional and historical, adorned the high walls and danced in the candlelight as Lothwell walked into the grandiose room, alone. Hucksley appeared through a set of kitchen doors. His hat was gone, but he still wore his black clothes, which were now covered by a freshly bloodied apron.

“Will Lady Lothwell be joining us tonight?” asked Hucksley.

“No.”

Lothwell found his seat at the very end of the gargantuan table and made himself comfortable atop its plump, velvety cushion.

“Very well, my lord.” Hucksley half-turned, then paused momentarily. “Do give her my best; I worry sometimes. About both of you.”

Lothwell nodded distantly, and Hucksley disappeared back through the kitchen doors. He returned bearing a covered silver platter with one hand, which he set delicately in front of Lothwell. Upon removing its top, a thick cut of ragged meat was revealed, bearing a delicious sear on either side. Both of the men’s stomachs growled at the sight. Lothwell clasped his hands in his lap tensely, wringing his fingers against one another as he waited patiently for Hucksley to finish filling his glass with a pale pink wine that was once the color of blood. With the table set, Hucksley turned to leave.

“Hucksley.” Lothwell hesitated, and Hucksley faced him.

“Yes?”

“Please, dine with me tonight.” The words made the air still.

“As you wish,” said Hucksley, who bowed to leave, then returned with his own plate, which harbored a much smaller piece of meat. The moment Hucksley sat down, Lothwell began to eat ravenously, his fork and knife gouging deeply into the silver platter as he shoved large strips of gamey meat into his mouth. Hucksley stared forlornly at his plate. His stomach growled again, and he began to cry.

In the evening, Lothwell oversaw Hucksley’s maintenance of the castle garden. Lady Lothwell cherished the castle’s courtyard garden above all other things, often retreating to its fragrant shade and flipping eagerly through a book whenever the stresses of life became too much. So deep was her love for this garden that Lothwell gave her full reign over it—a verdant castle of her very own. In her absence, Lothwell decided to take up his wife’s mantle, but in truth, Hucksley did a better job on his own.

Tying a cloth around his mouth and nose, Lothwell stepped out into the cloistered courtyard. The garden filled the entirety of the castle’s heart, its flowering vines creeping up every wall and digging into every crevice, beautifying the rigid masonry with natural elegance. Greenery flourished in every corner as wide paving stones formed serpentine pathways through the thick foliage. Intricate topiaries and floral arrangements stood proudly, true demonstrations of Lady Lothwell’s creativity and the masterful handiwork of a dozen unseen gardeners. Vast shadows spilled from towering trees of all varieties as the sun set, and bees buzzed their way toward hives as their day of hard work ended and Hucksley’s continued. Lothwell traipsed through the lush vegetation toward Hucksley, who stood next to the stable that held his cart and had once again donned his hat and facial cloth. As he walked closer, the sweet aromas and perfumes of the garden were invaded by a wicked odor that clawed its way through the cloth that covered Lothwell’s face.

Hucksley climbed into the back of his covered cart and began untying the thick knots that held the stained covering in place. With a practiced ease, he pulled the knots loose and whipped the hefty tarp away from the cart. Lothwell nearly retched as the putrid odor intensified tenfold. A dozen or more rotting corpses in threadbare clothing filled the back of the cart, their pale, mildewed flesh sagging and distorted. Hucksley grabbed one of the bodies by its legs and dragged it off the cart towards the garden. As the torso slid from the cart, it fell limp, cracking its skull against the brickwork with a sickening thump as the sparse remaining facial skin slid off onto the ground with a wet slap. Flesh tore as the head came loose, spilling wriggling vermin and rancid ichor from both stumps. Lothwell simply watched as Hucksley paused to grab the head, looping two of his fingers into its empty sockets for a better grip before continuing to drag the rest of the body by a single leg. A trail of foul fluids leaked slowly behind Hucksley’s burden, giving him the appearance of an aging slug. 

“This gentleman can begin here,” said Lothwell, directing Hucksley towards a bed of malnourished petunias. “They’re looking a bit dull, and some of the lesser blooms will need to be pruned to preserve the others. Do you think he can handle that, Hucksley?” 

Hucksley nodded, abruptly depositing the corpse amongst the flowers before grabbing a shovel from a nearby wheelbarrow. Using a whetstone from his pocket, he sharpened the shovel’s edge three times before plunging it into the corpse’s stomach and wrenching it around with a violent twist, splintering every rib simultaneously. A fresh wave of nauseating fumes poured from the ragged wound as the remaining contents of its ribcage spilled forth and fed into the earth and surrounding flowers. Hucksley carried on like this—one decaying body after another—until the cart was empty and Lothwell was satisfied. 

When each gardener had been shown to their work site, Lothwell thanked Hucksley, and the two men bid each other goodnight. Before he left, Lothwell wandered over to a pristine rosebush in the center of the courtyard and snapped off a single flower. Careful not to prick himself, he tucked it into his outer coat pocket and left without another word.

Glass crunched deeper into the carpet as Lothwell made his way up the central staircase, removing his face cloth and greedily sucking in the castle’s cool, stale air. Pale beams of moonlight drifted through the shattered windows, gently illuminating the staircase with ghostly radiance. A splinter caught his finger as it trailed along the banister, and he recoiled at the pain, nursing his wound. For a moment, he grabbed a new torch to light his way, only to realize he had nothing to light it with. Carrying on, Lothwell ventured from the moonlight and into the dark passages of the unlit castle, trailing his hand along the wall.

When he came to the end of the hall, Lothwell blindly felt for the cool handle of the door and pushed it open, revealing a faintly lit room decorated with all manner of gilded intricacies. The ceiling was painted into a starscape of silver-studded constellations guarded by seraphim angels. Incense burned on a bedside table, filling the air with a scent of jasmine so potent that it seemed to collect in the base of Lothwell’s lungs as he breathed it in deeply. A beautifully crafted desk sat to the left of the chamber, fitted with golden handles and scattered with leather-bound tomes. To the right, a polished vanity decorated with vases of fresh white lilies stood next to a wardrobe of fine gowns that remained slightly ajar. In the center of the room, a sprawling four-post bed sat atop a plush carpet. Lothwell took a deep breath, then walked to the bedside.

“Estelle, my love,” said Lothwell. “I’ve brought you this rose from your garden, and Hucksley gives you his best.” He set the scarlet flower gently on his wife’s chest as she lay in bed. As Lothwell expected, she did not acknowledge his token of affection. Lothwell turned away and lowered his head, his cheeks burning.

“You’ve been so quiet for so long,” he continued. “I promise I’ll take care of things until you’re feeling better. Hucksley is finding lots of help for the garden from the north—he’s been going every day at my request.” Lothwell stroked his wife’s head, his fingers passing through her hair. The hairs tangled quickly, pulling a clump of scalp away from her glistening skull. Lothwell let out a weak yelp before smoothing the flesh back down. Lady Lothwell did not react; her moldering empty sockets held no soul, and what skin still clung to her bones was pulling away, dripping onto the bed sheets, and soiling her gown, its silver threads and polished jewels growing tarnished and melded with meat.

Ignoring the buzzing flies, Lothwell held his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her forehead, his lips sinking slightly until they met her skull. He apologized incessantly and held his forehead to hers before stepping back.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I’ll give you some room to breathe; I don’t want to overwhelm you.” 

With that, Lothwell walked around to his side of the bed, crawled under the sheets, and closed his eyes. His hand wandered until it brushed against a clump of bones he recognized as his wife’s hand.

“I love you,” whispered Lothwell, and there was silence.

In the early morning, the courtyard was alight with a picturesque glow. Dew collected on every leaf and petal, refracting the sun’s golden rays as Lothwell meandered through the garden. An odd bump made a wet, pulpy sound as it crunched under his boot. Lothwell grimaced, wiping his boot on the grass before carrying on. In the distance, Lothwell saw Hucksley pulling his cart from the stable using a sturdy rope he slung over his shoulder. The horse was nowhere to be found, and Lothwell’s stomach gurgled weakly.

Hucksley continued to drag the cart to the castle’s gate, which always remained open. There, he wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the cart’s side, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Hucksley,” called Lothwell, walking towards his servant. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Hucksley wheezed as sweat poured down his face and soaked into his clothes. “It’s an honor to have served you for as long as I have,” he mustered.

Lothwell smiled grimly and clasped Hucksley’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

“I’ll delay you no further.”

Hucksley nodded and managed a quick smile. Wrapping the rope once more around his shoulder, he dug his feet into the ground and heaved the cart forward. Lothwell watched him from the castle gate as he slowly grew smaller and smaller. When the cart was no larger than a coin held at arm’s length, Hucksley unraveled the rope from his shoulder and began to walk back towards the castle. He stumbled, bracing himself against the side of the cart before clutching his chest, vomiting, and falling to the ground. He didn’t get up.

Lothwell sprinted across the plains to Hucksley’s side. It only seemed to take a matter of seconds to close the distance, but by the time he reached his servant, Hucksley was dead. Lothwell cradled Hucksley’s head in his arms and wailed, a deafening noise among the quiet rustling of the surrounding grasses. For the first time since his wife went quiet, he wept. The tears were salty and bitter, and they grew even more so as Hucksley continued to remain still.

“You’ve never disappointed me.” Lothwell shook Hucksley. “Please don’t disappoint me.”

Lothwell’s lip buckled and trembled as he gazed into the dead man’s eyes. They were vacant, but held no anger.

“It’s okay, Hucksley. You’re okay.”

Lothwell didn’t know what else to say.

“You didn’t disappoint me.”

Rising from the ground, Lothwell heaved Hucksley’s body into the cart as gently as he could before covering him with the stained tarp. Still wiping tears from his eyes, he gripped the pull rope and leaned forward, gritting his teeth and grunting as the cart’s wheels began to turn with a rusty squeak. Step by step, Lothwell dragged the cart back towards the castle, his muscles screaming, and his heart screaming louder. When he arrived home nearly an hour later, Lothwell pushed the cart back into the stable with Hucksley still on board. Hucksley was never a man who sought luxuries; the stable was always where he felt most at home, tending to his horse. Lothwell sat alone on the cart and caressed the fraying end of the pull rope, pushing his new memories as far away as his mind would allow.

When the wheelbarrow crept into the periphery of Lothwell’s vision, he began to move again. There was still daylight, and he still had to tend to the garden. The wheelbarrow felt extraordinarily light to Lothwell after having pulled the cart for so long, and it could bring back one, perhaps two gardeners. Grabbing it, Lothwell set off through the castle gates immediately. The wheels squeaked as he journeyed up the dirt road to the north in silence. The land seemed to have swallowed him in an endless sea of grass, and Lothwell prayed that Hucksley’s usual path was a clear one. The grass whispered amongst itself and the wind, undisturbed by the lone traveler’s presence despite his unfamiliarity. Their hushed tones knew what Lothwell was there to do.

“Why are you doing this?”

Lothwell jumped at the sight of Hucksley’s corpse sitting haphazardly in the wheelbarrow. Its wide eyes were cloudy and deformed as they slowly sank into rotten sockets, and its jaw wobbled agape. It shifted back and forth with every bump of the road. The skin on Hucksley’s face was pale, and fat purple bruises and blisters had formed across his body.

“I wanted to finish your work for you, and the garden—”

“The garden needs to be tended.” Hucksley’s words slurred as the wheelbarrow jostled him. Lothwell stared blankly at the horizon as he continued to push the wheelbarrow. “Do you still believe that?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t like what you find.”

“I have to go, though, don’t I?”

“You do.”

Hucksley’s corpse shifted slightly, its arms swaying oddly as the head fell to one side with a wet crack. Lothwell shivered, and his skin itched.

Eventually, the flat grasslands rose into a wide, gently sloping hill, the same hill on the horizon Hucksley often returned from. By the time Lothwell reached its base, his legs burned, and he had long since stripped off his silken outer coat and tossed it into the wheelbarrow with Hucksley’s body. Against his own wishes, he pressed on, cresting over its peak after another hour of pushing the wheelbarrow over dozens of rocks and ruts buried in the ground. On the other side of the hill, just a short walk away, a small town sprawled across a few hundred acres of land. Lothwell took a deep breath, and it soured in his stomach.

The town had turned rancid, and Lothwell pulled up his face cloth reflexively. Bodies littered the streets, each blooming with rot and putrefaction. Exposed ribs smiled at the sun as flesh melted from them in thick, impossibly slow rivulets. The buildings themselves were abandoned, left to fend off the elements with only a coating of filth and mildew. Lothwell's lips curled in disgust as he looked around. The entire town was dead. Only insects stirred, burrowing into bodies and making themselves at home—the new citizens of a rotten land. Lothwell set the wheelbarrow down and stretched his aching arms. He noticed a woman’s corpse lying nearby, the scarce remaining flesh covered in hues of purple that blistered outwards, just like Hucksley in the wheelbarrow. Maggots replaced her tongue, and flies flew from her mouth where words should have been. The same image of this woman repeated itself through the whole town, body after gruesome body, and Lothwell suddenly found himself standing in an oily puddle that used to have bones. He shuffled back, stepping first through a crumbling ribcage, soaking his boot in sun-warmed gore before bumping backwards into the wheelbarrow. Lothwell gripped its edge and shut his eyes as hard as possible, shrouding himself with darkness.

“You let me pretend,” said Lothwell. His heart pounded, each beat an explosion from within. Hucksley’s voice echoed behind him.

“You couldn’t bear it.”

“Is it everyone?”

“Yes.”

Lothwell opened his eyes, and the streets of putrid blood and molten flesh flooded back to his senses. Fresh tears dripped and soaked into his face cloth.

“Thank you.”

Lothwell turned around to face Hucksley in the wheelbarrow, but the grim corpse had vanished without a trace.

Everyone was dead.

This town.

These people.

Hucksley.

The gardeners.

Even—

Lothwell sprinted across the open grassland. Dark clouds were building in the sky, and the wind blew at Lothwell’s back, blowing under his feet to keep him running. Many times, he fell, gasping for air, unable to get up. Then, he crawled, dragging himself forward until his legs regained sensation. When he could stumble to his feet again, Lothwell would break back into a run, crossing the whispering grasslands with delirious speed, their voices growing louder with the coming of the rain.

By the time Lothwell reached the front gates of his castle, the reeking smell of rotten flesh and curdled blood had long soured his nose. Rain was drizzling to the ground now, and the road became like mud. Lothwell was coated in muck, splashing through the garden, now acutely aware of the bones that broke like soggy twigs under his footsteps. Empty sockets peered out of the ground toward him from every direction, and hands of spoiled ivory seemed to grasp at Lothwell’s feet as he hurtled through the courtyard in despair. 

The castle’s front doors crashed open as Lothwell threw his entire weight through them and towards the central staircase and collapsed onto the ground, slicing his hands and knees and shredding his clothes across a field of shattered glass as he crawled up the stairs in agony. Leaving a trail of dripping blood in his wake, Lothwell braced himself against the stone wall and limped through the dark hallway.

“Estelle, I’m sorry,” he whispered through his tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Throwing open his bedroom door, Lothwell wailed at the sight of his wife. He rushed to her side, sobbing and apologizing. He pulled the sheets from her body, revealing her unsightly remains in their fullness. Molding, ivory bones poked through liquid flesh and priceless jewels. Her scalp had sloughed off into a nearby lump, and worms wriggled through every inch of her face. Lothwell scooped her up in his arms—her body far lighter without the weight of the flesh it held in life—and stumbled from the room with feverish strength. After limping one last time through the darkness, Lothwell carried his wife down the central stairwell as stormy winds whistled through the broken windows. 

The castle’s weighty front doors remained held open by a ghastly beam of pale moonlight, and Lothwell gazed out into the garden. A miasma had settled over it, a secret filth that permeated the ground and corrupted its hallowed nature. The blooms were dull, and clouds cast darkness over the once-joyous place. Hundreds of make-believe gardeners lay decomposing in every flower bed and at the base of every tree, feeding the courtyard with life from sacrilegious death. Lothwell cried out, half-blind as raindrops pelted his face and thunder rolled overhead. Slipping and stumbling through muddied pathways, he carried Estelle out into the courtyard and hopelessly searched for a sacred place undefiled by grim, vermin-infested bodies. 

Eventually, Lothwell found it—the corner where his wife always read her books. It was immaculate; a small, ivy-laden bench rested in the shade of a weeping willow, and gorgeous wildflowers bloomed brighter than any collection of jewels without any trace of decay. Hucksley never disappointed, and Lothwell could recognize his handiwork anywhere. Lothwell muttered a final thank you to his lifelong friend before laying his wife to rest.

There, in that distant corner of her beautiful garden, Estelle laid quietly in a bed of vibrant wildflowers. Her husband laid next to her, his hand in hers, waiting for the rain to wash both of them away.

Ethan Miller is an English major at EIU with a specialization in writing short horror stories. Often, he writes stories based on his nightmares and fears both to soothe his personal anxieties and to disturb/delight his readers. In the future, Ethan plans on sticking around at EIU to achieve his MA in creative writing and finish his first short horror story collection.