The Groundskeeper's Contract

Sweet and salty, the essences indulge my palates as each lick catches the fresh blood dripping off my lips. The iron-infused concoction dribbles downward on my chin, painting a dark red message on the fallen leaves lying at my feet. A warning to escape while I can. Somehow, I can’t convince myself enough to leave this crouching position, though I should know better.

Five years ago today, I promised myself that never again would I wander past the rose garden. Yet, here I am, with thorns slicing through my flesh, so I can bear witness to history repeating itself. Needing confirmation that my theory holds true. That on this night, I’d again observe an impatient slaughter materialize from a distance, eviscerating its targets. As for the prey, it didn’t take them long to waltz in, unannounced, remiss as they owned the place. On another day, I’d be furious at the disturbance. But, tonight, I removed the chains from the gates and prayed that someone stumbled in. By my count, there are nine of them, young, clueless, and carefree as most other people their age. They may even imagine an exploit that wraps into an impressive story to share on their social media. Breaking and entering a property that, by appearances, seems abandoned. And what an impetuous position they’ve found themselves in. I watch as they loiter around, so unaware. But I know how this night ends. I knew the minute the gates opened. The moment they followed the moonlit path past the protection of the rose garden, down to the lake. Serves them right for trespassing and trampling like wild beasts over this manicured lawn. For crushing the flowers soon on their way out with one last bite of autumn chill. Most repulsive, the flagrant disregard for my efforts, bringing life and elegance to this hellish place. I could alert them to what’s coming, I know. Though conceivably, I’d be free of judgment if I said, without them, it certainly would be me.

In fact, it was almost me. You see, I grew up here in this small town of Marraway, a sleepy and forgettable little settlement. Where the dwellers validate their existence with farming and idle gossip. Where everyone knows each other, at least on the surface. They smile, nod and wave while whispering secrets in private. But who can blame them when Marraway offers nothing else to feed their miserable void. Still, there’s a fascination to this place, the occasional mysteries and outlandish stories. Although, I have yet to hear one as peculiar as mine. My arrival here was a remarkable spectacle, adrenaline for their tongues. Distorted parables swallowed as if it were water. To this day, nobody knows the truth, not even me.

I’m forever thankful to the old man who took me in, fed and clothed me. He gave me purpose, encouraged me to master my craft. I followed his every whim, taking notes as he found peace amongst nature. His voice still plays in my mind, a reminder to be careful with the shears, to be kind to the plants.

They’re alive, you know.

We were stylists, but for gardens.

He would say.

His instructions I follow still to this very day. These grounds are the only living thing I have left to care for. He trained me, prepared me to take his place someday. Then one day, his employers left without a goodbye, leaving the property desolate for years. So I watched the old man grieve the loss of the only thing responsible for his joy. He depleted until he died. I buried along with him my aspirations to one day be his equal. Now all I had were the people of Marraway. The scorn and pity on their faces when they saw me each day, yet they pretended to accept me, pretending my past was a distant memory. Me, the quiet, young orphan with an odd knack for shaping hedges. But then, like an answered prayer, a new family moved into the old manor and I was just what they needed.

The Beckans floated on air, a picture perfect family of four, fit for the covers of any magazine. They were undoubtedly the most impressive people to set foot here. I remember the thrill that shot arrows through my veins, finally a chance to showcase my skills. Crowned with the title of Groundskeeper to the Beckan family manor. Such an honor, a gracious lifetime opportunity. Just like the old man. It was splendid, giving this strong, talented loner, craving a challenge something to look forward to. My duty, restoring the once breathtaking grounds of what was Marraway’s most desired site.

That was before the rumors. Those started long before my time. Whispers of a curse, a mystery, or perhaps mere coincidence, nobody knew for sure. Though I’d admit how strange it seemed, that every new family left without warning, after five short years of being at the manor. The same happened to the old man, except nobody came to replace the last family. And so he suffered, but now I have the Beckans. I had no intent on letting simple folklore made up by small-minded townspeople deter my life’s goal. That was until five years ago when I encountered the vicious evil that haunts this property. Only I know what lurks in the depths. At the bottom of the manor’s private lake, beyond the ornamental rose garden. The garden that I grew, shielding the heinousness past these thorns now pressed into my face.

The lake, in all its grandeur, is a book of two tales. One that draws you in, allowing you to capitulate to its wonder. The other, devours you from the inside out, silences your agony and scrapes away at all that is innocent. There was no suspicion that night to see it coming. With the moon full, highlighting a glistening path on the surface. The air was slightly chill, yet cozy. An ideal setting. A flawless backdrop for a late-night family picnic. How I wished to be part of it, the family I never had. I admired from a short distance, peering between golden fall leaves, treasuring their warm relationship and wishing to be closer. Though I’m grateful now that I wasn’t. The Beckans didn’t deserve what happened on this ghastly night. They welcomed me, praised me even. People who respected my work and romanticized it as I did. Can the same be said for my wayward guests tonight? Self-entitled to enter uninvited, gleeful as they bathe in ignorance bliss. I’m uncertain. Although I imagine, better them than me.

I still stroll into town occasionally. Taking weekly trips to the market, always shielding my face, masking my identity. It’s best they presume I went along with the Beckans. They are oblivious that I overhear their pretentious concern and fictitious narratives about what could've taken place.

What happened to them?

One would ask.

Then I brace myself for the approaching rabbit's hole designed by such unimaginative people.

I heard they lost all their money and had to give up the manor.

I heard they hated it in Marraway and left in the dead of night.

Well, I heard Mrs. Beckan caught her husband having an affair and moved away to save their marriage.

I heard… I heard… I heard. What useless gossip. They heard nothing. I know because I was there. Not a soul will hear from the Beckans again. The absurdity of it all. My only recompense is knowing that a family so exquisite was always too good for this town.

It sickens me, their gasps, giggles and awe-filled eyes, but I’d listen, anyway. Perhaps someone would recall that I was also at the manor. Still, the disappointment grows in my stomach each time, realizing that everyone has forgotten me, dismissing my presence altogether. I suspect it’s pleasing to them, my being at the manor, them hoping I’d disappear like the other inhabitants. With no family, no friends, no home, for certain, who would remember the nameless child left by the roadway over thirty years ago? A screaming baby, so unloved, left alone with nothing but the clothes on its back. And how did they welcome me? With lies and judgments, the truth was always hidden behind their eyes and under their artificial smiles. As if all my life I’d been the unwanted one, the outcast, disposable, an afterthought. Or in this case, not a thought at all.

I refuse to dwell in despair. Especially not since I’ve had the manor all to myself. The tranquility, the refinement and all its riches, all of it mine for the past five years. I held its secret, kept it pristine and would continue to, if tonight goes as planned. My eyes pierce past the thorns, observing my guests enjoying their very last moments, when a bitter gust brushes by. The hairs on my body tense, paralyzed in the stillness. My heartbeat being the only sound, pounding violently through my chest. Darkness consumes the light with an unknowable hunger. Then there it is. The familiar fog crawls from under the lake, overtaking the surface and towering above the loftiest trees. I see it now, the faces in the midst. With them, the family I wished were my own, turned into a cloudy apparition thirsty for the blood of the nine trespassers. One at a time, they lift off the ground. I hear no screams, just the crackle of their bones breaking, again and again, their skin and flesh leaking into the lake before they vanish into the abyss. The fear blaring from their eyes and yet from them, not a sound. The fog lowers and, like that, my guests are no more.

I feel my limbs coming alive again, stretching above the rose bushes. The night is quiet as if nothing happened, but a miracle that I again survived the fog. My feet are steady with each step as not to reawaken the lake and its ghost. Until a lone branch intrudes on my path. The snap radiates my nerves with fear and in a blink, I’m circled. This is not what I had planned. My eyes sealed as the haze rushes towards me, reopening to identify in it, a single face. One that appears so acquainted, so delicate, and nurturing, though I can’t recall ever seeing it before. Then, with softness, it breathes.

Have no fear, my dear child.

And could it be that I spotted a smirk from the cloudy silhouette as it returned to the lake? It is at this moment, I am certain that fate has brought me here. To home. The place I always belonged. The old man was right. They are alive. But not just the plants, the entire grounds, the lake included. And as keeper of these grounds, it is my obligation to keep them thriving. To see that they’ve met their every need. An unspoken agreement that I am eager to sign. Let’s consider my payment the restitution I'm owed for the town. As I place the chains back onto the gates, the grin on my face is all-knowing. Until the next five years, people of Marraway.