August 25th, 1:33 am

In the dark of the greenhouse, under the light of a milky moon and the glow of a candlestick, I wait patiently to see if my orchid will bud. I have grown many good things in my garden, triumphant daffodils and two-faced pansies, tilted sunflowers and malevolent snapdragons, but I’ve never been able to grow a white frog orchid. It is the one thing still evading me in this life.

      He promised me that everything would grow in my garden.

      The humidity in the glass enclosure fogs my glasses and I pull them off to clean them with the hem of my shirt. When I put them back on, I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I follow it with my gaze until it disappears like fog across the lawn. It must be late and I must be tired.

      I take another look at my prized possession, examining the roots that extend into the fresh, warm dirt. I whisper to it, telling it my secrets, and feel it giving life back to me. We are in symbiosis, the perfect pairing. I put away my pruning shears and trowel, ignoring the shovel in the corner. I’ll put it away another day.

      When I turn to leave, I see the shadow again before me. I do not flinch; I examine it. It is the specter of a man I once knew, a breeze passing through the veil, an infestation from the netherworld come to destroy my garden. The filtered glass of the greenhouse shakes in the lukewarm wind and pulls my attention away. The shadow flees, and I, in exhaustion and weariness, go to my bed.

September 3rd, 11:21 am

It has been a few days since I last saw him, the ghost. I tucked it away in the back of my mind, a solitary place where I leave the most horrible things to be forgotten by time. I rarely visit. There are far too many things to tend to in my garden. The peppers are flourishing nicely, like tiny red and green ornaments hanging from the vine. I need to collect and dry the sunflower seeds before the birds get to them or they fall to the ground, but first, I want to check on my orchid.

      The little bud has grown rather quickly. Its stalk now stretches up towards the sun. Soon it will bloom, I can feel it.

      I can feel him, too. I take a moment and carefully, slowly turn my head. The shadow is in the doorway, preventing me from passing through. I don’t scream or run. I watch and I wait.

      Eventually he walks towards me, arms out, before vanishing into the air, like dust moving through rays of sun. I pocket my shears. I don’t know if you can injure a ghost, but having them makes me feel safer. I walk out of the greenhouse, lock the door, and quickly return to the house.

      I take a warm shower to wash away the dirt, digging at the mud under my fingernails until I make them bleed. I bow my head and let the water pour over me. The tub struggles to drain, and for a moment I’m standing in a puddle. I think of the shadow, the dirt, my orchid, and all my dreams under the roof of the greenhouse. I turn off the water and dry off.

September 3rd, 11:59 pm

It’s almost midnight. The grandfather clock groans as it prepares to move its heavy hands and announce the hour. I was dreaming just moments ago, a dream of the greenhouse set ablaze and my orchid devoured in flames until it was ash. I get up from my bed to wander out into the night.

      The moon billows brighter, as if to mock my little candle. The wax spills a bit as I walk over the rough pathway. I pass the small stone figurines that litter the yard. A small faun hides behind the bushes, an overturned hand holds a silkworm in its palm, and the miniature statue of two lovers embracing has been stained and is broken down the middle. They were gifts from the man I once loved.

      The years are all I have left of him. I should break the statues down, chip them to pieces, and scatter the remains in the fresh-turned dirt. He made me a promise—he broke that promise. I hold the flickering candle in my right hand while I unlatch the door to the greenhouse. It’s warm inside, the glass fogged from the humidity, and it takes me a moment to adjust.

      I check the orchid, it’s almost ready to bloom. I can see the petals eager to emerge, tendrils ready to touch the sky. I set my candle down on the oak table and speak gently to it. I pull out a stool and sit down. I wait.

September 4th, 3:08 am

I’ve been here in the warmth of the greenhouse for hours, in the middle of the night, but he hasn’t shown himself. I start to question if I had imagined his shadow, dreamt it into existence, pulled scattered threads back into a threadbare tapestry of memory—but this isn’t something my mind would create. I’ve never been one for waking nightmares. I can’t conjure up spirits to let them speak once more; I’m no medium and this is no seance. 

      I pick up the candle, whisper goodnight to my orchid, and push the stool back under the table. As I turn to leave, something shoves me from behind. I catch myself on the table and spill some wax on my hand. It briefly stings as I look over my shoulder. The shadow is there, towering above me just like he did when he was alive. He slaps me to the ground. I hit my head hard and can feel a trickle of blood matting my hair.

      The candle rolls across the floor, extinguished from its fall. I rise slowly, pulling myself up by the stool. His handprint radiates through flesh and time—the sting reminds me of every other hit I took from him. My body flares up, every hair is on edge, the fury accelerates my heart, and I grit my teeth until my jaw threatens to break. I hunt for his dark figure. He can’t be here.

      I touch the back of my head to make sure it’s real. The blood on my hands glistens in the moonlight. I notice that my orchid has fallen over, dirt has been spilled.  The poor darling looks wounded. I set it upright and scoop the earth back into the pot. The plant appears undamaged. I gently comfort her, ready to kill the man who dares destroy the last thing I have.

      There are no more signs of him. No shifts in the light, no presence watching me from the corners of the greenhouse, no touch of a dark hand upon my body. I sigh in relief. I leave the greenhouse to hurry across the damp lawn, climb the steps to my back porch, and lock myself in the safety of my home. I never want to see him again.

September 5th, 8:30 am 

The next morning, I’m hesitant to go back to the greenhouse. I slide into my overalls and button them up, checking if my shears are still in my pocket. I’ve dreamt of growing the rare orchid ever since I saw one at a conservatory in the city. They’re endangered and incredibly difficult to cultivate. Few survive outside of perfect conditions in the wild—and I’ve grown one. I won’t let him ruin this for me.

      The sun dimly beams through a heavy curtain of clouds. It looks like it will rain at any moment. I walk to the greenhouse and peer through the glass. His shadow is there, standing over my orchid. I hit the glass hard. The walls rumble like the thunder above. I run inside and see a ghostly dark hand touching the fragile leaves of my precious white flower. I scream at him, but he does not flinch.

      Something strange is happening—his shadowy figure is coming into focus. He looks at the orchid and it begins to bloom. I see it unfold slowly, like it’s unwrapping, removing the shroud and revealing itself. The specter is doing the same. His features are emerging from the shade as the darkness lifts from him like a flower blooming. I feel myself drop into the memory of what I did as he reaches for me. He wraps his hands around my throat. They’re almost solid, but his body flickers like a flame. I grab his fingers and peel them off my neck. He lunges to grab me again, but his hand passes through me. I feel his fingers swipe through my stomach and a wave of nausea rolls over me, but I’m free from him.

      He looks at his hand as gray flesh begins to appear. He checks his body, touches his face, and looks at the orchid. The white frog flower is unfolding, twisting out from its cloister and spreading its petals. He is doing the same, blooming from the other side, stepping out from the shadow. He becomes a man again as a heavy rain begins to fall. I know what I must do.

September 5th, 8:53 am 

The rain splashes and scatters on the roof of the greenhouse. The veil feels thin here, a joint between worlds ready to slip and snap. I have to keep him from crossing over, to keep him from taking root. He does not belong here.

      I see his heart beat through translucent skin, blood vessels worming through his flesh. He lunges for me and slams into my body. Part of him moves through me, but the rest is too real and can’t pass.

      He shudders and stumbles back. I pull the shears from my pocket and hold them tight and ready. He looks at me with opaque eyes, and I see the artery in his neck turn full and blue under his unstable flesh. I plunge my garden shears through his throat, slicing the carotid. When I jerk the shears out of his flesh, a red vapor gushes forth. The image of the man I once knew begins to fade back into shadow. He’s still trying to hold on, to stay on this side. He doesn’t belong here.

      I turn to my white frog orchid. The flower is in full bloom, but it’s radiating a strange darkness. My heart breaks when I realize they are connected. I never should have grown my prized possession under these conditions. With shaking hands, I use the bloody shears to cut the flower’s stem. The orchid bloom falls on the table and the darkness fades. The shadow of my husband dissolves into the night. I stand alone in the greenhouse as the thing I loved the most withers.

November 19th, 7:00 am 

Despite the cold, the sun burns warm against my skin as I stand in the garden. The greenhouse has been disassembled and is being carried off by the movers. It’s the only thing from the yard that I’m bringing with me. The statues can stay here. All the other plants I had have died off from the frost that came after the rain. That was almost two months ago.

      I drink my cup of tea and look at the spot where the greenhouse once stood. The fresh earth around it still remains; the grass has tried to encroach the land but has only frayed the edges. It can’t go any further, afraid of what lies beneath. Once, I considered salting the earth—but then nothing would grow out of the darkness. He did promise me that everything would grow in my garden; I don’t think he believed that would include his ghost. I suppose everything planted in the damp earth will come forth in time. These flowers must bloom.

      The terracotta pot that cradled the orchid’s bulb and withered stalk sits empty at the edge of the porch. All that remains of my heart was discarded in the trash can out front. It will never see light and all that remains of the orchid will be mingled in the sludge of a landfill.

      I walk out to the patch of dirt and stand where the doorway once was, bending down and touching the ground, feeling the grit on my hand. I still feel pain in my heart when I think of what I did. I had all that I wanted in the palm of my hand and I had to crush it. Maybe some things should stay buried. The ground is cursed, the soil haunted by his presence, but it bears my secret.

      The movers finish their haul and tell me they’re heading out. I should go too. I have new things to do, new things to grow. My life is before me and he is behind me. I caress the ground and tell him goodbye. His bones say nothing. As they should.

***

Logan Spurgeon is a horror and dark fantasy author living in Lexington, Kentucky. When he’s not creating new stories, Logan loves spending time hiking, cooking, crafting, and having deep conversations around a kitchen table.