Gardening

Sunday morning, 6 a.m. sharp, Tony Jackson ran around the block, his yellow lab Bertram jogging beside him. The steady slap slap slap of Tony’s size 11 shoes against the pavement created a staccato rhythm in time with the sharp clicks of Bertram’s nails. They ran together every morning: Tony’s long face bearing a severe expression, blue eyes never glancing up from the grey asphalt. In contrast, Bertram always looked happy, pink tongue lolling excitedly as he barked at the birds that fluttered from green lawn to tree branch but never leaving his master's side.
Every morning, when Tony and his dog reached the stairs leading up to their small brick townhouse, their neighbour, an elderly man whose wife had died a few years ago, would call,
“Morning Anthony, old boy! Say, would you mind picking up my paper for me? My old knees really aren’t what they used to be.”And every morning, Tony would stretch his legs on the stairs, first the right, then the left, and mumble a reply:
“Good morning, Colonel Harcourt.”
Bertram would woof a greeting, and they would head into the house, the old colonel’s quavery voice calling something that was lost in the slam of Tony’s front door.Once inside, Tony would head into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee; he would read the paper, skipping any articles that weren’t about stocks or related to gardening. Then he would toss the paper in the bin and head to his backyard, calling his dog and grabbing a small trowel. Tony was an avid gardener, and his small backyard was almost entirely occupied by a rectangular plot of land - neat rows of carrots, cabbage and potatoes, peas, and green beans. On this Sunday morning, kneeling in front of an unplanted section, Tony began to dig through the soft dirt. He dug with his hands, dirt ingrained into his knuckles and under his nails, stopping occasionally to sift some soil through his fingers. Bertram was beside him, sniffing the ground intensely. Tony stopped momentarily, one hand buried in the earth, the other groping in his pocket for the packet of seeds he had brought from indoors. Suddenly, Tony felt a stinging pain in his right hand; it felt like a rat had sunk its teeth into his index finger. With a sharp cry, Tony yanked his injured hand out of the dirt. Bertram pricked up his ears and began to growl, hackles rising. Blood flowed freely from the bite, and Tony quickly stuck his finger in his mouth, trying to staunch the blood. With the curse words muffled by the finger in his mouth, Tony grabbed the trowel and began digging furiously, dirt flying up around him. Bertram was barking savagely now; his sharp teeth bared enough to show the gums.Tony dug up his whole garden that afternoon; he carefully laid the still-growing vegetables in neat piles and tore through the bare earth, heedless of the dirt staining the knees of his shorts. He found nothing that could have caused the wound. Bertram barked the whole time, saliva flying from his curled lips. After digging up the entire plot of land, Tony had had enough. He swore some more, throwing the trowel roughly to the earth. Bertram sounded like he was going mad, barking and yowling; he refused to go near the dug-up garden, sticking to the side of the fence, his eyes rolling in terror. Tony went back inside, wiping his hands on his shorts and grumbling; Bertram slunk in behind him, tail between his legs.Later that evening, Tony was watching television, his feet up and his dog lying in front of the coffee table. His head nodded once, twice, the sound of the T.V. fading into oblivion.It was warm. Warm and heavy, like being wrapped tightly in a blanket, limbs stuck together, immovable. Darkness was all around, rich darkness, slight sounds detectable through the claustrophobic pressure. Breathing. Staggered, rough. Rasping in and out through barely formed lungs, forced out through a lipless mouth-Tony started awake, knocking the remote off the arm of his chair and sending it flying into the wall. Bertram had moved from his spot by the coffee table and was now standing in front of Tony, hackles raised. A low menacing growl rumbled deep in his throat. Tony shook his head to clear it, mind still full of heavy darkness. He leaned forward, running a hand through his tangled hair. He looked at his other hand; the small bite mark was already almost healed, a slight pinkish line on the tip of his right index finger. He slightly shook his hand as he leaned towards his still growling dog.“It’s alright, Bertram, it’s all okay.” Tony reached out to comfort the yellow dog.
Bertram snarled and backed away, tail stiff and aggressive. Tony frowned. The television was still on, its fuzzy sound humming in the background like a distraught bee.“Bertram. Come here!” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor in front of his feet. Bertram just stared; Tony stood up, snapped his fingers again,“Bertram. Come! Sit!” Finally, the dog obeyed; he sat, still a distance away from his master, head hung low. Grumbling about what a waste of money dog training was, Tony stood up and grabbed the remote from where it had fallen. He pointed it at the screen and clicked the power button. The television winked out, leaving the room quite dark. It was later than Tony had thought; the street lamps were lit, and when he lifted the curtain to glance out the window, stars twinkled in the dark sky. He sighed and let the fabric drop, yawned widely, and stretched. Even though he had just been asleep, Tony felt unreasonably tired; then again, it was quite late, probably around midnight. He walked to the stairs leading up to the second floor and clicked off the light for the living room, leaving Bertram in darkness.As he walked upstairs, Tony called,“’ Night Bertram!” He paused at the top of the stairs, waiting to hear the clicking of his dog’s nails on the hardwood floor following him up the stairs, as usual.
There were the clicks, then they stopped. Tony waited, but there was nothing else: just the creak of the house settling. Surprised, Tony half turned and looked behind him. Bertram was there, standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him. His eyes reflected the light from upstairs and glinted weirdly in the darkness. The big yellow dog was unnervingly quiet. Tony turned back around, feeling distinctly uncomfortable; there was a tingling in the back of his mind, a sensation of being watched. He flicked off the hall light, entered his bedroom, and closed the door. There was no overhead light in his small room, so Tony groped his way through the gloom to his bedside table; he wasn’t afraid of tripping over anything; Tony was rather proud of how neat and organized he was. He felt around for the small lamp, looking for the switch, and felt the ridged plastic between his fingers. He clicked it on. With a snick, the small room was illuminated. Tony sat on the bed and reached to remove his shoes, pulling roughly at the laces. He tucked the laces into the shoes and set them near the foot of his bed. As he pulled off his shirt, Tony heard a soft whining at the door. He folded his shirt, set it on the dresser, and opened the door.“Bertram! Feeling better now?”There sat the yellow dog, looking far more usual, ears drooping, his feathered tail wagging against the floor. He looked up at Tony with a mournful expression. He let out a short whine. Tony smiled and ruffled the dog’s floppy ears.“Good boy Bertram, good boy.” Tony continued to pet his dog, glad he seemed normal again. Giving the dog a final pat, Tony flicked the hall light back on and headed to the bathroom.
He brushed his teeth, flossed, gargled, and spat, wiped his hands with the plain towel hanging next to the sink, and went back to his room. Once again, as he stood at the top of the stairs, hand poised to turn the light off, Tony felt like something was watching him. He looked down the stairs. Nothing. He shook his head and turned the light off. Inside his room, Bertram was curled at the foot of his bed, already asleep. Tony smiled and whispered,
“Good boy,” as he gently patted Bertram’s head. Tony changed into his pajamas and got into bed, turning the side lamp off. He closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.Breathing, a smoother, more human sound than it had been before, but there was still the warm, oppressive darkness. Eyes blinked, fully formed but not yet functioning. A thought filtered through the black:“When?”Tony woke up to what sounded like a hundred dogs ripping each other to pieces, matched in volume by the bone-jarringly high-pitched brrriingg of his alarm clock. Confused and nearly blinded by the sunlight pouring in through the window - he had forgotten to close the blinds before going to bed - Tony reached frantically for the source of the piercing bell. He found it by knocking the small brass clock to the floor, where it bounced around like a living thing, still emitting its awful sound. He sat up and almost leaped out of bed, picking the clock off the floor and finally switching it off. Bertram was yowling and barking like mad, scratching at the door. Tony yelled at him to be quiet and rubbed his forehead. He was exhausted. He looked at the clock clutched in his hand, moving his fingers to see the face. It was 5:45 am. Tony frowned, ignoring Bertram whining and pacing; he hadn’t gone to bed that late, maybe midnight? Why was he so tired? He decided it was because he had napped that evening; it had messed up his sleep cycle. Tony stood up, swayed, and sat back down. He felt weak and shaky. Had he eaten dinner last night? He didn’t remember, and Bertram’s incessant noise wasn’t helping. Maybe he was getting sick; that would explain it. Bracing himself, Tony stood up again, briefly leaned on the nightstand, and then straightened up. For a moment, the room became dark, and a smell of damp earth filled his nostrils. Then Bertram barked, sharp and loud, and Tony snapped back to reality, head jerking slightly at the sound.“Yes, Bertram, I get it; time for walkies.”Tony opened his bedroom door, and Bertram raced out, skittered around the corner, and ran down the stairs. Tony smiled; the weirdness of last night was forgotten. He dressed, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs with far more dignity. Once outside, Bertram behaved normally, and their morning jog went on without a hitch.“Morning, Anthony, old boy! Say, would you mind picking up my paper for me? My old knees really aren’t what they used to be.”Tony stretched his legs on the stairs, first the right, then the left, and said:
“Good morning, Colonel Harcourt.”Bertram barked hello, and they went inside, leaving the colonel sitting on his porch, staring forlornly at the paper at the bottom of the short staircase leading up to his front door. With a grunt, the old man stood up, leaned on the arm of his chair, then tottered to the stairs, muttering,
“One, two, three…” Colonel Harcourt took a step, then another, gripping the railing tight, his knobby knuckles white against the grey-painted wood. Another laborious step, and then he was at the bottom of the stairs. Pausing for breath, the old man leaned over to pick up the paper.At work, Tony’s exhaustion showed, and several co-workers inquired about his health. He just frowned and shrugged, saying he felt fine: he was just getting a cold.
Eventually, they stopped asking. Tony wasn’t very popular at work; he was always far too
grumpy and reclusive, never going to office parties or lunch with the group of people who worked in the same cubicle section.
After work, Tony went straight home, walked Bertram, made dinner, and sat down to watch an evening program. Usually, he would have gone into the garden and worked a little, but something kept him out of the backyard. After watching T.V. for a while, Tony went to bed, Bertram followed him, and everything seemed perfectly normal. Except…he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see something right behind him, but there was never anything there. He got into bed, clicked off the light, and fell asleep.Eyes were open and functioning, but there was nothing really visible, just darkness- not the blue-black darkness of night, but the warm-tinged blackness of the inside of your eyelids. A smell like moist dirt was everywhere, and a soft sound was repeated, the heavy and even sigh of deep breathing.Tony slept through his alarm, slept through Bertram’s frantic barking. He slept until almost noon, the sunlight peeking through the blinds, painting stripes across his face.
Bertram stopped barking around 11:30 and climbed onto his master’s bed, sad and silent.
When Tony finally woke up, he felt lethargic and very ill. Bertram sat at the foot of his bed, staring at him with a dejected expression. Tony smiled weakly and ruffled his dog’s ears. The golden retriever whined and lowered his head. Tony looked at his alarm clock; he was beyond late for work. He staggered out of bed and stumbled down the stairs, wobbling to the kitchen. His phone was attached to the wall next to the sink; he leaned against the wall for a moment to recover and then picked up the receiver. His hands shook as he dialed the number for his office. He spoke to the secretary and told her he was too sick to come in: she said she would inform the boss and hung up. Tony was about to put the phone back on the hook when he glanced out the window over the sink. It held a view of his backyard, and through it, he saw what was left of his garden. The plants were still piled next to the tilled earth; he hadn’t gone out to get them yet, and he kept forgetting. The trowel still lay where he had dropped it two days before. And in the middle of the garden, there rose a large mound of earth. Tony blinked a couple of times and rubbed his eyes with his free hand, the other still holding the receiver.It was still there.
There was a roaring in Tony’s ears and a tingling in his limbs; he let the receiver fall, and it hung there, suspended by its curling cord, as the hand that had been holding it went numb. The pain in his bitten finger returned, and he stepped back from the window, bumping into the table and knocking a glass to the floor. It shattered, but he didn’t notice- his vision had gone dark around the edges, and he could smell damp earth. Tony could hear breathing that was slightly out of sync with his own ragged gasping; he slid to the floor, eyes now totally blind to everything except the sea of darkness that had crept over them, the breathing nearly drowning out his own, feeling himself buried in the soil with whatever was in the garden. Bertram rushed down the stairs, barking his head off. He charged into the kitchen, skidding slightly on the broken glass, and bit Tony on the arm.Tony snapped out of his stupor and groaned in pain; Bertram let go of his master’s arm and licked his face, panting and whining. The man’s head lolled forward as he tried to stand; he fell onto his knees, paused, then tried again to stand up. Bertram whined and pushed at Tony’s legs, trying to help him get up. Grasping the table edge, he staggered upright, the beeping of the phone ringing too loudly in his ears. Bertram circled his master’s feet, herding him into the living room. Tony relied heavily on the wall as he went, blinking to try and clear the overlap between what was really in front of him and the darkness from the other’s vision. He collapsed into his armchair and tried to relax. Eventually, the double vision receded, and he could think clearly. Bertram laid his head on Tony’s lap and looked earnestly at him. Tony gently laid his hand on the dog's head.“What’s happening, Bertram? What is in the garden…”
His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out what was happening. It must be whatever had bitten him two days before; that must be what was in the garden. Tony was lost in his thoughts for hours, trying to decide what to do. He began to piece the last few days' events together, remembering the terrifying dreams that plagued his sleep. Perhaps…perhaps the thing could invade his mind, join with his thoughts when he was asleep and defenseless: that’s why he wasn’t feeling rested; it was using his mind to grow-feeding off of his mental energy. He resolved not to sleep, to starve the thing. But he was so tired.

Time passed incredibly slowly. Tony had tried watching television for a couple of hours, but the bright light hurt his eyes, and the sound was too loud, no matter how low the volume control said it was. Bertram lay beside his master’s chair the entire time, prepared to bite him again if necessary. Whenever Tony felt himself begin to nod off, he would slap his face hard enough to make his eyes water. The sound seemed to become louder every time, making Bertram jump. The soft ticking of the kitchen clock above the stove sounded loud enough to make the walls rattle; every time the dog inhaled, pictures seemed to be pulled away from the wall, then blown back again as he exhaled. Tony could feel a bead of sweat slide down his face, sure that he could hear it make its way over his pores.Around three in the morning, Tony had had enough. He stood up suddenly, pushing the armchair back with a loud bang, nearly kicking Bertram. The dog jumped up and whined, backing away. Tony marched unsteadily into the kitchen, trying to avoid falling over by leaning heavily on the walls. He got to the sink, the phone still hung from its cord, rotating slowly, emitting an incessant beeping. He ignored it, eyes only on the mound of earth he could see through the window. It seemed bigger; it almost looked like some sort of cocoon. The moonlight filtering through the fence slats painted stripes across the remnants of his garden, curving up around the bulging pile of dirt. Smiling grimly, Tony took a step towards the door leading to the backyard, then another, and another. He nearly fell when he reached the door but saved himself by grabbing the handle. It felt cool and metallic in his sweaty hand. Pulling the door open seemed an impossible task: the double vision was back, everything mixing together in a kaleidoscope of brown earth and white door; Tony could hear loud breathing, but he couldn’t tell if it was his or the other’s. He felt hot all over, sweaty, and his centre of gravity kept shifting; sometimes, he felt like he was lying flat on the ground and, other times, leaning against the door frame. He threw up but couldn’t tell where the vomit had ended up, on the floor or the ceiling. With an almighty effort, Tony opened the door and staggered into the cool darkness of the night. He fell to his knees, groping savagely for the trowel as something laughed with his voice in his ear. The vertigo had receded a little, and he found the small shovel. He picked it up and turned towards the garden, arms raised to strike. Bertram howled from inside the house.Wednesday morning, 6 a.m. sharp, Tony Jackson ran around the block.
When he reached the stairs leading up to his home, Colonel Harcourt called out
“Morning Anthony, old boy! Say, would you mind picking up my paper for me? My old knees really aren’t what they used to be.”Tony smiled broadly as he stretched his legs on the stairs, first the right, then the left, and said
“Of course, Colonel!”
He walked to his neighbour’s house and picked up the paper, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other as he climbed the stairs to the old man’s porch.“Here you go.”
Tony handed the newspaper to the Colonel, still smiling broadly.The old man smiled back, pleased to have someone to talk to.
“I say, have you taken up midnight gardening, m’boy? I saw you digging around out there with a massive shovel last night when I got up to get a glass of water. What were you planting?”Tony looked rather sad.
“Oh, I’m afraid I wasn’t planting anything, Colonel; poor old Bertram was hit by a car this morning; he died on the spot. I thought the decent thing to do was bury the poor thing right away. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”The Colonel looked perplexed.
“But I saw Bertram run past earlier this morning, about an hour ago, to be precise. I’m sure it was him, although I nearly didn’t recognize him. He’s normally such a happy dog. He seemed absolutely petrified when he ran by.”Tony put an arm around the Colonel’s hunched shoulders and steered him towards the front door.“Maybe we should discuss this over a cup of tea, Colonel. I’m sure I can make things clear for you.”He smiled.