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Whose Garden Grows at Midnight
mysteryEveryone6 contributors · 4 paragraphs deep
I measure it out with my steps. Thirty-seven paces. Too far. It didn't roll. Someone carried it. Someone strong carried Mr. Okafor's prize pumpkin across the entire allotment in the dark.
In the soil around the pumpkin—footprints. Little ones. Too small for an adult. Too deliberate to be random. Someone small walked this path. Carrying something heavy. In the middle of the night.
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