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Whose Garden Grows at Midnight
mysteryEveryone6 contributors · 3 paragraphs deep
There it is. Three plots over. Sitting in Mrs. Pratt's strawberry bed like it belongs there. Shiny with dew. Still huge. Still alive. But it wasn't here yesterday. It was in Mr. Okafor's plot, right where he'd been nursing it all summer.
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.
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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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Hana Kim
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