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Whose Garden Grows at Midnight
mysteryEveryone6 contributors · 3 paragraphs deep
Mrs. Pratt is kneeling beside the pumpkin. Her strawberry bed. She touches it with one finger. Then her whole palm. Her face goes strange. 'This is warm,' she says to no one. 'This is still warm.'
'Still warm,' I say. Mrs. Pratt looks at me. 'You think someone carried it? Like, recently?' She kneels down and points at the soil underneath. 'Look. Tiny marks. Small hands. Maybe very small hands.'
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'Very small hands,' Mrs. Pratt says. She's not looking at the pumpkin anymore. She's looking at the garden gates. At the school field next door. 'Oh no,' I say. 'You don't think—'
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Sasha Volkov
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