The ability has plagued me since birth. It’s impossible to truly love anyone when you know their worst ideas and feelings. Maybe that’s why few of us love ourselves. Horror lies in our unseen minds. Be honest. It does. Intrusive thoughts aren’t indicative of our true selves, but I’m talking about the thoughts we do control. We all have dire dreams and sickening secrets. Things we only tell ourselves. And I’m talking about the minds of good people. This post isn’t even about that – I could tell you plenty of terrible tales about good people.
No, this is the story of a train journey home.
I’d much rather be married to Jason, one passenger lamented. Maybe I should ‘accidentally’ send him a picture of…
… too easy. I can make this bitch believe anything, a man thought about his girlfriend.
I wonder what Grandma’s left in her will, one teenager wondered. I wish she’d hurry up.
Nothing particularly dreadful. I’ve heard worse. But nothing quite as terrible as the thoughts of the man a few rows in front of me.
… and eleven roses for the garden, he thought. One for each of them. One for each of their hearts. Or succulents, perhaps. Succulent, joyous hearts. My garden shall be–
His internal monologue abruptly ceased. All sound on the train ceased, in fact, other than the gardener’s sluggish breathing. Slow, paced inhales and exhales. He adjusted himself in his seat, and the framework of the chair creaked, as if it were under inexplicable strain. I felt blood pool in my mouth, and I realised my teeth had clamped down on my tongue – adrenaline had blinded me to the agony. And then came something more awful than the silence.
Hello, the gardener thought. Robyn is such a lovely name.
My throat seized, and fear paralysed me. The man knew my name, and that could only mean two things – he knew I was reading his mind, and he was reading mine too. He was speaking directly to me.
Don’t be afraid, the man chuckled. You have such a pure heart, Robyn. A real delicacy.
“Ticket, please.”
I swivelled to face the ticket inspector in the aisle. He seemed very concerned about the scared-shitless look on my face. I was likely whiter than flour.
“Are you… okay, love?” He asked.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, I… Here.”
The man inspected my ticket, nodded, and handed it back. “These late night trains are brutal, eh? You look a little rough. Might be worth getting an early night tonight.”
I’d love to get an early night with you, the inspector thought. Fuck, you’re hot.
I feigned a smile and watched him walk away. That was when I realised the gardener had disappeared. My body was quaking, and my jumbled thoughts were finally starting to come together. What was his name? I wondered. Often, I can read more than a person’s thoughts – I can read them. But I’d never come across a slate as blank as this nameless man. He was a void.
Jerry was a rude ticket inspector, wasn’t he? The gardener suddenly asked in my mind. So awful to know what lies in the hearts of men, isn’t it?
I spun around, but I couldn’t see him.
And his heart would taste like ash, he continued. Have you ever tried one?
Who are you? I fearfully thought.
Ah, there you are, my rose, the gardener whispered in my head. Have you ever eaten a heart? It’s the greatest way to read a person.
“Next stop, Ansdell and Fairhaven,” The train tannoy announced.
Driven by fright beyond anything I’d ever experienced, I sprang to my feet and marched to the entryway by the double doors. I’d always believed myself to be the only person with this ability, and stumbling across someone with the same power might’ve been a blessing if it hadn’t been the gardener. Everything about that man, if he were really a man, was wrong.
Robyn, the gardener whispered. Take a look.
His mind was a dense book, but I knew exactly where to look. The train slowly approached the station, and I cautiously twisted my head to the door at the end of the aisle. I think I knew I’d see something ghastly – something that still haunts me. Through the window of the aisle door, I could see only the gardener and Jerry. The inspector’s flailing body was being hoisted to the ceiling by the gardener’s abnormally large hands. Jerry’s thoughts were more primal than anything I’d ever endured – I felt his unwavering fear.
Not the garden, Jerry pleaded. Please, not the garden.
You’re not fit for the garden, Jerry, the gardener thought. I have another plot of land for you.
Jerry screamed in his mind. No… What is that? No… NO! Please, the garden. I want to go–
With a resounding squelching noise, Jerry finally stilled his seizing, and the gardener let his victim’s corpse clunk to the floor of the empty train carriage. In the bloody palms of his hands, the murderous man victoriously cradled Jerry’s heart. Nobody else in my carriage had seen or heard a thing. Only I saw the inhuman man. Only I saw his lifeless eyes and terrible smile. There was nothing in his mind – nothing to read but blackness. And then–
I see you, the gardener thought. The dark joy in the farthest corner of your mind. You’re glad I put that pig out of his misery. And that will only make your heart taste sweeter, Robyn. The twelfth rose in my garden.
The train finally rolled to a stop at Ansdell and Fairhaven. I furiously jammed the Open button with my index finger, squeezing through the half-open doors onto the platform. There, I waited in fear for the gardener to join me. But he didn’t. He observed me from the window of his empty carriage as the train pulled away. I locked my gaze onto his glazed-over eyes, preferring those lifeless spheres to the lips drenched in Jerry’s blood.
Perhaps not yet, the gardener thought, smiling horribly. I’ll wait for your heart to ripen.
That was two months ago, and I read about the grizzly discovery of the ticket inspector’s body on a local news site. It wasn’t some fever dream on the late-night train. I’ve barely slept since. I lie awake at night, feeling eyes upon me. Not upon my body, but my mind. I can feel the gardener rooting around in there, as if I were a rose in his flower patch. Sometimes, in a fit of fright, I think I see the curve of that carnivorous smile in the darkened corner of my bedroom – waiting to devour my heart.
But fear’s a good thing. I’ll stay unhappy forever. When I lower my guard and finally allow myself to enjoy life again, that’s when he’ll come for me.
The gardener likes succulent, joyous hearts.