The price of genius burdens
Though I paid it long ago,
But he is not contented
Just to claim the debt I owe.
Time ticks ever onward,
Green o’er my grave has grown,
And yet I still remain here
In my house of blood and bone.
The next morning, I drove into town to get a hammer and nails.
I’d spent a great deal of time looking the painting over—though it made my skin crawl—but whatever secrets the portrait held, it kept. Eventually, I had to admit the painting was only a piece of the puzzle. The spot in the hallway must be the other.
That was where I found myself come afternoon, standing on a teetering chair to look for the telltale hole from the old nail. I wanted to avoid doing damage to the house if I could help it, sure the university would be happy to charge me for the repairs, so I diligently searched for nearly 45 minutes before finally locating the pinprick high up on the wall. Wishing I’d taken woodcraft instead of experimental theater as my fine art elective, I positioned the nail as best I could and swung the hammer.
The nail made a dull thud as it sunk in. I held the hammer ready for the second swing, but hesitated. The wall felt . . . strange. There wasn’t the solid, dry resistance I’d expected under the nail, but a thick softness, as though the wood were waterlogged. I felt around the nail, expecting some give, but the wallpaper was crisp, the wood dense as any other.
Shrugging, I applied the hammer again, driving the nail in until a quarter-inch remained. A touch proud that I hadn’t hurt myself, I was about to descend when I noticed something strange.
Something was leaking from the wall, swelling around the nail to dribble in dark, crimson drops down the wallpaper.
I stared, confused and disbelieving. As close as I was, I could smell a familiar, metallic tang. Once again, I felt the sensation of being not myself, of watching as I reached out a trembling hand and brushed a droplet with my fingertip, the thick liquid smearing over my skin. It was warm—warmer than it had any right to be.
Shivers started along my spine, then grew worse. I couldn’t handle this. It wasn’t happening. My mind couldn’t process it.
The painting. I needed to hang the painting.
My shocked psyche grasped onto the objective and held tightly. Numbly, I set about hanging the painting, a task that took much longer than it should have due to my shaking limbs. But at last, the thin wire backing caught on the nail and the portrait settled into place, right into the rectangle of wallpaper Jeanette had pointed out.
An illogical sense of relief filled me. Whatever else happened, at least I’d accomplished something. Setting aside the hammer, I stepped back to take in the portrait.
It looked much the same. I moved around, studying it from different angles, but found nothing—no secret message, no grand revelation. It was just a painting, hanging on a wall.
It was still creepy though.
I scrutinized Anton Baron’s face, an image I was now intimately familiar with. He looked much as I felt: confused, scared, like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. For the first time, I pitied him.
“Was it like this when you lived here?” I whispered. “Is that why you killed yourself?”
I got no answer, much to my relief. I stood staring at the portrait for some time, trying to puzzle out this strange situation I’d managed to get myself into, so deep in thought that I startled when my phone went off.
It was Jeanette. She apologized for not answering sooner and said she didn’t recognize the labeling system, but she could look into it.
There’s also no tour this Sunday, the message continued. My heart fell into my shoes. Not enough people. I’ll see you next week, tho. Text me if you need anything else!
I hadn’t realized how much of a lifeline Jeanette had become. The prospect of being alone in the house for more than a week made me sick. I’d just have to find ways to get out more, I decided. Take long walks, trips into the town—and there was always the garden. I’d be happy enough to work on the porch, weather permitting.
At least I’d be safe from that disgusting purple monster and random knot eyes.
*
Over the next few days, I spent as much time outdoors as possible. The weather held, and despite the terror I’d experienced within the house, the grounds were lovely. The serenity I’d so briefly enjoyed returned, and I contemplated buying a tent and just camping out there, only using the house to shower and cook.
But by the third day, something began to smell.
At first, I thought it was my imagination. It’d happened before—catching a whiff of roses from my grandmother’s garden, a trace of Fabian’s cologne. The mind plays tricks. After everything I’d been through in the past few weeks, I wasn’t surprised that mine was behaving badly.
By the fifth day, I knew I wasn’t imagining it—something in the garden stank.
I also realized I hadn’t seen the old gardener in a while. Mr. Nielson had said he’d come by once a week, in his own time. When I counted back, I realized it’d been more than a week. Perhaps he was just late—he didn’t seem the type to take others’ needs into consideration.
By Saturday, the stench was unbearable. Having lost my last sanctuary and at my wit’s end, I texted Mr. Nielson.
To my surprise, he texted back within the hour. Mr. Gibbons (I realized with a start that I’d never asked the man’s name) had fallen and broken his hip. Mr. Nielson was in the process of arranging for a replacement gardner, but in the meantime, I’d have to make do.
Well. I could do that. At least it would get my mind off things.
Before turning my attention to the garden, I sent a follow-up text asking Mr. Nielson about the other issues, reiterating that I had seen something in the house. He replied that it was difficult to find an exterminator willing to go so far, but he was working on it. I wondered if he was telling the truth, then decided it didn’t matter. Whatever I’d seen wasn’t something an exterminator could deal with, anyway.
The lock on the garden shed was sturdy steel, but the door itself was weak with rot. It took about 10 minutes of shoving before it gave way and allowed me entrance. It probably wasn’t the best way to go about things, but this was an emergency, and I figured the shed needed an upgrade anyway—I’d just provided the university with a little more incentive.
I’d never had a green thumb. My last attempt at growing something, taken around age 12, had resulted in drowning a perfectly good tomato plant. Who knew green things could only take so much moisture? Still, I did have something to go by—I’d witnessed old man Gibbons shuffling about his business. As long as I didn’t hurt myself, I figured I’d be fine.
I gathered all the tools I could remember Mr. Gibbons grabbing—and a few more, besides—then headed back to the garden. My prime objective was to get rid of the smell. I suspected something had died there, then been covered up as the plants grew wild. If I could dispose of the rotting corpse, at least I’d have my refuge back.
Sniffing audibly, I inspected the garden, following the scent. It was earthy, mineral, and decidedly awful, like rust mixed with sewer water. When I finally reached a patch of earth where I nearly gagged, I figured I’d found the source.
Strangely enough, it was the same spot I remembered Mr. Gibbons working, muttering under his breath and shoving things into garbage bags. What was really weird was that nothing seemed to grow there at all—the smell seemed to come directly from the ground.
Maybe there’s a busted sewer line, I thought, taking a small hand tiller and gently scraping through the loose soil. Or maybe stink bugs? I didn’t know enough about either to make an educated guess.
I’d only done a few inches down when I hit something.
It was soft, giving under the pointed tines of the tiller. Worried I’d puncture the mystery object by accident, I grit my teeth and brushed away the dirt with my hands, half-curious and half-dreading unearthing what was making that terrible smell.
I encountered what I thought was a smooth stone, but as my fingers glanced over the surface, I realized it was supple and warm. As the dirt fell away, the deep burgundy color emerged, and the full size. It looked like a giant bean, about the size of my hand.
Trembling, I brushed away more dirt, uncovering a second object lying in symmetry with the first. The stench was nearly overpowering. If I’d felt sick before, it was nothing compared to the disgust that flooded through me now.
Now, I’m no doctor—I barely passed Biology 101 in college—but I knew enough to understand what I was looking at: two kidneys.
I really, really, really wished I had some fucking gloves.
Instead, I had to make do with the tiller.
I tried to maneuver the prongs under the organs to hoist them up, but the tool caught on something. I pulled harder, not wanting to think about what I was doing or what it meant, and after a hard jerk, the organs came free. Below them dangled veiny roots clotted with dirt, oozing something red and mineral-smelling. It was only then I realized I didn’t have a trash bag or anything to put them in.
It took only a few minutes to run to the kitchen, that dissociative feeling overtaking me once again. When I returned, there would be nothing—I was sure of it. This couldn’t be real, after all. It was just my mind collapsing, a slow-motion decay of my sanity. That was all. It had to be.
But when I got back, the kidneys were still there, stinking and oozing. I shoved them into the trash bag, which I threw in the dumpster. This far out, there was no trash service, but I wasn’t in any state to make the two-hour trip to the dump.
I never set foot in the garden again.