“Ladies and gentleman, ghouls and gremlins, welcome to the most haunted garden in America!” I said to a dozen or so bored-looking kids, clearly not thrilled that their parents had dragged them to a Halloween event at the local botanical gardens, where instead of candy they would be treated to samples of exotic fruits. “These gardens were founded by Klaus Mondthal in 1897. Klaus was born in Saxony, in Germany, but spent most of his life exploring remote locales, hunting for rare orchids. He ventured from the hills of Assam, where he narrowly escaped being killed by bloodthirsty headhunters, to the cloud forests of Ecuador and the malarial swamps of the Congo. He eventually settled in South Florida. Back then, it was only sparsely populated and he was able to buy hundreds of acres quite cheaply. In addition to his beloved orchids, he also planted thousands of rare plants that he collected on his travels, some of which are only known to grow here. We’ll see, and taste, some tonight while we learn more about the mysterious creator of the gardens.”
I led the group over to a gac tree, a small, sweet fruit with a spiny orange rind that was native to Vietnam. After I handed out some samples, I continued the story of the Mad German: “Klaus was a reclusive man. He lived alone, and tended his land alone. His gardens were not open to tourists. In fact, he installed barbed wire fencing and hired armed guards to patrol the perimeter. Even these guards were not allowed to venture inside the fences. Why? Those were the days when orchid fever had spread among the upper class, the days when rare specimens could go for the equivalent of tens of thousands of dollars. But was there another reason?
“The one man who knew Klaus the best was an orchid dealer, a fellow German named Heinrich Schultz. Heinrich claimed that one night, when Klaus had a little too much to drink, he stated that on his land was the object of many explorers’ quests, the spring of Ponce de León’s dreams, the legendary Fountain of Youth! According to Heinrich, Klaus claimed that he learned of its location in an ancient manuscript he discovered in an abandoned monastery in Dordogne. Whether Klaus actually claimed this is unknown, but it is clear that he did not drink from the legendary fount, for the only known photograph that exists of him, taken shortly before his death in 1938, shows a haggard old man.
“Another thing of interest that Heinrich described, and this is backed up by photographs and sketches, was the orchids that Klaus sold him. Orchids come in a wide variety of colors, but Heinrich had never seen many of the ones Klaus provided. Some with pure black petals dotted with white like stars, some streaked with the colors of the rainbow, and some which Heinrich simply claimed human language lacked the words to describe them.
“Another strange tale of Klaus comes from one of the guards. The guards were strictly forbidden to venture inside the gates, but one of them did so. On a moonlit night, outside of one of the greenhouses, he witnessed Klaus hunched over a cauldron like a sorcerer, chanting incantations in a language he did not recognize. What was he doing? Today, some orchid collectors microwave seeds in an attempt to create mutations. Was Klaus brewing chemicals, chemicals that could explain the bizarre orchids Heinrich attested to? Or was he doing something far more sinister? Let’s head to our next stop, where we will learn about Klaus’s demise.”
We headed over to a jabuticaba tree, a rare berry native to Brazil, whose purplish berries grow directly off the tree trunk. I scraped some off, ate a couple, and passed them around.
“A few of the indigenous tribes of Brazil boil these berries for use in rituals. It apparently has mild hallucinogenic qualities. But don’t worry, when raw, they are perfectly safe, although a little bitter. Enough about the fruit, this is the Halloween tour after all! Let’s learn about Klaus’s grizzly death!
“In October of 1938, ships on the Atlantic sent warnings of a powerful hurricane approaching South Florida. His guards recommended that he evacuate, telling him that they would be unable to provide security during the storm, but he refused. He thought that he would survive. When they returned two days after the storm, he did not meet them at the gate, as was his custom. After waiting several hours, they found his body outside the ruins of one of his greenhouses. He hadn’t drowned; he’d had been shot in the stomach, a gardening hoe at his side.
“No one was ever tried for his murder, but a local farmhand was said to have bragged around town that he killed Klaus. There was a rumor that he had buried millions around his property in mason jars, and the farmhand set out to find the treasure after the hurricane had passed. When Klaus confronted him, armed only with a gardening hoe, he was shot. But he lived for at least several minutes afterwards, for on his shirt he tried to write a message in his own blood: ‘I have found the s-’ The what? The spring? Or the secret? The secret to what? That is one mystery that will probably never be solved.
“He died intestate, meaning without a will, and had no known relatives. After a fruitless, no pun intended, search for heirs, his property went to the state, who opened up his gardens to the public. No spring was ever found. But something else was. Most of his house was destroyed by the hurricane, but in an iron safe was found with two of his journals, one from 1880 and the other from 1938. The 1880 one was what you’d expect, detailing his travels in South America, with dozens of sketches of orchids and other plants. The 1938 one was something entirely unexpected. It was not written in English, or in German, or in any known language. It appears to either be a code or the scribbles of a mad man. But what is even stranger are the drawings that accompany them. A vision of hell, a hell where the devils are plants. Monstrous flowers that impale hundreds of men with thorns as long as football fields, plants that trap thousands of men in pitchers as large as Olympic swimming pools, where they slowly dissolve in its acid, trees whose branches ensnare its human prey, coiling around their limbs like pythons constricting their play. The landscape in these drawings was dotted with dozens of severed human heads, still alive, their eyes bulging, their mouths grimacing, heads that were made to serve as flower pots. The tops of their skulls were cut open, from their exposed brains sprouted a multitude of alien-like plants.”
I looked at the kids, who, unlike on the regular tours I gave, actually looked engaged. I bet they weren’t expecting this during a night at the botanical gardens.
“Now, Klaus’s story does not end with his death. He is rumored to haunt the grounds, looking for anyone who is trying to steal his beloved orchids, or discover his secret, the secret that he took to his grave. On nights like this, people often catch a glimpse of the Mad German. But his appearance has changed. Reports differ, some say his eyes are lychees, others say cherries, others blueberries. Some say his mouth is a smiling upturned banana, others say it is a screaming black plum. But they all agree, fruits have replaced Klaus’s flesh. And the Fruit Man, as he is now known, goes better armed than he did previously. His hands have been transformed into coconuts, to bash in the skulls of trespassers.
“There are three deadly incidents associated with the Fruit Man. The first was in 1947, when two brothers snuck on the property late on a rainy night to search for the legendary mason jars. The next morning they were found dead, beaten to death so violently that their skulls were pulverized. The ground was muddy, but there were no footprints besides those of the brothers. The second was in 1977, in late November, when a groundskeeper was wrapping Christmas lights around one of the royal palm trees. It was a calm night, but a witness reported that the ladder suddenly toppled over, sending the groundskeeper plummeting to his death. He also reported seeing a shadowy figure moving away from the ladder. Was this the Fruit Man?
“The final incident occurred just seven years ago. It was an elementary school field trip. A kid got separated from the group. When it was discovered that he was missing, a search party was organized. When he was not immediately located, bloodhounds, along with hundreds of policemen and volunteers, were brought in to aid in the search, but no trace of him was ever found. His ghost is often seen on the grounds, terror etched on his face, running away from something unseen. The Fruit Man? I believe so. Let’s head over to Klaus’s house.”
I walked over to the remnants of the Mad German’s house. Most of it had been destroyed by various hurricanes, but part of the first floor still remained intact.
“Klaus was rumored to have built the house himself from local Cypress and pine wood. During his life, no one, not even Heinrich, was allowed to enter it, so we do not know what it looked like before the storm. But from the size of the foundation, and from the volume of wood that littered the grounds after the storm, we can imagine that it was a formidable structure. How did a middle age man build such an edifice without help? That is another mystery that will never be solved.”
I opened the door, which led into a narrow hallway. Something had changed. Before, it was a crumbling structure, with rotting wood and a leaky ceiling. But today it looked brand new. The walls were freshly painted, mahogany flooring covered what had previously been the raw foundation. Classical music was playing from somewhere in the house. They must have renovated it, I thought. Looking back now, I realize how ridiculous that thought was. Even though I hadn’t been inside the house in several months, I had been at the gardens nearly every day, and hadn’t seen or heard anything about a renovation. But when faced with the unexplainable, the supernatural, the human brain often resorts to mundane explanations, however illogical.
I walked down the hall, looking into the first room on the left. It looked like a laboratory. Behind a desk a man wearing an evening coat was peering into a microscope. An actor, to play the part of Klaus for the Halloween show. He turned around and started at me. It wasn’t an actor playing Klaus, it was his ghost. It was the Fruit Man!
I sprinted to the front door, which had somehow closed behind me. It was locked from the outside. I did everything I could to break it down, but it held firm. I heard footsteps, and turned and saw the Fruit Man approaching. His mouth was a purple banana, upturned into a mocking smile, his nose a water apple. Two purple mangosteens served as his eyes. Bunches of grapes were his hair, and halved lemon slices his ears. Braided orchid flowers hung like a beard. Instead of feet were two enormous Buddha’s hand fruits, their long green segments looking like tumorous growths. His hands were coconuts. And they were raised. I kept banging at the door, kept banging until I felt the coconuts slam into my skull.
I watched, hovering several feet above the crowd, as the door opened and I fell onto the ground, my face a bloody pulp. I watched as the children covered their eyes and screamed.
“Is he dead, mommy?” a little girl cried.
“He’s not dead,” her mom replied. “It’s just a prank he’s playing. And let me tell you mister, this is not funny. There are little kids on this tour, and this not remotely appropriate. I’m going to leave a 1-star review. And I better get my money back or I’m going to sue you for everything you are worth.”
But I kept laying there, as the kids kept screaming.
“Get up, junior,” a man yelled. “Get up or I will really beat your face in to a pulp.”
But I did not move.
A man from the crowd walked over and knelt down besides me, placing his index and middle fingers on the side of my neck.
“No pulse,” he declared.
I watched as he tried to give me CPR. But it was useless, for I was dead.