When I was a kid, we had a big, beautiful garden out back. It was across the creek, accessible only by a narrow footbridge going over the most shallow part of the water. An oak tree on the bank housed a swinging rope, complete with a circular piece of wood for a seat. Four hogs lived in a large pen directly across from the spot in the garden where the strawberries grew.
The strawberries were my dad’s pride and joy. He made a point to keep us kids away from them, worried we’d trample them to death under our clumsy feet. My friends and I were known for playing pretty intense games of hide and seek, so his fears were warranted. Mom didn’t like strawberries, so she couldn’t care less about them herself. She aided Dad in his quest to keep me away from his favorite spot in the garden, but she didn’t hold nearly the amount of passion he did.
I guess I didn’t care too much about the strawberries either. I generally didn’t keep my attention on one thing long enough to become attached to it. Most of my great ideas were fleeting at best, leaving me surrounded by half-build Lego castles and unfinished finger paintings growing up. Despite not being as invested in the strawberries as my father, I still didn’t like when my parents reminded me that I was forbidden to go near them.
Typically, I listened to my parents when I was a kid. My dad was a hardworking man, and my mom constantly reminded me that he was tired when he came home from work. This meant I needed to be on my best behavior. No talking back, no running around the house, get all of my pent up energy out before the clock strikes 5. The few times I opted to ignore her advice, it landed me in hot water with Dad, usually ending with a pop on the mouth and “Go to your room!”
As I got older, I developed a rebellious streak. Presumably the same one my mom had as a kid, the one I’ve overheard her whispering to her sister about. I started acting out more, but after getting a few unpleasant whoopings from Dad, I tried to be smart about it. Sneaking out after they went to sleep was the easiest way to scratch the itch without getting caught.
I would climb out the window in my room, using the steps coming down from the back deck to get into the yard. It was no problem hoisting myself back in with the help of the railing, so once I was out, I was in the clear. Most nights, I would walk down to Dylan’s house and knock on his window, signaling him to come out and smoke up. Sometimes we would gather the rest of the gang, but nine times out of ten it was just the two of us.
One day in early June, when the strawberries were at their peak, shit hit the fan.
I was about 15 by then and I had taken a liking to photography. I’d gotten a nice digital camera for my birthday at the end of May, and I was eager to use it every chance I could. My interest in this particular hobby would be the only one to stick longer than a few weeks in my teenage life, extending long into my years as an adult.
With the excitement of having a new interest pulsing through my veins, I saw the bright red bulbs from across the street and got the idea like a lightning bolt to the brain. I had to photograph those strawberries. I had to do it from inside the patch.
I ran to my mother with my idea, hoping my unbridled enthusiasm would change her mind on my banishment from the fruit patch. Despite my evident elation, she refused to budge. “No, Rose.” She said firmly, not taking her eyes off the sink full of dishes.
“Fine, I’ll ask Dad then.”
“You do that,” Mom replied, rolling her eyes. “If you want to ruin everyone’s night, go right ahead and ask your father that question.”
The jab was a direct hit, making my stomach tighten. I knew she was right, that if I asked him anything right when he got home from work, the chances of us having a pleasant evening were gone. Swallowing my pride, I nodded and retreated to my bedroom.
The evening went by without a hitch. Dinner was chicken with rice and broccoli, one of Dad’s favorites. He seemed like he was in a decent mood, most likely because it was Friday and he didn’t have to report for overtime the next day. He made big claims of taking us to the park that weekend and flying kites, but I don’t think any of us took him seriously.
Glancing at my mother and seeing her smiling, almost relaxed, for the first time in days, I knew I couldn’t ask Dad about the strawberry patch.
I was going to have to do this the hard way.
The Strawberry moon would provide the perfect backdrop for my strawberry themed photoshoot. After my parents had been in their room for an hour, I changed into a pink dress and grabbed my camera, tossing it in the messenger bag slung around my chest. My window didn’t creak when I opened it, granting me a silent exit into the pale moonlight.
I looked back at the house, ensuring that no lights had flickered to life. They hadn’t, so I made my escape. My shoes crunched the dry grass as I shuffled down the hill, reaching the bridge in seconds. The creek babbled softly in the night, nature’s background music for the choir of bullfrogs along the bank.
I tried to make as little noise as possible while crossing the bridge. The wooden planks were only about a foot long, as my dad had built it when I was a little kid. The adults just walked through the creek; it was only a few inches deep, but I had this fear of water when I was younger that kept me from utilizing that method.
The grass on the other side of the creek was taller than what was in my backyard, and I was worried about ticks crawling up my pants legs. I started to doubt this whole adventure, but the muted pink glow cast down by the full moon above me renewed my desire. I could see in my mind with perfect resolution photos of thick, ripe strawberries glowing under the summer moon as the June photo in a calendar. My photos, in my calendar. The promise of growing up to be a big-time photographer, possibly specializing in dreamy portraits of gardens, pushed me to continue my quest.
I breathed heavily as I trudged up the hill, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The squeals and grunts of alerted hogs greeted me, soon quieted by their realization of who I was. They calmed down, blubbering amongst themselves as they gnashed things unseen between their teeth. I shuddered as I approached their sty, mostly due to disgust at the sound of their night time activities, but also because of the growing senes of unease in my stomach as I got closer to the strawberry patch.
Once it came fully into view, a rush of adrenaline coursed through me, knees wobbling under my weight. The patch was as beautiful as any I’d seen in pictures, and I couldn’t believe I’d never seen it up close before.
The plump strawberries grew in a wide variety of sizes. I saw many that were no bigger than a cherry tomato, while some spots were home to berries as big as my hand. They all glistened in the moonlight, their saturated red skin as evident at night as in the day. The dirt looked fresh and moist, dark against the gleaming berries, as though it had recently been watered. Specs of white that I could only assume were present to help the plants grow peppered the black dirt, heaviest close to the plants themselves.
I fumbled with my bag, removing my camera and pressing a button to bring it to life. The screen was way too bright at first and I nearly dropped it while scrambling to turn it down. I was successful after a brief struggle, getting the screen’s luminosity to a tolerable level and changing the settings to what I needed for my vision.
Taking a step toward the patch, I heard a hog screech in the pen, followed by the sound of their feet thundering against the wooden floor. Something crashed behind the sty, sounding like a trash can being knocked over or fallen into. The hogs went nuts, sounding off like air horns in the night, making me cover my ears and drop my camera in the dirt.
Suddenly, the hogs all stopped screaming, reducing their sounds to only their heavy breaths and quiet oinks. I stayed as still as I could, almost too nervous to breathe, waiting for any more noise to come from behind the pen. After holding my breath for a few long, drawn out moments, I leaned forward to retrieve my camera from the dirt. The hogs started moving around again, taking anxious steps across the beams, their oinks returning to a normal volume once more.
Muttering curse words to myself, I started to accept that I was way too freaked out to go through with the photoshoot now. Tucking the camera back in my bag, I gave one last glance to the strawberry patch before turning to go back home.
My heart nearly stopped.
There was someone in the patch. Right in the center, standing amongst all the berries and tangled vines. They weren’t very tall, with the strawberries growing up to their knees. What they lacked in height, they made up for with girth. Their torso was thick, with what appeared to be clusters of lumps growing along their ribs and in random spots on their arms. The pink moon reflected in their eyes, two unblinking dots, as they stared at me from their spot in the garden.
I froze, breath in my throat. My legs shook violently, begging me to turn and flee, but my brain wasn’t having it. Tears filled my eyes, spilling down my cheeks as I fought the urge to blink.
We stood that way for a long time, staring each other down in the garden. I never saw it blink, unless it had timed theirs perfectly with the few I granted my dried out eyes. I took shaky, useless breaths, trying to be quiet despite already having been seen.
After such a long time of staring at each other, I decided if this person was going to hurt me, they would have by now. They stood still as a statue, and I started wondering if maybe it wasn’t a person at all. Maybe it was just a scarecrow Dad had installed that I hadn’t noticed before. I hadn’t really looked around the patch that much before the hogs went off. I breathed a sigh of relief, satisfied with my explanation.
Feeling rather silly for standing in the yard for so long, staring at a scarecrow, I pulled my camera back out of my bag. I turned it on, having to adjust the brightness once more, before bringing it to my face and searching for the perfect angle.
Once again, my heart slammed to a stop.
They were gone.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I threw the camera on the ground and ran, never looking back when the hogs began screaming again. I heard the sound of someone- something- chasing me through the field. I thought for sure they’d get me when I took a tumble down the hill, crash landing into the oak tree. I blinked away the stars that filled my vision as I brought myself to my feet, leaning against the trunk of the tree until I could regain my balance.
My surroundings were spinning before me, and I was seeing double. I wondered how hard I had hit my head, but not for long, once I saw the figure barreling down the hill. It was nothing more than two black silhouettes, perfectly symmetrical, making a bee-line through the tall grass, but it sent a shock to my heart like nothing I’d ever experienced.
Fighting off the delirium, I toppled past the swinging rope, heading for the footbridge. I made it halfway across when I heard the splashing sound to my left, looking over to see those black silhouettes flitting across the creek. It was at that moment I missed my next step, falling sideways into the shallow water. I landed with a crack, shrieking as the bone in my wrist snapped under the weight of my fall. Water funneled into my nose and open mouth, overwhelming me and making it difficult to regain my footing. I heard the familiar swashing of water going against the current, looking up to see the silhouettes approaching me once more.
Up close, I realized this was not a person I was dealing with. As my vision slowly returned to normal, likely with the assistance of the intense pain in my wrist, the shadows merged together to create a hideous form. The lumps I’d seen growing from its ribs were mutated strawberries, oozing thick, pink pus that dripped down its legs as it walked. Its mouth was shaped kind of like a star, with soft tendrils that moved constantly while making no sound. White mucus bubbled from the orifice, drooling down its chin and mixing with the substance bleeding from the strawberry warts.
By the time I regained control of my legs, it was too late. The strawberry monster was on top of me, dripping slime onto my face from its Lovecraftian mouth. I pressed my palm against its chest, hoping to keep it from reaching me, but my hand sunk into its flesh upon contact. My fingers snapped under the pressure of its skin shrink wrapping my hand, and once again I screamed as I felt the shattering of my own bones.
Just when I thought it would consume me entirely, I heard the sound of a shot fire into the air. It was followed by a wet smack, which paved the way for the painful burning sensation in my already injured hand. Another shot rang out, this time blowing past my ear so close I could feel the heat from the bullet. It was a direct hit to the creature’s neck, forcing it to recoil in pain and release my hand. Upon seeing the bloodied mess of an appendage, I nearly threw up.
My dad’s voice met my ears and I spun around, elated to see him bending down to pick me up. He carried me back to the house as I watched the creature scamper back across the creek, retreating to its home in the strawberry patch. I leaned into my dad’s chest, sobbing as he took me inside.
I was taken to the hospital and treated for my wounds that night. My parents told the doctors that I’d been attacked by a bear on a camping trip. At the time, I didn’t understand why they’d lie, but I didn’t question the authoritative look on my father’s face when he spoke.
They told me I would most likely be able to use my hand again if I was willing to put in the work. I was signed up for physical (and mental) therapy, both of which I readily accepted. It took me a long time to process the things I had seen, felt, heard, smelled… I didn’t talk about it to anyone for weeks after the incident. When I finally felt like I could speak on the matter, it was my mother who directed me to talk to my dad.
I found him in his shed out back, on what I now referred to as the friendly side of the creek. He didn’t hear me walk up, or he wouldn’t have chugged the full bottle of beer in his hand, or smashed it on the ground when he was through. He turned around, surprised to see me, apologizing while grabbing the broom to sweep up the glass.
Dad had gotten a lot nicer after the incident. I guess that’s to be expected when your kid nearly dies in front of you.
I told him everything I’ve typed out here. He listened without interrupting, taking modest sips from the mug on the counter that I assume was filled with bourbon. I told him I was sorry for disobeying his orders, and promised I would never go near that strawberry patch again. When I started to cry, I felt his hand on my shoulder, looking up to see him smiling down at me.
“Rose,” he said with a sigh, motioning for me to follow him to the fridge. I hesitated when he handed me the beer, but eventually accepted once he assured me it was okay. He laughed when I pretended not to know what beer tasted like, and we didn’t talk about the implication of that. He continued, growing more serious as he broached the subject.
“I think it’s time you know the truth about the strawberry patch. Your mother wouldn’t agree with me, so let’s keep this between us. Deal?”
I nodded, sipping the beer as he kept talking.
“My parents warned me about the strawberries too. Just like their parents warned them, and so on and so forth for as long as anybody can recall. And just like you, I decided one day that enough was enough and I needed to know what the big deal was about the strawberries.”
He paused, drinking from his mug. Setting it down on the table, he glanced out the shed window before continuing.
“Listen honey, we don’t know what it is.” He said, shrugging and looking at the floor. “I wish I could tell you, but we really don’t know. It’s been around for as long as we can remember, and no one knows how to get rid of it. We’ve always just kind of dealt with it.”
“How is this dealing with it?” I asked. Dad looked up at me with a confused look, almost like he was offended.
“What do you mean?”
“Dad, it nearly killed me.” I replied. “If you hadn’t come outside, I think it was going to just like, absorb me.”
“That’s why we don’t go near the strawberry pa-”
“And what if it decides to leave the strawberry patch, Dad?”
“It hasn’t so far, why would it now?”
With no rebuttal, I glared at him in silence. Normally by now, with this much backtalk, my dad would have popped me in the jaw so hard I’d be on my ass. But like I said, since the incident, he’s done a damn good job at keeping his cool. That being said, I could see something building in him the more I argued. I could typically identify his rage, but this was something different. Something new.
“Rose, please, just stay away from the fucking strawberries.” He spoke with a sense of finality, sealing the deal by finishing the contents of the mug and slamming it on the counter. He swiftly left the shed, disappearing into the evening rain.
I slumped in his chair, staring at the empty mug. A quick sniff revealed that I was right about the bourbon. Gagging, I sat the mug back down and stood up, meandering aimlessly around the shed. I half expected Dad to come marching back in to finish our talk, but he never did.
I walked back to the house a little bit after it got dark, while it was still raining. I darted into my room, not wanting to talk to Mom or Dad, instead curling up on my bed and fighting off the intrusive thoughts about what I’d come to call the Strawberry Man.
The next few weeks were spent watching the strawberries wither and drop from the vines, dead for the year until their season returns. I felt relieved when the last one plopped to the ground, unsurprised to see my parents share my comfort.
Dad and I never discussed the strawberries again. I steered clear of the patch, hardly going across the footbridge for any reason, even to play on my rope swing. Mom figured I grew out of it, but Dad knew the truth. Dylan would ask me sometimes why we never played on the swing anymore, but I would just distract him with some other activity.
The next time the strawberries would interfere with my life was the following June.
Just like the year prior, the strawberries got plump in the first few weeks of summer. I spotted them on a Sunday morning this time, their crimson bodies catching my eye from the back porch. Dylan was over this time, and we were playing a card game on the deck while Dad filled the pool for the season.
Catching Dylan’s attention, I nodded in the direction of the patch. “Hey, Dylan. See those strawberries over there?”
Dylan glanced across the creek, nodding when he spotted the vines. I continued, “What would you say if I told you there’s a monster over there?”
He scoffed, tossing a draw two down on the table. When I didn’t move to grab my two, his eyes met mine, and he realized it wasn’t a joke question. “Uhh, well,” he stammered, scratching his chin, “I guess I’d call you out on your bullshit, but at the same time I’d want to humor you long enough to get the details. What kind of monster?”
Without missing a beat, I replied, “A really fucked up kind of monster. It’s got this weird skin that sucks you in, and its drool is so disgusting, dude. It’s horrible. It’s got strawberries growing out of its body.”
Dylan laughed, drawing my two cards on my behalf so he could draw from the deck. “You’ve got one hell of an imagination. Do you have any blues?”
Aggressively yanking a card from the deck without looking at my hand, I replied, “No, I don’t have any fucking blues. Are you listening to me?”
“Oh my god, yes, I’m listening to you, crazy lady.” Dylan said, pulling another card. “Jesus where are all the blues?”
“Will you shut up about the blues?” I snapped, throwing a wild down and calling green. Dylan drew his four cards, glaring at me. “I’m being serious, there’s something evil in that garden.”
“Okay, say you’re not crazy,” Dylan said, laying down a couple of skips in a row. “Say there’s a monster in your garden. And it’s some really weird, gross strawberry thing. Just kill it, dude. Torch the thing. Fire, fire, fire!”
“I agree,” I said, laying down a random number. “I want to get rid of it, but I don’t think I can do it alone. I need backup.”
I met his eyes above our cards, spotting the fear from across the table. He gulped.
“I’m calling on you, man,” I refuted, calling the impending ‘no’ written all over his face, “Remember the underwear incident?”
“Dammit Rose,” Dylan barked, “You can’t use that forever.”
“I think I can.” I replied, laying my cards face down on the table. “You didn’t say UNO, draw six.”
“What?” Dylan looked down, grunting when he saw one card in his hand. He drew his punishment and sat his cards down, leaning back in his chair. He took a sip from his soda, the sun shining on his face. It was about ten o’ clock now, and it was starting to heat up outside.
“Do you wanna go in? Talk about our plan?” I proposed, stacking the cards in a pile on the table. Dylan agreed, standing up and following me inside.
Our plan was shoddy at best, and disastrous at worst.
It involved the two of us dressing in all black and wearing our bicycle helmets in case we take a spill down the bank. Equipped with baseball bats for weapons, we would enter the patch from the far side this time, cutting across the creek on the opposite side of the hog pen instead of taking the footbridge. The Strawberry Man would probably sense us coming a mile away, so we would split up before we arrived at the corner of the garden. Dylan would creep through the vines, distracting the Strawberry Man long enough for me to come up behind it and smash it across the back of the head with my bat.
We slipped out my bedroom window just as the sun went down, that familiar pink moon rising up in the sky like a big ole saucer. Mom and Dad were still awake, but they were occupied installing a new bookcase in their bedroom. Dylan and I had a clear shot to the other side of the creek without giving up the ability to see where we were putting our feet in the water.
The tall grass on the other side of the creek was an effective shield from the garden’s view, providing Dylan and I with a place to have a quick meeting before we launched. We discussed our plan again, playing rock paper scissors at the last moment to swap spots. When I won, Dylan cursed, not wanting to be the one to crawl through the vines and draw the attention of the beast. I gave him a brief pep talk, ending the conversation with a warm embrace and thanking him for helping me get rid of this disturbing inheritance.
“Remember,” I whispered as we crept up the hill, just before we were to split up, “Stay low, and try not to make much sound until you get close. When I give you the signal, make some noise!”
“I got it,” Dylan confessed, “I’m just… I’m fucking scared, Rose.”
“Don’t be scared,” I answered, waving my hands dismissively, “It’s all going to be okay. Just stick to the plan. If anything goes wrong, Mom and Dad are up. They’ll hear us scream.”
Dylan nodded, heading into the garden as I scampered around the other side of the hog sty. The hogs rumbled inside, grunting and snorting as usual as I wormed around to the other side. Emerging directly across from the strawberry patch, I saw Dylan come into view.
He was crouched down in the vines, baseball bat held in a white-knuckled grip by his side. I winced as I heard his boots crunch the eggshells scattered throughout the garden, wishing I’d warned him about my parents nontraditional methods. I saw him cringe as well, attempting to change his footing when a sudden sound stopped him in his tracks.
I heard it too. The shifting of leaves down the hill, behind the garden. I held my breath, hands clasping over my mouth in terror. Dylan had one boot in the air, frozen mid step as he watched in horror at the being that appeared from the brush.
The Strawberry Man had grown in size since I last saw him, doubling the height he’d presented to me. His strawberry lesions were pulsating in the moonlight, the same pink discharge draining from them as had been before. His star-shaped mouth wriggled its tendrils wildly against his face, slinging saliva around like a fountain.
Dylan shrieked, turning on his heels to flee. My brain screamed for my legs to move, to run, to dash to my best friend’s aid, but my body refused. Instead I watched in wide-eyed trepidation as the Strawberry Man ambushed Dylan from behind. His cries lowered in volume when the Strawberry Man wrapped his gelatinous hands around the sides of his head, the elastic skin warping to fit Dylan’s face like a glove. The bicycle helmet was merely an accessory under the strength of the Strawberry Man’s grip. The thickset plastic shell buckled and caved under the force, sinking into Dylan’s face like slow motion shrapnel. Despite the muffling of his voice, I could hear him howling in agony as loud as a siren in my head. Blood seeped out from the thin gaps between the Strawberry Man’s stretchy skin and Dylan’s face as the monster consumed him in the garden.
When my legs finally allowed me to move, I sprinted out from behind the hog pen, dashing down the hill toward the footbridge. It wasn’t until I reached the rope swing that I came to a screeching halt, nearly collapsing from the adrenaline coursing through me.
“Why don’t we ever play on the rope swing anymore?”
Dylan’s sweet face appeared in my mind, and his pleas to abandon ship on this quest rang through my brain like forsaken church bells. I sobbed, falling to my knees in the dirt beneath the swing. I’d stood by and watched as the monster ate him, using my strength to carry myself to safety as soon as I was able.
A newfound sense of duty washing over me, I stood up. I brushed the dust from my knees and turned around, facing the garden. The Strawberry Man faced away from me as he finished enveloping Dylan, granting me a view of my friend’s face pressing out against the thin flesh on the creature’s back. Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I gripped my bat and prepared to charge.
A heavy hand on my shoulder stopped me.
I looked up to see my dad, a look of agony on his face. He pulled me backwards, forcing me to drop the bat as he drug me back toward the house. I didn’t dare try to scream or resist, rather allowing him to take me back to the safety of our home.
Dylan’s parents didn’t know he came to our house that day, so no questions were directed to us about his whereabouts. As far as Dylan’s folks knew, he and I weren’t allowed to hang out, per his mother. My parents didn’t like them, so they let Dylan come over in secrecy, so long as he stayed cool and didn’t cause any trouble. I nearly gagged on the guilt that rose in my throat when they reported him missing, making public pleas for the monster who took their baby to bring him home.
That was never going to happen. I cried into my cereal as the news anchor talked about Dylan’s last known whereabouts, his birth marks and his epilepsy. I didn’t go to the eventual funeral.
The Strawberry Man still lives across the creek, as far as I know. I don’t live there anymore, as I moved far away to the city as soon as I turned 18. I still keep in touch with my folks, but I don’t visit very often. I can’t be near that damned strawberry patch very long without feeling like I’m going to pass out. My parents fly to my house once a year for Christmas, and that’s about the extent of my physical interaction with them. I’d hoped that would change when I had Christopher, but unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to be happening anytime soon.
You see, my dad has gone missing. And my mom doesn’t know how to tend to the strawberry patch.