What Grows in Cursed Ground

by Sophia Bricker

Mama said time heals all wounds, but I doubt it. I once saw Sara Beth skin her knee when we were playing basketball in the schoolyard, and the cement ate up her knee. I remember because she isn’t the type of girl to go crying over something like a hurt knee; neither am I for that matter. She just crouched there on the court, biting her lip and cradling her knee. Not long after that, she had a gnarly looking scab that her mother told her not to pick at, but she did. It just kept getting reinfected. Once, I even saw it ooze green.  

Some wounds just don’t quite heal. I would know because it has been four months now since Jim carried away the furry body of Pip and over a year since my dad left – well seventeen months if anyone is keeping count. 

He had stood there in the doorway, the snow falling behind him and covering the dead grass and bushes in a white blanket. He was wearing his old brown leather jacket, the one that was crinkly like the face of an old man. It looked tired, almost as tired as he did. The air had puffed up around Papa as he spoke, promising that he would return, that things would be different. Tears had filled my eyes, but I bit them back like Sara Beth had. Papa took my hand and placed his lucky penny in my palm. It was warm from where he had kept it in his coat pocket. Then he folded my fingers over the face of Lincoln and simply turned and walked away. His footsteps didn’t make a sound, not even a crunch in the ice, and I still remember that day in a white blur, as if the snow had enveloped him and whisked him away from us. For a while I thought this meant he might return with the thaw, that the spring shoots of grass were some sort of sign. I kept watch with the coming of the flowers, but still Papa did not return. Mama and Jim say I need to stop keeping watch. 

No, I don’t feel any better than I did. There are certain types of wounds that just fester and spread until the whole body is diseased.

Maybe that’s why Mama decided I needed time away with Mawmaw and why I sat there in the back of the car, fingering the holes in the torn leather seats as the wind tickled my face. 

“You need time outside, Laney. Sit in the sun. Help Mawmaw with the garden. But for goodness’ sake, do not stay in your room all day clutching that tattered old thing.” 

She meant Pip’s collar which I had kept near me ever since that day four months ago. It was a blue, frayed piece of fabric that had once upon a time fit perfectly around Pip’s unruly hair. Everyone had called him a mutt, even Jim, but not me or Mama. She had been the one to pick out his name, calling him after a character in her favorite book Great Expectations. I had held the collar constantly after my dog died until Mama tried to take it. So, now I just keep it tucked away in my pocket, along with Papa’s penny, where no one can see. Like all watching mothers, though, she suspected. I saw it in the way she glanced at me. The way she was looking at me now in the rear-view mirror. 

I kicked the suitcase at my feet, hoping this would confuse her thoughts and make her assume the collar was with my other things.  

“I’m serious. I want you to have fun this weekend and enjoy the open air. It’ll do you a world of good.” She must have seen the twitch of my mouth because she caught my eye in the mirror and smiled. “Trust me, Laney. You’ll enjoy Mawmaw’s company.” 

We were already near the house that the kids in the neighborhood whispered about. Even the boys on the basketball court had told each other the stories of her house– the one with creeping ivy that threatened to consume the house, growing up on the sides, reaching all the way to the roof in some places; the house with the rotting shutters that made it look like a broken skull covered in the hair of ivy. What really made the kids talk, though, were the two odd planters out front. They were large, black ones that looked as if you could cook some pigs in them or stir up a brew. They were witch cauldrons, at least according to the rumors. Every child knew about the witch house of Chestnut Street. 

It would have been exciting if the rumors were true, but I knew Mawmaw. Those planters just looked like cauldrons during the winter because they were empty. Right now, they were filled with a plain old mix of petunias and calendulas. Nothing suspicious about that. It was her backyard garden that was more interesting with the tufts of wildflowers that grew beside the sage, catmint, and rosemary. 

Everyone said Mawmaw had a green thumb  because she could produce such a rich harvest of vegetables and herbs each year in spite of the general ruin of her property. The neighbors must have thought this was an indication of her craft. But I had seen her thumbs numerous times; she didn’t even try to hide them. They weren’t green.  

Besides, I knew about the story of great Uncle Hank’s garden patch – the one that Jim said was cursed by a preacher after Hank refused to sell the land to him. Supposedly the patch had lain fallow for years until Mawmaw inherited the property and started growing plants in the garden bed. She had found the soil exceedingly rich and had never encountered a problem with having enough vegetables for the season. Jim suspected that the ground was enchanted somehow, and that was why Mawmaw’s garden was so fruitful. I don’t know why the preacher would pronounce such a curse if he wanted to get back at old Uncle Hank. Maybe it was like in the Bible when God transformed a curse and made it a blessing instead. That preacher must have been a true Balaam, just without the donkey. 

Mama had pulled into the gravel drive, and after a few minutes of being shaken against the leather seats, I was finally able to get out and feel the solid ground beneath my feet. On the porch was my grandmother, standing with a dish towel in hand. She waved it enthusiastically when she spotted me and hurried down the rickety steps. I tried to avoid the inevitable kiss by ducking behind Mama. 

“Now Laney, don’t be like that.” She stepped aside as Mawmaw approached to lean down and plant the kiss on my cheek. I could feel the greasy smear it left behind but resisted the urge to immediately rub it away. What could I do? Mama was watching.

“We’re gonna have a good time, aren’t we, child?” Mawmaw beamed at me, the wrinkles crinkling on her browned skin. 

I just shuffled my feet. 

After a few moments, she said, “Still ain’t talking, is she?”  

“No, not since … everything that’s happened. Sometimes the words seem to form there in her eyes. I see the hunger in them, and that’s why I thought time here with you would help. A change of scenery, you know.” 

“Ah yes, it can be good for the soul, real good.” 

Mama fetched my suitcase and handed it to Mawmaw. “Just make sure she doesn’t stay inside all day. She needs to be in the sunshine.” Tousling my hair, she looped her arm around me for a quick hug, whispering that she would be back at the beginning of the week.

I watched her drive away with her attempt at a smile. That was how she always looked now – struggling to show others that she was happy when I knew she wasn’t. I had heard her crying at night and knew her half smiles were because she missed Papa. My heart felt like a stone in my chest. 

“Come on, Laney dear. We’re going to pick peas from the garden and shell them. I’ll show you how.”   

I followed her through an open gate to the back of the house. What the house lacked in the front, it made up for in the back thanks to my mawmaw’s work. The beds all sat in neat rows. I walked between the growing vegetables and herbs, breathing in the fragrance of dirt and leaves. She led me to a raised garden bed where a large wire fence stood holding up the vegetables that trailed up like hands reaching for the sun.

I helped her pick the pea pods and place them in an old woven basket. All the while she talked about the weather and how her crops were doing. She spoke about them as if they were as real as her neighbors, which I guess they were in a way. But they weren’t the same as Jim, or the kids down the street, or Mama. 

“The first batch of tomatoes did just fine but the blight has gotten into them. I see it in the leaves. I’ll be lucky if I can get another handful before the end of the season. They turn all black, you see.”

Giving half of my attention to Mawmaw, I allowed my eyes to roam across the yard as I picked the peas. Roses grew in clumps near the fence with lilac in the corner – the great Lady as Mawmaw called it. How a plant could even be remotely ladylike was beyond me. My eyes searched for the patch of cursed ground. I had seen it only enough times to count on one hand since Mawmaw usually visited us at home. Jim, though, said he had seen it tons of time and knew it had powers. He said you could feel it just by placing your hand on the ground – that the dirt would vibrate. Whether that was true, though, I doubt. 

Then I caught sight of it in the middle of the garden. The rosemary and mint blocked a good view of it, but the dark soil gave it away. Although the other beds were darkened because of the recent watering, this patch of land was noticeably more intense. I don’t think I have ever seen soil that black before. What was even more odd was that Mawmaw didn’t seem to pay any attention to it. Her section of summer squash was doing well in the legendary cursed ground. Only a few spots were uncovered from the growth.  

I didn’t have much more time to think of it though because she gathered up the basket and announced we would start shelling. We worked until lunchtime, and then Mawmaw enlisted me in chores for the rest of the day, polishing the banister of the staircase and organizing her pantry. That evening after a supper of tomato sandwiches and cold fried chicken, we sat in the living room with the country music station quietly droning while Mawmaw knitted. 

Everything in the room seemed muted compared to the rich growth in the garden. A plain, old brown sofa holding a set of gray pillows with a pastel quilted pattern; two beige patted chairs, and a wooden rocking chair in the corner; the low wattage lightbulbs, that Mawmaw always used in order to “waste not, want not”, making the furniture cast strange shadows. Only the bright table lamp gave any cheerfulness to the room.  

After a while Mawmaw looked up at me from behind her reading glasses and quickly threw down her knitting. 

“What am I doing, keeping you cooped up in here with an old woman when you could be exploring? When I was your age, young’uns spent their summer nights outside catching lightning bugs and listening to the songs of frogs. I don’t hear as many as I used to, mind you. Anyway, why don’t you run along outside and see what you can find? At least until it’s time for bed.”

Yawning, I wanted to tell her that I didn’t want to go and get bit by a billion mosquitos right before bedtime. At that moment, though, I fingered Pip’s collar, and my mind went back to the cursed ground. Maybe there would be enough light to examine it more closely – or more. 

I got up and left the dimness of the living room, pushing open the creaking screen door that led to the back garden. Even before I stepped outside, I could hear the symphony of crickets and the distant croaking of frogs. They were loud, like the cicadas of daytime. However, there was a nicer, musical quality to the sound as if they were trying to croon me to sleep like my mother used to do. Normal enough. 

That is until I noticed how odd the plants looked in the dark. The rose bushes could have been large, sleeping beasts the way the wind shuffled through the leaves, making them shrink and expand as if the plants were taking in breaths. The waving herbs seemed to me like dancing creatures that should have jumped up and started running as I drew close. Was this why Mawmaw talked about them as if they were people? A chill went through me despite the warmth, and I was relieved when a yellowish light flashed in front of me, reminding me I wasn’t alone in this enchantment. I followed its zigzagging path. Other lightning bugs flashed in the dark, some higher above me while others blinked near the plants. Each time I tried to grasp the source, to cup it in my hand, the bug moved away. 

Then I looked down and took note of where I stood. Of course it would be here. Right in front of me, only a step away, was the cursed ground of Uncle Hank’s garden. I couldn’t help it – I crouched on the path and slowly reached out my hand to the soil. Coolness met my fingers, and I waited for the energy Jim spoke about. 

Nothing moved or vibrated.  

I twisted my mouth to one corner. Surely there had to be more to this legend. People talked for a reason.

The wind blew strong around me, and I dug my shoes deeper into the dirt. Suddenly, a whispering murmur came from somewhere near my right. Turning, I saw nothing but was met by another gust of wind. It blew the leaves of the squash, revealing the plump vegetables underneath.   

The dirt certainly wasn’t having any problems with growing things. In fact, the squash plants were quite big. Perhaps the patch of land worked by doubling things or making them more fruitful. 

My hand went to my pocket where the collar was kept. Papa’s penny was also there. 

Maybe I was stupid for what I did, clawing at the dirt like an animal. Or perhaps I was desperate. All I knew was that this magical garden patch could be the answer to my problems, that somehow, I could make things right. And so, I dug and planted while the crickets packed away their violins and the frogs stopped singing. The night was getting increasingly darker.  

When I made it back inside, Mawmaw was waiting at the door in her rose-tinted nightgown and slippers. 

“Ah, bless me! Look at those hands of yours. No, no, this will not do. Into the shower with you, child!” 

Reluctantly, I did as she said. My eyes grew heavy as I scrubbed and rinsed. Mawmaw had set out my pajamas, and I pulled them on. I was so tired that I fell asleep as soon as I pulled the light cover around me. 

I must not have noticed the faint claps of thunder as I was getting ready for bed. But boy, did I hear them an hour later. A crash followed by the sound of rumbling. My eyes opened to the whole spare room being lit up. The light wasn’t on, yet I could see my suitcase sitting in the corner next to the small chest of drawers. Even the miniature painting of a wren that hung on the wall was visible. 

Another thunderclap shook through the house, but this time it was mingled with another sound. I sat up in bed, tilting my ear. As the lightning flashed, the other sound intensified. It was a low, mournful sound, a howl. It rose as the rain began to fall, and I recognized the sound. I would have known it anywhere– Pip’s howl.

No, it couldn’t be. Jim had taken away the furry body on that day four months ago.

The sound met my ears again, and I drew in a sharp breath. I jumped out of bed and quietly made my way across the room to the door. No light met me as I stepped out to lean over the banister and look down at the living room below. Mawmaw hadn’t awakened, at least not yet. Barefooted, I crept down the stairs, pausing amid the flashes to ensure the creaking wood couldn’t be heard. Still the howling continued. 

Another flash lit up the living room as I tiptoed across the floor. No longer was it just howling I heard but whimpering. If there had been any doubts before, they were gone now. Pip was out there. I knew it – and that meant Papa was too. I had buried the penny with the collar after all.   

My pace quickened as my feet hit the cool tiles of the kitchen. I sped past the table and was nearing the back door. Crack! Lightning again lit up the sky, and the window was illuminated. I stopped because shadows moved across the curtains. A shape emerged that walked like Dad did, his slow and lumbering gait. 

Instinctively, I reached for the side of the lace curtain and drew it aside. I expected to see my father out in the rain, but all I saw was the bushes and the garden beyond. I sighed and let the curtain drop.

Curse or no curse, I didn’t care. I was going to find out what was going on. The howls had died down to a low whimper, the kind Pip would make when he wanted to come in. On a night like this, he would want to be inside on a nice soft rug, not out in a storm. 

Another flash lit up the room as I hurried to unlock the door. I flung it open but did not unlatch the screen door. Something bubbled up inside my throat. The call for my dog was there – I just couldn’t make it escape my mouth. When the words did not come, I stood waiting and looked out at the rain as the storm continued.

The plants were swaying to the rhythm of the wind. If the rose bushes had looked like sleeping beasts before, now they were awakened by the thunder. The leaves fluttered, making the whole mass appear to stand and shake as if they were dogs trying to shake off the rain.  

I could hear slight whispering as I gazed out, and at one point I thought I heard a word I recognized from a tired, familiar voice. 

“Laney …” 

My heart felt like it skipped a beat, and my hand moved toward the latch. I just knew it was Papa. He had come back and brought Pip with him. Oh, how did he know? The snow hadn’t whisked him away completely. It must have finally set him down somewhere, a place where he could “pull himself together,” as Mama used to say. Everything would be okay now. I just had to go out there. I just had to–   

“Laney!” 

Mawmaw’s hand closed over mine. She pulled me aside as she closed and locked the door. Then, turning, she looked at me as Mama had often done, that puzzling look of concern or fear. 

“What are you doing, child, going outside with a storm raging? You could have been struck by lightning if you went out there.”

A howl filled my silence, though this time it did not sound like it belonged to a dog. It sounded like… plain old wind. I didn’t think I could stand anymore, so I pulled out a chair and climbed on, pulling my knees to my chest. Salt burned my eyes. 

“Oh Laney, dear.” She pulled her chair close to mine and placed a protective arm around me as if she could somehow guard me from the storm, the world, the past months and year, and maybe myself. We sat like that for a long time, listening to the retreating storm and the pattering of the rain. Eventually everything became quiet.

Mawmaw did not say anything when she scooped me up and carried me out of the kitchen. Her arms were surprisingly strong, and she did not stumble even as she climbed the steps to my room and set me down gently in bed. The room was darker than before, and I felt myself shrink back from the strange shadows.  I tried to cough back the feeling in my chest as Mawmaw reached for the door about to leave. 

“Wait, Mawmaw.” The words were small, barely audible. At first, I was not sure I had said them aloud, but she spun around and glanced at me with renewed concern. 

“Was that you, child? Did you really talk?” 

I nodded, scared that my voice had fled again. I held out a hand, reaching for her. “Don’t go.”

Hurrying to me, she sat on the edge of my bed and smoothed back my hair. “Just try to take it easy. Don’t overdo it. I’m not going anywhere.” She began humming one of those church songs as she tucked me in. 

Listening to the sound, I found myself growing heavy-eyed. I tried to fight against sleep, blinking to keep my focus on Mawmaw. She just smiled at me and continued humming. That image of her wrinkled face stayed with me as I drifted into unconsciousness. 

The next morning when I woke up, light filled the room. There was no sign of Mawmaw. I pushed away the covers and ran out of the room and down the stairs, hoping to find her awake. She stood in the kitchen, wearing her overalls and garden gloves. Already, she had dirt stains from her work with the plants. 

“Come on, Laney. I want to show you something.” 

I hesitated, afraid of what I might find outside. I wiggled my toes against the cool floor and thought of how I could run back up to my room. What would I find out there? Did I really want to know? 

But I stayed and followed her out the door, feeling the grass poke at the bottom of my feet. The air still held the sweet smell of rain, and the ground was still wet from the storm. I didn’t mind. It reminded me that all of this was real – I had not just suffered from a nightmare last night. 

Following the path around the flowers and herbs, we arrived at the squash patch. Everything looked the same as before except for the two holes and the pawprints in the soil. In the corner appeared an outline of a shoe. Had Mawmaw stepped there?  

Mawmaw must have seen my face because she shook her head. “Old Judd from down the street got into my garden last night during the storm. He dug around in my flower bed and nosed through my squash – the poor things. A fence post fell.” She pointed across the yard to where one of the white posts lay. 

“But I see he wasn’t the only one. He usually isn’t.” 

From her pocket, she withdrew the collar and Papa’s penny. They were now covered in mud, and the sight of them made me spring forward to grab them.  Mawmaw frowned as she handed the items to me. I wiped the dirt from the collar as best I could, disappointment overwhelming me. My eyes could not help but scan the yard, searching for signs of Pip and Papa. 

“They aren’t coming back.” This time I felt the words come but saying them felt strange. 

Mawmaw looked at me for a long while as I let that knowledge sink in. It had been there on the surface last night. Now it was just seeping in. The scab was being picked at – I felt it. 

“People say that this here plot is enchanted. They like to sneak into my garden and plant things in the soil or make a wish by leaving a Bible – thinking it will appease the spirit of the man of God who cast the curse. How they ever got such nonsense in their minds based on the story of my great uncle, I can’t quite shake a stick at. Then again, I hear the young’uns saying things about me being a witch. Well, if they think I do magic, I guess in a way I do. Isn’t it enchantment to see the Great Lady there or to watch the growth of the squash? Bringing new life from dried up old husks is a miracle from the Master Gardener.” 

She knelt in the soil and patted the ground next to her. I stepped into the dirt to kneel beside her. Right next to my knee was a pawprint. It didn’t look much like Pip’s, though the sight of it made me bite the inside of my cheek.  

From the front pocket of her overalls, Mawmaw pulled out a packet of seeds. 

“Hold out your hand, and I’ll show you how to do a little of this greater magic.” She poured the seeds into my free hand and guided my arm to the hole. I slowly let the seeds fall from my fist. As the assortment of seeds entered the hole, my hand opened wider. Only one tiny seed clung to my palm. 

“Now, pat around the hole. Just don’t pack it too tight.”

I set down the collar and penny, so I could pat the dirt. It was cool beneath my hands.  

“You know, dear, there is a time to bury things, but there is also a time to bring them out into the light. Lots of flowers in my garden need me to dig up their roots every so often, and it’s good for them. But seeds, now, are meant to be planted. Remember that, Laney. Don’t go a-burying things that need to be out in the day, like your items.” 

I looked over at the collar and penny and nodded. What had I been thinking anyway? 

Letting out a long sigh, I met Mawmaw’s gaze with tears in my eyes. “I think … I have something to tell you.” 

She nodded. “How about we talk about it over a nice ol’ cup of lemonade. Does that sound good?”

We got up from the ground. She led me back inside, but not before I had grabbed the collar and penny. They remained in my hand. I didn’t even try to tuck them away into my pocket. Instead, I slipped my free hand into Mawmaw’s worn, wrinkled palm and thought about how, maybe, I was wrong. 

Maybe she did have a green thumb. 

____

I left Mawmaw’s with a potted mint plant. She said I could take care of it, name it if I want– like she does– and make sure it gets plenty of light. I don’t know about calling it anything. Jim might have some choice names for it though. The kids at school will probably think it’s cursed since it came from the witch’s house on Chestnut Street. 

What I did do was clasp the collar around the rim and place Papa’s penny in front of the growing stem. If Mawmaw could grow vegetables from a cursed ground, then maybe something good could come from my plant too. Didn’t she say it was like doing magic?

Already when I got into the car to go back home with Mama, I saw something that was magical. Mama smiled when I told her about the mint and how Mawmaw had given it to me– an actual smile, not the half one she had been doing for the past year. It was a full one that reached into her eyes so that they seemed to sparkle in the afternoon sun. 

It made me smile back.

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Sophia Bricker is a writer with a passion for books and flowers. She believes in the power of both to sustain hope.

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Artwork: Ernest Quost 1842-1931 Hollyhocks