They came to me in the garden, the ghosts.
They told me that they knew, those ghosts.
They told me that they knew those ghosts.
The ghosts of the people I had killed.
I shrugged, told them they were just my conscience; and that I buried my conscience that night too.
The ghosts raised their eyebrows, smiled.
Something began to stir in the new flowerbeds.
I screamed and I panicked, tried to push down the rising soil, stop the evidence coming up behind.
My neighbours heard the scream,
saw me scrabbling in the dirt,
saw a hand,
called the police.
They told me that they knew, those ghosts.
They told me that they knew those ghosts.
The ghosts of the people I had killed.
I shrugged, told them they were just my conscience; and that I buried my conscience that night too.
The ghosts raised their eyebrows, smiled.
Something began to stir in the new flowerbeds.
I screamed and I panicked, tried to push down the rising soil, stop the evidence coming up behind.
My neighbours heard the scream,
saw me scrabbling in the dirt,
saw a hand,
called the police.
Written for the 100 Word Challenge on Thin Spiral Notebook; the prompt was the word, Garden.
I may never look at my flower garden the same again.
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