The Twilight Garden

9

They sat beside one another, a book open between them—Josephine had explained that, while she had been in bed, she had felt the sudden urge to look for a certain book from her father's study. While in there, she had found both the book and her own journal of notations she had started some years before, regarding her father's strange research. She had forgotten about her notes, and only when she had found the book beside the one she had been searching for had she recalled her desire to understand her father's studies further.

'My journal is filled with translations that I was able to determine based on various books of his. I used to be quite the cryptologist, it seems.' She laughed, opening her journal. 'See here? I even created a legend to make further translations easier.'

'Indeed, Josephine.' Leland stated, keeping his eyes on her journal. He wouldn't look at her, and she had no complete explanation as to why. 'You say you hadn't remembered this book, but how did you come by the memory?'

His question perplexed her, and she tilted her head up as she considered it. 'I would think it had something to do with how preoccupied my mind has been, with the children constantly appearing and pleading with me. I seem to have forgotten a lot over the past few months, but they are coming back to me, albeit slowly.'

'I see.' Leland responded, only half paying attention to her words. His eyes were fixed on the pages as he read through her translations, and once he felt confident with his knowledge, he opened her father's journal. There, it was much easier to understand both the man's illegible writing and the strange language he wrote in. After sitting in silence for what seemed like hours, he looked up from the book to see Josephine staring at him, her gaze intense.

' What I saw during my last fit triggered something in my memory. The last time I saw Porter was not a year ago, it was only a week or two before my father's death. They were arguing over something, and I peeked into the study—I saw them, with this book open on the desk, discussing something very serious.' She tapped the leather-bound journal in his hand.

Leland listened as Josephine recounted her experiences, as well as the conversation she had witnessed between her father and Porter Keane before his death.

'I must have forced it from my mind, or perhaps the shock of his death caused everything else to be pushed away. I don't know, but according to this book, everything suggests that the garden holds the answers.'

The forest was shrouded in fog, and as Leland and Josephine neared the locked gate, they could just barely see through the bars. The wall that surrounded the garden stood, ominous, before them, the gate a silent challenge to their resolve. She grabbed his hand for comfort, but his shock at the gesture caused her to step away; she placed her hands on the gate and pushed, as if that simple movement would unlock it.

'It won't open.' She said, more to herself than to anyone else, and leaned her forehead against the bars, sighing. Leland reached his hand out and touched her shoulder, stepping beside her. His arm lowered to her waist and he pulled her away from the gate and into his arms, searching her face for something, something that he couldn't put into words. It was an acknowledgement he was searching for, either confirmation or refutation of his diagnosis. Her eyes betrayed her fear, her pain, and her curiosity—but it did not show him psychosis. In the place of hysteria he saw affection, a great affection that glazed over her eyes and filled them with tears. Her lips trembled, and against his better judgement he touch them with his thumb. She closed her eyes, leaning into his hand, drawing emotions from deep within his psyche.

'I am sorry, Josephine.' He whispered, holding her against his chest; her arms wrapped around him and they remained by the gate, holding one another, for a moment transported away from the mystery of the garden shrouded in fog and twilight.

Leland was the first to break their connection, as he heard the telling sound of creaking metal. He turned to see the gate, unlocked and open a few inches. Her hand clasped in his, he stepped over the threshold and into the garden, leading the way for Josephine.

At first, there was nothing abnormal or terrible about the place—the flowers were blooming and there were butterflies and bees all around. Josephine even noted the sounds of several species of birds in the trees. It wasn't until they were out of sight of the gate that she started to feel out of place, as if she shouldn't be there at all. She pulled at Leland's hand, trying to grab his attention away from the scenery, but he was stuck there, rooted in the moment of finally seeing what was in the garden within the wall.

'Dr Scott?' She pulled his arm once more, but the movement was only a temporary obstacle to him and he continued on. 'Dr Scott, please stop.' He either did not hear her, or chose to ignore her. She ripped her hand away from his and stood still on the path. 'Leland, you must stop!'

This caught him off guard, the use of his first name by a patient. He stopped and turned to see her, hands clenched into fists at her side, tears in her eyes. Beside her, hidden nearly entirely by the tall grass and wild-flowers, sat a headstone.

'We shouldn't be here, Leland.' Came her fervent whisper as she turned away from him. 'We need to go back, we need to leave.' As she took another step, Leland saw from the corner of his eye a short figure step from the trees. He turned to see a child standing amongst the grass, her chestnut hair tied back with a red ribbon, her white dress tattered and stained.

'Josephine.' Leland called, not taking his eyes off the child. She raised her hand and pointed down the path, in the direction he had been headed. 'Josephine, we must do this. I believe now that this is the only way to stop this, to stop whatever this is that ails you.'

She glanced at him, turning her head over her should, and saw his gaze was not on her, but on the trees.

She followed it and, with a gasp, recognised Octavia.

'Do you see her?'

'I do.' He couldn't bring himself to say another word. He reached his hand out to grab hers, all the while keeping his gaze steady on the child. They continued down the path, hand in hand, until they cleared the line of trees at the edge of the garden. Beyond, in a clearing filled with windblown grass and vines snaking their way from the woods, they found the altar. It stood, in the centre of the field, surrounded by rows of stone benches; three steps circled around the dais, leading to the top where Josephine had stood with Porter all those years ago.

The field was eerie, silent—no bird songs could be heard, though the garden was just feet away. No flowers grew in the grass, and it seemed that the grass lost its colour and life the closer they moved toward the altar. Josephine refused to take the stairs to the top, and remained near the front row of benches as Leland took each step with determination. At the top, stained into the stone from years of use, he saw blood. Dried, flaking, discolouring the stone with red and brown.

Leland turned away from the altar and stared out into the field—it was a huge area, and he knew that the park where Octavia Brisbin had been abducted was just beyond the far wall of trees.