Helen E Weeks

The Ghost Gardens Helen E Weeks

Hale Avenue was quiet in the late day sun. Not even a bird singing could be heard. The man paused rocking in the porch swing. Birds never sang on Hale Avenue anymore. It was time. The Unity street shelter did not have what they needed this time, but it could be found down the street. It was quiet because none of the permanent residents except the Drake sons, Tomas and Taylor owned vehicles and both owned modern electric cars that made no noise. He left the porch, shielded from view by the thick growth of vines that covered the fence around the front yard. The child smiled at him as he stepped onto the sidewalk, and the vines on the fence stirred a little then settled into lazy movement from the light breeze. The sun slowly began to slide behind the tall abandoned factories shadowing the once thriving neighborhoods, the stench from the textile products still lingered faintly but was gradually fading as the passing seasons took their toll. In the summer heat, the greenbrier flowers smell mixed with the scent of the wildflowers in the Ghost Gardens. People only disappeared the from Hale Avenue area in the summer. The flower gardens that grew beside empty houses and near the edges of weed and debris choked yards were an eerie reminder that once someone had cared, but now they were so very wild and brightly beautiful. This land must be rich, Mac thought idly, then frowned. Near factories that had been forcibly closed because they contaminated the ground for miles in any direction? That was odd. Ghost Gardens of a past life? He noted the thick growth of a green vine that climbed around discarded lawn furniture and over fences, covering nearly everything except the flower gardens. The gardens were well cared for but the entire eleven blocks that was Hale Avenue was a place where people could disappear without a trace. And did. The bright blooming gardens drew his attention again and for some reason a cold film of perspiration spread over his body, his belly clenched painfully, then it was gone. Mac hated anything that reminded him of a happier time in his life, and the flowers reminded him of his mother's gardens in the front and back yards of the sprawling cottage where he had grown up. Still, he knew his reaction was extreme, this time, too extreme to be just personal memories. He filed it away, forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He had been sent here because a child had gone missing. Driving along the streets and further into the south side of the city, Mac grew more alert. The city had abandoned this area when the recession hit, pulling services and police protection, turning it over to the criminal element so eager to move in and force decent people out. Mac hated this part of the city, the empty houses with uncut grass, the stench that still lingered from the deserted woolen mills and textile factories. He remembered reading something about hazardous waste dumping when he was much younger. Many of the factories had been shut down before the recession hit because of the hazardous waste that spewed into the air and soaked into the ground. The environmental protection agency had closed some of the factories and ordered the city to relocate the residents who lived closest to the hazardous materials. Federal money was combined with city and corporate money to keep those residents quiet. The story had disappeared from the news when the son of a wealthy socialite disappeared and captured the manic attention of the press. He disappeared from Hale Avenue.