The Passenger
By Simon le Maliac
I was ten years old the last time I saw Grandpa Dirk. I can remember fragments of the last fight he had with my dad. The open shed. Raised voices in the rain. I didn’t understand then. It was also the year of Horace Newstaff.
Most of my weekends growing up were spent with my grandparents. They lived in a block of flats in the centre of the city. It was small but cosy. Grandpa was a striking figure. He was close to seven feet tall, with a gaunt face and wide eyes. He always smelled faintly of a sweet aftershave.
Kids would sometimes shout things through the letterbox. It became something of a local ritual. I would see grandpa’s hands trembling afterwards. I never knew if it was because of fear or anger. His escape was the allotment.
I often helped on that small plot of land.
”You grow well, you feed the whole family,” he told me once, pressing a seed into my palm.
Everything a family could need grew on that patch. Things I didn’t even know the names of. I would pick what I thought were sprigs of herbs and give them to grandma. She laughed as she pretended to place the odd twigs I brought in her homemade soup.
I think Grandpa Dirk enjoyed having me help out. He smiled a lot when we were together on the allotment. The only place I wasn’t allowed was the tool shed. His eyes darkened if I broached the subject. A thick bolt latch secured the door.
”The shed is no place for a child, Adam. Maybe when you’re older. When you are ready,” he would tell me.
Grandpa’s smile was gone the last time I visited.
I sat on the raised beds while my dad and Grandpa Dirk argued. The wind carried their fight away from me. I could see the open shed beyond their rain-soaked figures. I tried to get closer to hear their argument. I wanted to understand. Grandpa Dirk pushed me back.
He didn’t look up as we left. The door to the shed gaped open.
I never saw my grandpa again.
We moved up north. My mum told me it was for dad’s new job, though he stayed at home for weeks afterwards, restless and irritable.
“We don’t speak about him,” my dad snapped if his name was mentioned.
I would sometimes ask my mum about them when dad was out. She would give some vague reason and quickly change the subject. I soon stopped asking.
I never forgot the last time I saw grandpa. I never said it to him, but I hated my dad for taking me away from my grandparents.
Years later, I received the letter.
It was from the lawyer dealing with my late grandpa’s estate, requesting to meet.
When I told my dad about the letter, he showed no emotion. I discovered he had learned about Grandpa Dirk’s death weeks before. Grandma had passed away two years earlier. My dad didn’t attend either funeral.
“Leave it alone,’ he said to me. ‘Some things are best forgotten.”
We fought that day. Both of us said things that we couldn’t take back. My grandparents had died, and my own dad decided to keep that secret from me. I carried on the family legacy and told my dad I wished to never see him again.
Two weeks later, I met with the lawyer. I had been left his allotment. The paperwork had been signed several years previously. The lawyer handed me a sealed envelope and a set of keys. My grandpa’s wish was that I read the letter in private, so I waited until I was back at my car. Inside the envelope was a handwritten letter.
Dear Adam,
I’m sorry I haven’t been in your life. I wish more than anything that we could change that. But if you are reading this letter, then our time has passed.
You were only young, but you were always a bright thing. I wish I could have seen the person you became.
I ask that you care for my allotment. It is important that it is you. The keys to the shed are included with this letter.
Love you always,
Grandpa Dirk.
A long time had passed since I had spoken to him. The words stabbed at my chest as I read them.
I travelled south the following day and stopped by my grandparents’ former home. New tenants had already moved in. I could still pick out the exact window from the car park.
There were no tears. The area was smaller than I remembered. Bleaker. Echoes of my childhood played like a stained photograph. The story of the photograph had changed over time. I thought about driving back north. I couldn’t go without visiting the allotment. I was drawn.
When I reached the allotment, the raised boxes had the occasional weed poking out. It was much like I remembered it. Tidy, each vegetable labelled in neat rows. The blue shed had faded with time. The latch had been replaced by a heavy-duty lock.
I unlocked the shed and pulled open the door. A waft of warm, dry air hit me.
Inside the shed smelled earthy and metallic. Along the wall of the shed opposite the door hung a line of garden tools. Each was pristine and well maintained. The inside of the shed was dark but clean.
It was obvious that the shed was bigger than the others on the plot. A wooden bench with neatly stacked pots ran across the wall. On the surface was a yellowed envelope with ‘Adam’ addressed on the front. I reached to pick it up when I caught the movement at the edge of my vision.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. I could make out a vague shape of a plant growing in the dark.
The immense shape came into focus. It was both orchid-like and animalistic. Root-like appendages slithered on the floor. Thick, fleshy petals rustled as they blindly turned to the sound of my breathing. At the centre of the petals, a horrendous maw ringed with thorn-like teeth opened. A slightly sweet smell pierced the scent of soil. It was strangely calming.
The petals twitched. There was no sound, but I swore the thing was trying to speak.
I should have backed out. Instead, I picked up the envelope, eyes fixed on the strange plant.
Dear Adam,
There is much that I wish I could have shared with you in life. The truth about me.
I was fortunate.
I came here alone and scared. Your grandmother was only a teenager when she found me. She provided refuge to a young stranger who had lost his family. I owe my life to her. Falling in love with her was the easiest thing I have ever done. We never thought that it would be possible to have a family. Then we had David, your father.
He grew up knowing our secret. The burden of that knowledge was not easy for him. Not being able to share that with anyone has always weighed heavily on your father. I do not blame him for his contempt of me. All he ever wanted to do was guard you all.
As I have also.
My journey here picked up a stowaway.
It was only a seedling back then. There is no word for what it is. The name in my native tongue would mean nothing here. Your grandma named it – Passenger. And in the same way that she provided refuge for me, I had a duty to care for my fellow traveller.
I gazed at the immense plant. I felt a wetness on my face. I thought it was sweat, then realised I had been crying. The plant had no eyes but mirrored my movements.
At first, we kept it in the kitchen of our small flat. Then there was an incident with David. Passenger could no longer stay in the house.
I applied for the allotment. Passenger thrived once it moved there. It was safe. And it was private.
We rarely spoke about Passenger with your father. It was a secret he was scared and ashamed of.
Then you were born.
You may not remember it, but you did meet Passenger once. When you were around three years old. I had left the shed unlocked. You were so fast and full of mischief then. I didn’t know you were in there with it. When I noticed you were gone from my sight, I rushed to find you. Passenger made no attempt to harm you. I knew then that it must be you who cares for it.
The details were hazy–like a faded photograph–but the sense of familiarity now made sense.
Your father was not happy when I informed him. He foresaw what would happen. He saw what was possible himself. Providing care for Passenger is complex.
I didn’t know the toll it would take.
Horace Newstaff changed everything.
I remembered Horace. A local drifter who would wander the centre of town, muttering about conspiracies and other wild theories. He would sometimes come by the allotment and Grandpa Dirk would give him some vegetables. I would avoid him whenever he came by. He would whisper like a man concealing a deep secret. He took an interest in my grandpa. He always tried to ask me questions about him. Questions I never understood.
He came by the allotment the last time I saw you. He discovered Passenger. I found him standing at the open shed door holding the broken lock.
I tried everything to convince him, but I knew others would be arriving soon.
He screamed for a while. Horace wasn’t hunger. He was sport.
I lost much that day. David. You. I have had to live with what I have done every day since.
There were others.
And now, Adam, I must entrust you to protect our secret. I need you to be the guardian of Passenger.
I am asking much of you. Please, I need what I have done to count.
I wish I could have seen your face one last time, my sweet boy.
Love you always,
Grandpa Dirk.
My hand trembled as I finished the letter. I looked at my grandpa’s legacy. My inheritance.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. Dad calling. There were so many other secrets. Other questions that landed like a gut punch. I thumbed the end call button.
A jerry can of petrol for the lawnmower sat in the corner. Enough to take care of the shed and allotment. I had the can in one hand, the opened cap in another. A sickly acidic taste filled my mouth.
The roots shifted below Passenger. From the tangle of writhing limbs, a sapling sprouted. The petals parted in a yawn, flashing the dark, sharp inside of the head. The sapling swelled in size, moving in sharp jitters.
I wanted to empty the can. Light a match and walk away. I wanted to see it burn. The sweet smell grew stronger. A familiar scent laced with rot. It felt like an old song. My hand stilled. I struggled against the lightness filling my head.
Wood creaked as the thick vines unravelled. Passenger grew in stature. I saw tiny specks of pollen glisten in the ray of sun breaking through the door. They swarmed around me. Only me. Resting on my skin. The shed buzzed, pulling in and out of focus.
#
One new voice mail.
“Adam I’m sorry. I had to get you away. It had already chosen you.”
#
I placed the cap back on the can. Passenger pulsed and twitched. I breathed in the pollen. My head mirrored the movements. Euphoria coursed through my body. There was a poison under that high. It burned when I fought against it.
A meaty tendril wrapped around the sapling.
Simon le Maliac is a Scottish writer of horror, science fiction and fantasy. They live at the edge of society in a reclusive Scottish village.
Simon can be found on Blue Sky @lemaliac.bsky.social