“It is a grave,” Mister Quanah said. “Resting place of a thousand souls.”
“Why should that concern me?” Southron asked, hand upon the golden swan head of his cane. “I want my garden.”
The workers came, tearing up earth and moving stone. Twisting metal fences stabbed into the ground.
And each day, another pot appeared, fire burning underneath. Nobody saw who was leaving them. Southron hired guards, fired guards, set up cameras, threw out cameras, issued rifles, replaced locks over and over.
Still the pots appeared.
At sundown on the fourteenth day, Southron decided to delegate no longer. He sat out in the garden as night fell and moonlit shadows stretched from cold metal fences.
In the morning, he ordered construction be halted and sold the house. Nobody could ever persuade him to say what he saw that night, but he never set foot in the country again.
Word Count: 148
For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Yarnspinner for providing the prompt photo!