The Groundskeeper
by Sean Lawrence
He knew what she was going to ask before she spoke. It had to be why she’d come to see him. There was no other reason the owner of the Mudskippers would be in the part of town that housed most of the field workers and where English was rarely heard. She was reinstating the team and needed him to get the field back to playing conditions.
His family had taken care of the grounds at Earl Calloway Stadium for generations, and as his father would often say, no one knew the intricacies of that grass like they did. Even though the team and, therefore, the stadium, had been dormant for close to a decade, if anyone was going to be able to get that grass to grow again, it would be him.
Whether he should resurrect it was another matter. He was certain the underground gases from Groth Oil were the catalyst for the bizarre happenings that had befallen their small town all those years ago. At the time, those gases had been contained in and around the oil field itself. After the company folded, the gases continued to spread and leech into the soil. The stadium was only a mile away, and if he aerated the ground, he ran the risk of releasing those gases and the horrors they brought with them.
Did this woman know about them? Did she care? Her uncle showed no concerns when he owned the team.
See nothing, say nothing. Rake the dirt. Mow the grass. Paint the chalk. Fix the wall. Remove the body. Clean the blood. Store the artifact. Arm the survivors. Kill the infected.
No questions. No comments. Just do as you’re told.
When the team folded, there was no more work. His wife left. His friends left. There were more empty houses in his neighborhood than filled ones. This woman said she wanted to change that. She wanted to provide jobs. Would they come back? Would his wife accept his calls? Would the monsters return?
He realized she knew nothing about the history of this town. She had no idea her uncle owned both the team and Groth Oil at the same time. There had been no mention of the lawsuits or tragedies he had witnessed first-hand. She was in the dark about all of it. He could’ve told her, but he didn’t feel it was his place to do so.
She offered more money than her uncle had ever paid him and promised she would get whatever resources he needed. The team had a manager in place and players were on their way. Without a field, though, they were nothing.
No one had touched it since the Mudskippers final game ten years ago. Sun exposure had left the infield compacted and hard as concrete. Weeds had infested the outfield, slowly devouring the Bermudagrass his father had planted just before his death. Total reconstruction was the proper choice, but there was no time. The only option was to pull the weeds, aerate, fertilize, water, and hope for the best.
He considered refusing. He couldn’t be responsible for unleashing the hellscape that had been buried under the ground. She would just find somebody else, someone from out of town who knew nothing about the grisly history. Could he let that happen? The field was his family’s legacy. Could he stand by and let somebody else take it over?
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the gas had receded within the confines of the oil fields. Or the government had secretly released some sort of microbe that would break down and eat the toxins. After all, there was no proof his fears were true. It was entirely possible he’d been building something up in his mind that would never come to fruition.
He concocted a plan. He would take a small area of the field—the on-deck circle—and use it as a test. He’d tell the owner it was to find out how realistic repairing the field would be, but, in reality, it was to see if any danger was lurking under the soil.
He cleared the weeds from the circle and pushed a soil probe into the dirt. As expected, the arid air had dried the ground to the point that moisture barely registered on the meter. He stared at the small hole it left as he pulled it out to see if anything came with it.
It didn’t. There was no movement. No sour smell. No danger. He was safe.
Reassured and confident, he told her he’d get to work on the field right away. The workers he’d hired would not arrive for a few days, but there was plenty he could do by himself before then. He didn’t mind. The solitude of working a field was relaxing and peaceful.
He fired up his stand-on aerator and smiled at his prized piece of machinery. Using it for the first time in years was a small step toward reclaiming his old life. With its engine purring, he guided the device to the outfield. Music caressed his ears as he rode over the choppy, sharp grass he was about to resurrect.
Once he blanketed the area, he turned the aerator off and pushed it into foul territory. The night was growing near and there was plenty more to work on tomorrow. He whistled as he walked toward first base and stopped when he heard it... a beastly growl. It was behind him. Moving close. One step at a time. It would be on him in moments.
It was back. What had he done?
His family had taken care of the grounds at Earl Calloway Stadium for generations, and as his father would often say, no one knew the intricacies of that grass like they did. Even though the team and, therefore, the stadium, had been dormant for close to a decade, if anyone was going to be able to get that grass to grow again, it would be him.
Whether he should resurrect it was another matter. He was certain the underground gases from Groth Oil were the catalyst for the bizarre happenings that had befallen their small town all those years ago. At the time, those gases had been contained in and around the oil field itself. After the company folded, the gases continued to spread and leech into the soil. The stadium was only a mile away, and if he aerated the ground, he ran the risk of releasing those gases and the horrors they brought with them.
Did this woman know about them? Did she care? Her uncle showed no concerns when he owned the team.
See nothing, say nothing. Rake the dirt. Mow the grass. Paint the chalk. Fix the wall. Remove the body. Clean the blood. Store the artifact. Arm the survivors. Kill the infected.
No questions. No comments. Just do as you’re told.
When the team folded, there was no more work. His wife left. His friends left. There were more empty houses in his neighborhood than filled ones. This woman said she wanted to change that. She wanted to provide jobs. Would they come back? Would his wife accept his calls? Would the monsters return?
He realized she knew nothing about the history of this town. She had no idea her uncle owned both the team and Groth Oil at the same time. There had been no mention of the lawsuits or tragedies he had witnessed first-hand. She was in the dark about all of it. He could’ve told her, but he didn’t feel it was his place to do so.
She offered more money than her uncle had ever paid him and promised she would get whatever resources he needed. The team had a manager in place and players were on their way. Without a field, though, they were nothing.
No one had touched it since the Mudskippers final game ten years ago. Sun exposure had left the infield compacted and hard as concrete. Weeds had infested the outfield, slowly devouring the Bermudagrass his father had planted just before his death. Total reconstruction was the proper choice, but there was no time. The only option was to pull the weeds, aerate, fertilize, water, and hope for the best.
He considered refusing. He couldn’t be responsible for unleashing the hellscape that had been buried under the ground. She would just find somebody else, someone from out of town who knew nothing about the grisly history. Could he let that happen? The field was his family’s legacy. Could he stand by and let somebody else take it over?
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the gas had receded within the confines of the oil fields. Or the government had secretly released some sort of microbe that would break down and eat the toxins. After all, there was no proof his fears were true. It was entirely possible he’d been building something up in his mind that would never come to fruition.
He concocted a plan. He would take a small area of the field—the on-deck circle—and use it as a test. He’d tell the owner it was to find out how realistic repairing the field would be, but, in reality, it was to see if any danger was lurking under the soil.
He cleared the weeds from the circle and pushed a soil probe into the dirt. As expected, the arid air had dried the ground to the point that moisture barely registered on the meter. He stared at the small hole it left as he pulled it out to see if anything came with it.
It didn’t. There was no movement. No sour smell. No danger. He was safe.
Reassured and confident, he told her he’d get to work on the field right away. The workers he’d hired would not arrive for a few days, but there was plenty he could do by himself before then. He didn’t mind. The solitude of working a field was relaxing and peaceful.
He fired up his stand-on aerator and smiled at his prized piece of machinery. Using it for the first time in years was a small step toward reclaiming his old life. With its engine purring, he guided the device to the outfield. Music caressed his ears as he rode over the choppy, sharp grass he was about to resurrect.
Once he blanketed the area, he turned the aerator off and pushed it into foul territory. The night was growing near and there was plenty more to work on tomorrow. He whistled as he walked toward first base and stopped when he heard it... a beastly growl. It was behind him. Moving close. One step at a time. It would be on him in moments.
It was back. What had he done?
Sean Lawrence works in the entertainment industry and writes in his free time. His stories have been published in Word Riot and Paradigm Shift, and his screenplays have won or placed in several contests. He lives in California with his wife and two children.