Growing Onions

Originally Posted on r/nosleep

My grandmother used to tell me stories that were supposed to scare me into behaving. She’d threaten that if I didn’t behave, my father would remarry someone wicked, and I’d be at the mercy of a stepmother who’d make my life hell. It felt like nonsense at the time—a bedtime story to keep me from acting out.

She told one particular story often, especially after my mother died when I was eight. The idea of my father remarrying was terrifying enough without her adding a wicked stepmother into the mix. But after she passed away last month, I found her stories coming back to me in the worst way.

The story went something like this:

There were once two children—a boy and a girl—whose mother died when they were young. Their father, a businessman, traveled frequently, and when he remarried a woman he met on one of his trips, the children hoped for love and care. But the new wife was cruel. She accused them of mischief, locked them in their rooms, and denied them food as punishment.

One day, when their father was away, the stepmother went too far. She left the children outside, forbidding them to come inside for water or shade. The boy collapsed first, his sister trying to drag him back toward the house. By the time the stepmother returned, both were dead.

Panicked, she buried their bodies in the garden, under the onion patch. When the father came home, she cried and claimed the children had run away. Distraught, he believed her, held a memorial, and invited the extended family over for dinner. He asked the stepmother to prepare a feast to honor the children.

She went to the garden to pick vegetables, but as she pulled at the onions, she heard a voice whisper:

‘My mother, my mother, don’t pull on my hair.

You’ve killed me and now buried me here.’

Terrified, she ran inside, claiming nothing was wrong. The father, confused, went to the garden himself. When he picked the onions, they looked like human heads, pale and weeping.

Still, the stepmother cooked the meal, her tears mixing with the onions as she chopped them. But as the family gathered to eat, a song echoed through the house:

‘Our mother, our mother, don’t feed us to him.

Our father will miss us; your future is grim.’

The guests restrained the wicked stepmother and tore apart the house, searching for the children who had been singing. Eventually, they found their way to the garden and noticed the freshly turned dirt. They dug down and found the children’s bodies, headless and rotting beneath the onions. The stepmother confessed everything. She was hanged that same week.

My grandmother would end the story with a warning: “That’s why you must always behave. Otherwise, your father might find someone like her.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t too close to her and felt only a little sad when she passed. My father never remarried, and I was his only child, so we inherited their house when she passed a few years after my grandfather. While cleaning the attic, I found my grandfather’s journals while sorting through her belongings.

I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. Most of it was routine: entries about work, the good weather, or my grandmother. But one entry near the end caught my attention.

It was an entry from early in their marriage, and it read:

I dreamt of the children again. They sang the same song, crying for justice. My hands feel so heavy when I work in the garden. What did you do, Eleanor? What have you hidden from me?”

The words didn’t make sense.  Who were the children? My father was an only child, as far as I knew. Why did he mention digging in the garden? I never saw anything strange in the garden or at their house.

Until now.

The sole inheritors of their will, my father and I moved into their house, a beautiful Victorian with a sprawling yard and nearby streams. The first night I heard it, I thought it was a prank. A faint melody drifted through the house, barely loud enough to hear. It sounded like children singing, but the words were indistinct, mixed with the babbling brooks nearby.

By the second night, I was sure it was coming from the garden. I stood at the back door, straining to listen, and heard it clearly this time:

“Our brother, our brother, you live in our home.”

I froze. It was the song from the story.

By the fourth night, the voices followed me inside. They sang as I tried to sleep, whispering in the walls and under the floorboards. I swore I could hear dirt shifting beneath the house. I had trouble sleeping, and when I asked my father about it, he would shut my questions down and tell me to ignore it all.

Then things escalated.

One night, as we were having dinner, we both froze. The singing was clear this time, the words unmistakable:

“Our brother, our brother, you sit in our place.

Your daughter won’t miss you or remember your face.”

The blood drained from my father’s face. I could tell he recognized the words, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “It’s just the pipes,” he muttered, shoving his chair back and retreating to his bedroom.

But I knew better.

The nights grew worse. The voices followed us into the house, whispering accusations. They would call out in unison, chillingly playful:

“He took our place. We want it back.”

I started seeing them—two pale, translucent figures standing in the garden at night, their hollow eyes fixed on the house. My father saw them, too, though he tried to deny it. His health began to deteriorate. He barely slept, jumping at every creak of the floorboards or gust of wind rattling the windows.

One morning, I found him in the kitchen, staring out at the garden with dark circles under his eyes. “I don’t know what they want from me,” he whispered. “I didn’t do anything.”

I decided to dig in the garden. The soil felt damp and heavy as if it hadn’t been touched in years, but the deeper I went, the more I found. First, small bones—too small to be anything but a child. Then, there was a clump of hair, brittle and matted with dirt.

The spirits became more aggressive, targeting my father specifically. His bedroom door would slam shut in the middle of the night. He’d wake up screaming, clutching his chest, claiming he felt small hands pulling at his hair.

One night, I woke to the sound of breaking glass. I ran to his room and found him collapsed on the floor, clutching the broken shards of a picture frame. “They won’t stop,” he gasped. “They want me dead.”

I tried to reassure him, but the look in his eyes told me he’d already given up.

The next morning, he was gone. His body was stiff, his eyes wide with terror, as though he’d seen something no living person should ever witness.

I thought the torment would end with him, that the ghosts would finally rest. But I was wrong.

The night after his funeral, the singing returned. It was louder this time, and the words had changed:

“Your father is gone, so we wait for you.

Your place is here; you’ll never break through.”

I’ve tried leaving the house. I always find myself back at the front door, no matter how far I drive or how fast I run. The garden is thriving again, the onions thick and vibrant, though I haven’t touched the soil.

The singing never stops.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days? Weeks? Time seems different now. The voices call to me constantly, lulling me into a strange, dreamlike haze. Sometimes, I see my father standing in the garden, just beyond the onions, watching me with those empty eyes.

If you ever inherit an old house with a perfect garden, burn it down. Burn it to the ground and never look back. Because once you’re here, there’s no escape. And if you ever hear singing in your garden, ignore it. And for God’s sake, don’t dig.