K.B. Fugitt

Once a week, Jorge Gonzalez hopped on his riding lawnmower and cut the expansive lawn in the rear of the Brantley Estate. He took a lot of pride in maintaining the healthy look of the grounds around the mansion, owned by Connor and Kimberly Brantley, a wealthy couple and two of Jorge’s favorite clients. The estate covered a total of five acres with two acres of it being in lawns and gardens, and the remaining acreage in forest which surrounded the perimeter of the property. At this time of year, early summer, it required all hands-on deck from his employees to keep the award-winning grounds up to Jorge’s high standards. Today he was in the back of the estate by himself while his employees, five of them, were in the front and sides of the property doing what they had been instructed to do: two were trimming hedges, two were in the flower gardens, and one was on the front lawn doing what Jorge was doing in the back of the estate, cutting the grass.

Jorge, originally from Mexico, was in his mid-fifties and had immigrated to the United States twenty-five years ago. When he arrived in his new country he worked with a landscaping company for ten years before deciding to start up his own business and what was now a very successful garden and lawn maintenance company. He had thirty plus employees and the ones who weren’t with him now were scattered about the region doing the same thing: looking after people’s yards and gardens along with several commercial properties. It was a business which kept everyone busy all year round.

Jorge was usually in his own little world when he rode the lawnmower and that’s where he was now, listening to Latino music on his headset and admiring how nice the lawn looked. As he began to turn his riding mower around at the edge of the property where the manicured lawn met the natural growth of the forest, something caught his attention. He took his headset off and stopped the mower to have a better look. It was about twenty feet inside the sparsely wooded area, and when it registered what he was seeing, he shrieked, “What the heck is that?”

It was a hand sticking up out of the ground and appeared to be holding something and waving it. Jorge got off his riding lawnmower and looked around to see if any of his employees were by chance in the back of the property with him. None were. He stood and watched for a few seconds and couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing.

“Is that a hand?” he mumbled and took a few of steps into the woods where he determined it was in fact a hand coming out of the ground and held a piece of paper.

He looked around one more time and saw that he was still alone. He debated for a second whether or not to go get one of his employees, but decided against it. Instead, he took out his cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures. Walking up, Jorge stood a foot away from the hand, looked down at it, and did the sign of the cross.

“This is crazy. Is this some kind of a joke?” he again spoke quietly to himself.

Getting his courage up, he bent over and took the piece of paper, then the hand disappeared. Guardedly, before looking at the paper, Jorge looked down the four-inch hole just below the surface of the lawn. He saw only darkness. He took a couple of steps away and opened the folded piece of paper. It had five words on it and read: “There are people living underground.”