By an Imitator of H.G. Wells
In the summer of 1897, in a village unremarkable but for its neat hedgerows and the soporific buzzing of bees, something extraordinary occurred—so extraordinary, in fact, that it quite upended the understanding of agriculture, botany, and the proper size of a tomato.
It began, as so many catastrophes do, with an earnest man and an ill-considered idea. Professor Edwin Marlowe, a thin gentleman with spectacles permanently fogged by his own intensity, had been recently dismissed from the Royal Botanical Society for proposing that plants, if coerced with the proper tonics and frequencies of vibration, might achieve growth on a scale “hitherto unimagined by the feeble intellect of man.” This phrasing had not helped his cause.
Unbowed, Marlowe retreated to a rented farmstead outside the village of Witheringham, accompanied by a crate of equipment, a dog-eared copy of The Secret Life of Sap, and an alarming number of unlabeled flasks. He set to work upon a modest vegetable patch with all the fervor of a conjuror preparing a great illusion.
The first signs of irregularity were charming. A cucumber the size of a loaf of bread. A radish as large as a man's fist. Villagers took to strolling past the gate, exchanging amused remarks. But by late July, charm had curdled into concern.
A tomato, roughly the size of a footstool, broke loose from its vine and crushed a wheelbarrow. A marrow had to be dragged away with the help of two shire horses and a block-and-tackle. Then came the pumpkin.
It rose one morning like a new sun behind the farmhouse, vast and orange and faintly steaming. Birds circled it in confusion. The rector declared it "an affront to nature and the Book of Genesis." Children were forbidden from going near it, though one was later found asleep against its skin, lulled by the odd, slow thrum it emitted.
Marlowe, undeterred, scribbled in his journal and adjusted his resonators. He had invented what he called a growth harmonizer, a device that pulsed with low-frequency waves designed to stimulate what he described as “botanic ambition.” His theory was simple: plants wanted to grow, but lacked the proper encouragement.
That night, a sound like the groaning of ancient trees woke the village.
By morning, the farmhouse was gone—its roof split by an enormous asparagus spear that had erupted through the chimney like a vegetal lance. The pumpkin had collapsed under its own weight, splattering seeds and pulp across half an acre. In the center of the devastation stood Marlowe, triumphant and sticky, proclaiming the dawn of a new agricultural epoch.
It was only then that the corn began to walk.
Towering stalks—fifteen, twenty feet high—pivoted subtly on their root systems, guided not by wind but by a strange inner purpose. Marlowe, delighted, followed them into the field with a notebook in one hand and a tuning fork in the other.
The villagers did not follow.
It was only a week later that the army arrived, summoned by panicked telegrams and one memorable illustrated postcard. By then the fields were a jungle, each plant monstrous, intertwined, and ominously mobile. Marlowe was never found.
A government cordon was established. The fields were burned—twice—and then sealed with concrete and official silence.
Today, the site is marked by a sign that reads Experimental Agricultural Grounds – No Trespassing. Beneath it, concrete occasionally bulges, and the wild blackberries nearby grow sweet, enormous, and faintly musical.
End.
