My Coworker Thought Our Office Plant Was Haunted
At our JIMAC10 office, we had a big, leafy plant in the corner that we had all collectively named Bartholomew. He was a sturdy, oversized fiddle-leaf fig that occupied a significant corner of the breakroom. For years, Bartholomew had been a testament to resilience; he lived on neglect, surviving on nothing but occasional splashes of lukewarm water and whatever dim sunlight managed to filter through our dusty office blinds. He was just part of the furniture, like the creaky filing cabinets or the flickering fluorescent light in the hallway. Then there was Brenda. Brenda worked in the accounting department, and she was genuinely one of the kindest people I have ever met. She was always the one to organize birthday cards or bring in homemade muffins, but she also had a deep, unwavering belief in the supernatural. It started as a small, offhand comment one rainy morning. She was standing by the water cooler, staring intently at the corner where Bartholomew sat. She turned to me, her eyes wide, and whispered that she was convinced Bartholomew was haunted. I laughed it off at first, assuming she was just being funny, but she didn't smile. She told me she had seen his leaves shift when there was absolutely no breeze in the room, and that on quiet afternoons, she heard him whispering. I tried to reason with her. I explained that the building was old, the ventilation system was notoriously loud, and the floors shifted when the temperature changed. It was just the building settling, I told her. But Brenda was completely sure that the plant was trying to communicate with us. The shift in her behavior was subtle at first. She started leaving little gifts for the plant on the small table next to the pot. Sometimes it was a single chocolate chip cookie, other times a little sticky note with words like "thank you" or "what do you need?" written on them in her neat cursive. Other coworkers definitely noticed. People started whispering in the breakroom, casting awkward glances at Brenda as she leaned in close to the plant to share secrets. It became the talk of the office. Our boss, Mr. Henderson, was a practical man who did not have much patience for office drama, let alone ghost stories involving foliage. He eventually called Brenda into his office for a chat. He tried to explain the logic of biology, photosynthesis, and the simple fact that plants do not speak or have souls. Brenda just listened politely, nodded, and went right back to tending to Bartholomew as if nothing had happened. She continued talking to him, clearing the dust from his leaves with a soft damp cloth, and whispering things that none of us could quite catch. It was a morning when the atmosphere of the office changed completely. We walked in, expecting the usual hum of office life, only to find the corner empty of life. Bartholomew was completely dead. His leaves, which had been a rich green for years, had curled into brown, brittle skeletons overnight. The soil in the pot looked like it had been baked in an oven. The contrast was shocking. Brenda was devastated. She stood over the remains, tears welling in her eyes, and told us that the spirits had finally freed him. It was a bizarre, heavy moment. Mr. Henderson didn't want the eyesore lingering, so he had the janitor take the dead plant away to the dumpster. Brenda didn't fight him on it, but she did ask to keep the heavy ceramic pot. She placed it right on the center of her desk. She didn't put a new plant in it; she just kept it empty. Every single day, she kept leaving her little cookies and notes for the spirit she believed was still residing in the ceramic container. People stopped making fun of her eventually, mostly because the sight of the empty, gifted pot became just another quirky detail of our office culture. It was, without a doubt, the strangest thing I have ever seen in a workplace. Now, months later, the office feels different. Sometimes, when I stay late to finish a report and the rest of the building is completely silent, I find myself looking at that empty spot in the corner. I don't believe in ghosts, but there are moments when the building settles, or a vent kicks on, and I hear a slight, rustling sound that seems to come from nowhere. It is just enough to make me pause and wonder if Brenda was right all along.