little house of horrors...

Last month on one of my afternoon rambles I ventured into the conservatory at Centennial Park in Etobicoke. It's one of my favourite Toronto destinations, especially on gloomy days when I can imagine myself lost in some lush, tropical jungle complete with towering palms, exotic birds, and colourful fish.

The glasshouse has three distinct sections. In the central and largest room live the tropical palms and pomegranates, banana trees, orchids, hibiscus, and myriad other visitors from warmer climes, including Angel, the resident Australian Cockatoo.

Palms and Tropicals

Goldfish in the Pond

Phalaenopsis Orchids

Angel the Cockatoo - Official Greeter

To the north, is an ever-changing garden room where visitors are treated to whimsical displays celebrating the changing seasons.

Easter Egg Tree

Spring Blooms

Christmas Pageant

The southern house is home to a glorious desert habitat, teeming with other-worldly silhouettes; strange beings armed with threatening spines and thorns. Unexpected blooms surprise and delight – everything from tiny, perfect petals on prickly Euphorbia splendens, to flashy spikes of crimson and yellow on the giant Aloe vera.

A Prickly Situation

Euphorbia splendens (Crown of Thorns)

Aloe vera in bloom

But on that cloudy August afternoon, I encountered something very peculiar indeed among the cacti and succulents… a tangle of lumps and bumps spreading tentacle-like, stretching ever closer to the door as if plotting escape. And from the tip of one of those tentacles sprouted two long, smooth stalks with massive flower buds – so heavy they couldn't stand erect. I swear they seemed to grow even larger while I stared in fascination. I even began to imagine they were staring right back at me like Audrey II, that infamous person-eater in Little Shop of Horrors. Could this little monster be Audrey III?

Is it just me, or can you imagine those puckery lines as a mouth?

I'm almost certain I saw the largest bloom shudder ever so slightly as I inched closer to aim my camera. It seemed to swell, like a pale, fleshy balloon. (It couldn't be breathing, could it?) Thankfully, Audrey didn't object to being photographed and I escaped unscathed into the tropical house where I tried but failed to find someone who might answer my questions about the sinister plant. My imagination took over. What if, just like the hapless victims in Little Shop, the missing greenhouse staff had all been devoured by the very thing consigned to their care?

Safely home, I searched the web for some hint of what the creepy creeping cactus might be. No luck. I would have to go back. And so, armed with my camera (to document potential horrors), and wearing running shoes (just in case), I returned the next morning to investigate.

The doors to the hothouse were closed when I arrived. I peered through the window. No sign of human life. When I eased the door open and stepped through, I found Audrey III still lounging on her brick wall.

She looked almost regal, I thought, but quite a lot puffier than she'd been the day before. That's when I noticed another of her kind peeking out from behind a rock. Closer inspection revealed another… and another. Audrey had a posse. I backed slowly away.

Rounding a corner in the tropical house I happened upon a lanky man in dusty blue overalls, grooming the Phalaenopsis. I was in luck. I'd found one of the conservatory's horticulturalists. He brushed wisps of fine, sandy hair away from his face as he stooped to peer at Audrey III's image on my camera display. 

"Ah!" he said, in a softly accented voice. "Stapelia. He sounded it out, "Sta-pee-lee-ahh. Come, I tell you." And he led me back to the hothouse to examine Audrey again. 

"You come tomorrow," he said, pointing at the largest of Audrey's flower buds. "This bloom will open. See how it…" He paused to think and made an extravagant gesture with both hands. "It looks inflated, yes? And here" he pointed at the lines I'd imagined as Audrey's mouth, "see how she starts to darken and pucker? You come again tomorrow."

Not only a mouth. Now Audrey III seems to be forming eyes!

When I thanked him for his time, the man pinched his nose and grinned. "It will be kind of… stinky."

Suddenly, the light dawned. Audrey III might not be a person-eater, but there was definitely something uniquely horrible about her. Stapelia gigantea (toad plant or carrion plant) is a cunning trickster. It needs lots and lots of flies to ensure pollination and attracts them by emitting a foul, rotting corpse smell. Stinky indeed! I vowed to return the next day to witness Audrey in all her putrid, full-blooming glory.

Day Three: Audrey curls her lip, ready to bloom.

Day Four: Stapelia gigantea

Stapelia, aka toad plant or carrion plant in full, stinky bloom. 

In fact, I returned three times before Audrey's bloom opened wide. I guess she was waiting for a perfect sunny day to make her début. Lanky-man was right. Stinky! The neighbourhood flies were much impressed. I decided against a return visit. If Audrey makes that much stink on her own, imagine the stench when her friends join the fly-baiting fun!

stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington