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I have something of a mystery on my hands, perpetuated by criminals of the most nefarious of mindsets that I am most animatedly determined to foil at the behest of my garden successes.

Something is happening to my tomatoes.

This mystery became most apparent to me on a Saturday morning in July, when I noted several holes rimmed in black atop one of my first ripened tomatoes. I quickly deduced that the culprits were most probably those things known to some as  little black bugs — beetles I suspect, though not of the strawberry fields variety of beatle.

Not at all vacant of the knowledge of this singular brand of detrimental enemy of produce, I set upon a course of rigorous observation in the hopes that I might catch these bugs in the act, but in the course of my investigations, noticed that very few of my other tomatoes were being affected.

Perplexed by this lack of spreading I deduced, nay I observed, the very fact that perhaps the bugs themselves need not be the sole culprit of my tomato assaults. Astute observers might also attain that because the other tomatoes are not being adversely affected, that perhaps it’s something else all together.

I therefore am required to endeavor to suss out possible other alternatives to this devious crime, for if I can not find an answer in solving these mysteries then innocents risk being impacted by the nature of devilishness creeping into my garden.

Would not those most favored of sandwiches — the bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich — not be ill affected by these happenings? I should think so and it would be most terrible indeed.

Days after spying the after effects of such maligned influences upon by tomatoes I spied another which had ripened quite beautifully and was happy to stroll through the sprawling 12 by 12 foot acreage upon which my produce is spread in order to pluck it from its green confines.

Upon reaching out to pick the fruit, I drew my hand back. “What is this?!” I cried … inwardly, for I did not wish to draw upon concerns that most definitely are harbored by my neighbors of a certain strangeness that sometimes comes upon me.

“That man is weird,” they might say and dare I add that perhaps they are not far from the truth, for even I questioned my own sanity when I cast eyes upon the tomato only to see a black, rotting circle of filth surrounding the stem.

Perplexed beyond all rational thought, I picked the fruit and brought it into the house, where I quickly drew a knife in order to further investigate that which now looked nothing like a bug, but rather a crawling putrefaction that threatened the whole of the tomato.

Concerned that the very future of possible BLT sandwiches lay in doubt, alongside that of pastas and chilies, I cut deeply into the tomato to verify that any of it may be recoverable. Sadness permeated me, for I could see that black that affected the stem clearly penetrated deep into the tomato.

“What foulness is this?” I asked Buster, to which he simply uttered, “Meow.” I agreed, and peered thoughtfully at what lay split open before me.

Clearly confused by my demeanor, Buster left to what I can only assume was further contemplation on his part to help me identify what this could be.

I await his answers.

Meanwhile, in the days that followed, I have found fully green and quite unripe tomatoes laying upon the ground having fallen from the vine without being perturbed by me or anything else that I can fathom.

The mystery deepens and I have since taken the fallen fruit and placed them in a brown paper bag in hopes they will ripen still.

Buster still has no thoughts on the matter and I worry just a little that perhaps he doesn’t care. Or maybe doesn’t understand and if Buster cannot provide me answers then I fear I am on my own.

Little has changed since those days and only time, I suspect, will determine further if any more of this eldritch evil will continue to reach long black tendrils into my tomatoes. What grows there surely can not be of this world and if it can reach my fated BLT sandwiches, then where must it end?

Oh, but my mind is vexed as I think about these things further. I must not lose track on sanity and instead continue to delve deeper into this mystery with the very fate of my plants at stake.

Buster, has thankfully provided some hint of insight that may yet help me solve this mystery.

It was most curious that as I inspected my browned-bag tomatoes, that he would casually and quite in passing, say “Meow.” Was that inflection that of a question? Could it possibly be that simple? Or does it simply mean he’s hungry.

This concludes today’s radio drama presentation of “It Came from Beyond the Soil!” Tune in next week, or maybe the week after … or some time after that as we learn more about the fated fruit of destiny!