Eleanor froze, the delicate garden rake clutched in her hands, her fingers involuntarily loosening as a startled gasp escaped her. The wooden tool thudded softly onto the cracked, dry earth. Before she could even gasp, a voice rang out behind hersharp as the creak of an old oak, yet bearing a certainty that sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Nothing will grow in your garden, dear, because a dead man walks there, the stranger croaked. Cant see him? Look more closely, my girl, pay attention, the hunched old woman intoned, her faded yet piercing eyes glinting with a mix of menace and pity as they settled on Eleanor.
Slowly, almost mechanically, Eleanor turned and finally truly saw the strip of soil in front of the tidy new cottage she had fought so hard to acquire. A strange, inexplicable melancholy clenched her heart. She had passed it every day, but now the horror of its emptiness struck her fully. Right beside the neat carved fence she had taken pride in lay a dead, scorched patch of earthno grass, no seedlings, no hint of life at all. Behind the house, in the beds she had lovingly tended, roses burst into colour, hollyhocks reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes swayed green. The contrast was stark and unnatural. She tried to revive the barren spotfertilising, loosening, watering it with tears of neardespairbut all her efforts proved futile.
Lost in her horticultural anguish, she did not notice the frail, bent figure that slipped through the wide gate.
You could have dressed in an evening gown to dig up this black soil, the old woman murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips as she glanced at Eleanors outfit: a bright pink top and matching bikeshorts of a modern, breathable fabric.
Eleanor instinctively brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead and flushed with embarrassment.
Its its a special gardening kit, maam, she stammered, voice trembling. Its breathable, hightech and the neighboursthis new genteel estatealways keep everything immaculate Nobody lived here before, everything started from scratch
But the old woman paid no heed. She turned, leaning on a makeshift staff, and shuffled away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the bend in the lane. Eleanor stood alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought feverishly, slipping off her garden gloves and checking her immaculate manicure. Why is a spirit haunting my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
She was grateful that, before the movea nearescape from the clamor of London to the quiet of the countrysideshe had completed a nailart course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused bitterly, and perhaps my garden could be the same, thriving without phantoms.
She told nothing of the strange visitor to her husband, David, everbusy and practical, fearing his skeptical chuckle. Yet the thought circled back, becoming a nagging obsession. No matter how expensive the fertilisers, no advice from internet forums or veteran countryfolk, the plot before the house remained a desiccated slab, as lifeless as a tombstone.
Eleanor loved gardening with her whole soul. She had taken online courses, bought glossy magazines, and delighted in the feel of soil, the scent of damp earth, the tender care of seedlings. She had seen real progress elsewhere, but that cursed patch stubbornly resisted, as if an unseen wall held it back.
Maybe Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she sighed, staring out the window at the black blotch of disgrace. But if this ethereal visitor is real, even the best professional might be of no help.
Days slipped by. Eleanor watched yet another detailed video by a seasoned gardener, then set her phone aside. The night outside was mute and starless. David slept, snoring in rhythm with his business thoughts, and she, though weary, could not find sleep.
Stifling no air to breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk robe and moving toward the glass door that led to the spacious balcony.
She slipped it open quietly and stepped into the cool night air. The breeze was fresh and sweet. From her secondfloor perch the blighted plot was hard to see, hidden by the overhanging roof and the shade of a great oak. Compelled by a sudden urge, she leaned over the cold railing to peer into the darkness where the barren ground lay.
Under the thin, crooked crescent of a waning moon, a strange figure moved across the dead soil. He was a man, his back to her, shuffling with a slow, laboured gait as if wading through an invisible resistance. He crouched, rose, dug his toe into the old, worn boot, and ran his pale fingers over the earth, searching, probing.
Eleanors heart stopped, then hammered so hard it felt as though it might burst. She stared, the darkness sharpening her perception. The man was semitransparent; moonlight filtered through his gaunt form, which wore a dated frock coat. His movements were not merely slow but unnaturally disjointed, as if gravity itself refused him. He was clearly not a living man.
Panic rose like a black wave, threatening to sweep her away. She felt herself teetering on the balcony rail, but at that instant the spectre turned. His face was a featureless mask of pale marble, framed by elaborate moustaches and a precise side part. His eyes were voids, dark and endless.
Then he thrust both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to grasp her throat with icy fingers. Eleanor sensed his grim visage drawing nearer, filling the space. She let out a strangled gasp and, with the last of her strength, shoved herself back from the railing, stumbling into the bedroom and crashing onto the cold floor.
Finding the old woman turned out to be surprisingly easy. Eleanor was certain such a figure could not belong in their pristine new culdesac, so she guessed her home lay beyond the old stone bridge in a sleepy hamlet. The localsgrandmothers perched on the wells benchknew exactly where to look.
She parked her tidy city hatchback in front of a weatherworn cottage, its oncecarved casings now peeling, the gate hanging on a single rusted hinge. Deciding not to knock, she called out, Grandma! Is that you, Martha? Im Eleanor you mentioned my garden last week, the visitor
The door creaked open, and the very old woman stepped into the gloom.
Lord, Jesus dressed up again for a parade, she muttered, eyeing Eleanors chiffon dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals. She waved a hand in resignation. Come in, then, but mind the heels on my floorboards! What do you want?
Eleanor crossed the threshold, feeling a lump rise in her throat. He he really comes. He trudges where you said. I saw him last night, she whispered, voice trembling. If you see such things and arent frightened, perhaps youve dealt with them before. Do you know how todrive him away? Her manicured nails glinted in the dim light.
Martha nodded, a complex flicker crossing her eyes. You want me to send him off?
Eleanor nodded helplessly, then fumbled into her leather purse and produced a handful of crisp pound notes.
I dont know how much it costs. Im not greedy, truly! If you need more, Ill fetch it from the bank. Whatever you say!
Martha examined the money, then met Eleanors gaze. Her expression softened. Enough, she said gently. Ill help. Sit down, please. I cant offer teamy supply ran out yesterday, and the shop a mile away is a trek for my aching bones.
Eleanor perched on a painted stool, eyeing the modest interior: a single, motheaten curtain, a cracked lacquered table, a broken cabinet door, an empty sugar bowl, a hollow butter dish. Poverty and loneliness hung thick in the room.
Bring me a bottle from the fridge, Martha called from the next room. Its my own herbal brewbitter but hearty. Pour some for me as well.
Eleanor opened the ancient refrigerator. Her heart sank further. Inside rested a halflitre of murky liquid, three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a battered butter churn.
Good heavens, she thought, a sharp pain blooming in her chest. She lives in such squalor while I arrived in a sleek car and silk dress.
Marthas voice crackled, Found it?
Yes, Grandma Martha, one moment! Eleanor replied, hurrying back with the brew.
Martha handed her a tightly rolled bundle of plain newspaper tied with twine. Bury this on your plot, not deepjust a spadelength. In three days your visitor will be gone, never to return. Its nothing more than dried herbs, forest berries a little charm for good.
Eleanor tasted the bitter brew. Delicious, she said with a genuine smile, clutching the bundle. Thank you! May I bring you something as well? I bought a lot before I camecurtains that didnt suit our windows, fluffy towels, warm throws, fine china all new, unused. Perhaps theyll find a place here?
Without waiting for an answer, Eleanor bolted out, returned a minute later with a massive paper bag, and began unloading on the kitchen table, chattering nonstop:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always cook for two, for Davids stomach Teablack, though we normally drink green Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, though theres chocolate everywhere Cookies? Perfect with tea! Fruit pastilles not my favourite Meat how much did I get? The freezer is bursting! Grains brown rice, green quinoa Since Davids health issues, Ive taken diet courses, now I only buy this stuff
She placed the items carefully, avoiding Marthas eyes. She feared the old woman would think she was merely giving alms, that she was a patronising rich neighbour. Yet when she finally dared a glance, she saw Marthas cheeks glistening with quiet tears, which the lady dabbed with a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, Martha whispered, voice as soft as rustling leaves.
Youre welcome, Eleanor breathed, wiping away the tears she hadnt even noticed. Ill keep tending the garden! And if you dont mind, Ill drop by again. Im quite fascinated with you.
She buried the bundle exactly where instructed. The grim spectre never appeared again. A week later, as Martha had promised, tiny shootsdandelion fluff and careless grasspierced the oncedead soil. Eleanor wept with joy; the earth had revived.
That very day Martha, leaning on a staff, shuffled to an abandoned village graveyard. She walked a narrow path, nodding to unseen companions, greeting old acquaintances. She stopped before an unmarked stone, its weathered surface bearing a faded photograph of a solemn man with a moustache.
Thank you, Peter Stanhope, she murmured, kneeling to pull the dry grass from around the stone. You helped me, and Ill help you. Let the ground be tidy and neat Rest now, dear soul.
Two weeks later Eleanor returned, knocking timidly on the familiar door. Martha, its me, Eleanor! Im here as promised.
Martha opened the door, looking a touch fresher. Come in, child. Has your nighttime guest finally left?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Eleanor began, then blushed, pointing to the heavy sack at her feet. I also brought a bunch of thingscurtains that never fit, plush towels, warm throws, dishes all new. They could suit your cosy cottage, your countrystyle home. May I leave them with you?
Martha listened as Eleanor rattled off each item, apologising for the clutter, hoping the woman would not see it as pity.
Finally, Martha lowered herself onto a stool, her arthritic hands trembling. Enough, dear. Youre a good girl, Lily, she said, using a sweet nickname Eleanor had never heard before, kindhearted. Ive deceived you.
Eleanor froze, a colourful blanket clutched in her arms.
What? she stammered. I just swam in the pool this morning
Marthas voice cracked. I brought that spirit to your plot, called him on purpose. Im sorry, foolish old woman. You came with an open heart, and I I asked Peter Stanhope, the man buried there, to haunt you so the earth would stay barren. I gave you the bundle as a cover, ordinary herbs, just to calm you. I never meant such trouble.
Guilt twisted Marthas lined face, a raw wound of shame. She continued, I was hungry, cold, lonely. I thought a few pennies from a rich neighbour might ease my need. I asked Peter, a gentle soul, to linger, to keep the soil dead. He would never have harmed you or David. I gave you that sack just to distract you, to make you think it was kindness. Forgive me, Lily, forgive me.
Eleanor stood silent, a ringing in her ears. She looked at the bent old woman, at the poverty, at the desperate cleverness born of hunger and solitude. Anger never rose; only a deep, allencompassing compassion.
She knelt, gently covering Marthas frail, scarred hands with her own soft, wellkept ones.
I told you, Grandma water got in my ears, she said quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks unbidden. I didnt understand. Lets hang those curtains, lay the tablecloth, shall we? Well manage everything together. Ill visit you often, very often.
