Emily Harper froze, tiny silver rakes clenched in her hands, her fingers involuntarily loosening in shock. The wooden tool thudded softly onto the dry, cracked soil. Before she could even gasp, a voice rose behind hersharp as the creak of an old oak, yet carrying such unwavering certainty that a cold shiver ran down her spine.
Nothing grows in your garden, love, because a dead man visits you. Cant see him? Look closer, dear, said a strange old woman, her eyes faded by time but unnervingly perceptive, a mix of menace and a hint of pity in her gaze.
Emily turned slowly, almost mechanically, and finally truly saw the patch of earth in front of her newlypurchased cottage. A strange, inexplicable melancholy tightened around her heart. She had passed this spot every day, but now the horror of its emptiness hit her full force. Directly beside the neat timber fence she was proud of lay a lifeless, scorched clod of groundno grass, no weeds, no sign of life at all. Behind the house, her carefully tended beds burst with roses, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a healthy green. The contrast was eerie and unnatural. She tried everythingfertiliser, loosening, watering with tears of neardespairbut the soil stayed dead.
Lost in her gardening torment, Emily didnt notice the frail, bent stranger slipping up to the wide gate.
Youd better be in a ballroom gown to be digging in that black earth, the old woman remarked, a faint smile playing on her lips as she eyed Emilys outfit: an expensive, perfectly fitted pink top and matching hightech leggings.
Emily instinctively brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a blush rising on her cheeks.
This this is a special gardening uniform, dear. Its breathable, hightech she stammered, voice trembling. And the neighbours this is a brandnew, upscale culdesac, everyone keeps their yards immaculate No one lived here before, everything started from scratch
The woman didnt wait for more. She leaned on a makeshift staff, shuffled away, and vanished into the summer dust beyond the bend. Emily stood alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic beat of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought, peeling off her garden gloves and absentmindedly checking her immaculate manicure. Why would a dead man come to my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
Fortunately, before the movealmost an escape from the clamor of London to the quiet of Kentshe had completed a nailart course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused bitterly, if only my garden could be the samegrowing, blooming, never haunted.
She never told her husband, David, the everbusy accountant, fearing his practical sarcasm. Yet the thought of the strange visitor kept looping in her mind, becoming an obsessive idea. No matter how expensive the fertilisers, no advice from internet forums or seasoned neighbours helped. The plot before the house stayed barren, dry, as lifeless as a tombstone.
Emily truly loved gardening. Shed taken online courses, bought piles of glossy magazines, and delighted in the feel of soil, the scent of earth, the care of tender shoots. Her efforts had yielded good results elsewhere, but that cursed patch right at the front door refused to respond, as if an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Looks like Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she muttered, staring at the black blemish of shame through the window. Even if we really have such an ethereal guest, I doubt anyone could help.
A few days later, after finishing yet another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, Emily set her phone aside. The night outside was silent and starless. David snored softly, his mind still on spreadsheets, and she knew she should be asleep, but sleep eluded her.
Stuffy cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk blanket and moving toward the glass door that led to the spacious balcony.
She opened it quietly and stepped onto the cool night air. The breeze was fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height, the cursed patch was barely visible, hidden by the roof overhang and the shadow of a large oak. Compelled by a sudden urge, she leaned over the cold rail to peer into the darkness where the barren earth lay.
Under the sharp, crooked moon, a lone figure moved across the lifeless soil. He was a man, standing with his back to her, his steps slow, as if he were wading through an unseen resistance. He shuffled, crouched, rose again, and poked the ground with the toe of an old, worn shoe, his long pale fingers probing the dirt.
Emilys heart stopped, then hammered so hard it made her shiver. She stared into the gloom, and the longer she looked, the clearer it became that something was wrong. He was semitransparent, the moonlight barely passing through his thin, ghostly frame. He wore an antiquated jacket, his movements unnaturally sluggish, lacking any earthly gravity. He was not a living man.
A wave of panic crashed over her, threatening to topple her from the balcony. Just as she felt herself about to fall, the spectre turned his featureless face toward her. His marblewhite visage bore no expression, a set of bygone moustaches and neatly combed hair framing a blank, dark abyss where eyes should have been.
Suddenly, his hands shot forward, reaching across the distance as if to grasp her throat with icy fingers. The ghosts grim face drew closer, filling the space. Emily let out a strangled gasp, thrust herself away from the rail, and stumbled back into the bedroom, landing hard on the cold floor.
Finding the old woman turned out to be surprisingly easy. Emily knew such a stranger couldnt belong to their pristine new culdesac, so she guessed the woman lived somewhere beyond the bridge, in a sleepy hamlet. Asking the local grandmothers sitting on the wells bench confirmed itjust a name and a direction.
She parked her modest hatchback in front of a weatherworn cottage with peeling wooden trim. The gate hung on a single rusty hinge, so she hesitated to knock.
Grandma! she called timidly, peering through the fence slats. Grandma Mabel? Im Emily Harper. You mentioned my garden last week the guest
The cottage door creaked open, revealing the old woman. She squinted at the visitor, then whispered, Jesus Christ dressed up for a parade again, eyeing Emilys silklike dress and stylish heels. She waved a hand, conceding, Come in, dear, but watch those heels on my floorboards! What do you need?
Emily stepped inside, a lump forming in her throat.
He he really comes. I saw him last night If youve dealt with such things before, maybe you know how to banish him? Her voice trembled, her flawless manicure catching the dim light.
Mabel nodded slowly, a complicated look flickering in her eyes. You want me to send him away?
Emily nodded helplessly, then fished a handful of crisp notes from her leather bag.
I dont know how much it costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, I can go to the ATM, she stammered, offering the money.
Mabel studied the cash, then looked straight into Emilys eyes, her expression softening. Enough, she said quietly. Ill help. Sit down, Ill I cant offer tea, the kettles broken and the shop is miles away.
Emily perched on a painted stool, eyeing the modest interior: a single cracked window with tattered curtains, a table without a runner, a broken cabinet door revealing emptiness, a sugar bowl and bread basket both empty. Poverty hung heavy in the room.
Mum, fetch a bottle from the fridge, Mabel called from another room. Ive brewed a herbal tonic, a bit bitter but it gives strength.
Emily opened the ancient fridge. Her heart sank. Besides a halflit bottle of cloudy liquid, there were three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a dented butter churn.
God, she thought, feeling a sharp pang. She lives in such want, and I arrived in a pricey car in a silk dress.
Found it? Mabels voice echoed.
Yes, Grandma Mabel, Im here!
Mabel handed Emily a small bundle of newspaper tied with twine. Bury this on your plot, shallow, with the spades tip. In three days your guest will leave, never to return. Its just herbs, dried twigs, forest berries all blessed. Hows the brew?
Emily sipped the bitter, fragrant liquid. Delicious, she smiled, taking the bundle. Thank you so much. May I give you something in return? I bought a lot of things before I moved curtains, towels, blankets, dishes perhaps youd like some?
Without waiting for an answer, Emily rushed out, returned a minute later with a huge paper sack, unloading its contents onto the table while babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always cook for David, he has stomach issues Tea I always drink green, not black Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight Cookies? Theyd go well with tea Pastilles not my favourite Meat look at how much I bought! The freezers bursting! Could I leave some for you? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat Ive been on nutrition classes since Davids health slipped, so I only buy the good stuff
She arranged the items, avoiding Mabels gaze, fearing the old woman might think she was merely handing over charity. Yet when Emily finally looked up, she saw quiet tears glistening on Mabels cheek. The old woman dabbed them with a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, she whispered, her voice like rustling leaves.
Its my pleasure, Emily sighed, wiping her own cheeks. Ill keep working on my garden. May I visit again? Im curious about you.
She buried the bundle where instructed, and the spectre never appeared again. Exactly a week later, as Mabel had promised, tiny shootsdandelions and wild grasspierced the oncedead soil. Emily wept with joy, for the earth had finally revived.
That same day Mabel, leaning on a cane, shuffled to an old, overgrown village graveyard. She walked a narrow path, nodding to unseen acquaintances, until she stopped before an unmarked headstone cracked by time. On the weathered stone a faded photograph showed a stern man with bushy moustaches.
Thank you, Peter Stanhope, Mabel murmured, kneeling to pull weeds from around the stone. I helped you, now Ill tend this place. Rest in peace.
Two weeks later Emily knocked on Mabels door again, a heavy, packed bag at her side.
Grandma Mabel, its Emily! Im here as promised.
Merry meet you, Mabel replied, a little brighter. Is your nightly visitor finally gone?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Emily began, then blushed and gestured to the bag. I brought a lot of things curtains that never fit, towels, blankets, dishes all brand new but unused. Theyd look lovely in your cosy cottage.
Mabel listened as Emily rattled off each item, hoping the gesture wouldnt seem like pity. Finally, Mabel settled onto a stool, her arthritic hands clasped.
Enough, dear, she said gently, her voice tired yet sincere. Youre a good girl, Emily. Ive been dishonest.
Emily froze, a colourful blanket in her hands.
What? she stammered. I was just swimming this morning
Mabels voice cracked. Im the one who brought that dead man to your plot. I invited him, hoping a small offering would ease my own hunger. Im sorry, dear. I never meant to harm you.
Guilt and shame twisted Mabels lined face. She confessed that she had coaxed the spirit of Peter Stanhope, a quiet man buried in the cemetery, to haunt the new houses so the earth would stay barren, keeping her own plot from being overrun. Shed given Emily the herb bundle as a cover, hoping the spirit would leave.
Emily stood still, the noise in her ears a muffled roar. She looked at the bent old woman, at her poverty, at the desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger rose in heronly boundless compassion.
She crouched, gently cradling Mabels frail, scarred hands with her own soft ones.
Im sorry, Mabel, Emily said quietly, tears sliding down her cheeks. I didnt hear you. Lets hang those curtains together, lay a tablecloth, and make this house a home. Ill visit often.
Mabel smiled through her tears. Thank you, dear.
The garden flourished, the ghost never returned, and Emily learned that kindness, even when offered to strangers, can heal both the giver and the receiver. In the quiet of the English countryside she discovered that true wealth isnt measured in pounds or polished nails, but in the compassion we extend to those who have lost everything. The lesson lingered: when we open our hearts, even the most barren soil can be coaxed back to life.
