30September
I paused in the garden, a tiny pair of stainlesssteel rakes clenched in my hands, and my fingers involuntarily opened in surprise. The wooden tool clattered onto the dry, cracked earth. I barely managed a gasp before a voice, sudden and cutting, sounded behind me. It rasped like an old oak creaking, yet carried a certainty that sent an icy shiver down my spine.
Nothing will grow in your plot, dear, because a dead man pays you a visit, the voice declared. Cant see him? Look closer, love, look a little harder. The words came from a stranger, a sternlooking old woman whose faded yet unnervingly sharp eyes stared at me.
I turned slowly, almost mechanically, and for the first time truly took in the patch of ground in front of my newlyacquired, eversoproud cottage. A strange, unnameable melancholy tightened around my heart. Id seen it every day, but only now did the horror of it sink in. Right beside the neat, carved fence I had spent weeks polishing lay a barren, scorched square of soilno grass, no weeds, no hint of life at all.
Beyond it, my garden flourished. Roses burst into colour, marigolds turned their faces to the sun, and gooseberry bushes swayed with ripe berries. The contrast was jarring, almost grotesque. I tried everything: fertilising, loosening the earth, even watering it with tears of neardespair, but the patch remained stubbornly lifeless.
Lost in my horticultural misery, I didnt notice the frail, stooped figure that slipped through the open gate. The old woman, though bent with years, retained a spark in her voice.
You could wear an evening ball gown and still dig this black earth with such elegance, she said with a faint, harmless mockery, eyeing my outfita bright pink top and matching techfabric leggings.
Instinctively I brushed a stray ginger strand from my forehead, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.
Its its a specialised gardening outfit, dear. Breathable, hightech I tried to explain, my voice trembling. And the neighbours this is a new, upmarket development. Everyone keeps their gardens immaculate No one lived here before, everything started from scratch.
She paid me no heed. Leaning on a makeshift wooden staff, she shuffled away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the road bend. I was left standing alone, the silence around me ringing louder than any heartbeat.
How could this be? I thought feverishly, pulling off my gardening gloves and mechanically checking the flawless manicure Id spent weeks perfecting. Why would a dead man come to my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
It was a good thing Id finished a nailart course before moving out of the noisy city for this tranquil suburb. My hands will always look tidy, I thought wryly, if only my garden could be as wellkeptgrown, blooming, and ghostfree.
I kept the strange visitors presence from my husband, David, fearing his pragmatic sarcasm. Yet the thought kept looping in my mind, becoming an obsessive echo. No matter how much premium fertiliser I threw on the soil, no online forum tip, no neighbours advice, that little plot stayed as dead as a tombstone.
Gardening was my passion. Id taken ecourses, bought glossy magazines, delighted in the scent of damp earth and the tender shoots of seedlings. Id even seen some early success elsewhere, but this cursed spot in front of the front door refused to respond, as if sealed off by an invisible wall.
Perhaps Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, I mused, glancing out the window at the black blemish on my pride. Even if we truly have such an ethereal visitor, I doubt even the best can help.
A few days later, after watching yet another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, I set my phone aside. The night outside was quiet and starless. David was already snoring, his mind still tangled in business thoughts, and I knew I should be asleep too, yet sleep eluded me.
Its stifling I cant breathe, I whispered, shedding my silk robe and moving toward the glass door that led to the spacious balcony.
I slipped onto the cool night air, the sky fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height the desolate patch was barely visible, hidden behind the eaves and the shadow of a large oak. Compelled, I leaned over the cold railing, straining to see the darkness where the lifeless soil lay.
There, under the thin crescent of a crooked moon, a solitary figure haunted the dead ground. A man, his back to me, moved with a slow, shuffling gait, as if wading through thick syrup. He crouched, then rose, poked the earth with the toe of an antiquated boot, his pale, elongated fingers searching the soil.
My heart stuttered, then pounded so hard I felt it shake my ribs. I stared into the gloom, gradually realizing something was terribly wrong. The mans form was halftransparent; the moonlight seeped through his gaunt body, which wore an oldfashioned jacket. His movements were not merely slowthey were unnatural, lacking any earthly gravity. He was clearly not alive.
Panic surged, a black, sticky wave threatening to drown me. I felt my legs give way, thoughts of tumbling from the balcony onto the stone steps beneath. At that instant, the spectre turned.
His face, a mask of marblelike pallor, bore no expression. Thick, periodstyle moustaches framed his nose, and his hair was neatly combed into a straight part. His eyes were empty voids.
Then he thrust both hands forward, as though trying to bridge the distance, to grasp at me with icy fingers. His grim visage seemed to close in, filling the space. I let out a strangled gasp, mustered what strength I had, and flung myself back from the railing, crashing onto the cold bedroom floor.
Finding the old woman turned out to be surprisingly easy. I was convinced such a person could not belong in our pristine new culdesac; she must live somewhere beyond the old bridge, in a sleepy hamlet. A quick chat with the village babushkas sitting on a wellstone bench confirmed this.
I parked my modest hatchback in front of a weatherworn cottage whose carved yet peeling front door sagged on a single rusted hinge. The gate hung on a single creaking nail, so I hesitated to knock.
Grandma! I called timidly, peering through the slats. Grandma Grace? Im Eleanor! You mentioned last week about my plot about the visitor?
The door opened with a reluctant groan, and the very woman Id seen earlier stepped into the doorway. She squinted, appraising my appearance.
Good heavens dressed up like youre going to a parade, she murmured, eyeing my silklike dress and elegant heels. She waved a hand, softening. Come in, then. Just mind the floorboardsdont break those heels! What do you need?
Crossing the threshold, a lump rose in my throat.
He he really does come. He treads where you said. I saw him last night My voice trembled. If you deal with such things and arent frightened, perhaps youve seen him before. Could you help me get rid of him? My manicured nails caught the dim light.
She gave a small nod, eyes flickering with something I couldnt read. You want me to chase him away?
I nodded helplessly, then fumbled into my leather satchel, pulling out a handful of crisp £20 notes.
I dont know how much this usually costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, Ill go to the cash machine and bring it. Whatever you say!
Grace examined the notes, then met my gaze. Her expression softened.
Enough, she said quietly, almost gently. Ill help. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. I cant offer teamy supplies ran out yesterday, and the shop three miles off is out of reach for me now.
I perched on a painted stool, stealing glances at her modest home: a single, faded curtain over the lone window, a cracked tabletop, a broken cabinet door, an empty sugar bowl, and a hollow butter churn. The place felt bleak, empty, unbearably lonely.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, will you? she called from the next room. Ive brewed a herbal tonic. Its a bit bitter but good for the spirit.
I opened the ancient fridge; inside lay a halflit bottle of murky liquid, three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a battered butter dish. My stomach tightened.
Goodness, I thought, she lives in such poverty while I arrived in a new car and a silk dress.
Found it? she asked.
Yes, Grandma Grace, on my way!
She handed me a tightly rolled bundle of newspaper tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, not too deep, just a spadelength down. In three days your visitor will be gone and never return. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berries all blessed for good. Hows the brew?
I sipped the bitter but fragrant liquid.
Delicious, I replied, smiling despite myself, and thanked her profusely. May I bring you something as thanks? I bought a lot before I movedtwoforone deals, you know. I cant keep them all. Could I leave some here?
Without waiting for an answer, I rushed out, returned a minute later with a heavy paper bag, and began unloading the contents onto her kitchen table, babbling a stream of conscience:
Sunflower oil why did I grab two? I always cook for David, his stomach Teablack? We usually drink green Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight Chocolates still at home Cookies? Perfect with tea! Fruit pastilles not my favourite Meat how much did I buy? The freezers bursting! Grainsbrown rice, green groats. After Davids health issues I went to nutrition classes, now I only buy the healthy stuff
I arranged the items carefully, eyes averted from Graces face, fearing shed think I was merely throwing charity at an old woman. When I finally dared to look, I saw quiet tears glistening on her cheeks. She dabbed them with the edge of her handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, she whispered, voice as soft as rustling leaves.
Its my pleasure, I breathed, wiping my own eyes. Ill keep working on the garden. Maybe Ill visit again soon?
I buried the bundle where shed instructed. The gaunt man never appeared again. Exactly a week later, as Grace had promised, tiny shootsdandelions and a few wild grassespierced the oncedead soil. I wept with joy; the earth had finally awakened.
Later that week, Grace, using a wooden cane, shuffled to an old, overgrown village graveyard. She walked a narrow path, nodding to unseen acquaintances, and stopped before an unmarked stone. Upon closer look, a faded photograph was set into the weathered slab, showing a solemn man with luxuriant moustaches.
Thank you, Peter Stanhope, she murmured, kneeling to pull weeds from around the stone. You helped me, and Ill help you. Keep this tidy and pretty Rest now, dear.
Two weeks later, I knocked again on Graces door. She answered with a weary Come in! and I placed my overstuffed bag at the threshold.
Grandma Grace, its Eleanor. Im here as promised.
She seemed a little brighter. And the night visitor? Gone for good?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Oh, and this Ive got a bunch of things I no longer needcurtains that didnt suit our windows, plush towels, blankets, dishes all brandnew, just gathering dust. Could I give them to you? Your cosy cottage would look lovely with these blueflowered plates, wouldnt it?
She listened as I rattled off each item, hoping she wouldnt see my offer as pity.
Finally, she settled onto a wobbling stool, her arthritic hands clasped.
Put it down, love. Thats enough, she said softly, voice tired and apologetic. Youre a good girl, Ellie. Kind, openhearted. I Ive been dishonest.
My breath caught. What?
I brought that dead man to your plot, she confessed, voice trembling. I invited him, thinking a little coin from a wealthy newcomer would help me survive. I was hungry, cold I thought no one would mind a few pennies. I gave you that bundle of herbs as a cover, hoping it would calm you and send him away. I never meant to cause you such trouble.
Guilt and shame etched deep lines across her face. I stood frozen as the room seemed to spin.
I moved closer, kneeling beside her, and gently cupped her frail, wrinkled hands with my own, still manicured but now soft with compassion.
I understand, Grandma, I whispered, tears slipping freely down my cheeks. I heard you loud and clear. Lets lets hang those curtains, lay the tablecloth, make this place feel like home. Ill visit often, I promise.
We buried the bundle as instructed, and the barren spot finally sprouted shy seedlingswildflowers and grass pushing through the soil. The garden, at last, breathed again.
