I was watching Eleanor stand in the garden, the little silver rake trembling in her hands, her fingers loosening of their own accord. The wooden tool thudded against the dry, cracked earth, and before she could even gasp a breath, a voice cut in behind her like the creak of an ancient oak, yet it carried a certainty that sent a cold shiver up her spine.
Nothing will grow in that plot, love, because a dead man pays you a visit. Cant see him? Take a closer look, dear, intoned a strange old woman, her gaze sharp with a hint of mercy as she stared at Eleanor through eyes that seemed faded by time but were unnervingly perceptive.
Eleanor turned slowly, almost mechanically, and for the first time truly saw the strip of ground in front of the brandnew cottage shed dreamed of. A wave of inexplicable melancholy tightened around her heart. She had walked past it every day, but now the horror of its emptiness hit her full force: right beside the neat picket fence shed taken pride in lay a barren, scorched patch of soil.
No grass, no weeds, not a single sign of life. Meanwhile, behind the house, the beds shed tended were a riot of roses, marigolds reaching for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turning a healthy green. The contrast was unnerving, almost surreal. She tried everythingfertiliser, loosening the soil, watering it with tears that felt like desperationbut the earth stayed dead.
Lost in her gardening woes, she didnt notice the frail, bent figure that slipped through the wide gate.
The evening dress would suit you better, digging in that black earth all night, the old woman said with a barely hidden smile, eyeing Eleanors outfit: a pricey, perfectly fitted pink top and matching bikeshorts of a hightech fabric.
Instinctively Eleanor brushed a stray ginger lock from her forehead, a faint flush of embarrassment colouring her cheeks.
Its its just a specialist gardening kit, grandma. Breathable, hightech, she stammered, voice wavering. And the neighboursthis new, tidy estate everyone keeps their gardens immaculate Nobody lived here before, everythings brand new
The old woman paid her no heed. She leaned on a makeshift staff, shuffled away, and vanished into the summer dust beyond the road bend. Eleanor was left alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the anxious thump of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought feverishly, pulling off her garden gloves and checking her flawless manicure. Why would a dead man come to my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
She was grateful shed finished a nailart course just before the move from the noisy city to the quiet suburbs. Now my hands will always look proper, she mused with bitter irony, if only my garden could be the sameeverything thriving, no spectres.
She kept the odd encounter from her husband, David, fearing his practical, skeptical chuckle. The thought kept circling, becoming an obsession. No matter how much premium fertiliser she used, no advice she read online or from seasoned allotment owners, the patch before the front door remained a lifeless slab, as if sealed by an invisible wall.
She truly loved gardeningonline courses, glossy magazines, the feel of soil beneath her fingers, the scent of fresh earth, the tender shoots. Shed even seen some early success elsewhere, but this cursed spot refused to bud.
It looks like Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she murmured, staring out the window at the black blemish on her pride. Even if this fleeting visitor is real, I doubt anyone could help.
A few days later, after bingewatching a seasoned horticulturists video and putting her phone aside, she lay awake in the quiet, starless night. David snored away, lost in his business thoughts, while she tossed restlessly.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding a silk blanket and slipping through the glass door onto the balcony.
The night air was crisp and sweet. From the secondfloor height the dead patch was almost hidden behind the eaves and the shade of a large oak, so she had to lean over the cold railing to peer into the darkness.
There, under the sharp, crooked moon slicing through torn clouds, a figure moved across the barren soil. A man, standing with his back to her, shuffled as if wading through thick syrup. He crouched, rose, prodded the ground with the toe of an old, worn boot, his pale fingers tracing the earth as if searching for something.
Eleanors heart stopped, then hammered so hard she felt a shock through her bones. She stared, trying to make out details. The longer she watched, the clearer it became: he was semitransparent, moonlight leaking through his gaunt body, dressed in an antiquated jacket. His movements werent just slowthey were unnatural, lacking any earthly gravity. He was undoubtedly not alive.
Panic rose, a black, sticky wave threatening to sweep her away. She might have fallen from the balcony onto the stone steps below, but at that instant the man turned.
His face was a blank marble maskno expression, a tidy moustache and slicked hair of another era, eyes empty and dark.
Then, with a sudden, desperate thrust, he threw both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to seize her throat with icy fingers. His grim visage seemed to close in, filling the space. Eleanor let out a quiet, stifled gasp, pushed herself from the railing and stumbled back into the bedroom, landing hard on the cold floor.
Finding the old woman turned out to be oddly simple. Eleanor was convinced such a person couldnt belong in their pristine culdesac, so she guessed she must live beyond the bridge, in an ancient sleepy hamlet. A quick chat with the local ladies on the wellused bench by the village well confirmed it.
She parked her modest hatchback in front of a sagging, paintpeeling cottage with crooked wooden trim. The gate hung on a single rusty hinge, barely holding together, so Eleanor hesitated before knocking.
Grandma! she called timidly, peering through the slats. Grandma Maggie? Im Eleanor. You mentioned last week about my plot about the visitor
The cottage door creaked open and the old woman stepped out, squinting at the newcomer.
Good heavens dressed up like for a parade, she muttered softly, eyeing Eleanors chiffon dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals, then gave a small, resigned wave. Come in, dear, but mind those heels on my floorboards! What do you need?
Eleanor crossed the threshold, a lump rising in her throat.
He he really is there. I saw him last night, shuffling where you said, she stammered. If youve dealt with such things before perhaps you know how to send him away? Her hands trembled, her immaculate manicure catching the dim light.
Maggie nodded, a complex look flickering in her eyes. You want me to ban him?
Eleanor merely nodded, then fumbled into her leather purse, pulling out a handful of crisp £20 notes.
Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, I can go to the ATM and bring it. Whatever you say!
Maggie examined the money, then met Eleanors gaze, her expression softening. Enough, she whispered gently. Ill help. Have a seat, Ill I cant offer tea, ran out yesterday, and the shop three miles off is closed for good.
Eleanor perched on a painted stool, eyeing the modest interior: a single tattered curtain, a cracked wooden table, a broken cupboard door, an empty sugar bowl, a hollow butter dish. The place was barren and lonely.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Maggie called from the next room. Ive a homemade herbal brew. Bitter, but it gives strength.
Eleanor opened the rattling fridge. Besides a halflit bottle of cloudy liquid, she found three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a dented butter container. Her heart clenched at the sight of such poverty.
Found it? Maggies voice floated from the hallway.
Yes, Aunt Maggie, Im here!
Maggie handed Eleanor a tightly wrapped parcel of plain newspaper tied with twine. Bury this on your plot, not deep, just at the trowels tip. In three days the visitor will go, and the soil will mend. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berriesall spoken into goodwill. Hows the brew?
Eleanor took a sip of the bitter, fragrant liquid. Delicious, she smiled sincerely, clutching the bundle. Thank you ever so much. May I offer you something in return? I bought a lot of groceries before I cametwoforone deals, you know. Could you use anything?
Without waiting for an answer, she rushed out, returned moments later with a heavy paper bag, spilling its contents onto the kitchen table while rattling off a litany of reasons: sunflower oil, tea, biscuits, chocolate, pork, brown rice, green buckwheateverything shed bought for a healthy diet after Davids stomach issues.
She arranged the items quietly, avoiding Maggies eyes, fearing the old woman would think she was trying to buy favour. At last, Maggies eyes glistened with quiet tears, which she brushed away with a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, she whispered, voice barely louder than a rustle of leaves.
Thank you, Eleanor exhaled, shoulders lifting, Ill get my garden fixed! If you dont mind, Ill drop by again sometime. She buried the bundle as instructed, and never saw the gaunt, moustached man again.
Exactly a week later, as Maggie had promised, tiny green shoots broke through the oncedead soildandelion leaves and a few wild grasses. Eleanor wept with joy; the earth had revived.
That same day Maggie, using a wooden walking stick, made her slow way to an overgrown village graveyard. She nodded to unseen companions along the narrow path, finally stopping at an unmarked stone. On the weathered slab lay a faded photograph of a stern man with a full moustache.
Thank you, Peter Stokes, she murmured, kneeling to pull weeds from around the stone. I helped you, now you can rest. Ill keep it tidy for you.
Two weeks later Eleanor knocked on Maggies door again, the heavy sack at her side.
Grandma Maggie, its me, Eleanor! Im here as promised.
Come in, love, Maggie replied, a faint smile touching her lips, looking a shade brighter. Is your night visitor finally gone?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Eleanor began, then blushed and gestured to the sack. I also brought a lot of things I used to study interior design, bought curtains, towels, blankets, dishes theyre all new, could be useful in your cosy cottagestyle home. Maybe the blueflowered plates would suit you?
She rattled off item after item, hoping not to appear patronising. Maggie watched silently, her face growing sorrowful, then she settled onto a stool, her arthritic hands folded.
Enough, dear, she said softly, voice weary. Youre a good girl, Lily. Ive lied to you.
Eleanor froze, clutching a bright knitted throw.
What? I was just swimming in the pool this morning, she stammered, touching her ear. I must have misheard.
I did the trick, Maggie confessed, her voice trembling. I called that dead man to your plot. I invited him, so hed trouble you. Im sorry, Im sorry, I never meant you harm. I was desperate, hungry, cold. I thought a small coin from a welloff neighbour might ease my plight. I asked Peter Stokes, the man in the grave, to wander there and keep the soil dead. I gave you the bundle simply to hide the truth, just ordinary herbs to calm you.
Guilt and shame twisted Maggies lined face. Eleanor stood still, a ringing in her ears, seeing the frail old woman, her poverty, the desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger rose in Eleanor, only a deep, swelling pity.
She crouched, gently cradling Maggies trembling, wrinkled hands with her own soft ones.
Im sorry, Grandma I really couldnt hear, Eleanor whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks unbidden. Lets put up those curtains, spread a proper tablecloth, and Ill visit you often, alright?
Maggie nodded, a faint smile returning, and the two women began to plan a modest makeover for the cottage, their laughter mingling with the night air, while the oncehaunted garden outside finally began to bloom.
