Blythe Whitaker froze, the slender garden rake trembling in her hands, her fingers involuntarily opening as shock surged through her. The wooden tool clattered against the dry, cracked earth. She barely had time to gasp when a voice, sudden and sharp, rose behind her. It sounded like the creak of an ancient oak, yet carried a certainty that sent a chill racing up Blythes spine.
Nothing will grow in your plot, dear, because a dead man is lingering here, a strange old woman intoned, her tone both severe and oddly compassionate. Cant see him? Look closer, love, and youll notice.
Blythe turned slowly, almost mechanically, and for the first time truly surveyed the strip of ground in front of her newlypurchased cottage. A vague, unexplainable melancholy tightened her chest. She had passed this spot every day, but only now did the horror of its barrenness sink in. Directly beside the neat, decorative fence she had proudly built lay a dead, burnt patch of soilno grass, no weeds, no hint of life.
Behind the house, in the beds she had tended with such care, roses burst in colour, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes thrummed with green leaves. The contrast was stark and unsettling. Blythe tried everything: she fertilised, loosened the earth, even watered it with tears of neardespair, but the ground remained stubbornly lifeless.
Lost in her gardening torment, she didnt notice the frail, bent stranger slipping through the wide gate.
The evening dress would look lovely on you as you dig in that black earth, the old woman remarked with a faint smile, eyeing Blythes outfita bright pink work top and matching cycling shorts made of a hightech fabric.
Instinctively, Blythe brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks.
Its its a special gardening uniform, maam, she stammered, voice wavering. Its breathable and the neighbours this new, tidy development expects everyone to look perfect clean, neat No one lived here before, everythings fresh.
The old woman paid her no more heed. She leaned on a homemade, clubshaped staff, shuffled away, and vanished into the summer dust beyond the bend in the road. Blythe 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, pulling off her gardening gloves and checking her immaculate manicure. Why would a dead man visit my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
She was grateful that, before the move from the noisy bustle of London to this quiet suburb, she had completed a nailart course. Now my hands will always look perfect, she mused bitterly, if only my garden could be as flawlessno ghosts, just thriving plants.
She kept the odd visitors tale from her husband, David, fearing his pragmatic sarcasm. Yet the thought kept circling her mind, becoming an obsessive refrain. No matter how expensive the fertilisers, no online advice, no seasoned neighbours tips, the patch before the house stayed as barren as a gravestone slab.
Blythe genuinely loved gardening. She had taken online courses, bought glossy magazines, and delighted in feeling the soil, inhaling its scent, nurturing delicate shoots. She had seen progress elsewhere, but this cursed spot resisted, as if shielded by an invisible wall.
It looks like Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she sighed, gazing out the window at the dark blot on her pride. Even if a fleeting spectre is truly visiting, I doubt any professional could help.
Days passed. Blythe, after watching yet another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, set her phone aside. The night outside was mute and starless. David snored softly, lost in his business thoughts, while Blythe lay awake, unable to surrender to sleep.
Stifling no air to breathe, she whispered, shedding a silk blanket and stepping toward the glass doors that led to the spacious balcony. She pushed them open, stepping into the cool night. The air was fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height, the troublesome plot was barely visible, hidden beneath the overhang of the roof and the shadow of a large oak. Compelled by a sudden urge, she leaned over the cold railing, straining to see the lifeless soil.
Under the thin, crooked crescent of a waning moon, a figure moved across the barren ground. It was a man, his back turned to her, moving with a slow, deliberate gait as though pushing through thick, unseen water. He crouched, rose again, and tapped the earth with the toe of an old, cracked shoe, his pale, elongated fingers probing the soil.
Blythes heart halted, then pounded so hard it seemed to echo in her bones. She stared into the darkness, trying to capture details. The longer she watched, the clearer it became: he was translucent, moonlight seeping through his gaunt body, dressed in an antiquated frock coat. His movements lacked the weight of a living personshe realised with dread that this was no mortal.
A cold wave of panic surged through her, threatening to topple her from the balcony. Just as she felt herself lose balance, the man turned. His face was a blank, marblelike mask, framed by a neatly trimmed moustache and a perfect side part. Empty, dark eyes stared back.
In a sudden, chilling motion, he thrust both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance and seize her throat with icy fingers. The ghostly visage seemed to close in, filling the space between them. Blythe let out a muted gasp and, with a desperate push, slipped back onto the balcony, stumbling onto the cold floor of the bedroom.
Finding the old woman proved surprisingly easy. Blythe knew such a figure could not belong in the polished new culdesac; she must live beyond the bridge, in a sleepy hamlet. The locals, women perched on a wellside bench, readily pointed her toward the crumbling cottage with peeling wooden trim and a gate that hung on a single rusty hinge.
She parked her modest hatchback in front of the weatherworn house, hesitated, then called out, Grandma! Grandma Margaret? Im Blythe. You told me last week about my plot about the guest.
The door creaked open, revealing the very old woman. She squinted at the newcomers attirea delicate chiffon dresstunic and sleek heels.
Lord Almighty youre dressed for a parade again, she muttered, eyeing Blythes outfit. Come in, just watch your heels on my floorboards. What do you want?
Blythe stepped inside, a lump forming in her throat.
Hes really there. He wanders where you said, she whispered, voice trembling. I saw him last night. If youve dealt with such things before, perhaps you can send him away? Her perfectly polished nails glinted in the dim light.
Thought so, dear, Margaret replied, her eyes softening. Do you want me to help?
Blythe nodded, then, feverishly, opened her sleek leather handbag and produced a handful of crisp £20 notes.
I dont know how much it costs. Im not greedy, truly! If you need more, Ill fetch it from the ATM. She stammered.
Margaret examined the money, then met Blythes eyes with a gentle smile.
Thatll do, she said quietly. Ill help. Sit down, dear. I cant offer teamy kettles broken and the shop is miles away.
Blythe perched on a painted stool, eyeing the sparse interior: a cracked lace curtain, a table without a runner, a battered cabinet with one door missing, an empty sugar bowl, a hollow bread box. The place was poor, empty, lonely.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Margaret called from the next room. Its my own herbal tonic. Bit bitter, but it gives strength.
Blythe opened the ancient fridge. Inside lay a halflit bottle of murky liquid, three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a battered butter dish. Her heart sank.
Good heavens, she thought. She lives in such poverty, and I arrived in a new car, wearing silk.
Got it? Margarets voice echoed.
Yes, Grandma Margaret, Im on my way!
Margaret handed Blythe a tightly rolled newspaper bundle tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, shallow with a spades tip. In three days, your guest will depart and never return. Its just herbs, dried twigs, forest berrieseverything blessed for good. She offered the bitter tonic.
Blythe took a sip. Delicious, she said, smiling genuinely, then hurried to unload a massive paper bag shed brought, rattling off a mental list: Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always cook for David tea black, though we usually drink green sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight chocolate biscuits would you like some? Pasta I bought too much the freezer is bursting grains brown rice, green groats Ive been on healthy eating courses since Davids stomach issues started.
She laid the items on the table, eyes never meeting Margarets. Fearful that her generosity would be seen as charity, she waited. When she finally looked up, Margarets cheeks were wet with quiet tears, which the old woman dabbed with a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, Margaret whispered, her voice like rustling leaves.
Its my pleasure, Blythe sighed, wiping her own tears. Ill keep working on the garden. Might I visit again?
Margaret nodded, and Blythe buried the bundle exactly as instructed. The spectral man never appeared again. Exactly a week later, as Margaret had promised, tiny green shootsdandelions and shy grassespoked through the oncedead earth. Blythe wept with joy; the soil had revived.
That same day, Margaret shuffled to an old, overgrown village graveyard, nodding to unseen companions. She stopped before an unmarked stone, its weathered surface bearing a faded photograph of a sternlooking man with a moustache.
Thank you, Arthur Pemberton, she murmured, kneeling to pull weeds from around the stone. I helped you, and now Ill tend this place so its tidy. Rest now, dear.
Two weeks later, Blythe knocked gently on Margarets door, the heavy bag of unwanted household items in hand.
Grandma Margaret, its Blythe! Im here as promised, she called.
Come in, love, Margaret answered, a little fresherlooking. Is your night visitor finally gone?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Blythe exclaimed, then hesitated, pointing to the bag. I brought some things I used to study interior design, bought a lot of décor that never fit our homecurtains, towels, blankets, dishes Could I give them to you? Theyd look lovely in your cosy cottage.
She rattled off the items, apologising for any hint of pity. Margaret listened, her face growing softer, then settled into a chair, her arthritic hands resting on her knees.
Lay it down, dear. Enough, she said gently. Youre a good girl, LilyAnn. Kindhearted. I I deceived you.
Blythe froze, a colourful throw draped over her arms.
What? I I was swimming this morning, she stammered, touching her ear. Maybe I heard wrong.
I told a lie, Margaret confessed, voice trembling. I summoned the dead man to your plot. I thought a few pennies from a wealthy neighbour would keep me fed. I asked Arthur Pemberton, who lies forgotten in that grave, to disturb you, so the earth wouldnt bear fruit. I gave you that bundle as a cover, ordinary herbs to calm you. Im sorry, LilyAnn. I never meant harm.
Blythe felt a wave of compassion crash over anger. She knelt beside Margaret, hands trembling, and brushed the old womans wrinkled arms with her own soft ones.
I thought the water got in my ears, she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. I didnt understand. Lets hang those curtains, set the tablecloth, and make this place beautiful together. Ill visit often.
The night settled over the cottage, and the garden, once cursed, now whispered with new life. Blythe learned that kindness, even when misplaced, can sow hope, and that true wealth lies not in polished surfaces or flawless lawns, but in the compassion we extend to those whose voices are faint and whose hands are worn. Through understanding and generosity, both the dead and the living found peace, reminding her that every garden, like every heart, thrives when tended with empathy.
