Rosie Whitaker freezes, small, delicate rake in her hands, and her fingers unclench involuntarily from the shock. The wooden tool drops with a soft thunk onto the dry, cracked soil. She doesnt even have time to gasp when a voice, sudden and piercing, sounds behind her. It creaks like an old hinge, yet it carries a firm certainty that sends a cold shiver down her back.
Nothing will grow in your garden, dear, because a dead man visits you, the stranger says, Cant you see him? Look more closely, love, a hunched old woman intones, eyes faded by time yet unnervingly sharp as she fixes Rosie with a mixture of menace and pity.
Rosie turns slowly, almost mechanically, and truly sees the patch of earth in front of her brandnew, muchdesired cottage. A strange, inexplicable melancholy squeezes her heart. She has walked by this spot every day, but now she recognises the horror of it. Directly beside the tidy, carved fence she has bragged about lies a dead, scorched clod of ground.
No grasses, no seedlings, no sign of life. Meanwhile, behind the house, her meticulously tended beds burst with roses, geraniums reach for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turn a healthy green. The contrast is unsettling and unnatural. She tries to revive the soilfeeds it, loosens it, waters it with tears of neardespairbut nothing helps.
Today, lost in her horticultural torment, she doesnt notice the frail, bent stranger slipping through the wideopen gate.
You could wear an evening gown and still be digging in that black earth, the old woman remarks with a faint, harmless sarcasm, eyeing Rosies outfit: a pricey, perfectly fitted pink top and matching hightech leggings.
Instinctively, Rosie brushes a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.
Its its a specialised gardening suit, dear, she stammers, voice weak. Its breathable, hightech And the neighboursthis is a new, posh development, everyone keeps their gardens immaculate Clean, tidy No one lived here before, its all from scratch
The old woman no longer listens. She leans on a makeshift staff, shuffles away, and vanishes into the summer dust beyond the road bend. Rosie stands alone, her ears filled with a ringing, deafening silence broken only by the anxious thump of her own heart.
What on earth? she thinks feverishly, pulling off her gardening gloves and checking her flawless manicure. How does a dead man end up at my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
Shes grateful she finished a nailart course before moving from the noisy city to this quiet suburb. Now my hands will always be perfect, she muses bitterly, if only my garden could be the samegrowing, blooming, and free of spectres.
She tells her husband, David, nothing about the strange visitor, fearing his practical, skeptical smile. Yet the thought loops back, becoming an intrusive idea. No amount of premium fertiliser, no advice from internet forums or seasoned local gardeners eases the dead patch in front of the house, which remains as barren as a tombstone slab.
Rosie genuinely loves gardening. She has taken online courses, bought countless glossy magazines, and delights in feeling the soil, inhaling its scent, caring for delicate shoots. Shes already seen some promising results elsewhere, but the cursed clod by the front door resists, as if an invisible wall keeps life at bay.
Perhaps Ill have to hire an expensive landscape designer, she muses sadly, staring out the window at the black blotch of her shame. Even if this ethereal guest truly exists, I doubt anyone could help.
Days pass. Rosie watches another detailed video from a seasoned gardener, then puts her phone aside. Outside, the night is silent and starless. David sleeps soundly, snoring in rhythm with his business thoughts. Rosie should be asleep too, but sleep eludes her.
Ugh, its stifling I cant breathe, she whispers, shedding her silk blanket and walking to the glass door that leads onto a spacious balcony.
She opens it quietly and steps onto the cool night air. The breeze is fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height, the cursed patch is barely visible, hidden by the eaves and the shadow of a large oak. Driven by a sudden impulse, she leans over the cold railing to peer into the darkness where the barren soil lies.
Under the sharp, crooked moon that pierces torn clouds, a strange figure trudges across the dugup, dead earth. Its a man, standing with his back to her. His movements are odd and slow, as if he battles an invisible resistance. He doesnt simply walkhe shuffles, crouches, rises, pokes the ground with the toe of an ancient, worn boot, his pale fingers trailing over the soil, searching for something.
Rosies heart stops, then pounds so hard it makes her tremble. She fixes her gaze on the darkness, trying to make out details. The longer she watches, the clearer it becomes that something is wrong. He is semitransparent; the moonlight brushes through his feeble form, which is dressed in an oldfashioned jacket. His motions lack normal gravity, his body seems detached from earthly physics. He is unmistakably not alive.
Panic spikes through her, a black, sticky wave threatening to make her faint. She feels herself teetering on the balconys edge, ready to tumble onto the sharp stones below, when the man finally turns.
He looks directly at her. His face is a blank marble mask, devoid of expression, with flamboyant moustache and neatly parted hair reminiscent of another era. His eyes are empty, dark voids.
Then, without warning, he throws both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to seize her throat with icy fingers. Rosie feels his grim, dead face closing in, filling the space. She lets out a muffled gasp, musters her remaining strength, and scrambles back, tumbling into the bedroom and onto the cold floor.
Finding the old woman proves surprisingly easy. Rosie knows such a stranger could not live in their pristine new culdesac, so she assumes the woman must live beyond the bridge, in an old, sleepy village. She asks the local grandmothers sitting on a wells bench for directions and learns exactly where to go.
She parks her tidy city hatchback in front of a ramshackle, weatherworn cottage with peeling timber frames. The gate hangs on a single rusted hinge, so she decides not to knock.
Grandma! she calls tentatively, peeking through the fence slats. Grandma Agnes? Im Rosie! You told me last week about my garden about the visitor
The cottage door creaks open, and the old woman steps into the doorway, squinting at her guest.
Lord Almighty dressed up again for a parade, she whispers, eyeing Rosies chiffonlike dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals. She waves a hand, conceding. Come in, dear, now that youre here! Just mind the heels on my creaky floorboards! What do you need?
Rosie steps across the threshold and feels a lump rise in her throat.
He he really is coming. He treads where you said. I saw him last night, she trembles. I thought if youre used to these things and arent scared, perhaps youve dealt with them before. Could you help me drive him away? Her immaculate manicure glints in the dim hallway.
Thought so, love, Agnes nods, a complex look flickering in her eyes. You want me to chase him off?
Rosie nods helplessly, then fumbles into her sleek leather bag and pulls out several crisp £20 notes.
I dont know how much it usually costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, Ill go to the cash machine and bring it! Whatever you say!
Agnes eyes the money, then looks directly at Rosie, her gaze softening.
Thats enough, she says quietly, almost gently. Ill help. Sit down, Ill, she trails off, blushing slightly, Im sorry, I cant offer tea. I ran out yesterday. The shop three miles off my old bones cant carry me.
Rosie sits on a painted stool and surveys the modest interior: a clean but aged, patchedup curtain on the sole window, a table without a tablecloth, cracks spiderwebbing the oncepolished surface, a broken pantry door revealing emptiness, an empty sugar bowl, a barren bread basket. It is poor, empty, lonely.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Agnes calls from the next room, Ive got a homemade herbal brew. Its a bit bitter but it gives strength.
Rosie opens the rattling fridge. Her heart squeezes tighter. Besides a halflit bottle of cloudy liquid, there are three eggs, a threeliter jar of sauerkraut, and a dented, washedout butter dish.
Goodness she thinks, a sharp pain stabbing her. She lives in such poverty, and I arrived in a costly car, in a silk dress.
Agness voice drifts in, Found it?
Yes, Grandma Agnes, now!
Agnes hands Rosie a small bundle of plain newspaper, tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, not deep, just at the spades tip. In three days your guest will leave and never return. Dont fear. Its just herbs, dry sticks, forest berries all blessed for good. Hows the brew?
Rosie takes a sip; its bitter but fragrant.
Delicious, she smiles sincerely, clutching the bundle. Thank you ever so much. May I may I treat you to something? I was at the shop before I came saw a sale, bought two of everything, now I dont know where to put them. Perhaps you could use something?
Without waiting for a reply, Rosie dashes out, returns a minute later, lugging a huge paper bag, and begins unloading on the table, chattering nonstop:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always cook for David, his stomachs delicate Tea black, though we usually drink green Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, yet theres chocolate everywhere Cookies? Perfect with tea! Fruit leathers Im not keen on them. Meat how much did I get? The freezer is bursting! Would you mind if I leave some here? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat. Since Davids stomach issues, Ive been on propernutrition courses, only buying this now
She arranges the goods carefully, avoiding eye contact with Agnes. She feels awkward, fearing the old woman will see it as charity and take offense.
Finally, she looks up and sees quiet, bright tears sliding down Agness cheeks. The old woman wipes them with the corner of her handkerchief.
Thank you, love, she whispers, as soft as leaves rustling outside.
Its you who should thank me, Rosie sighs with relief, shrugs, and says, Ill keep working on the garden! If you dont mind, Ill visit again. Im curious about you.
She buries the bundle at the spot Agnes indicated. The grim figure never appears again. Exactly a week later, as Agnes promised, tiny shoots break through the oncedead soildandelions and a few weeds. Rosie weeps with joy, for the earth has revived.
That same day, Agnes, using a cane, shuffles to an old, overgrown village graveyard. She walks a narrow path, nodding to unseen companions, greeting longtime acquaintances. She stops before an unmarked, weathered stone. A cracked, grey slab bears a faded photograph of a dour man with grand moustaches.
Thank you, Peter Stead, she murmurs, kneeling, pulling dry grass from around the stone. Ive helped you, and youve helped me. Ill tidy this place so its neat Rest now.
Two weeks later, Rosie returns, knocks timidly on the nowfamiliar door, and hears a croaky Come in! She places the heavy, packed bag at the threshold.
Grandma Agnes, its me, Rosie! Hello! Ive come as promised.
Hello, hello, Agnes replies, looking a little fresher. So, has your nightly visitor finally gone?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Rosie exclaims, then points to the bag. I brought I used to study interior design, but it didnt work out. I bought lots of things that now sit unusedcurtains that dont fit, plush towels, warm throws, china Could I give them to you? Your cosy cottage would look lovely with these blueflower plates!
She frantically unpacks, showing each item, hoping Agnes wont see the gesture as pity.
Agnes watches the excited woman, her face growing sadder and more severe. Finally she sits, her arthritic hands resting on her knees.
Put it down, love. Enough, she says quietly, voice tired and apologetic. Youre a good girl, Ellie. Kind, openhearted. I Ive lied to you.
Rosie freezes, clutching a colourful blanket.
What? I I swam in the pool this morning, she stammers, touching her earlobe. I mustve heard wrong.
Im saying I lied, Agnes repeats, voice trembling. I brought that dead man to your plot myself. I invited him, purposely.
Guilt and shame warp her lined face. She shrinks, as if bracing for a blow.
Im terribly sorry, you old fool. You came with an open heart, and I…, she struggles, I sometimes get requests to pass messages to relatives, clean graves then our new cottages sprang up. I thought, maybe, if the richer folk gave a penny, I could survive. Im old, its hard, Im hungry, cold No one gives money for free, only for help.
What do I do? See what others cant? she continues. I asked a kind man, Peter Stead, who lies forgotten in that grave, to haunt you, to trip you, so the earth wont bear life. I tend his grave now as thanks. Hed never harm you or David; he was a quiet man. The bundle I gave you was just ordinary herbs, a cover to calm you so he could leave. Forgive me, Ellie, forgive me. I never thought youd be youre, her voice breaks, and she falls silent, staring at the floor.
Rosie stands motionless, noise ringing in her ears. She looks at the hunched old woman, at the poverty, at the desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger blooms in her eyes, only an endless, allconsuming pity.
She steps forward, crouches beside Agnes, and gently covers the old womans wrinkled, veined hands with her own soft, wellkept ones.
I told you, grandma water got in my ears, she whispers very softly, tears slipping down her cheeks without her wiping them. I didnt hear you. Lets hang those curtains up, lay the tablecloth, shall we? Dont worry, well manage everything. Ill be coming to you often, very often.
