Marigold froze, the slender garden fork clutched in her hand, her fingers slipping open as if of their own accord. The wooden tool thudded against the dry, cracked earth with a soft tap. Before she could even gasp, a voice rose from behind her, sudden and piercing. It creaked like an ancient oak, yet carried a steadiness that sent an icy shiver down Marigolds spine.
Nothing grows in your garden, dear, because a dead man visits you. Cant see him? Look closer, child, and youll notice, intoned a strange old woman, her gaze sharp yet tinged with a hint of pity, her eyes faded by time but unnervingly perceptive.
Marigold turned mechanically, finally taking a proper look at the plot of land in front of her newlyacquired, muchdesired cottage. A strange, unexplainable melancholy swelled in her chest. She had passed this spot every day, but only now did she grasp the horror of it. Directly beside the tidy, carved fence she so proudly maintained lay a dead, scorched patch of soil.
No grass, no seedlings, no sign of life. Behind the house, her carefully tended flower beds burst with roses, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a healthy green. The contrast was stark and unnerving. She tried everythingfertiliser, loosening, watering with tears that felt almost desperatebut nothing revived the barren square.
Absorbed in her gardening woes, she hadnt noticed the frail, bent stranger slip through the wide gate.
You could wear a ballroom gown and still be digging in that black earth, the old lady said with a barely audible sneer, eyeing Marigolds outfit: an expensive, perfectly fitted pink top and matching smart trousers of a hightech fabric.
Marigold instinctively brushed a stray ginger curl from her forehead, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.
Its its a specialised gardening suit, maam. Breathable, hightech she tried to explain, voice wavering. And the neighbours this is a new, upscale development; everyone keeps their gardens immaculate. Nobody lived here before, everything started from scratch
The woman gave no more heed. She leaned on a makeshift staff, shuffled away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the turning road. Marigold stood alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought frantically, pulling off her gardening gloves and checking her immaculate manicure. Why would a ghost linger at my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
She was grateful shed completed a nailtech course before moving from the noisy city to this quiet suburb. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused sarcastically, if only my garden could be as wellkept, with no hauntings.
She never mentioned the odd visitor to her husband, David, fearing his practical, skeptical smile would dismiss her concern. Yet the thought of that strange woman kept returning, becoming an obsessive knot. No premium fertiliser, no internet advice, no seasoned neighbours could coax life into that dead square. It stayed as lifeless as a tombstone slab.
Marigold loved gardening with her whole heart. She had taken online courses, bought beautiful magazines, and delighted in feeling soil between her fingers, inhaling its scent, nurturing fragile shoots. At first she saw successbuds, leaves, blossomsbut the cursed patch in front of the front door refused to bud, as if an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Maybe Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect and soil specialist, she sighed, staring out the window at the black blemish of her shame. If a phantom truly visits, even they might be beyond help.
Days passed. Marigold paused a detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, set her phone aside, and listened to the night outsidequiet, starless. David snored in the next room, his breathing syncing with his business thoughts. She should have been asleep, but sleep evaded her.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk robe, and stepped onto the balcony through a glass door.
The night air was fresh and sweet. From the secondstorey height the cursed plot was almost invisible, hidden by the roofs overhang and the shade of a large oak. Still, a sudden impulse made her lean over the cold railing and peer into the darkness.
Under the pale, crooked moon that pierced ragged clouds, a figure moved across the dead ground. A man, seen from behind, shuffled with a slow, almost laborious gait, as if wading through thick syrup. He crouched, rose again, nudged the soil with the toe of an old, worn boot, his long, pallid fingers probing for something.
Marigolds heart stopped, then hammered so hard it made her tremble. She stared, trying to make out details, and realized something was terribly wrong. He was semitransparent; the moonlight seeped through his gaunt frame, and his outdated coat seemed to float without weight. His movements were not just slowthey were unnatural, devoid of earthly gravity. He was certainly not alive.
A wave of panic surged, threatening to overwhelm her. She felt her legs give way, a black, sticky dread rising in her temples. She might have toppled from the balcony onto the stone path below, when the man turned his face toward her.
His visage was like a marble maskno expression, a straightlined moustache, neatly combed hair, and deep, empty eyes.
Then, as if summoned by her stare, the phantom thrust both hands forward, reaching across the space as if to grasp her throat with icy fingers. The sight of his grim, deathlike face closing in felt suffocating. Marigold let out a strangled gasp and, with her last strength, shoved herself back from the railing, stumbling into the bedroom and collapsing onto the cold floor.
Finding the old woman proved surprisingly easy. Marigold was certain such a person could not belong in their pristine new culdesac, so she guessed she lived beyond the bridge in an old, sleepy hamlet. The local grandmothers perched on a wellside bench confirmed the location without hesitation.
She parked her tidy hatchback outside a dilapidated cottage with peeling wooden panels. The gate creaked on a single rusted hinge, so she hesitated before knocking.
Grandma! she called softly, peering through the fence slats. Im Marigold. You spoke to me last week about the visitor on my plot.
The door swung open with a mournful sigh, revealing the same stooped figure. She squinted at the guest.
Lord Almighty dressed up again for a parade, she murmured, eyeing Marigolds chiffon dresstunic and elegant highheeled sandals, then waved a hand in resignation. Come in, dear, but mind the floorboardsdont break those heels! What brings you?
Inside, Marigold felt a lump rise in her throat.
He he really comes. He treads where you said. I saw him last night, she whispered, voice trembling. If youve seen such things and arent frightened, perhaps youve dealt with them before. Do you know how to send him away?
The old woman, Martha Whitlock, stared at the handful of crisp £20 notes Marigold produced from her leather purse.
Enough, Martha said gently. Ill help. Sit down, dear. I cant offer tea; I ran out yesterday and the shops a mile away. My bones cant fetch anything.
Marigold perched on a chipped stool, taking in the modest interior: a single tattered curtain, a scarred wooden buffet with a missing door, an empty sugar bowl, and a barren bread box. The place felt stark, lonely, and profoundly poor.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Martha called from another room. I have a herbal brew of my own making. Bit bitter, but itll give you strength.
Marigold opened the ancient fridge. Inside lay a halflit bottle of murky liquid, three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a dented butter dish. Her heart clenched.
Found it, she said, hearing Marthas voice.
Martha handed Marigold a tightly rolled newspaper bundle tied with twine. Bury this on your plot, shallow, near the spades tip. In three days the visitor will depart and never return. Its just herbs, dried twigs, forest berriesnothing more than a good charm. Hows the brew?
Marigold tasted the bitter tea, smiled genuinely, and thanked her. She then launched into a rapid inventory of the groceries in her overloaded bag: sunflower oil, two packs of tea, biscuits, dried fruit, a bag of brown rice, green buckwheat, and a note about her recent nutrition course. She spoke aloud, fearing Martha might think she was merely handing over charity.
As she emptied the bag, Marthas eyes filled 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, Marigold replied, wiping her own eyes. Ill keep working on the garden, and Ill visit you again, if you dont mind.
She buried the bundle exactly where Martha instructed. The ghost never appeared again. A week later, timid shootsa dandelion here, a handful of grass theresprouted on the oncedead patch. Marigold wept with joy; the earth had revived.
Martha, supported by a cane, later shuffled to an old, overgrown village graveyard. She knelt before an unmarked stone, brushing away dry leaves. On the cracked surface lay a faded photograph of a sternlooking man with a full moustache.
Thank you, Arthur, she murmured, planting fresh herbs around the grave. You helped me, and now I can help you rest.
Two weeks later Marigold knocked on Marthas door again, this time with a heavy, brimming bag in hand.
Grandma Martha, its me, Marigold, she called. Ive brought some things I no longer needcurtains, towels, extra plates. Your cottage could use a touch of colour.
Martha smiled, though her joints ached, and invited Marigold in. As Marigold unloaded the bag, she confessed, I thought Id give you a proper thankyou.
Martha listened, then, with a sigh, said, Youre a good girl, Marigold. I must admitI brought that dead man to you. I needed a little coin, a little help. I invited him to trouble your garden, hoping someone would pay for his removal. Im sorry.
Marigold stood still, the noise of the room fading. She felt no anger, only a deep, aching compassion for the old woman driven by hunger and loneliness.
She knelt, gently laying her hands over Marthas weathered ones. I understand, she whispered, tears slipping freely. We all have our burdens. Lets sort them together.
The garden flourished, the ghost stayed gone, and Marigolds visits became a regular comfort for Martha. In time the hamlets people learned that kindness, even when tinged with selfish motives, could be redirected into genuine help.
And so Marigold learned that true wealth is not measured in pounds or perfect manicures, but in the willingness to share what we havebe it a spare bag of groceries, a listening ear, or a simple act of caringfor only then can even the darkest patches of life find the light to grow.
