Eleanor froze, tiny, elegant rake clutched in her hands, her fingers inexplicably slackening from the shock. The wooden tool thudded softly onto the dry, cracked soil. Before she could even gasp, a voice, sudden and piercing, rose behind her. It sounded like the creak of an ancient oak, yet carried such unshakable certainty that a cold shiver crawled up Eleanors spine.
Nothing grows in your garden, dear, because a dead man pays you a visit. Cant see him? Look closer, love, look carefully, murmured a strange old woman, her eyes faded by time yet unnervingly sharp, a mix of sternness and a hint of pity.
Eleanor turned mechanically, finally truly seeing the plot of earth in front of her newlyacquired, muchdesired cottage. A strange, inexplicable melancholy tightened her heart. She had walked past it every day, but only now did the horror of it sink in. Directly before the neat, carved fence she prided herself on lay a lifeless, scorched patch of ground.
No blade of grass, no wildflower, no whisper of life. Behind the house, in her painstakingly tended beds and borders, roses burst in colour, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a healthy green. The contrast was jarring, as if the world had split in two. She tried to revive the soilfertilising, loosening, watering it with tears that felt almost desperatebut nothing budged.
Lost in her horticultural torment, she did not notice the thin, bent figure that slipped up to the open gate.
You could have put on a ballroom gown to dig in that black earth so prettily, the old woman said with a barelythere smile, eyeing Eleanors outfit: a costly, perfectly fitted pink top and matching bikeshorts of a hightech fabric.
Instinctively, Eleanor brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a flush of embarrassment creeping across her face.
Its its a special gardening uniform, dear. Breathable, hightech, she stammered, her voice thin. And the neighbours this new, tidy development is always immaculate No one lived here before, everything started from scratch
The old woman paid her no heed. She turned, leaning on a makeshift staff, and drifted away, melting into the summer dust beyond the bend in the road. Eleanor 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, slipping off her gardening gloves and checking her immaculate manicure. Why would a dead man come to my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
Fortunately, before the movealmost a flight from the clamor of London to the hush of the suburbsshe had completed a nailart course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused with bitter irony, if only my garden could be as tidy, with nothing but growth and no spectres.
She said nothing of the strange visitor to her husband, Daniel, everbusy and practical, fearing his dry, rational scoff. Yet the thought kept looping, becoming an intrusive mantra. No matter how expensive the fertiliser, no advice from online forums or seasoned allotment owners helped. The patch before the house remained barren, dry, as if a tombstone had been set there.
Eleanor truly loved gardening. Shed taken online classes, bought piles of glossy magazines, and delighted in the feel of soil, the scent of earth, the care of fragile shoots. Shed seen results elsewherefirst buds, promising shootsbut this cursed, dead spot at the very front door resisted, as if an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Looks like Ill have to hire a pricey landscape architect, she sighed, staring out the window at the black blotch of her shame. If we truly have such an ethereal guest, perhaps even they cant help.
Days passed. Eleanor, after watching yet another detailed video by a seasoned horticulturist, set her phone aside. The night outside was heavy and starless. Daniel was already snoring, his dreams tangled with business numbers, and Eleanor ought to have been asleep, yet sleep slipped away.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk blanket and stepping to the glass door that led to the spacious balcony.
She opened it quietly and stepped into the cool night air. The breeze was fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height the cursed plot was almost invisible, hidden by the overhang of the roof and the shade of a large oak. Compelled by a sudden urge, she leaned over the cold railing, straining to see the darkness where the barren earth lay.
And she saw it.
Under the sharp, crooked crescent of a moon that cut through torn clouds, a figure moved across the dugup yet lifeless soil. A man, his back to her, shuffled with an odd, slowed gait as if fighting an unseen resistance. He didnt simply walkhe tramped, crouched, rose again, digging his old, clunky shoe into the ground with pale, elongated fingers, searching for something.
Eleanors heart stopped, then hammered so hard it made her tremble. She gazed into the gloom, the longer she watched the clearer it became: something was wrong. He was semitransparent. Moonlight filtered through his frail body, a dated jacket hanging on his shoulders. His movements were not just slow; they were unnatural, as if freed from Earths gravity. He was undeniably not a living man.
Panic rose like a black, sticky wave, threatening to knock her unconscious. She felt as if she might tumble from the balcony onto the sharp stones below, when the man turned.
He looked straight at her. His face was a mask of marbleno expression, crisp moustache reminiscent of a bygone era, hair slicked into a neat side part. His eyes were voids, dark and endless.
Then, without warning, he thrust both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to grasp her throat with icy fingers. Eleanor felt his ghastly visage drawing nearer, filling the space. She let out a soft, suppressed gasp and, with her last strength, pushed herself away from the railing, stumbling back into the bedroom and onto the cold floor.
Finding the old woman proved oddly simple. Eleanor was convinced such a figure could not belong in their sterile, brandnew culdesac. She deduced the woman must live beyond the bridge, in a sleepy, slumbering hamlet. Asking the local grandmothers sitting on a bench by the well was enough to locate her.
She halted her tidy city hatchback in front of a crooked, longunpainted cottage with peeling ornamental brackets. The gate hung on a single rusty hinge, as if held together by an honest promise, so Eleanor refrained from knocking.
Grandma! she called timidly, peering through a fence slat. Grandma Margaret? Im Eleanor! You told me last week about my plot about the guest
The cottage door creaked open, and the very old woman appeared on the doorstep, squinting at the visitor.
Lord Almighty dressed up again like its a parade, she murmured, eyeing Eleanors chiffon dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals. She waved a hand in resignation. Come in then, but mind your heels on my floorboards! What do you need?
Eleanor crossed the threshold, a lump rising in her throat.
He he really comes. He tramps where you said. I saw him last night Her voice trembled. I thought if you see such things and arent afraid, you must have dealt with them before. Perhaps you know how to send him away? Her manicured nails caught the dim light of the hallway.
Thought so, dear, Margaret nodded, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. Want me to send him off?
Eleanor only managed a helpless nod, then, feverishly, opened her sleek leather bag and produced several large, crisp banknotes.
I dont know how much it usually costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, Ill go to the ATM, bring it! Whatever you ask!
Margaret examined the money, then met Eleanors gaze, softening.
Thats enough, she said quietly, almost gently. Ill help. Sit down, Ill, she trailed off, a blush creeping to her cheeks. Sorry, I have no tea to offer. Ran out yesterday. The shop three miles off is out of reach for an old lady.
Eleanor perched on a painted stool, stealing glances at the modest interior: a single window dressed with a threadbare, patchedup drape; a table without a cloth, its lacquered surface scarred with deep cracks; a battered sideboard with a missing door, revealing emptiness. The sugar bowl was empty, as was the woven bread basket beside it. The room felt poor, barren, hauntingly lonely.
Fetch a clear bottle from the fridge, Margaret called from another room. I have a homemade herbal brew. Bitter, but it gives strength.
Eleanor opened the rattling fridge. Her heart sank. Besides a halflit bottle of murky liquid, there were three eggs, a threelitre jar of sauerkraut, and a battered butter dish with a hole in its lid.
Good grief she thought, a sharp pang of embarrassment. She lives in such poverty while I arrived in my pricey car and silk dress.
Found it? the old womans voice floated down the hallway.
Yes, Margaret, now!
Margaret handed Eleanor a tightly wound bundle of plain newspaper tied with string.
Bury this on your plot. Not deep, just with the tip of a spade. In three days your guest will leave and never return. Dont fear. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berries all spoken into goodness. Hows the brew?
Eleanor took a sip of the bitter yet fragrant liquid.
Delicious, she said, smiling genuinely, clutching the bundle. Thank you ever so much. May I may I treat you to something? I saw a sale before I left, bought two of everything and now I cant decide what to do with them. Perhaps youll need something?
Without waiting for a reply, Eleanor bolted out, returned a minute later lugging a massive paper sack, and began unloading its contents onto the table, babbling nonstop:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always fry for Daniel, he has a sensitive stomach Tea black, but we usually drink green Sweets I love them but I need to lose weight, and theres still chocolate at home Cookies? Perfect with tea! Fruit leather I bought for no reason Meat how much did I get? The freezers already bursting! Will you mind if I leave this for you? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat. After Daniels health issues I took nutrition courses, now I only buy the healthy stuff
She arranged the groceries in a corner, avoiding Margarets eyes. She felt absurdly awkward, fearing the old woman might see the bounty as charity and take offense.
At last she glanced up, seeing quiet, bright tears sliding down Margarets cheeks. The old woman dabbed them with the edge of a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, she whispered, voice like rustling leaves.
Youre welcome, Eleanor exhaled, shrugging as if she hadnt noticed the tears. Ill keep working on the garden! And if you dont mind, Ill visit again. Im curious about you.
She buried the bundle as instructed. The gaunt man with the moustache never appeared again. Exactly a week later, as Margaret had promised, timid shoots began to push through the oncedead soildandelions and wild grass. Eleanor wept with joy, for the earth had revived.
That same day Margaret, using a wooden stick, shuffled to an old, abandoned village graveyard. She walked a narrow lane, nodding to unseen companions, greeting longforgotten acquaintances. Finally she stopped before an unmarked stone, its surface cracked and grey with age. Upon closer look, a faded photograph was set into the stone, showing a stern man with a full moustache.
Thank you, Peter Stokes, Margaret murmured, kneeling to clear dry grass around the grave. You helped me, and Ill help you. Ill tidy this place, make it tidy and pretty You rest now, peacefully.
Two weeks later Eleanor knocked again on Margarets familiar door, hearing a croaky Come in! and stepping inside with a heavy, overflowing bag at her shoulder.
Grandma Margaret, its me, Eleanor! Hello! Im here as promised.
Hello, hello, Margaret answered, looking a shade fresher. Has your night visitor finally gone?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Eleanor began enthusiastically, then blushed and gestured to the bag. And I brought I used to study interior design, but it didnt work out. I bought loads of things that now sit unused: curtains that dont fit our windows, fluffy towels, warm throws, dishes all new, good quality, just sitting there. Could I give them to you? Your cosy cottage would look lovely with those blueflowered plates!
She again feverishly unpacked items, describing each, hoping Margaret wouldnt see the gesture as pity.
Margaret watched the excited woman, her face growing sadder, then harsher. Finally she sank onto a stool, her arthritic hands trembling.
Put it down, love. Enough, she said softly, voice weary and apologetic. Youre a good girl, Lily, she called her, though Eleanors name was Eleanor, the old woman mixing them. Ive lied to you.
Eleanor froze, a brightly coloured blanket clutched in her arms.
What? I I was swimming this morning, she stammered, touching her ear. Maybe the water My hearings off.
Im saying I lied, Margaret repeated, voice shaking. I brought that dead man to your plot myself. I invited him over, deliberately.
Shame and guilt twisted Margarets lined face. She seemed to brace herself for a blow.
Im terribly sorry, you old fool. You came with an open heart, and I, she faltered, choosing words carefully. Sometimes people ask me to pass messages to the dead, tend graves Then the new houses sprang up around them. I thought I thought a few pennies from a wealthy neighbour wouldnt hurt. Im old, its hard, hungry, cold No one gives money for free, only for help.
What can I do? See what others cannot? Margaret continued. I asked a kind man, Peter Stokes, buried there, to walk over to you, to trample the ground so it wouldnt bear life. I gave you that bundle of herbs as a cover, ordinary plants just to calm you and drive him away. Forgive me, Lily, forgive me. I never thought youd be youre
Her voice broke, and she fell silent, staring at the floor.
Eleanor stood motionless, a roar of noise in her ears. She looked at the bent figure, at the poverty, at the desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger rose in her, only an endless, allconsuming pity.
She knelt beside Margaret, gently covering the old womans wrinkled, veined hands with her own soft, wellkept ones.
I told you, Grandma water got in my ears, Eleanor whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks unbidden. I didnt hear properly. Lets hang those curtains, lay that tablecloth, shall we? Dont worry, well manage everything together. Ill visit you often, very often.
