Poppy Morgan freezes, tiny, elegant garden forks clutched in her hands, her fingers involuntarily slackening from shock. The wooden tool thuds softly onto the dry, cracked earth. Before she can even gasp, a voice erupts behind hersharp as the creak of an old oak, yet so resolutely confident it sends an icy shiver up her spine.
Nothings growing in your garden, love, because a dead man pays you a visit, the stranger says. Cant see him? Take a closer look, dear. The words come from a gaunt, sterneyed old woman, her gaze faded by time but unnervingly perceptive.
Poppy turns slowly, almost mechanically, and finally truly sees the plot of land in front of her brandnew, muchdesired cottage. A strange, inexplicable melancholy tightens around her heart. She has stared at this spot every day, but only now does the horror of the situation hit her full force. Right beside the neat, carved fence she has bragged about lies a dead, burnt patch of soilno grass, no weeds, no hint of life at all.
Behind the house, in the meticulously tended vegetable beds and flowerbeds, roses burst into colour, marigolds reach for the sun, and gooseberries turn a healthy green. The contrast is jarring, almost surreal. She tries to revive the barren groundfertilising, loosening, watering it with tears of neardespairbut nothing works.
Lost in her horticultural torment, Poppy doesnt notice the frail, bent stranger slipping up to the wide open gate.
You could have worn an evening dress to dig around in that black earth, the old woman comments with a faint, harmless smile, eyeing Poppys outfit: a pricey, perfectly fitted pink top and matching hightech leggings.
Instinctively, Poppy brushes a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks.
Its its a specialist gardening suit, dear, she stammers, voice wavering. Its breathable and the neighbours theyre all so tidy in this new development. Everythings pristine. No one lived here before; its all brand new.
The old woman doesnt listen any longer. She leans on a makeshift, clubshaped staff and shuffles away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the road bend. Poppy stands alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart.
How could this be? she thinks feverishly, pulling off her garden gloves and checking her flawless manicure. Why would a dead man haunt my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
Fortunately, before the movepractically an escape from the noisy city to a quiet suburbshe completed a nailart course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she muses bitterly, just wish my garden could be as flawless, without any spectres.
She tells none of this to her husband, David, fearing his practical, sarcastic side. Yet the thought of the strange visitor loops in her mind, becoming an obsessive notion. No matter how expensive or modern the fertiliser, no advice from online forums or seasoned hedgers, the patch in front of the house stays as lifeless as a tombstone.
Poppy genuinely loves gardening. Shes taken online courses, bought countless glossy magazines, and relishes the feel of soil, its scent, the care of fragile shoots. Shes already seen some success elsewhere, but this cursed blot refuses to yield, as if an invisible wall keeps life at bay.
Maybe Ill have to hire an expensive landscape designer and soil expert, she sighs, staring out the window at the black blemish of her shame. If this ethereal guest truly exists, even they might not be able to help.
A few days pass. After finishing another detailed video from a seasoned gardener, she puts her phone down. The night outside is silent and starless. David is already snoring, his business thoughts ticking away, and she should be asleep, but sleep eludes her.
Stifling theres nothing to breathe, she whispers, shedding a silk blanket and stepping to the glass door that leads onto a spacious balcony.
She opens it quietly, steps out into the cool night air, fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height, the unlucky plot is almost hidden by the overhang of the roof and the shade of a large oak. Compelled by a sudden impulse, she leans over the cold rail to peer into the darkness where the barren earth lies.
Under the sharp, crooked crescent moon, a strange figure walks across the dugup, dead soil. A man, his back turned to her, moves with odd, slowed steps, as if wading through an unseen resistance. He stoops, rises, pokes the ground with the toe of an old, worn boot, his long pale fingers probing the earth.
Poppys heart stops, then pounds so hard she feels it shake her. She fixes her gaze on the gloom, trying to discern details. The longer she watches, the clearer it becomes: the man is halftransparent, moonlight seeping through his frail form, dressed in an antiquated jacket. His movements are unnaturally sluggish, lacking the weight of a living body. This is certainly not a mortal.
A wave of panic crashes over her, threatening to topple her from the balcony. At that instant, the figure turns.
His face is expressionless, as if carved from pale marble, with moustaches recalling a bygone era and neatly combed hair parting straight down the centre. His eyes are empty, dark voids.
Suddenly he thrusts both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to grip her throat with icy fingers. His gaunt, dead visage draws nearer, filling the space. A suppressed scream escapes Poppys throat; she scrambles back, stumbling onto the cold floor of the bedroom.
Finding the old woman turns out to be oddly simple. Poppy is convinced someone like that could never live in their pristine cottage estate, so she assumes the woman must dwell beyond the bridge, in an old, sleepy village. Asking the local grandmothers on a wellused bench by the well quickly yields the answer.
She parks her tidy city hatchback in front of a derelict, unpainted cottage with peeling wooden trim. The gate hangs on a single rusty hinge, barely holding together, so she decides not to knock.
Grandma! she calls, peering timidly through a gap in the fence. Grandma Margaret? Im Poppy! You told me last week about my garden about the guest.
The cottage door creaks open, and the very old woman steps onto the porch, squinting at the visitor.
Good heavens dressed up like youre going to a parade, she mutters, eyeing Poppys chiffon dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals. She waves a hand in resignation. Come in, then. Just watch your heels on my floorboards! What do you want?
Crossing the threshold, Poppy feels a lump rise in her throat.
He he really comes. He treads where you said. I saw him last night, she says, voice trembling. I thought, if you see these things and arent scared, you must have dealt with them before. Maybe you know how to make him go? Her manicured nails glint in the dim light.
Thought so, love, Margaret nods, a complex look flickering in her eyes. Want me to send him off?
Poppy nods helplessly, then, feverishly, opens her sleek leather bag and pulls out several crisp pound notes.
I dont know how much it costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, Ill drive to the ATM and bring it! Whatever you say!
Margaret studies the money, then looks straight into Poppys eyes, her gaze softening.
Thats enough, she whispers gently. Ill help. Sit down, Ill, she pauses, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. Sorry, I have no tea to offer. Im out. The shops three miles away, and my old bones cant manage it.
Poppy perches on the edge of a painted stool, scanning the modest interior: a single window dressed with a patched, overstitched curtain; a table without a runner, revealing deep cracks in the oncepolished wood; a cracked sideboard with a missing door exposing emptiness; an empty sugar bowl and an equally barren breadbasket. The room feels poor, empty, profoundly lonely.
Get a bottle from the fridge, Margaret calls from the next room. Ive brewed a herbal tonic myself. Its a bit bitter but gives strength.
Poppy opens the rattling fridge. Aside from a halflitre bottle of cloudy liquid, it holds three eggs, a threelitre jar of sauerkraut, and a dented butter dish.
Good grief, she thinks, a sharp pain stabbing her. She lives in such poverty, and I arrived in a pricey car in a silk dress.
Margarets voice cuts through the silence. Found it?
Yes, Grandma Margaret, now! Poppy replies, hurrying back.
Margaret hands her a small, tightly wrapped bundle of newspaper tied with twine.
Bury this at the spot. Not deep, just the length of a spade. In three days your visitor will leave and never return. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berries all whispered for good. Hows the brew?
Poppy takes a sip of the bitter, aromatic liquid.
Delicious, she says, smiling genuinely, clutching the bundle. Thank you ever so much. May I offer you something in return? I grabbed a lot of things at the shop before I cametwoforone deals, you know. I cant get rid of them. She rushes out, returns a minute later with a massive paper bag, unloading its contents onto the table while babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always cook for two, my husband has a tummy problem Tea black, but we usually drink green sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, and theres still chocolate at home Cookies? Perfect with tea! Fruit leather Im not a fan Meat how much did I get? The freezers full! Will you mind if I leave this? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat. After my husbands issues I took a nutrition course, now I only buy this stuff
She arranges the groceries in a corner, avoiding Margarets gaze. She feels foolish, afraid the old woman will see this as charity and take offense.
At last, Margarets eyes well up with quiet tears, which she wipes with the corner of a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, she whispers, the sound like leaves rustling.
Its nothing, Poppy sighs, shrugging, trying not to notice the tears. Ill keep working on the garden! If you dont mind, Ill drop by again sometime. Im intrigued.
She buries the bundle exactly where instructed. The gaunt, moustached man never appears again. A week later, as Margaret predicted, tiny shoots poke through the formerly dead soildandelions and a few wild grasses. Poppy weeps with joy; the earth has come alive.
That same day, Margaret, leaning on a cane, shuffles to an old, overgrown village graveyard. She walks a narrow path, nodding to unseen companions, greeting longlost friends. She stops before an unmarked stone, its weathered surface bearing a faded photograph of a stern man with elaborate moustaches.
Thank you, Arthur Whitaker, she murmurs, kneeling and pulling away dry grass. You helped me, and Ill help you. Ill tidy this place, make it neat and pretty Rest now, dear.
Two weeks later, Poppy knocks timidly on Margarets familiar door. Hearing a hoarse Come in!, she steps inside, setting a heavy, overfilled bag by the doorway.
Grandma Margaret, its me, Poppy! Hello. Im here as promised.
Hello, hello, Margaret replies, looking a touch fresher. So, has your midnight guest finally left?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Poppy exclaims, then blushes and points to the bag. I brought a lot of things. I used to study interior design, but that didnt work out. I bought curtains that never fit our windows plush towels, oven mitts, warm throws, dishes all brandnew, just sitting idle. Could I give them to you? Your cosy cottage would look perfect with these daisypatterned plates!
She frantically pulls items from the bag, describing each, hoping Margaret wont see it as pity.
Margaret watches the excited woman, her face growing sadder and more solemn. Finally, she lowers herself onto a stool, resting her arthritic hands on her knees.
Put it down, love. Enough, she says softly, her voice weary and apologetic. Youre a good girl, Poppy. Kind, openhearted. I Ive deceived you.
Poppy freezes, clutching a colourful blanket.
What? I I was swimming in the pool this morning, she stammers, touching her earlobe. I must have misheard.
Im the one who lied, Margaret admits, her voice shaking. I brought that dead man to your plot. I invited him, deliberately. Im sorry, youre honest and I used you. She pauses, tears glistening. People sometimes ask me to look after graves, to tidy them, to pass messages. I thought, maybe the rich folk around here could spare a few pennies. Im old, hungry, cold. No one gives money for nothing. I asked Arthur Whitaker, who lies in that grave, to trudge around your garden so the earth wont bear life. I gave you the bundle of herbs as a cover, ordinary stuff to calm you. Forgive me, Poppy. I never thought youd be
Poppy stands motionless, the din in her ears drowning everything. She looks at Margarets hunched figure, at the poverty, at the desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger flickers in her eyes, only boundless, allconsuming compassion.
She kneels beside Margaret, gently covering the old womans wrinkled, veinlined hands with her own soft, wellkept ones.
I told you the water got in my ears, she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks unbidden. I didnt hear you. Shall we hang those curtains? Lay the tablecloth? Dont worry, well manage everything. Ill visit you often, very often.
