Eleanor froze, the tiny silver rake trembling in her grip, her fingers involuntarily loosening. The wooden tool clanged against the cracked, parched earth and fell. She barely managed a gasp when a voice, sharp as the creak of an old oak, sounded behind her. It carried a certainty that sent a cold shiver up her spine.
Nothing grows in your garden, dear, because the dead come to visit you. Cant see them? Look closer, love, the stranger said, a gaunt old woman whose eyes, faded yet unnervingly perceptive, seemed to have been bleached by time.
Eleanor turned, almost mechanically, and for the first time truly surveyed the plot of land before the newly bought cottage shed dreamed of. A pang of inexplicable melancholy tightened her chest. Shed walked past it daily, but only now did the horror sink in: right in front of the neat, handcarved fence shed bragged about lay a barren, scorched patch of soil.
No grass, no weeds, no sign of life. Behind the house, her meticulously tended beds burst with roses, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes swayed in green. The contrast was grotesque. She tried to revive the dead earthfertilising, loosening, watering it with tears of neardespairbut every effort was futile.
Lost in her horticultural torment, she didnt notice the frail, stooped figure that slipped through the wide gate.
You could wear a ballroom gown and still be digging in that black earth, the old woman murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips as she eyed Eleanors bright pink gardening top and the sleek, hightech trousers shed bought for the move.
Eleanor brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a flush of embarrassment crossing her cheeks.
Its its a specialist gardening outfit, Auntie. Breathable, hightech she tried to explain, voice trembling. And the neighbours this new development is supposed to be pristine, everyone keeps their gardens immaculate Her words trailed off as the old woman turned on her heel, leaning on a makeshift staff, and shuffled away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the road.
Alone, Eleanor stood amid a deafening silence broken only by the frantic thudding of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought, pulling off her garden gloves and checking her immaculate manicure. Why would a ghost visit my brandnew home? Who is he? What does he want?
She reminded herself that, before fleeing the noisy city for the quiet of Surreys countryside, shed completed a manicure course. Now my hands will always be tidy, she mused bitterly, if only my garden could be the samegrowing, flowering, and never haunted.
She kept the strange visitors warning from her husband, Daniel, a busy solicitor, to herself, fearing his pragmatic scoff. Yet the thought gnawed at her, growing into an obsession. No matter how much premium fertiliser she bought, no advice from seasoned allotment owners, the patch before the front door remained a lifeless slab, as if a tombstone had been laid there.
Eleanor truly loved gardening. Shed taken online courses, bought glossy magazines, and delighted in the scent of damp soil and the feel of fragile shoots. Shed even seen early success elsewhere, but this cursed spot resisted, as though an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she whispered, staring at the black blot on her otherwise immaculate front yard. If this ethereal guest really exists, perhaps even they cant help.
Days passed. Eleanor watched a detailed video by a veteran gardener, then set her phone aside. The night outside was heavy and starless. Daniel slept, snoring in rhythm with his business thoughts, while Eleanor lay awake, the ceiling fan whirring uselessly.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk wrap and slipping onto the balcony. The night air was cool and sweet. From the secondfloor height the dead patch was barely visible, hidden beneath the eaves and the shade of a large oak. Driven by a sudden impulse, she leaned over the cold railing, straining to see the darkness.
Under the sickleshaped moon, a figure moved across the dead ground. A man, his back to her, shuffled with a slow, laborious gait, as if wading through viscous air. He crouched, rose, dug his toecapped foot into the soil, and ran his pale, elongated fingers over it, searching.
Eleanors heart hammered, a cold dread flooding her veins. She stared, the details sharpening: his form was semitransparent, moonlight seeping through the thinness of his oldfashioned frock coat. His movements were unnaturally gliding, devoid of earthly gravity. He was unmistakably not alive.
A wave of panic threatened to topple her from the balcony, but the man turned, his face a smooth marble maskno expression, crisp moustache, a neatly combed side part, eyes void of colour.
Then, in a sudden, terrifying motion, both arms shot forward, reaching across the void as if to clutch her throat with icy fingers. Eleanor let out a strangled gasp, shoved herself back from the railing, and tumbled into the cold hallway of her cottage.
Finding the old woman proved oddly simple. Eleanor knew such a gaunt, haggard figure could not belong to their pristine gated estate. She guessed the woman lived beyond the old stone bridge, in the sleepy hamlet of Little Whimsey. A quick chat with the grandmothers perched on the wells bench confirmed the location.
She pulled up in her modest hatchback at a weatherworn cottage, its painted wooden panels peeling, the gate hanging on a single rusted hinge. Summoning courage, she called out:
Grandma! May I speak with you? Im Eleanor. You mentioned a visitor on my plot last week
The door creaked open, revealing the frail lady. She squinted at Eleanors floral dress and sleek shoes.
Jesus Christ dressed up for a parade again, she muttered, then softened. Come in, dear, just watch your heels on my floorboards. What do you need?
Eleanor stepped inside, a lump forming in her throat.
He he really comes. I saw him last night, shuffling where you said, she whispered, hands trembling. If youve dealt with folk like that before, perhaps you know how to send him away? Her manicured nails caught the dim light.
The old woman, Agnes, stared at the handful of crisp £20 notes Eleanor produced.
I dont know the price, Eleanor stammered, Im not greedy. If you need more, Ill fetch it from the ATM.
Agnes examined the money, then met Eleanors eyes with a softened gaze.
Enough, she said gently. Ill help. Sit, Ill make tea well, Im out of tea. The shops a mile away, and my bones cant manage.
Eleanor perched on a painted stool, taking in the modest interior: a single cracked window draped with threadbare curtains, a table with a missing leg, an empty sugar bowl, a barren breadbox. The house reeked of poverty.
Get a bottle from the fridge, Agnes called from another room. I have a herbal brew. Its bitter but strong.
Eleanor opened the rattling fridge. Besides a halflitre of murky liquid, there were three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a cracked butter dish. Her stomach tightened at the sight.
Found it, she heard Agnes say.
Agnes handed Eleanor a small bundle of newspaper tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, shallow, near the spades tip. In three days the visitor will be gone. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berriesnothing more than a good charm. Try the brew, too.
Eleanor took a sip of the bitter liquid, grimacing, then smiled faintly.
Its delicious, she said, handing back the bundle. Can I give you something in return? I bought a lot of groceries before we moved I could leave some for you.
Without waiting, she rushed out, returned a minute later with a bulging paper bag, and began unloading on the table, babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? My husband has a heart condition tea I always have green, not black sweets Im trying to lose weight, but theres chocolate everywhere biscuits? Theyre perfect with tea pastilles not my favourite meat my freezer is overflowing If its not too much, could I leave some for you? Grainsbrown rice, green groats Ive been on a healthy eating course since Daniels stomach troubles started
She placed the items carefully, eyes never meeting Agness. When at last she glanced up, she saw the old womans cheeks glisten with quiet tears, which Agnes dabbed with a handkerchief.
Thank you, love, Agnes whispered, voice like rustling leaves.
Thank you, Eleanor replied, shoulders relaxing. Ill keep working on the garden. May I visit again? Im curious about you.
She buried the bundle as instructed. The gaunt man never appeared again. Exactly a week later, the oncedead patch sprouted timid shootsdandelion fluff and thin grassbringing Eleanor to tears of joy, for the earth had finally breathed.
That same day, Agnes, leaning on a wooden cane, shuffled to an overgrown, nameless grave beside the village church. She paused before a weathered stone, where a faded photograph of a solemn man with bushy moustaches lay halfburied.
Thank you, Peter Whitmore, she murmured, kneeling to pull the dry grass away. You helped me, and Ill tend this place for you. Rest now.
Two weeks later Eleanor knocked on Agness door, the heavy bag at her side.
Grandma Agnes, its me, Eleanor. Im here as promised.
Agnes opened, a hint of colour returning to her cheeks.
Come in, dear. Has your night visitor finally gone?
Yes, thank you! Everythings thriving! Eleanor began, then blushed, gesturing to the bag. I also brought I used to study interior design, bought a lot of things that never fit our flatcurtains, towels, throws, china could I leave them for you? Theyd look lovely in your cottage.
Agnes sat, her arthritic hands resting on her lap.
Put them down, love, youve done enough, she said softly, voice weary. Youre a good girl, Ellie. Ive lied to you.
Eleanor froze, the colourful blanket in her arms.
What? I I was swimming this morning she stammered, touching her ear. My hearing must be off.
I did it myself, Agnes whispered, tears welling. I summoned that ghost to your plot. I called Peter Whitmores spirit to trample the soil, so the dead would stay there. I needed a few pennies, my pantry is empty, the winters harsh. I thought a little charity from a rich newcomer wouldnt hurt. I gave you the bundle as a cover, simple herbs, to calm you.
Guilt twisted Agness lined face. She fell silent, staring at the floor.
Eleanor stood, the roar of the world dimming around her. She saw the frail womans desperation, hunger, lonelinessno anger in her own heart, only a swelling compassion.
Slowly she knelt beside Agnes, cradling the old womans wrinkled hands with her own gentle ones.
I told you the water went in my ears, she said softly, tears streaming down her cheeks unbidden. I didnt hear a thing. Lets hang those curtains, lay the tableclothtogether well fix everything. Ill visit often, I promise.
The night outside pressed in, but inside the cottage, two women, one young and hopeful, the other weathered and remorseful, found a fragile peace amidst the lingering scent of herbal tea and the promise of new shoots breaking through oncedead earth.
