Emily Clarke froze, the delicate rake clutched in her hands, and her fingers unwound as if by their own will. The wooden tool thudded softly onto the dry, cracked earth. Before she could gasp, a voice behind her cut through the air, sharp as the creak of an ancient oak. It carried a certainty that sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Nothing will grow in your garden, dear, because a dead man visits you at night. Cant see him? Look closer, love, the strange old woman said, her eyesfaded yet unnervingly perceptiveglinting with a mix of menace and pity as she stared at Emily.
Emily turned slowly, almost mechanically, finally taking in the patch of soil in front of her brandnew, muchdesired cottage. A pang of inexplicable melancholy tightened around her heart. She had passed this spot every day, but only now did its horror sink in. Directly beside the tidy picket fence she had proudly built lay a dead, scorched swathe of ground.
No grass, no weeds, no hint of life. Behind the house, in the beds she had tended with such care, roses burst into colour, marigolds chased the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a glossy green. The contrast was jarring, almost surreal. She tried to revive the barren stripfertilising, loosening, watering it with tears that felt like desperationbut nothing changed.
Lost in her horticultural anguish, she didnt notice the frail, bent figure that slipped through the open gate.
The evening dress would suit you better, so you could dig in that bleak soil looking all fancy, the old woman murmured, eyeing Emilys outfit: a sleek pink top and matching techfabric leggings.
Emily brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.
It’s its just a gardening uniform, dear. Breathable, hightech, she stammered, voice weak. And the neighbours this new, tidy estate, everyone keeps their gardens immaculate No one lived here before, everything started from scratch
The old woman didnt listen. She leaned on a makeshift staff, shuffled away, and melted into the summer dust beyond the bend of the lane. Emily stood alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought, removing 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 moveher escape from the bustle of London to the quiet of a Kentish suburbshe had completed a manicure course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused bitterly, if only my garden could be the samegrowing, blooming, never haunted.
She told nothing of the strange visitor to her husband, David Clarke, fearing his practical, rational sarcasm. Yet the image of that conversation kept looping in her mind, becoming an obsessive thought. No matter how expensive the fertiliser, no advice from gardening forums or seasoned neighbours, the patch in front of the house remained a desiccated slab, like the stone of a tomb.
Emily loved gardening with all her heart. She had taken online courses, bought glossy magazines, and relished the feel of soil, the scent of earth, the tender shoots. Her efforts had borne fruit elsewhere, but that cursed strip refused to yield, as if an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Looks like Ill have to hire an expensive landscape designer, she sighed, gazing out the window at the black blemish on her pride. If this ghost truly visits, even the experts might be powerless.
A few days later, after watching yet another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, Emily set her phone aside. Outside, the night was bleak and starless. David was already snoring, his business thoughts drifting in his sleep, and Emily knew she should be asleep too, but sleep eluded her.
Its stifling I cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk blanket and moving toward the glass French doors that opened onto a spacious balcony.
She stepped out into the cool night air, the sky crisp and sweet. From her secondfloor perch, the cursed plot was barely visible, hidden by the overhang of the roof and the shadow of a large oak. Compelled by a sudden impulse, Emily leaned over the rail and peered into the darkness where the lifeless soil lay.
Under the sharp, crooked light of a waning moon, a lone figure shuffled across the barren ground. He was a man, back turned to her, moving with a slow, hesitant gait as if wading through thick air. He crouched, rose, and dug his fingeran old, cracked shoeinto the earth, his pale hand searching.
Emilys heart froze, then hammered so hard she felt a tremor run through her. She stared into the gloom, and the longer she watched, the clearer it became: the man was translucent, the moonlight seeping through his gaunt form, his antiquated coat hanging on a skeletal frame. His movements were unnaturally sluggish, devoid of earthly gravity. He was not alive.
Panic surged, a black wave threatening to drown her. She felt herself teetering on the balconys edge when the figure finally turned.
His face was a blank mask of marble, moustache and hair slicked back in an oldfashioned style, eyes void and dark.
Without a word, the spectre thrust his arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance and seize her throat with icy fingers. Emily sensed his cold, deathly visage drawing nearer, filling the space. She let out a stifled gasp, pushed herself back from the rail, and stumbled into the bedroom, landing hard on the cold floor.
Finding the old woman turned out to be surprisingly easy. Emily knew such a wizened stranger could not belong in their pristine new culdesac; she must live somewhere beyond the modern housing, perhaps in an ageing village. A quick chat with the local grandmothers on the welltrotted bench by the village pump confirmed this.
She parked her tidy city hatchback outside a dilapidated cottage with peeling paint and sagging wooden shutters. The gate hung on a single rusted hinge, barely holding together, so Emily hesitated before knocking.
Grandma! she called softly, peering through the slatted fence. Grandma Margaret? Im Emily Clarke. You mentioned my garden that guest last week.
The cottage door creaked open, and the very old woman stepped onto the porch, squinting at the newcomer.
Lord Almighty dressed up again for a parade, she muttered, eyeing Emilys chiffon dresstunic and elegant heels. Come in, then, but mind your heels on my floorboards! What do you want?
Emily crossed the threshold, a lump forming in her throat.
He he really comes. He trudges where you said. I saw him last night Her voice trembled. If youve seen such things and arent frightened, perhaps youve dealt with them before. Do you know how to drive him away?
The old woman, Margaret Whitfield, stared at the money Emily fumbled from her leather purseseveral crisp £20 notes.
I dont know the price, Emily whispered, Im not greedy. If you need more, Ill fetch it from the ATM. Tell me what you want.
Margaret examined the cash, then softened her gaze.
Enough, she said gently. Ill help. Sit, please. She paused, embarrassed. I cant offer tea; Im out of it, and the shop three miles away is a trek for my aching bones.
Emily perched on a painted stool, taking in the modest interior: a single cracked curtain, an old lace tablecloth, a battered cupboard with a missing door, an empty sugar bowl, and a barren breadbasket. The place was poor, lonely, and utterly bare.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Margaret called from the next room. I have a herbal brewbitter but good for strength.
Emily opened the ancient, rattling fridge. Besides a halflit bottle of murky liquid, there lay three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a dented butter dish. Her heart sank.
Good heavens, she thought, she lives in such poverty while I arrived in a sleek car and a silk dress.
Found it? Margarets voice echoed.
Yes, Grandma Margaret, just a moment!
Margaret handed Emily a tightly bound bundle of old newspaper, tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, not deepjust a spadelength. In three days your visitor will leave and never return. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berries all blessed for good. And the brew?
Emily tasted the bitter, fragrant liquid.
Its delicious, she smiled, taking the bundle. Thank you. May I give you something in return? I bought a lot of things before I moved perhaps youd like some?
Without waiting for a reply, Emily rushed out, returned a minute later with a heavy paper bag, and began unloading its contents onto the kitchen table, babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always fry for David, his stomach Tea I always drink green, not black Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, yet theres chocolate everywhere Cookies? They go well with tea! Pastilles Im not too keen on them. Meat oh my, how much did I get? The freezer is bursting! Will you mind if I leave these? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat. After Davids stomach troubles I took a nutrition course, so I only buy healthy stuff
She arranged the groceries neatly, avoiding eye contact with Margaret. The old womans eyes welled with quiet tears, which she wiped with the corner of a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, Margaret whispered, her voice like rustling leaves.
Thank you, Emily sighed, wiping her own tears. Ill keep working on my garden. Perhaps Ill visit again?
She buried the bundle exactly where Margaret instructed. The ghostly figure never appeared again. A week later, as promised, tiny shootsa stubborn dandelion and some grasspierced the oncedead soil. Emily wept with joy; the earth had revived.
That same day Margaret, supported by a cane, shuffled to an overgrown village graveyard. She walked a narrow path, nodding to unseen companions, finally stopping before an unmarked stone. On the weathered slab a faded photograph showed a sternlooking man with a full moustache.
Thank you, Thomas Pemberton, she murmured, kneeling and pulling away dry weeds. You helped me, and Ill tend this place so its tidy. Rest now.
Two weeks later, Emily knocked on Margarets door once more, a heavy, packed bag at her side.
Grandma Margaret, its Emily! Im here as I promised.
Come in, love, Margaret replied, looking a little fresher. Did your night visitor finally leave?
Yes, thank you! Everything is growing! Emily began, then blushed and gestured to the bag. I brought a lot of things I used to study interior design, bought countless items that never fit our flatcurtains, towels, blankets, dishes. Theyre all brand new, just sitting unused. Could I give them to you? Theyd suit your cosy cottage perfectly.
She unpacked the bag, showing each item, hoping Margaret wouldnt think she was being condescending.
Margaret finally sat, her arthritic hands trembling.
Put it down, dear. Thats enough, she said softly, her voice tired and apologetic. Youre a good girl, Emily. I was dishonest with you.
Emily froze, a colourful quilt in her arms.
What? she whispered, touching her ear. I was just swimming this morning, maybe thats why I heard wrong
Im the one who lied, Margaret confessed, her voice cracking. I summoned that dead man to your plot. I needed a bit of money, and I thought if a rich family like yours helped me, I could survive. I asked Thomas Pembertons spirit to haunt you, hoping his presence would keep the soil barren so I could keep feeding him I gave you the bundle as a cover, just ordinary herbs. Im sorry, Emily. I never meant to hurt you.
Emily stood still, the room humming with a sudden silence. She looked at the hunched old woman, at the poverty that had driven such desperate trickery, and felt no angeronly a deep, overwhelming compassion.
She knelt beside Margaret, gently placing her own soft hands over the old womans trembling ones.
I understand, Grandma, she said quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks. We all try to survive. Lets fix this together, alright? Ill come often, and well tend both the garden and this little grave.
The following week, as Margaret had promised, the dead patch sprouted shy weeds and bright dandelion fluff. Emily wept with relief; the earth was alive again.
Later, Margaret returned to the neglected grave, whispered a thanks to Thomass spirit, and left the stone tidy. Emily visited her regularly, bringing fresh flowers and, occasionally, a bit of houseware, never as charity but as shared community.
Through the ordeal Emily learned that grief and desperation can lead even the kindest souls to dark deeds, yet forgiveness and honest help can heal both garden and heart. In the end, the lesson grew clear: nurturing the soil, like caring for people, requires patience, humility, and the willingness to see beyond appearances, for only then does true growthof plants and of soulsflourish.
