Eleanor froze, the tiny, elegant garden rake clutched in her hands, her fingers involuntarily opening in shock. The wooden tool thudded softly onto the dry, cracked earth. Before she could even gasp, a voice sliced through the air behind hersharp as the groan of an old oak, yet brimming with an unshakable certainty that sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Nothing will grow in your garden, love, because a dead man visits you at night. Cant see him? Look closer, dear, pay attention, intoned a stranger, an old woman whose eyes, faded by time yet unnervingly perceptive, bore into Eleanor with a mix of menace and a hint of pity.
Eleanor turned slowly, almost mechanically, and finally saw the patch of soil in front of her newly bought, muchdesired cottage. A strange, inexplicable melancholy clenched her heart. She had walked past it every day, but now the horror of its emptiness struck her full force. Directly in front of the tidy, handcarved fence she had prided herself on lay a lifeless, burntover clod of earthno grass, no seedlings, no whisper of life.
Behind the house, in the beds she had painstakingly tended, roses burst into colour, marigolds stretched toward the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a healthy green. The contrast was grotesque, almost supernatural. She tried to revive the cursed groundfertilising, loosening, watering it with tears of neardespairbut nothing budged.
Lost in her horticultural torment, Eleanor did not notice the frail, bent figure slipping up to the wide open gate.
Youd better wear an evening ball gown to dig in that black dirt, dear, the old lady murmured with a barely concealed sneer, eyeing Eleanors outfit: a costly, perfectly fitted pink top and matching hightech cycling leggings.
Instinctively, Eleanor brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a faint flush creeping across her cheeks.
Its its a specialised gardening uniform, grandmother. Its breathable, hightech she stammered, voice faltering. And the neighbours this is a new, upscale development, everyone keeps their gardens immaculate clean, tidy No one lived here before, its all brand new
The old woman ignored her, leaned on a makeshift, stafflike cane and drifted away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the road bend. Eleanor stood alone, the ringing silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought feverishly, peeling off her gardening gloves and mechanically checking her flawless manicure. Why does a dead man haunt my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
She was grateful that, before the movea nearescape from the clamor of London to the quiet of the Cotswoldsshe had completed a manicure course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused with bitter irony. If only my garden could be as tidy, with no spectres.
She kept the strange encounter from her husband, David, fearing his practical, rational scoff. Yet the memory kept looping, an intrusive thought. No matter how expensive the fertilisers, no advice from the internet or seasoned allotment neighbours, the patch in front of the house remained a barren slab, like the stone of a tomb.
Eleanor loved gardening with all her soul. She had taken online courses, bought glossy magazines, and delighted in the scent of soil, the feel of seedlings. She had already seen modest success elsewhere, but that cursed spot resisted, as if an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Ill have to hire an expensive landscape designer, she whispered to the empty window, staring at the black blotch of her shame. If we truly have such an ethereal visitor, perhaps even they cant help.
Days slipped by. Eleanor, after watching another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, set her phone aside. The night outside was mute and starless. David slept, snoring in rhythm with his business thoughts, and Eleanor should have been asleep too, but sleep eluded her.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk blanket and stepping to the glass door that led onto the spacious balcony.
She opened it quietly, stepping out under a cool night sky. The air was fresh and sweet. From the secondfloor height the cursed patch was barely visible, hidden by the eaves and the shadow of a large oak. Driven by a sudden impulse, she leaned over the cold balustrade, peering into the darkness where the barren soil lay.
There, under the stark light of a crooked, waning moon, a figure moved across the dead ground. A man, his back to her, trudged with strange, slow steps, as if fighting an unseen resistance. He shuffled, crouched, rose, poked the earth with the toe of an old, cracked shoe, his long pale fingers probing the soil.
Eleanors heart froze, then hammered so hard it seemed to shake her bones. She stared into the gloom, and the longer she watched the clearer it becamesomething was wrong. He was semitransparent, the moonlight barely penetrating his gaunt form, clad in a dated waistcoat. His movements were not merely slow; they were unnaturally detached from gravity, a clear sign he was no longer alive.
Panic seized her, a black, sticky wave threatening to drown her consciousness. She felt herself teetering on the balconys edge when the man finally turned.
His face was a blank mask of marble, devoid of expression, adorned with eraspecific moustaches and neatly combed hair in a straight part. His eyes were voids, endless darkness.
Then, in a sudden, terrifying motion, he thrust both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the gap, to seize her throat with icy fingers. Eleanor felt his grim visage closing in, filling the space. She let out a strangled gasp and, with her last strength, pushed away from the balustrade, stumbling backward into the bedroom, landing on the cold floor.
Finding the old woman proved oddly simple. Eleanor was convinced such a person could not live in their pristine, newly built culdesac. She guessed the woman must dwell beyond the old stone bridge, in a sleepy hamlet. A quick chat with the local grandmothers on the wellused bench by the village well confirmed this.
She parked her tidy city hatchback beside a crumbling, unpainted cottage with peeling wooden casings. The gate hung on a single rusty hinge, as if held together by a promise, so she hesitated to knock.
Grandma! she called, peering timidly through the slats. Grandma Agnes? Im Eleanor. You mentioned last week about my garden about the visitor
The cottage door creaked open, and the very old woman stepped onto the threshold, squinting at her guest.
Lord Almighty dressed up again like for a parade, she whispered, eyeing Eleanors chiffonlike dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals. She waved a hand, conceding. Come in, then. Just watch your heels on my floorboards! What do you want?
Eleanor crossed the threshold and felt a lump rise in her throat.
He he really comes. Stomps where you said. I saw him last night Her voice trembled. I thought if you see these things and arent frightened, you must have dealt with them before. Perhaps you know how to drive him away? Her manicured nails glittered in the dim light.
Thought so, dear, Agnes nodded, a complex look flashing in her eyes that Eleanor could not read. You want me to chase him off?
Eleanor nodded helplessly, then, feverishly, opened her sleek leather handbag and produced several crisp £20 notes.
I dont know how much it usually costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need moreIll run to the ATM, bring it! Whatever you ask!
Agnes studied the money, then met Eleanors gaze. Her expression softened.
Thatll do, she murmured softly. Ill help. Sit down, Ill I cant offer tea, Im out. The shop three miles off is empty now, my old bones cant manage.
Eleanor perched on a painted stool, eyes sliding over the modest interior: a single cracked window with a threadbare lace curtain, a table without a runner, deep fissures in the oncevarnished surface, a broken cabinet door revealing emptiness, an empty sugar bowl, a barren breadbasket. Poverty, solitude, starkness.
Bring a bottle from the fridge, will you? Agnes called from the next room. Its my own herbal brew. Bitter, but it gives strength.
Eleanor opened the rattling fridge. Apart from a halflit bottle of cloudy liquid, there lay three eggs, a threelitre jar of sauerkraut, and an empty, battered butter dish.
Good heavens she thought, pain stabbing her. She lives in such want, and I arrived in a pricey car in a silk dress.
A voice from the kitchen asked, Found it?
Yes, Grandma Agnes, on my way! Eleanor shouted, hurrying back.
Agnes handed her a tightly wound bundle of plain newspaper, tied with a twine.
Bury this on your plot, not deep, just with the tines of your spade. In three days your guest will be gone and never return. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berries all spoken for good. Hows the brew?
Eleanor took a sip of the bitter but fragrant liquid.
Its wonderful, she smiled, clutching the bundle. May I may I offer you something in return? I bought a lot before I camecurtains that didnt fit, fluffy towels, warm throws, dishes all new, still unused. Could I leave them with you? Theyd suit your cosy country home perfectly.
Without waiting for a reply, Eleanor dashed out, returned a minute later with a massive paper bag, dumping its contents onto the table while babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always fry for David, his stomach tea black, though we usually drink green sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, and theres chocolate everywhere biscuits? Perfect with tea! Fruit leather not my favourite. Meat how much did I get? The freezers bursting! Could you accept this? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat. Since Davids health issues, Ive been on proper diet courses, so I only buy this stuff now
She arranged the groceries carefully, avoiding the old womans eyes. She feared Agnes would see it as charity, as a charityhandout, and take offense.
At last she dared a glance and saw quiet tears slipping down Agness cheeks. The old woman dabbed them with the edge of a handkerchief.
Thank you, my dear, she whispered, voice as soft as rustling leaves.
Youre welcome, Eleanor exhaled, shrugging, pretending not to notice. Ill keep working on the garden! If you dont mind, Ill drop by again? Im curious about you.
She buried the bundle exactly where Agnes had instructed. The grim spectre never returned. A week later, as Agnes had promised, tiny shootsdandelion fluff and stubborn weedspierced the oncedead soil. Eleanor wept with joy; the earth had revived.
That same day, Agnes, leaning on a staff, shuffled to an ancient, overgrown village graveyard. She walked the narrow path, nodding at unseen companions, greeting old acquaintances. Stopping before an unmarked stone, she noticed a faded photograph tucked into the cracked surface: a stern man with grand moustaches.
Thank you, Peter Stokes, she murmured, kneeling to pull the dry grass away. You helped me, and Ill help you. Let this be tidy let you rest in peace. Thank you.
Two weeks later Eleanor knocked once more on the familiar door, hearing a croaky Come in! from inside. She placed the heavy, overstuffed bag at the threshold.
Grandma Agnes, its me, Eleanor! Hello! Im here as promised.
Hello, hello, Agnes answered, looking a touch fresher. Did your night visitor finally go?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Eleanor began, then blushed, pointing at the bag. I also brought I used to study interior design, but it didnt suit me. Ive bought a lot of thingsthese curtains, towels, throws, dishes all new, could I give them to you? Theyd fit your cosy cottage perfectly. Want me to show the tablecloth? You can arrange it as you like
She again ranted through the bag, showing each item, hoping Agnes wouldnt see desperation in the gesture.
Agnes watched the excited woman, her face growing sadder and more solemn. Finally she sank onto a stool, her arthritic hands trembling.
Put it down, love. Thats enough, she said quietly, voice weary and guilty. Youre a good girl, Emily. Kindhearted. Ive deceived you.
Emily froze, blanket in hand.
What? I I was swimming in the pool this morning, she stammered, touching her ear. Must have misheard.
Im saying Ive deceived you, Agnes repeated, voice cracking. It was I who invited that dead man onto your plot. I called him over, on purpose.
Shame and guilt twisted the old womans crinkled face. She seemed ready for a blow.
Im so sorry, you fool. You came with an open heart, and I I led you here. Sometimes the dead ask for remembrance, a word to the living, a tidy grave. Then your new houses rose, rich and bright. I thought a tiny donation would help me surviveold and hungry, cold No one gives out money for free. Only for help.
What do I do? See what others cant? Agnes continued. I asked a good man, Peter Stokes, buried there, to haunt you, to keep the soil dead. I now tend his grave as thanks. He never would have harmed you or David; he was a quiet soul. The bundle I gave you was just ordinary herbs, a simple diversion, so youd feel safe and hed leave. Forgive me, Emily, forgive me. I never imagined youd be
Her voice broke, and she fell silent, staring at the floor.
Eleanor stood motionless, the ringing in her ears loud as a drum. She looked at the bent old woman, at the poverty, at the desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger rose in heronly a deep, allconsuming pity.
She knelt slowly beside Agnes, gently covering the old womans frail, veined hands with her own soft, manicured ones.
I told you, Grandma water got in my ear, she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks unbidden. I didnt hear. Lets hang those curtains, lay the tablecloth, shall we? Well manage everything. Ill visit you often. Very often.
