I was standing in the garden, clutching a pair of slender rakes, when my fingers involuntarily slackened in surprise. The wooden tool clattered onto the dry, cracked earth with a soft thud. I hadnt even managed a gasp before a voice, sharp as the creak of an old oak, cut through the silence behind me. It carried a stubborn certainty that sent a cold shiver up my spine.
Nothing will grow in that plot, love, because a dead man is paying you a visit, the stranger said, her tone fierce yet tinged with a hint of pity as she fixed her faded, allseeing eyes on Emily.
Emily turned slowly, almost mechanically, and finally laid eyes on the very patch of ground in front of her brandnew cottage. A strange, unnameable ache of longing clenched her heart. She had seen it every day, but only now did the horror of it sink in. Directly beside the neat, carved fence she was so proud of lay a dead, scorched swathe of soilno grass, no weeds, not a whisper of life.
Behind the house, her carefully tended beds burst with roses, geraniums reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a glossy green. The contrast was jarring, almost surreal. She tried everythingfertiliser, loosening, watering with tears that felt like desperationbut the earth stayed stubbornly barren.
Lost in her horticultural torment, Emily didnt notice the frail, bent figure that slipped up to the open gate.
You could have dressed up in a ballroom gown to dig in that black earth, the old woman murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips as she glanced at Emilys outfit: a bright pink top and matching cycling shorts made of hightech fabric.
Emily brushed a stray ginger strand from her forehead, a flush of embarrassment creeping across her face.
Its its just a gardening uniform, dear. Its breathable, technical, she stammered, voice thin. And the neighbours were in this new, tidy estate, everyone keeps their gardens immaculate No one lived here before, everythings from scratch
The old woman paid her no mind. She leaned on a makeshift staff, shuffled away slowly, and vanished into the summer dust beyond the turnoff. Emily stood alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic beat of her own heart.
How could this be? she thought, removing her gardening gloves and checking her immaculate manicure. Why is a ghost haunting 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 Cotswoldsshed finished a nailart course. Now my hands will always be perfect, she mused with a bitter smile, if only the garden could be as wellkept, without phantoms.
She told her husband, David, the everbusy businessman, nothing about the strange visitor. She feared his practical, sarcastic reaction. Yet the thought kept resurfacing, becoming an obsessive notion. No matter how expensive the compost, no advice from internet forums or seasoned neighbours, the plot in front of the house remained a desiccated slab, as lifeless as a tombstone.
Emily had thrown herself into gardening. Online courses, glossy magazines, the whole ritualshe loved the feel of soil, the scent of earth, the tender care of young shoots. Shed even seen progress elsewhere, but that cursed patch resisted, as if an invisible wall kept life at bay.
Perhaps Ill need to hire an expensive landscape designer and soil specialist, she sighed, staring at the black blemish through the kitchen window. Even if this ethereal guest is real, I doubt theyll be able to help.
Days passed. After watching yet another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, she set her phone aside. The night outside was deadquiet and starless. David was already snoring, his thoughts tangled in business, and she should have been asleep, but sleep eluded her.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding a silk blanket and moving to the glass doors that led onto the spacious balcony.
She slipped out into the cool night air. From the secondfloor height, the cursed plot was barely visible, obscured by the eaves and the shadow of a large oak. Driven by a sudden impulse, she crouched over the cold railing and peered into the darkness.
Under the pale light of a crooked, waning moon, a solitary figure moved across the dead earth. It was a man, his back turned to her, shuffling in an oddly slow, almost laboured gait. He crouched, rose again, poked the ground with the toe of an antiquated shoe, his long, pallid fingers probing as if searching for something.
Emilys heart stalled, then hammered so hard she felt a tremor through her teeth. She stared, trying to make out details, and realised something was terribly wrong. He was semitransparent; the moonlight filtered through his gaunt frame, revealing an oldfashioned frock coat. His movements were not simply slowthey were unnatural, as if devoid of earthly weight. He was no living man.
Panic surged, a black, sticky wave crashing over her, threatening to overwhelm her. She was about to tumble from the balcony onto the jagged stones below when the man turned.
His face was a blank, marblelike mask, devoid of expression, framed by a moustache reminiscent of a bygone era and neatly combed hair. His eyes were empty voids.
Then he thrust both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to seize her throat with icy fingers. Emily felt his grim visage drawing ever closer, filling the space. She let out a stifled gasp, pushed herself off the railing, and stumbled back into the house, landing on the cold floor of the bedroom.
Finding the old woman proved easier than expected. Emily knew such a figure could not belong in their pristine, newbuild estate. She guessed the womans home lay beyond the bridge, in an old, sleeping village. A quick chat with the local grandmothers on the wellused village bench confirmed the location.
She pulled her tidy hatchback up to a sagging, unpainted cottage with peeling wooden casings. The gate hung on a single rusted hinge, and Emily, wary, chose not to knock.
Grandma! she called, peering through the fence slats. Grandma Maggie? Im Emily. You told me last week about my plot about the visitor
The door creaked open, and there stood the very old woman. She squinted at the newcomer, taking in Emilys chiffon dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals.
Good heavens dressed up like its a parade, she muttered softly, eyes drifting over the outfit before waving Emily in. Come in, but mind the heels on my floorboards! What do you want?
Emily stepped inside, a lump forming in her throat.
He he really is there. I saw him last night, she whispered, voice shaking. If you deal with such things and arent frightened, perhaps youve faced him before. Do you know how to send him away?
Maggie nodded, her gaze flickering with something Emily could not read. You want me to send him off?
Emily only managed a helpless nod, then fumbled into her sleek leather handbag, pulling out a handful of crisp pound notes.
I dont know how much that costs. Im not greedy, truly! If you need more, Ill go to the cash machine and bring it. Just tell me what you need!
Maggie examined the money, then looked straight into Emilys eyes, softening.
Thatll do, she said gently. Ill help. Come, sit down. I cant offer teaI ran out yesterday, and the shop three miles off is a trek for an old lady.
Emily perched on a painted stool, eyeing the modest interior: a single, motheaten curtain over the lone window, a cracked table, a broken cabinet door, an empty sugar bowl, and a barren breadbox. The place was poor, empty, and achingly lonely.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Maggie called from another room. I have a homemade herbal tonic. Its a bit bitter but good for the strength.
Emily opened the rattling fridge. Her heart sank at the sight of a halflit bottle of cloudy liquid, three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a dented butter dish.
Good heavens, she thought, wincing. She lives in such poverty, and I arrived in a pricey car wearing a silk dress.
Maggies voice floated over. Found it?
Yes, Grandma Maggie, just a moment!
Maggie handed Emily a tightly rolled newspaper bundle tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, not deepjust a shovelful. In three days your guest will be gone for good. Its just herbs, dry twigs, forest berries all blessed. Hows the tonic?
Emily took a sip, the bitterness melting into a fragrant warmth.
Delicious, she said, smiling genuinely, then added, May I offer you something in return? I bought a lot on the way heretwoforone deals, you know. Perhaps you could use some.
She rushed out, returned minutes later with a massive paper sack, unloading it on the kitchen table while babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I get two? I always fry for David, his stomachs delicate Tea I meant black, but we always drink green Sweets I love them, but I need to lose weight, and theres chocolate at home Biscuits perfect with tea! Pastilles not my favourite. Meat oh my, the freezers bursting! Grains brown rice, green groats. After Davids health issues I took a nutrition course, now I only buy this sort of stuff
She arranged the items neatly, avoiding Maggies gaze. Fearful that the old woman would see it as charity, she remained silent. When she finally looked up, Maggies eyes glistened with quiet tears, which she brushed away with the corner of a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, Maggie whispered, voice as soft as rustling leaves.
Youre welcome, Emily sighed, shrugging. Ill get my plot sorted! If you dont mind, Ill drop by again. Im curious about you.
Emily buried the bundle exactly where instructed. The grim, moustachioed figure never appeared again. A week later, as Maggie had promised, tiny shootsdandelion and wild grasssprouted from the oncedead soil. Emily wept with joy; the earth had revived.
That same day Maggie, supporting herself on a walking stick, shuffled to an old, abandoned village graveyard. She walked a narrow path, nodding to unseen companions, greeting longforgotten friends. She stopped before an unmarked stone, its weathered surface bearing a faint photograph of a stern man with a moustache.
Thank you, Peter Stanhope, she murmured, kneeling, brushing away dry grass. You helped me, and Ill tend this place so its tidy. Rest now.
Two weeks later Emily knocked on Maggies familiar door. Hearing a croaky Come in! she entered, setting the heavy, overstuffed bag down.
Grandma Maggie, its Emily. Im here as promised.
Maggie greeted her, a little fresher in appearance. Well, has your nightly visitor finally left?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Emily began, then blushed and pointed to the sack. I brought a few things I used to study interior design, but it never clicked. I ended up buying a lot of stuffcurtains that didnt suit our windows, plush towels, warm throws, nice crockery Could I give you some? Your cottage is so charming, proper countrystyle. These blueflowered plates would fit right in! Maybe I could show you a tablecloth?
She hurriedly unpacked, describing each item, hoping Maggie wouldnt read the gesture as pity.
Maggie watched, her face growing sadder, then she sank onto a stool, her arthritic hands trembling.
Put it down, love. Enough, she said softly, voice weary. Youre a good girl, Emily. Kindhearted. I Ive lied to you.
Emily froze, a colourful blanket clutched in her hands.
What? she whispered, touching her ear. I was swimming this morning maybe I heard wrong.
Im the one who lied, Maggie replied, voice cracking. I summoned that dead man to your plot. I called him over on purpose.
Regret and shame twisted Maggies lined face. Im terribly sorry, dear. I never meant to bring trouble. I thought a little coin might help an old woman survivefood, warmth. I asked Peter Stanhopes spirit to cling to the ground so it wouldnt birth life, hoping to keep my own place tidy. I gave you those herbs as a cover, just to calm you. I never imagined youd be so sincere.
Emily stood, the noise in her ears like a roar. She looked at the hunchbacked old woman, at the poverty, at the desperate cleverness born of hunger and loneliness. No anger rose, only a deep, allconsuming pity.
She knelt, cradling Maggies frail, knotted hands with her own gentle ones.
I told you, Grandma water got into my ears, Emily said softly, tears spilling unchecked. I didnt understand. Shall we hang those curtains? Lay a tablecloth? Well manage everything together. Ill visit you often, very often.
