Eleanor froze, the slender garden fork trembling in her hand, her fingers involuntarily unclenching. The wooden tool thudded against the cracked, parched earth. Before she could gasp, a voice snapped from behind hersharp as the creak of an old oak, yet dripping with an unshakable certainty that sent a cold shiver up Eleanors spine.
Your garden wont grow, love, because a dead man visits you, the strange old woman intoned, her eyesfaded by time yet unnervingly sharppinning Eleanor with a mixture of menace and pity. Cant see him? Look closer, dear, watch carefully.
Eleanor turned slowly, mechanically, and finally laid eyes on the very patch of soil in front of her newly acquired, proudly presented cottage. A pang of inexplicable melancholy clenched her heart. She had seen it every day, but now the horror of it struck her full force. Directly beside the tidy, carved fence shed boasted about lay a dead, burnt-out strip of earthno grass, no weeds, no hint of life.
Behind the house, her painstakingly tended flower beds burst with roses, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a healthy green. The contrast was grotesque, almost supernatural. She tried everythingfertiliser, loosening the soil, watering with tears that felt like desperationbut the barren strip remained stubbornly lifeless.
Absorbed in her horticultural torment, she didnt notice the hunched, gaunt stranger slipping up to the ajar gate.
You could wear a ballroom gown and still be digging in that black earth, the old woman murmured, a faint, almost mocking smile playing on her lips as she took in Eleanors outfit: an expensive, perfectly fitted pink top and matching hightech bike shorts.
Instinctively, Eleanor brushed a wayward ginger strand from her forehead, a blush creeping over her cheeks.
Its its a specialised gardening uniform, maam. Breathable, hightech fabric she stammered, voice barely audible. And the neighbours this new, posh development prides itself on immaculate lawns, immaculate houses No one lived here before, everythings brandnew
The old woman paid her no heed. Leaning on a makeshift staff, she shuffled away, disappearing into the summer dust beyond the road bend. Eleanor stood alone, the deafening silence of her own racing heart the only sound.
How could this be? she thought frantically, pulling off her gardening gloves and checking her flawless manicure. Why would a dead man haunt my bright new home? Who is he? What does he want?
She was grateful shed finished a nailart course before the moveNow my hands will stay perfect, even if the garden doesnt, she mused with bitter irony. If only the soil would behave as well as my manicure.
She kept the strange encounter from her husband, David, fearing his pragmatic sarcasm. Yet the image of the old woman and the cursed patch relooped in her mind, a relentless obsession. No matter how much premium fertiliser she bought, no internet tip or seasoned neighbours advice helped. The plot before the front door stayed as lifeless as a tombstone slab.
Eleanor loved gardening with a sincere, wholehearted passion. Shed taken online courses, filled her shelves with glossy magazines, and taken pride in feeling the earth, inhaling its scent, nurturing fragile shoots. Shed even seen promising results elsewhere, but this damned strip resisted, as if an unseen wall sealed it from all life.
It looks like Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she whispered, staring at the black blot on the garden wall. If this phantom visitor is real, even a pro might not help.
Days slipped by. Eleanor watched another detailed video from a seasoned horticulturist, the night outside a starless, oppressive hush. David snored soundlessly, lost in his business thoughts, while sleep eluded her.
Stifling cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk robe and slipping onto the balcony. The night air was crisp and sweet. From her secondfloor perch, the cursed patch was barely visible, hidden by the eaves and the shadow of a great oak. Driven by a sudden impulse, she leaned over the cold railing, straining to see the darkness where the dead earth lay.
She saw it.
Under the thin, crooked moon, a gaunt figure prowled the dead ground. A man, back turned to her, moved with a slow, halting gait as if wading through thick fog. He crouched, rose, dug at the soil with the toe of an ancient, cracked shoe, his long, pale fingers brushing the earth, searching for something unseen.
Eleanors heart stopped, then hammered violently, shaking her whole being. The longer she watched, the clearer it becamesomething was wrong. He was semitransparent; the moonlight filtered through his frail silhouette, his threadbare jacket clinging to a body that seemed to lack earthly weight. He was not alive.
Panic surged, a black wave threatening to drown her. She almost slipped from the balcony onto the jagged stones below, when the man turned.
His face was a mask of marble, expressionless, with a moustache reminiscent of a bygone era and neatly parted hair. His eyes were voids, dark and endless.
Then, without warning, he thrust both hands forward, as if trying to bridge the distance, to seize her throat with icy fingers. His ghastly visage grew larger, filling the space, until Eleanor, a muffled sob escaping her lips, forced herself back from the railing and tumbled into the bedroom, landing hard on the cold floor.
Finding the old woman proved astonishingly simple. Eleanor knew such a figure could not belong to their pristine newbuild estate. She guessed the woman lived beyond the creek, in a sleepy hamlet. A quick chat with the elderly ladies on the village bench near the well confirmed it.
She parked her tidy city hatchback in front of a dilapidated, unpainted cottage with flaking, carved trim. The gate hung on a single rusty hinge, barely holding together, so she hesitated to knock.
Granny! she called, peering through a slat in the fence. Grandma Maggie? Im Eleanor. You spoke to me last week about the patch the visitor
The door creaked open, revealing the very old woman. She squinted at the newcomer.
Lord Almighty dressed up like youre going to a parade, she whispered, eyeing Eleanors chiffon dresstunic and elegant heeled sandals, then waved a hand in resignation. Come in, then. Mind the floorboardsdont break your heels. What do you want?
Eleanor stepped over the threshold, a lump forming in her throat.
He he really shows up. Stomps 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? Her manicured nails glinted in the dim light.
Maggie nodded slowly, a complex thought flickering behind her eyes. You want me to send him off?
Eleanor nodded helplessly, then fumbled into her sleek leather bag, pulling out several crisp £20 notes.
I dont know how much it costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, Ill run to the ATM, bring it backjust tell me the price!
Maggie examined the money, then met Eleanors gaze, her expression softening.
Thatll do, she said gently. Ill help. Sit down, Ill I cant offer tea, ran out yesterday, and the shop three miles away is a trek for my old bones.
Eleanor perched on a painted stool, eyeing the modest interior: a single, patched-up lace curtain, a cracked tea table, a missing cabinet door exposing emptiness, an empty sugar bowl, a barren breadbasket. The place was poor, silent, lonely.
Fetch a bottle from the fridge, Maggie called from the adjoining room. Ive brewed a herbal tonic. Bitter, but it gives strength.
Eleanor opened the rattling fridge. Her heart sank further. Inside lay a halflit bottle of cloudy liquid, three eggs, a halffilled jar of sauerkraut, and a cracked butter dish.
Good heavens she thought, a sharp pain stabbing her. She lives in such squalor, and I arrived in a pricey car, in a silk dress.
Maggies voice echoed, Found it?
Yes, Grandma Maggie, on my way!
Maggie shuffled over, handing Eleanor a tightly wrapped bundle of plain newspaper tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, shallow, at the trowels tip. In three days your visitor will be gone, never to return. Its just herbs, dried twigs, forest berries all blessed. Hows the brew?
Eleanor took a sip of the bitter, fragrant liquid.
Delicious, she said, smiling genuinely, clutching the bundle. May I offer you something in return? I bought too many specials before I movedtwoforone deals, you know. Maybe youd like some?
Before Maggie could answer, Eleanor rushed out, returning a minute later with a massive paper sack, dumping its contents onto the kitchen table while babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always fry for David, his stomachs delicate Tea I always drink green, not black Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, yet the house is full of chocolate Biscuits, perfect with tea! Fruit pastilles not my favourite Meat how much did I get? The freezers bursting! Could I leave this for you? Grains brown rice, green buckwheat. After Davids health issues, I took nutrition courses, now I only buy the good stuff
She arranged the items carefully, avoiding Maggies eyes. Fearful that the old woman would see the gesture as charity, she kept her gaze low.
Finally, Maggies thin cheeks glistened with quiet tears, which she dabbed with a handkerchief.
Thank you, dear, she whispered, voice like rustling leaves.
Youre welcome, Eleanor sighed, shoulders relaxing. Ill keep working on the garden! And may I visit again? Im curious about you.
She buried the bundle where Maggie instructed. The grimy man with the moustache never appeared again. Exactly a week later, as Maggie had promised, tentative shootsdandelions and wild grasspierced the oncedead soil. Eleanor wept with joy; the earth had revived.
That same day, Maggie, leaning on a cane, shuffled to an abandoned village graveyard, nodding to invisible acquaintances. She stopped before an unmarked, weathered stone. Upon closer look, a faded photograph was tucked into the cracked slab, showing a stern man with flourishing moustaches.
Thank you, Arthur Bennet, she murmured, kneeling to pull weeds around the grave. You helped me, and Ill help you. Keep it tidy, beautiful Rest now.
Two weeks later, Eleanor knocked on Maggies familiar door and, hearing a croaky Come in!, placed her heavy, stuffed bag at the threshold.
Grandma Maggie, its me, Eleanor! Im here, as promised.
Hello, love, Maggie replied, looking a touch fresher. So, has your nocturnal guest finally left?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Eleanor began, then blushed, gesturing to the bag. I brought I used to study interior design, bought loads of stuff that never fit our flatcurtains, fluffy towels, warm throws, dishes All new, all unused. Could I give you some? Your cottage could use those blueflowered plates, the pretty tablecloth
She frantically unpacked, displaying each item, hoping Maggie wouldnt see it as pity.
Maggie watched, her face growing sadder, then she sank onto a stool, her arthritic hands trembling.
Enough, dear, she said softly, voice weary. Youre a good girl, Eleanor. Ive lied to you.
Eleanor froze, clutching a colourful blanket.
What? I I was just swimming this morning, the water I must have heard wrong, she stammered, touching her ear.
Im the one who lied, Maggie whispered, tears breaking free. I brought that dead man to your plot. I called him to you, deliberately.
Guilt twisted Maggies lined face. Im sorry, youre earnest and kind, and I I needed money. Im old, hungry, cold. I thought if someone rich gave a few pounds, I could survive. I asked PeterArthurwho lies in that grave to haunt your garden, so the earth stays barren. I gave you that bundle of herbs as a cover, just to calm you. Forgive me, Eleanor. I never expected you to be so
Eleanor stood silent, the clamor in her ears fading. She looked at Maggies hunched form, at the poverty, at the desperate deceit born of hunger and solitude. No anger rose, only a deep, allconsuming pity.
She crouched, gently cradling Maggies frail, scarred hands with her own soft ones.
I thought you said water got in my ears, she murmured, tears streaming down her cheeks, I didnt understand. Lets hang those curtains, lay that tablecloth, shall we? Well manage everything together. Ill visit often, really often.
The ghost of the garden was gone, the soil breathing once more, and Eleanor left the cottage with a promise, the night air humming with the soft sigh of redemption.
