Poppy froze, a tiny, dainty rake clutched in her hands, and her fingers involuntarily relaxed at the shock. The wooden tool thumped softly onto the dry, cracked earth. She hadnt even managed a gasp when a voice, sudden and sharp as a creaking floorboard, sounded behind her. It rasped like old timber but carried a certainty that sent a chill up Poppys spine.
Nothing will grow in your garden, love, because a dead fellow has taken up residence. Cant see him? Look closer, dear, pay attention, intoned a strange old woman, fierce yet with a flicker of pity, her timeworn eyes glinting like polished brass.
Poppy turned slowly, almost robotically, and finally truly saw the plot of land in front of her brandnew cottage. A strange, inexplicable melancholy clenched her heart. She had stared at it every day, but only now did the horror sink in. Right beside the neat, carved fence shed bragged about lay a dead, scorched patch of soil.
No grass, no weeds, no hint of life. Meanwhile, behind the house, her painstakingly tended beds burst with roses, marigolds reached for the sun, and blackcurrant bushes turned a healthy green. The contrast was jarring, almost grotesque. She tried to revive the earthfertilised, loosened, watered with tears that bordered on desperationbut nothing budged.
Lost in her horticultural misery, Poppy didnt notice the hunched, gaunt stranger slipping up to the wideopen gate.
You could be wearing an evening ball dress, digging in that black soil with such elegance, the old woman remarked with a barely concealed smirk, eyeing Poppys outfit: a pricey, perfectly fitted pink top and matching leggings of some hightech fabric.
Instinctively, Poppy brushed a stray ginger lock from her forehead, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks.
Its its just my gardening uniform, maam. Breathable, hightech she stammered, voice thin. And the neighbours this is a new, tidy development, everyone keeps everything immaculate Nobody lived here before, its all from scratch
The old woman didnt wait for more. She turned, leaning on a makeshift staff, and shuffled away, melting into the summer dust beyond the road bend. Poppy was left standing alone, the silence ringing in her ears, broken only by the frantic thump of her own heart.
How on earth? she thought, peeling off her garden gloves and absentmindedly checking her flawless manicure. Why would a spectre turn up at my brandnew, sunlit home? Who is he? What does he want?
Fortunately, before the movepractically a flight from the noisy metropolis to tranquil suburbiashed finished a nailart course. Now my hands will always be in perfect order, she mused with bitter irony, if only my garden could be the sameeverblooming, never haunted.
She didnt tell her husband, David, the everbusy accountant, fearing his practical, wry smile would dismiss the whole affair. Yet the thought of that strange visitor kept looping in her mind, becoming an unwanted obsession. No amount of premium fertiliser, no advice from gardening forums or seasoned neighbours could coax life into that barren strip, as stubborn as a gravestone slab.
Poppy genuinely loved gardening. Shed taken online courses, bought piles of glossy magazines, and delighted in the feel of soil, its scent, the tender shoots. It had workedher roses were thriving, her vegetables were sprouting. But that cursed, dead patch right by the front door refused to budge, as if an invisible wall kept it from any living thing.
Looks like Ill have to hire an expensive landscape architect, she sighed, gazing out the window at the black blemish on her pride. If this ethereal visitor is real, even the pros might be stumped.
A few days later, after bingewatching a seasoned gardeners YouTube channel, Poppy set her phone aside. The night outside was mute and starless. David was already snoring, dreaming up profit margins, and she too should have been asleep, but sleep eluded her.
What a stifling night cant breathe, she whispered, shedding her silk duvet and stepping onto the glass balcony door.
She pushed it open quietly and slipped onto the cool night air. From the secondfloor height the offending plot was almost invisible, hidden beneath the eaves and the shade of a large oak. Impulsively, she leaned over the cold railing, straining to see the darkness where the lifeless soil lay.
And she saw it.
Under the sharp, crooked light of a waning moon, a figure paced across the barren ground. A man, back turned to her, moved with an unnatural, slow shuffle, as if wading through thick syrup. He squatted, rose, nudged the earth with the toe of an old, cracked shoe, his long, pale fingers probing the soil as though searching for something.
Poppys heart stopped, then thumped so hard it felt as if it would burst. She stared into the gloom, the longer she watched the clearer it became: the man was semitransparent, the moonlight barely piercing his gaunt, oldfashioned coat. His movements were not merely slowthey were detached from any earthly gravity. He was unmistakably not alive.
A wave of panic crashed over her, her legs trembling, a black, sticky dread choking her throat. She might have toppled off the balcony onto the stone steps below, but at that moment the spectre turned.
He looked straight at her. His face was a blank marble mask, framed by moustaches that seemed to belong to another century, hair slicked into a neat side part. His eyes were empty, dark voids.
Then, without warning, he thrust both arms forward, as if trying to bridge the space between them, his fingers icy and skeletal. Poppy felt his grim, deathlike visage pressing closer and closer, filling the night air. She let out a tiny, strangled gasp, mustered the last of her strength, and flung herself back from the railing, stumbling into the bedroom and crashing onto the cold floor.
Finding the old woman proved oddly simple. Poppy was convinced such a witch wouldnt live in their pristine new culdesac, so she guessed the ladys home must be across the old stone bridge, in a sleepy hamlet. Asking the local grandmothers on the village bench near the well confirmed it instantly.
She parked her tidy city hatchback outside a sagging, paintpeeled cottage with crumbling wooden trim. The gate hung on a single rusted hinge, held together by nothing but a promise, so Poppy hesitated before knocking.
Grandma! she called timidly, peering through the slatted fence. Grandma Agnes? Im Poppy! You mentioned last week about my plot about the visitor.
The door creaked open, and the very old woman appeared, squinting at the visitor.
Good heavens dressed up like youre heading to a parade, she muttered, eyeing Poppys chiffonlike dress and elegant heeled sandals. She gave a weary wave. Come in, dear, just dont break the floorboards with those heels! What brings you here?
Poppy crossed the threshold, feeling a lump rise in her throat.
He he really comes. He tramps where you said. I saw him last night, she whispered, voice trembling. I thought if you see such things and arent frightened, you must have dealt with them before. Perhaps you know how to send him away? Her perfectly manicured hands clattered in the dim entryway.
Thought so, love, mused Agnes, her eyes softening. Want me to chase him off?
Poppy nodded helplessly, then fumbled into her sleek leather handbag, pulling out a handful of crisp £20 notes.
I dont know how much it costs. Im not greedy, honestly! If you need more, Ill pop to the ATM and bring it. Just tell me the price!
Agnes regarded the money, then Poppy, her gaze gentle.
Enough, she said quietly, Ill help. Have a seat, Im well, I cant offer tea, Im out of it. The shop three miles off is empty, my bones cant haul any far.
Poppy perched on a painted stool, eyes scanning the modest interior: a faded lace curtain, a cracked tea table, a broken cupboard door exposing emptiness. A clear sugar bowl lay empty, as did a wicker bread basket. The place was poor, barren, lonely.
Fetch the bottle from the fridge, love, called Agnes from the next room. Its my own herbal brew. Bit bitter, but gives strength.
Poppy opened the rattling fridge. Inside lay a halflitre bottle of murky liquid, three eggs, a jar of sauerkraut, and a cracked butter dish. Her heart sank.
Oh dear she lives in such want, and I arrived in a pricey car in a silk dress, Poppy thought, wincing.
Found it? Agnes asked.
Yes, Grandma Agnes, on my way!
Agnes handed Poppy a tightly rolled bundle of plain newspaper tied with twine.
Bury this on your plot, not deepjust a shoveltip deep. In three days your guest will be gone, never to return. Its just herbs, dried sticks, forest berries all blessed for good. Hows the brew?
Poppy took a sip of the bitter but fragrant liquid.
Delicious, she said, smiling earnestly, Thank you! May I offer you something in return? She blurted, eyes bright. I saw a sale before I cametwo for one, cant decide what to do with the extra. Maybe youd like something?
Without waiting, Poppy bolted out, returned a minute later lugging a massive paper bag, dumping its contents onto the table while babbling:
Sunflower oil why did I buy two? I always cook for David, his stomachs delicate Tea I always drink green, not black Sweets I love them but Im trying to lose weight, and theres too much chocolate at home Biscuits perfect with tea! Some fruit leather not my favourite. Meat how much did I get? Freezers bursting! Will you mind if I leave this? Grains brown rice, green groats. Since Davids tummy issues, Ive been on a diet, only these now
She arranged the groceries, avoiding Agness gaze, fearing the old woman would think she was simply giving charity. When she finally looked up, Agness eyes glistened with quiet tears, which she brushed away with a napkin.
Thank you, love, she whispered, voice like rustling leaves.
Youre welcome, Poppy sighed, wiping her own cheeks. Ill keep working on the garden! If you dont mind, Ill pop by againjust to chat, you know?
She buried the bundle as instructed. The grim man with the moustaches never appeared again. Exactly a week later, as Agnes had promised, tiny green shootsdandelions and a bit of grasssprouted from the oncedead patch. Poppy wept with joy; the earth had finally breathed again.
That same day, Agnes, leaning on a staff, shuffled to an old, overgrown village graveyard. She paced a narrow path, nodding to unseen acquaintances, finally stopping at an unlabeled headstone cracked by time. Upon the stone, a faded photograph showed a dour man with splendid moustaches.
Thank you, Peter Stanfield, she murmured, kneeling and clearing dry grass around it. You helped me, and now Ill help you. Keep the place tidy and pretty Rest now, dear.
Two weeks later, Poppy knocked on Agness familiar door, the heavy bag still slung over her shoulder.
Grandma Agnes, its me, Poppy! Hello! Im here as promised.
Hello, hello, Agnes replied, looking a touch fresher. Did your nighttime visitor finally go?
Yes, thank you! Everythings growing! Poppy began, then blushed and gestured to the bag. And I brought some I used to study interior design, bought a lot of stuff that never fit my flatcurtains, towels, blankets, dishes Would you like some? Theyd suit your cosy cottage perfectlythose bluebordered plates would look lovely!
She frantically unpacked the bag, showing each item, hoping Agnes wouldnt see it as pity.
Agnes watched, her face growing softer, then more weary. She lowered herself onto a stool, hands trembling with arthritis.
Enough, love, she said quietly, voice tired and apologetic. Youre a good girl, Poppy. I Ive been dishonest.
Poppy froze, clutching a colourful blanket.
What? she stammered. I was just swimming in the pool this morning
Im saying I led that spectre to your plot, Agnes confessed, voice shaking. I invited him, thinking youd give me a few pennies. Im old, hungry, cold. I cant survive on my own. I asked Peter Stanfields ghost to haunt you so the earth would stay barren and I could keep a secret garden here. I gave you that herb bundle as a cover. I never meant to hurt you.
Guilt and shame twisted Agness lined face. She seemed ready for a rebuke, for a blow.
Im truly sorry, dear, she whispered, tears brimming. You came with an open heart, and I I used you. The dead man was just a trick, a distraction. I wanted you to tend the plot so the ground would never yield, keeping my little secret safe. I never thought youd be so kind.
Poppy stood still, a ringing noise in her ears, watching the hunched old woman, her poverty, her desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. No anger rose in her, only an allconsuming compassion.
She crouched, gently covering Agness knotted, wrinkled hands with her own soft, wellkept ones.
I told you the water got in my ears, Poppy said softly, tears streaming down her cheeks unbidden. I didnt hear properly. Lets hang those curtains, lay a tablecloth, shall we? Dont worry, well manage everything. Ill visit you oftenvery often.
