Eleonora froze with the small, delicate hand rake in her hands, and her fingers uncurled on their own in surprise. The wooden tool fell with a soft thud onto the dry, cracked earth. She didn’t even manage to gasp—the voice that sounded behind her was so sudden and piercing. It was like the creak of an old tree, and yet it carried such unshakable certainty that an icy shiver ran down the woman’s back.
“Nothing grows in your garden, dearie, because the dead come visiting you. Don’t you see him? Look closer, child—pay attention,” said an unfamiliar old woman, shooting Eleonora a stern yet faintly pitying glance from eyes that seemed faded by time and still impossibly sharp.
Eleonora turned slowly, almost mechanically, and for the first time truly looked at that very patch of earth in front of her new, so-longed-for home. Her heart clenched with a strange, inexplicable ache. She’d seen it every day, but only now did she understand the full horror of it. Right before the neat carved fence she was so proud of lay an absolutely dead, scorched scrap of land. Not a blade of grass, not a sprig, not the slightest hint of life. While behind the house, in the beds she had so carefully tended and in the flower borders, roses were already blooming luxuriantly, marigolds stretched toward the sun, and currant bushes gleamed green. The contrast was frightening and unnatural. She had tried to resuscitate that soil—fertilized it, loosened it, watered it with tears that were almost despair—but all in vain.
And today, completely absorbed in her gardening woes, she hadn’t even noticed how this thin stranger, bent by years but not in spirit, had come up to the gate standing wide open.
“You might as well put on an evening ball gown if you’re going to dig so prettily and smartly in black earth,” the old woman remarked with the faintest hint of mockery, but without malice, eyeing Eleonora’s outfit: an expensive, perfectly fitted pink top and matching cycling shorts of high-tech fabric.
Instinctively, Eleonora glanced down at herself and brushed a stray red lock from her forehead. A hint of embarrassment crossed her face.
“It’s… it’s special gear, Grandma. For gardening. High-tech, breathable…” she tried to justify herself, but her voice sounded weak. “And the neighbors… we’ve got a new, nice community here, everyone always dresses so well… Everything clean, neat… No one lived here before, we’re all starting from scratch…”
But the old woman was no longer listening. She turned, leaned on a homemade, club-shaped staff, and shuffled away, dissolving into the summer dust beyond the bend in the road. Eleonora remained standing alone, and her ears rang with a shrill, deafening silence, broken only by the uneasy pounding of her own heart.
“How can this be?” she thought feverishly, peeling off her gardening gloves and reflexively checking her flawless manicure. “How is it that in my new, bright home the dead come calling? Who is he? What does he want?”
It was a good thing that before this move—almost a flight from the noisy megalopolis into the quiet of suburban life—she had managed to finish a manicure course. “Well, at least my hands will always be immaculate,” she thought with bitter irony. “If only the garden were the same. So everything would grow, bloom, and please the eye at a snap of the fingers—and without any ghosts.”
She said nothing to her dear, perpetually busy husband Dmitry about the strange visitor. She feared his practical, rational smirk. But her thoughts kept circling back to that conversation, again and again, turning into an obsession. No fertilizers, however costly and cutting-edge, no tips from the internet or from seasoned dacha neighbors helped. The patch before the house remained desolate, parched, and dead as a gravestone slab.
Eleonora sincerely, with all her heart, wanted to garden. She had taken online courses, bought piles of glossy magazines, sought inspiration. She adored the process itself—feeling the soil, breathing in its scent, caring for fragile sprouts. And she was good at it! There were already first, quite decent results. But that wretched, cursed scrap of earth right before the front entrance would not yield, as if some invisible wall cut it off from all living things.
“Looks like I’ll have to hire an expensive landscape specialist and a soil expert after all,” she mused sadly, gazing out the window at the black stain of her disgrace. “Although… if we really do have such an… ethereal guest… even they probably won’t be able to help.”
A few days passed. Having finished another detailed video on an experienced gardener’s channel, Eleonora set down her phone. The night outside was dense and starless. Dmitry had long since fallen asleep, snoring in rhythm with his business thoughts, and she herself should have been in bed, but sleep avoided her.
“Ugh, what stuffiness… I can’t breathe,” she whispered and, throwing off the silk blanket, went to the glass door leading onto the spacious balcony.
She opened it quietly and stepped out under the cool night sky. The air was fresh and sweet. From up here, on the second floor, that ill-fated patch was almost out of sight, hidden by the overhang of the roof and the shadow of a large maple. So Eleonora, moved by a sudden impulse, had to lean over the cold railing to peer into the darkness where the barren earth lay.
And she saw him.
In the light of a sharp, crooked moon breaking through ragged clouds, a stranger paced the dug-up yet lifeless soil. A man. He stood with his back to her. His movements were strange, slowed, as if he were pushing through enormous resistance in some unseen medium. He wasn’t merely walking—he trampled in place, crouched, then stood again, poked the earth with the toe of an old, outdated shoe, touched it with long, pale fingers, searching for something, scratching at something.
Eleonora’s heart stopped—and then began to pound so fiercely that she shook. She stared into the darkness, trying to make out details. The longer she watched, the more clearly she understood that something was wrong with him. He was… semi-transparent. The moonlight bled faintly through his scrawny body, dressed in some old-fashioned jacket. His movements were not just slow—they were unnatural, stripped of earthly gravity and physiology. This was absolutely not a living person.
Eleonora felt her knees buckle, and a black, sticky wave of panic pounded in her temples, threatening to make her faint. She would already have toppled from the balcony onto the sharp stones of the rock garden below, but at that very moment the man turned.
He looked straight at her. His face was completely unfamiliar, devoid of expression, as if carved from pale marble. Luxuriant mustaches that called another era to mind, and hair neatly parted straight down the middle. And the eyes—empty, dark, bottomless.
And suddenly this man—this ghost—raised his hand. No, he thrust both hands forward, as if trying, across all that distance, across the height, to reach her, to grab her by the throat, to touch her with icy fingers. Eleonora imagined his sullen, deathly face drawing closer, and closer, and closer, filling all the space… With a stifled moan, she pushed herself away from the railing with the last of her strength and, stumbling, crashed backward into the bedroom, onto the cold floor.
Finding that old woman turned out to be surprisingly easy. Eleonora was sure—such a woman couldn’t possibly live in their sterile, brand-new cottage settlement. Which meant her house had to be over the bridge, in the old, dozing village. And learning exactly where the one who saw ghosts lived was no trouble at all—one only had to ask the local grannies sitting on the bench by the well.
Eleonora parked her neat city hatchback by a sagging, long-unpainted house with carved yet peeling window frames. The gate seemed to be hanging on a hope and a single rusty hinge, so the woman decided not to risk knocking.
“Grandma!” she called, peeking timidly through a crack between the fence boards. “Grandma Vera? My name is Eleonora! Last week you told me… about my plot… about how I have… a guest…”
The door creaked open, and there stood the very same old woman on the threshold. She squinted, studying her visitor.
“Lord Jesus… All dressed up for a parade again,” she whispered softly but distinctly, giving Eleonora’s chiffon tunic-dress and elegant heeled sandals a critical once-over. Then she waved a hand, resigned. “Well, come in then, since you’ve come! Mind you don’t snap those heels on my floorboards! Now, what do you want?”
Crossing the threshold, Eleonora felt a lump rise in her throat.
“He… he really does come. Tramples right where you said. I saw him… last night…” Her voice trembled. “I thought… if you can see such things… and you aren’t afraid… then you’ve probably dealt with this before. Maybe you know… how to… drive him away?” She was unconsciously wringing her hands, and her flawless manicure gleamed in the dim light of the entryway.
“She thought…” The old woman nodded, and something complicated flickered in her eyes that Eleonora couldn’t read. “You want me to drive him off?”
Eleonora only nodded helplessly, then caught herself, hurriedly opened her sleek leather handbag, and pulled out several large, crisp bills.
“I don’t know… what this usually costs. I’m not stingy, truly! If you need more—I’ll run to the ATM and bring it! Whatever you say!”
The old woman, whose name was Vera Petrovna, looked carefully at the money, then straight into Eleonora’s eyes. Her gaze softened.
“That’s enough,” she said quietly, almost gently. “I’ll help. Come in, have a seat—I’ll just…” She faltered and, with a hint of embarrassment, dropped her eyes. “Forgive me—I can’t offer you tea. Ran out yesterday. And the shop’s three versts off… these old bones won’t carry me that far.”
Eleonora perched shyly on the edge of a painted stool and surreptitiously looked around. A clean but oft-mended net curtain at the single little window. No tablecloth on the table, nothing to hide the deep cracks in the once-lacquered surface. One door of the old sideboard was broken off, and through the opening you could see emptiness. The clear sugar bowl was empty. So was the woven breadbasket beside it. It was poor. It was bare. It was very lonely.
“Fetch the bottle from the icebox, the clear one,” Vera Petrovna called from the next room. “It’s a herbal infusion I make myself. Tasty, good for you. Try it. And pour me some too, would you? A bit bitter, but it gives strength and health.”
Eleonora went to the old, crackling fridge and opened it. Her heart clenched even tighter. Besides the modest half-liter bottle with a cloudy liquid, there were three eggs, a started three-liter jar of sauerkraut, and an empty butter dish rubbed thin.
“Good Lord…” she thought, a sudden sharp pain stabbing her. “She lives… in such poverty. And I’ve driven up in an expensive car and a silk dress.”
“Find it?” came the old woman’s voice.
“Yes, Grandma Vera, just a moment!”
Vera Petrovna came out to her and held out a small bundle, tightly rolled from plain newspaper and tied with twine.
“Here. You’ll bury this in that patch of yours. Not deep—one spade’s length. In three days your guest will go and won’t come back. Don’t be afraid. It’s just herbs in there, dried twigs, berries from the woods… all charmed for good. Well? How’s the decoction?”
Eleonora took a sip of the bitter yet fragrant liquid.
“Very good,” she said with a sincere smile, taking the bundle. “Thank you so much. And may I… may I treat you to something too?” she blurted suddenly, her eyes darting. “You know, I popped into the shop before I came… I’ve got this habit: I see a sale, I buy two, and then I don’t know what to do with it all. I can’t break myself of it. Maybe you could use something? I’ll just grab it!”
Without waiting for the surprised old woman’s reply, Eleonora ran out of the house. A minute later she returned, bent under the weight of a huge paper bag, and began laying out its contents on the table, chattering without a pause:
“Sunflower oil… why did I take two? I always cook in small portions—Dmitry, my husband, has stomach issues… Tea… oh, black, and we only drink green at home… Sweets… well, I do like them, but I need to lose weight, and we’ve still got plenty of chocolate at home… Do you like cookies? Perfect with tea! This fruit paste—pastila—I bought for no good reason… I’m not even fond of it. Meat… Oh dear, did you see how much I grabbed? And the freezer’s already stuffed to the brim! You won’t mind if I leave this for you, will you? May I? Grains… brown rice, green buckwheat. Unusual, healthy. After my husband’s problems started, I took courses in proper nutrition—now I buy only this kind…”
She sorted the groceries, neatly stacking them at the corner of the table, and didn’t dare raise her eyes to Vera Petrovna. She was mortified. She was afraid the old woman would take this impulse as alms, as a handout from a rich neighbor—would be offended, would be angry.
But when at last she dared to look up, she saw quiet, clear tears rolling down the old woman’s cheeks. Vera Petrovna silently wiped them with the edge of her kerchief.
“Thank you, child,” she whispered so softly it sounded like the rustle of leaves outside the window.
“Thank you,” Eleonora breathed in relief and shrugged, trying to pretend she hadn’t noticed the tears. “I’ll go save the plot now! But… if you don’t mind, I’ll drop by again sometime? I… I like talking with you.”
She buried the bundle in the spot indicated. She never saw the sullen, mustached man again. And exactly a week later, just as Vera Petrovna had said, the first timid shoots began to push up through the formerly dead ground. Weeds. A dandelion and some kind of grass. But Eleonora wept with happiness looking at them, because it meant—the earth had come back to life.
That very day, Vera Petrovna, leaning on her stick, slowly hobbled to the old, abandoned village graveyard. She walked along a narrow path, nodding to someone unseen, greeting old acquaintances. At last she stopped by an untended grave that at first glance seemed nameless. But if you looked closely, on the cracked stone, grayed with time, you could make out an old photograph. A sullen man with luxuriant mustaches gazed out from it.
“Thank you, Pyotr Stepanovich,” the old woman said quietly, sinking to her knees and starting to pull up the dry grass with her hands. “You helped me. And I’ll help you. I’ll tidy here. Make it clean and nice… And you go on now. Rest in peace at last. Thank you.”
Eleonora came to see Vera Petrovna two weeks later. She knocked timidly at the now-familiar door and, hearing a rasping “come in,” peeked inside, setting a heavy, overstuffed bag down by the threshold.
“Grandma Vera, it’s me—Eleonora! Hello! I’ve come to visit, just like I promised.”
“Hello, hello,” the old woman said, coming to meet her, looking a bit fresher. “Well then, has your night guest gone for good?”
“Yes, thank you! Thank you so much! Everything’s growing!” Eleonora began rapturously, then flushed and pointed to the bag. “And this… I brought a few things. You know, I once… took interior design courses. Not for me, it didn’t take. But while I studied, I bought a lot of… well, useless stuff now. These curtains… didn’t suit our windows at all… Terry towels, pot holders, warm throws, dishes… All new, good things, just sitting there. May I give them to you? Your home is so cozy, so real… in a country style… These plates with cornflowers would look perfect here! And let me show you this tablecloth? Later you can arrange everything nicely, just the way you like…”
Again, as before, she began feverishly unpacking the bag, showing one item after another, talking about each, apologizing, and hoping the old woman wouldn’t see pity in the gesture, wouldn’t judge or drive her away.
But Vera Petrovna did not drive her away. She watched this beautiful, agitated woman in silence, and her face grew ever sadder and sterner. At last she sank heavily onto a stool and folded her work-gnarled, arthritis-crooked hands in her lap.
“Put it down, child. That’s enough,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded tired and guilty. “You’re a good girl, Lenochka. Kind, with an open heart. And I… I deceived you.”
Eleonora froze with a fluffy, multicolored throw in her hands.
“What? I… I was swimming at the pool this morning,” she murmured in confusion, touching her earlobe. “Maybe water… I’m hearing badly.”
“I said I deceived you,” Vera Petrovna repeated, and her voice quivered. “I’m the one who brought that dead man to your plot. I’m the one who invited him to visit you. On purpose.”
Guilt and shame seemed to distort her wrinkled face. She shrank, as if expecting not only fair, hurtful words but a blow.
“I’ve done you a great wrong. Forgive me, foolish old woman. You came to me with an open heart, sincerely, and I…” She paused, groping for words. “Yes, I see them. They come sometimes. They ask to be remembered in prayer, to send word to relatives, to tidy their graves… And then they built your cottages nearby. Rich, new. And I thought… I thought there was no great harm if one of you rich folks tossed me a coin or two. I’m old; it’s hard alone… There’s hunger… There’s cold… And no one gives money just because. Only for help. And what can I do? See what others can’t? So I asked one good man, Pyotr Stepanovich—he lies forgotten in the graveyard—to go to you a while, to tramp around. So the earth wouldn’t bear. And I, in thanks, would tend his grave. He’d never have harmed you or your husband; he was a quiet man. And that bundle I gave you was just for show, ordinary herbs… so you’d calm down and he could leave. Forgive me, Lenochka, forgive me. I didn’t think you were like this… that you were so…” Her voice broke, and she fell silent, staring at the floor.
Eleonora stood motionless. A roar filled her ears. She looked at the bent figure of the old woman, at the poverty, at that terrible, desperate cunning born of hunger and loneliness. And there was no anger in her eyes. Only boundless, all-consuming pity.
She walked over slowly, crouched before Vera Petrovna, and gently covered the old woman’s aged, vein-mapped, wrinkled hands with her own pampered, soft ones.
“I told you, Grandma… water got in my ears,” she said very softly, very gently, tears running of their own accord down her cheeks, and she didn’t even try to wipe them away. “I didn’t hear a thing. I didn’t understand anything at all. Let’s hang those curtains instead, shall we? And lay the tablecloth, hmm? Don’t you worry—we’ll manage everything! I’ll come visit you often now. Very often.”
