The Lenten Rose

Every spring, the town of Millbrook opened its oldest homes for a single day, and I had finally talked my friend Dana into going with me. She was a history buff, all excitement for the Victorian houses and the old gristmill, but I had a knot in my stomach. I had never admitted to Dana why I usually skipped these tours. I was an empath, a fact I’d kept buried so deep I barely acknowledged it myself. It wasn’t something you brought up over coffee.

We started at the Methodist Parsonage, a stately brick building that reeked of old paper and lemon polish. I felt nothing but a gentle warmth, the kind you get from a well-loved home. Dana chattered about the architecture, the stained glass, the original tin ceilings. I nodded, but my attention was already drifting. The tour guide was leading us through a narrow hallway when I felt a sudden chill, like a cold hand brushing my neck. I turned, but there was nothing. I dismissed it as a draft.

The next stop was the Miller House, a sprawling farmhouse that sat on a hill overlooking the river. As we approached, I felt a wave of melancholy so strong it made my eyes water. I hung back, pretending to tie my shoe, and let Dana go ahead with the group. When I finally stepped inside, the feeling intensified. It was a deep, crushing sadness, like the house itself was mourning. I saw a woman in a long gray dress standing at the top of the stairs, her face obscured, her hands clutching the railing. She didn’t move, but I felt her grief. It was so raw that I had to grip the doorframe to steady myself. Dana noticed my pale face and asked if I was okay. I said I needed some air and stepped outside.

The last house on the tour was the one I’d been dreading most: the Bungalow, a small Arts and Crafts home that had been converted into a coffee shop, but only for this day. It was the oldest structure in town, dating back to the early 1800s. As we walked up the gravel path, I felt a different sensation: a sharp, electric buzz, like the air before a storm. I took a deep breath and followed Dana inside. The interior was dark wood and exposed beams, with a modern espresso bar set up in one corner. But I barely noticed the decor. My eyes were drawn to a far corner, where a woman in a long black dress sat in a rocking chair, knitting. She looked up at me, and I saw her face clearly: pale, with deep lines around her eyes, and a gaze that felt like it could see through me. I felt a jolt of recognition, though I had never seen her before.

I tried to focus on the coffee, on Dana, on the tour guide’s voice, but the woman kept staring. She slowly lifted her hand and pointed at me, then at a small table near the window. On it sat a single potted plant, a Lenten rose, with delicate white petals that seemed to glow in the dim light. I felt a message pressing into my mind, a word that echoed: ‘Dig.’ I shook my head, trying to clear it. Dana was asking me something, but I couldn’t hear her. The woman’s lips moved, and I heard the word again, more urgent: ‘Dig.’ I felt a pull toward the table, as if an invisible string was tugging me. I walked over, my legs moving on their own, and touched the plant. A cold shock ran up my arm, and I saw a flash of a face underground, a man with hollow eyes, soil in his mouth.

I stumbled back, knocking over a chair. The room fell silent. Everyone was staring at me. The tour guide asked if I was okay. I mumbled an apology and told Dana I needed to leave. I practically ran out of the Bungalow, my heart pounding. Dana followed me, concerned. Outside, I tried to catch my breath, but the image of the face stayed with me. I couldn’t shake it. I told Dana I was feeling sick, and we left the tour early.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the woman’s face, hearing the word ‘Dig.’ I knew I had to go back. I slipped out of my apartment at midnight and drove to the Bungalow. The windows were dark, but I found a key under a loose brick, as if someone had left it for me. I let myself in, my flashlight beam cutting through the blackness. The coffee shop was eerily silent. I made my way to the corner where the table had been, but the plant was gone. The room was empty. I felt a faint vibration under my feet, coming from a loose floorboard. I pried it up with a crowbar I’d brought from home. Beneath it was a small, dirt-filled crawlspace, and there, buried in the dirt, was a metal box.

I lifted the box, my hands trembling. It was heavy. I took it to the counter and opened it under the light. Inside were old letters, a faded photograph of a man and a woman, and a small, leather-bound journal. The photograph matched the woman I’d seen. The journal was dated 1850. I began to read. It was written by a woman named Eliza, who had lived in this house. She wrote of her husband, Thomas, who had gone missing in the winter of 1849. The townspeople said he’d run off, but Eliza knew he hadn’t. She sensed him, she wrote, felt his presence in the house, heard his voice in the wind. She spent months digging in the cellar, in the garden, under the floorboards, searching for his body, for any sign of him. But she never found him. The last entry, dated just before her death, was a single line: ‘He is in the house, but not where I dig.’

I felt a cold presence behind me. I turned. The woman from earlier was standing in the doorway, translucent, her face twisted in anguish. She pointed to the floor, to a spot directly under the espresso bar. I understood. I grabbed the crowbar and pried up the floorboards. Beneath them, in a shallow grave, was a skeleton, the bones yellowed and stained. A wedding ring lay on the ribcage. I stumbled back, dropping the crowbar. The woman nodded, and her expression softened. Then she faded away, leaving me alone in the dark.

I called the police on my cell phone. They found the remains and identified them as Thomas, who had been murdered, a victim of a fellow landowner’s greed. The killer had buried him under the floor of his own home, and the house had been sold, the secret forgotten. But Eliza’s spirit had never left. She had been searching for over a century, and I, an empath who had finally accepted her gift, had been the one to help her find peace.

Dana and I never spoke of that day again. But I kept the journal. And whenever I feel a chill, or a tug at my coat, I listen. I no longer fight my empathy; I’ve come to understand that some ghosts just need a messenger. And sometimes, a potted plant is the only clue the living need.