The Visitor in the Garden

Ten years ago, when I was married to my first husband, we rented a crumbling farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Forest. The house was old, with peeling wallpaper and floors that creaked like old bones. In the backyard, there was a leaning shed, its roof half-collapsed. One afternoon, while clearing out the junk, I found a rusted tin box tucked under a pile of rotting wood. Inside was a faded photograph, scratched and stained, of an old Black man with thick white hair and kind eyes. I kept it, propped it on the dusty mantelpiece, and thought nothing more of it.

That night, I woke to find him sitting at the foot of the bed. He wore a worn suit, the fabric threadbare, and his hands rested on his knees. He smiled warmly and asked how my day had been. I was terrified, but his voice was soothing. We talked for what felt like hours, about my childhood, my garden, the dreams I had. My husband stirred, groggy, and as soon as he opened his eyes, the man faded like morning mist. I thought it was a dream, a vivid nightmare, but it happened again the next night, and the night after.

Every night, he would sit and chat. Sometimes he would chuckle and say, ‘There are others here, you know.’ I always felt a chill when he said that, but I never felt threatened. To prove he was real, I pinched my arm until it bruised. He laughed and asked, ‘Why do you hurt yourself?’ I told him, ‘To make sure you are real.’ He would shake his head, still smiling, and say, ‘I am as real as you are, child.’

The encounters became a ritual. I would wake, he would be there, and we would talk. My husband grew concerned about my sleeplessness and my bruises. He tried to stay awake, but he always drifted off. I started to dread the nights, not because I was afraid, but because I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. The line between dream and waking blurred. I began to wonder if I was losing my mind.

One night, the old man’s expression turned serious. He leaned forward and said, ‘You must leave this house. There are others here, and they are not like me. They have been quiet, but your presence has stirred them.’ I asked what he meant, but he only repeated, ‘Leave, before the garden flowers turn black.’ I woke with a start, my heart pounding. In the morning, I noticed the roses outside my window were covered in a black mold, their petals curled and crispy.

I tried to convince my husband to move, but he dismissed it as anxiety. That night, I didn’t wake to the old man. Instead, I heard scratching at the window, like nails on glass. I pulled back the curtain and saw a shape—tall, thin, with arms that bent at impossible angles. It was not human. It pressed its face against the glass, and I saw its eyes—like festering wounds. I screamed, and my husband woke, but the thing vanished.

The next day, I found the photograph of the old man. It had been torn in half, and my half was missing. I searched the house, but I couldn’t find it. I felt watched. That evening, as the sun set, I saw the old man again, but he was faint, like a ghost in a photograph. He pointed to the garden, where the black mold had spread to every plant. He whispered, ‘They have tasted your fear. You must go, or they will take you.’

I packed a bag and begged my husband to leave with me, but he refused, thinking I was having a breakdown. I drove to a motel that night, alone. I never returned. A week later, my husband called to say the house had burned down, the fire starting in the garden. The fire department found a half-burnt photograph of an old Black man, but the face was completely charred, unrecognizable. I never told anyone about the visitor, but sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see him standing at the foot of my bed, and he whispers, ‘I warned you. The garden flowers have turned black, and they are hungry.’ I still don’t know if it was real or a dream, but I know one thing: I have never felt safe in a house since.