June was drawn to the stone cottage with the mustard-coloured door.
That it stood isolated, in a green grove added to its appeal.

It had a character and an inexplicable aura. She ignored the comments, that as usual, her heart had ruled her head and that the cottage was not worth the amount she had paid.

Over the weekend she moved in. By night she was struck by the silence. Stepping out onto the porch, she peered into the inky darkness. A few fireflies glimmered and flitted amidst the shroud of trees. Taking a deep breath, she soaked in the smell of the abundant greenery.

The wind suddenly seemed to pick up speed and the silence was harshly broken by a hiss.
Startled, she quickly moved back into the house. Though her logical mind analysed that the sound could only be from the rustling branches, she felt an unexplainable unease. Her over-imaginative mind made her feel that the trees were moaning. Feeling she was being watched, she tried to ignore the prickle of fear.
Hastily she entered the hall and latched the old porch door.

Listening carefully again, June felt comforted by the hum of distant traffic. The movers had done a neat job helping to set up her frugal belongings. The familiar furniture soothed and enhanced the warmth she instinctively knew that her cosy cottage had been waiting for.
Comforted by the familiar, she tried to close the bedroom door. Sleepily she noted that yet another latch needed to be repaired.

Exhaustion made her sleep so soundly that she didn’t hear the creak as the empty rocking chair steadily rocked.

Groggily she woke up with a raging thirst. Reaching for the lamp switch, she found that the power had gone. Fumbling to the kitchen, she noticed that the wind had increased its tempo. Like a sea, the room ebbed between racing shadows and receding moonlight.

While closing the flapping shutters June felt an icy touch.
“Welcome home, dear.” she thought; she heard a whispery voice.
“Here have some water.” the voice continued. Turning around in fear, she saw a shadow pass.
Peering closer, June saw an old, toothless woman, covered in a tattered blanket extending a glass to her. Her childlike smile was unsettling. Like a statue, June clutched the glass and heard her say – “Do you know how long I have waited for you? You, my dear, are my first guest. I have waited so many moons for someone to talk to.

All the old want is for someone to listen to them.” Pointing to the land, she sadly spoke about all the others who preferred to lie undisturbed in the graves outside.

“I am so glad June, that you liked my cottage.
“I am Mrs Govias – Grace Govias,” she said in a quavering voice. As she spoke animatedly the moonlight occasionally revealed her bonniness.

She was as June realised, the last of the dead, who refused to leave and have a silent closure.

As the days passed in silence, June’s nights were filled with listening to stories of a bygone era. Her newfound friend was as gracious as her name.

Waking up in the green light, June found herself nailing the lopsided name board, which had Grace’s name. This was the least she could do, for her only friend, who promised to always be around.

The realtor tore his hair, regretting the day he had sold the troublesome cottage.

Oblivious to the stories being spun about two kindred spirits who laughed in the night, June marvelled at the undiscovered green space she had bought for a steal