IFFY FICTION

Read Pt. 1 here

A scream came from the bedrooms, followed by Muriel’s wailing. Footsteps clomped down the hall toward the living room. 

“Ida? Children?”

“We’re here,” Ida said, breathless.

“Are you all okay?”

Muriel sobbed in response. 

“We’re okay,” said a different voice. 

Footsteps again, going across the room. One of the boys stood at the window, pulling open the curtain. The room was so dark, it was hard to tell which. There was no light to let in.

“What do you see, son?” Arthur realized he was still holding his snifter. He drained the dregs of brandy, steeling his nerves.

Thomas’ voice. “Dad, I think it’s the tree.”

“What?” Arthur’s voice was incredulous. He moved toward the window, peering out beside his son. 

“It’s so dark. And that damn rain.” He set his glass down and bolted toward the front door, stumbling through the dark.

“What are you doing?” Ida’s voice came from somewhere behind him. “Surely you’re not going outside.”

“I’ve got to check the tree, dear.” His voice carried a note of impatience he tried never to use with his wife.

“It’s still storming, Arthur.”

He pulled the front door open, letting a gust of rain through. The heavy drops landed on the wood floor with a thwap. “It’s letting up.”

“There’s lightning, Dad!” An older girl’s voice. Dahlia. 

“It’s fine. Thomas, come.”

The rain was still falling heavily, battering both Arthur’s and Thomas’ backs as they stumbled through the storm, away from the house, through the front gate, and down the well-worn path to the great oak. 

Ida waited inside with the other children. 

“Did they came back?” Muriel asked, pressing her snotty face into her mother’s chest.

“Who?” Ida asked, squinting through the window, seeing nothing.

“The tree ghosts.”

“No, they didn’t. Silly.” Dahlia answered for her mother, though her voice betrayed her unsurity.

Henry cracked open the door. “The storm’s calming down. I’m going to check on Dad and Thomas.”

“I’m going, too,” Calvin, the youngest boy, said.

“Me, too,” Muriel said, sniffling. 

Ida sighed. “Let’s all go. Get your boots on. Henry, put on your coat.”

Henry led the family across the yard, through the gate, down the path. Dahlia followed, then Calvin, and finally Ida, who carried Muriel. 

Feet sunk into the sodden ground as they slogged through the thick mud. A waning crescent moon peeked through a part in the nearly spent thunderheads above, meagerly lighting the way. The path zigged and zagged, a crooked maze through the mossy head stones jutting up in concentric circles around the oak.  Calvin lost a boot to the boggy sludge. He carried on in his sock foot.

Muriel’s eyes darted around the ground. “Are they coming up now?”

“Shhhh, honey,” Ida said, a chill straightening her spine. “It’s just a story.”

“Dad!” Henry shouted through the dark, his voice shattering the calm aftermath of the storm’s violence. The final raindrops fell from the passing clouds, punctuating his call. 

“Over here!” It was Thomas. His newly baritone voice had reverted to a higher pitch. 

The family stumbled along, plugging through the last few yards to the tree. Where the sky should have been obscured by branches and leaves, instead were bruised, black clouds parting to reveal the clear sky above, powdered with pale stars. 

On the ground behind Thomas lay the old oak. It stretched from the jagged fissure at its base, across the rings of headstones, to the newest Feldwater grave. The rigid trunk was straight, its bark slick and black from the rain, its upper limbs crooked and twisting. Felled. Hiram himself had planted the acorn at 9 years old. A memorial for his mother.

The same oak which, according to the prophecy, held the spirits of generations, growing and amassing along with the tree. Watching. Judging. Seething. Waiting for the one who would deviate, who would err, would twist the upper branches.

The one who would fulfill the prophecy.

Ida approached her son, trying to see his face. “Where’s your dad?”

Thomas pointed across the fallen tree and said, “on the other side.”

Still holding Muriel, Ida walked around the stump, stumbling twice on thick exposed roots. 

“Arthur!” She listened.

“Daddy!” Muriel said. “Where are you?”

There was a groan from the ground. Ida looked down to see a huddled figure in the shadow of the oak, sunk into the mud, soaked and shaking. 

Check back for Pt. 3