Pomegranate Season

I moved into the cottage behind my parents’ house in the autumn of 2019, after my divorce from Marcus left me shattered and my mother insisted I stay close. The cottage was a converted carriage house, with a small kitchenette and a bedroom that overlooked a gnarled pomegranate tree in the yard. I never felt alone exactly, but there was a weight to the air, a sense of being watched, especially in the evenings. I chalked it up to grief and the newness of the space, but the feeling persisted, a quiet unease that settled on my skin like dust.

My father had bought the property from the estate of an old woman named Mrs. Kowalski, who had lived there for decades and had a reputation for being reclusive. The estate sale had left behind some furniture, including an old oak wardrobe in the bedroom. I found it empty, but the inside smelled of mothballs and lavender, and there was a faint scratch on the back panel, like someone had traced a name there long ago. I tried not to dwell on it. I had enough on my mind.

The whispers started after I brought home a box of pomegranates from the farmer’s market, a fruit I hadn’t eaten since I was a child. That night, as I lay in bed, I heard a rustling and a soft, crackling sound, like seeds being crushed. I thought a mouse had gotten into the kitchen, but when I checked, the pomegranates were untouched. The sound came again, this time from the wardrobe. I opened it, but only shadows and old wood greeted me. I felt foolish, but the unease grew.

A week later, I had a fight with my mother over the phone about my decision to keep the cottage. She wanted me to move back into the main house, but I needed my own space to heal. I hung up frustrated and went to the kitchen to make tea. As I passed the wardrobe, I noticed a thin line of reddish juice seeping from under the door. I pulled it open and found a single pomegranate inside, perfectly ripe, but I had not put it there. My heart hammered. I threw it in the trash, but the next morning it was back on the counter, whole and unbruised.

The feeling of being watched intensified. I started seeing things out of the corner of my eye – a flicker of movement in the shadows of the pomegranate tree, a dark shape at the edge of my vision. I began to feel a warmth in the pit of my stomach, a comforting heat that reminded me of being held, but it was accompanied by a wave of dread. I knew I should leave, but I couldn’t shake the belief that something was trying to protect me, that it had intervened in my life before.

Then, one night, Marcus showed up, drunk and enraged. He had been trying to see his son, our son, who was with his grandparents. He pounded on my door, screaming obscenities. I called the police, but they were too far away. I locked the deadbolt and huddled in the corner, praying. The pomegranate tree outside the window began to sway violently, even though there was no wind. I heard a low growl, not from Marcus, but from the wardrobe. The door burst open, and a torrent of black seeds shot out, a thick, oily liquid that splattered across the floor and up the walls. Marcus’s screams were cut short as the seeds enveloped him, dragging him down into the floorboards.

The police arrived to find Marcus gone, and me shaking, covered in a sticky, dark residue. They questioned me for hours, but found nothing. I moved back into the main house the next day, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been protected, and that the presence in the cottage was not malevolent, but ancient and fierce. I never went back to that cottage, and I never ate a pomegranate again. But sometimes, at night, I hear the rustle of seeds and a warm breath on my neck, a gentle reminder that I am never truly alone, and that the pomegranate tree still watches over me.