The Branch’s Grin

The summer I turned twelve, my family rented a cabin deep in the Appalachian foothills, a place called Hollow Pines. The cabin itself was charming, all rustic wood and a wide porch, but the forest that surrounded it felt wrong. The trees were old, gnarled, their branches twisted into shapes that seemed to leer. My brother, Leo, and I loved exploring, but our parents warned us not to go too far, especially after dusk. We didn’t listen.

One afternoon, while Mom was napping and Dad was fixing a loose shutter, Leo and I sat in the upstairs bedroom, reading comics. The window faced the forest, and the afternoon light filtered through the leaves, casting a greenish gloom. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. I put my comic down and whispered, ‘Leo, have you noticed anything creepy about those trees?’ Leo looked up, his eyes wide. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. Just then, I saw it—a small figure perched on a branch right outside the window. It was a child, no older than five, wearing a tattered dress, her hair white as birch bark. She smiled, but her smile was too wide, stretching from ear to ear, revealing needle-sharp teeth. I screamed, and my voice caught in my throat as I pointed. Leo turned, and his face went pale. At that moment, Mom burst in, alarmed by our shouts. She followed our gaze, and when her eyes found the child, she let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed in a dead faint.

Leo bolted out of the room, yelling for Dad. I was frozen, staring at that child. She didn’t blink. She just kept smiling, her head tilting slowly to one side, unnaturally, until it was almost perpendicular to her neck. Then she raised a tiny hand and waved, her fingers bending backwards at the knuckles. My blood ran cold. I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet, and ran out of the room. I found Dad in the hallway, Leo tugging at his arm, rambling about a ghost. Dad pushed past me, and I followed, my heart hammering. When we reached the bedroom, the child was gone, but the window was open—we always kept it closed because of the bugs. Dad looked at us, his face stern. ‘It was your imagination,’ he said, but his voice shook. ‘Too many horror movies.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stayed in Leo’s room, and we kept the lights on. Around 2 a.m., I heard a tapping on the window. I didn’t want to look, but I forced myself. The child was standing outside on the lawn, staring up at our window, her white dress glowing in the moonlight. She was holding a small, jagged rock, and she raised it to her own forehead and began to scratch, drawing blood. She smiled again, and this time, her mouth opened wider, impossibly wide, and a low, guttural sound emanated, like leaves rattling in a dead wind. I shook Leo awake, and he saw it too. We screamed for our parents. When they came, the child was gone, but a single, blackened leaf lay on the windowsill, smelling of rot.

The next day, Dad tried to rationalize it. He said it was a prank, some local kid messing with us. But when he went to the sheriff, the sheriff turned pale and whispered, ‘Did you see her teeth?’ He told us that Hollow Pines had a history: a girl had gone missing there in the 1950s, and they never found her body. The locals say she haunts the woods, luring children to their doom with that smile. Dad laughed, but I saw him glance at the trees.

Three days later, we were packing to leave, and I was in the backyard, throwing away trash, when I heard a giggle behind me. I spun around. The child was standing under the oak tree, motionless. Her head was now at a full 180-degree turn, facing me while her body faced away. Her smile was ear to ear, and her eyes were black voids. She opened her mouth, and a swarm of flies poured out, buzzing in a deafening cloud. I ran, tripping over roots, not stopping until I reached the cabin. When I looked back, she was gone, but I could still hear the buzz, fading into the woods.

We left that same day, driving down the mountain road, the forest looming on both sides. As we rounded a curve, I looked back one last time and saw her standing at the edge of the woods, waving with one hand, her other hand holding a clump of her own white hair. She smiled, and I swear I saw her mouth form the words, ‘Come play.’ I’ve never been back, and I never will.

But sometimes, at night, I hear a soft tapping on my window. And when I look, there’s a branch, swaying in the wind. But the shadow it casts on the wall always seems to have a perfect, toothy grin.