The Burnt Ash Garden

The summer I turned twelve, my family moved to a derelict farmhouse at the edge of Moss Creek, a town so small it didn’t even have a stoplight. The house itself was a skeletal thing, with peeling paint and a porch that sagged like a tired old dog. But what drew my attention every time I stepped outside was the garden: a half-acre of dead, blackened earth behind the house, punctuated by the charred remains of what had once been a large oak tree. I learned from a neighbor, old Mrs. Gable, that a family had lived here before us, and that the father had gone mad, setting fire to the tree and then himself, while his wife and daughter watched from the kitchen window. Mrs. Gable said the daughter, a girl my age, had never spoken a word after that, and they moved away within the year. I tried to shake off the unease that settled in my stomach whenever I looked at that blackened patch, but it clung to me like cobwebs.

My bedroom was in the back of the house, with a window that faced the ash garden. At night, the moonlight would cast long, skeletal shadows from the burnt tree limbs across my floor. I would lie in bed, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house, trying to convince myself it was just the wind. But there were other sounds—soft, rhythmic scraping against the windowpane, as if someone was dragging a fingernail across the glass. When I would jerk my head to look, the noise would stop, and I’d see only my own reflection staring back at me, pale and wide-eyed. My younger brother, Leo, who shared the room with me, would mumble in his sleep, and my sister, Maya, on the other side of the thin wall, would sometimes cry out. I told myself it was all in my head, that it was just the house settling.

One afternoon, I was digging in the soft ash near where the tree’s roots had been, looking for old nails or maybe a coin. My trowel hit something solid, and I unearthed a small, tin box, rusted and covered in soot. I pried it open, and inside, wrapped in a yellowed cloth, was a lock of auburn hair tied with a black ribbon, a child’s bracelet, and a crude drawing of a stick figure standing under a lopsided tree, with the words ‘Don’t forget me’ written in shaky pencil. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I quickly buried the box again, but I couldn’t get the image of that drawing out of my head.

That night, the scraping was louder, more insistent, and I could hear a soft humming, like a child’s tune, coming from the direction of the window. I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling the covers over my head, but the sound seemed to seep through the fabric. Then, the humming stopped, and I heard a whisper, so close to my ear that I felt the breath. ‘Play with me.’ I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, and by dawn, I was convinced I was losing my mind.

A few days later, I found my brother Leo standing at the edge of the ash garden, staring at the burnt tree. He was holding a small, handmade doll with button eyes, crudely stitched from scraps of fabric. I asked him where he got it, and he said, ‘The girl gave it to me. She says she wants to play, but she’s always crying.’ I grabbed the doll and threw it into the ash, but Leo just smiled and said, ‘She’ll be back. She always comes back.’

That evening, my mother announced that she’d found an old photograph album in the attic. We gathered around the kitchen table, and she flipped through the pages, showing us pictures of the previous family. There was the father, a stern man with a thick mustache, the mother, thin and tired, and the daughter, a girl with auburn hair and a sad smile. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the girl’s face—it was the same face I saw every night in my window, pale and hollow, with dark circles under her eyes. I closed the album, unable to look anymore. That night, I did not go to my room. I curled up on the couch in the living room, determined to stay awake, but exhaustion overtook me.

I woke to the sound of laughter, light and childish, coming from the backyard. I peered through the window, and in the moonlight, I saw two figures playing under the burnt tree. One was a girl with auburn hair, wearing an old-fashioned dress; the other was a boy, smaller, with the same features as Leo. They were playing a game, spinning in circles until they fell to the ground, giggling. Then the girl stopped and looked directly at me. Her smile faded, and her eyes turned black as soot. She pointed at the house, at the window where my brother’s room was, and then she opened her mouth, and a wail came out—a sound like the wind through dead branches, but with the desperation of a lost child.

I ran to Leo’s room, but he was not in his bed. I found him in the ash garden, sitting cross-legged, humming the same tune I’d heard the night before. He was holding the doll I’d thrown away, and his eyes were vacant. I shook him, but he didn’t respond. Then I saw the girl standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder. She looked at me, and for a moment, I saw pity in her eyes. Then she whispered, ‘He wants to stay with me. He’s my friend now.’ I grabbed Leo, dragged him back into the house, and locked all the doors and windows. I left the house early the next morning, taking Leo with me, and we sold the place cheap. To this day, I cannot look at a burnt tree without feeling a cold knot in my stomach, and sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still hear that humming, and I wonder if the girl found another playmate.