The Cadence of the Red Oak

The autumn of my junior year at Saint Agatha’s Academy in the hills of Batangas was unusually still. The air hung heavy with the scent of drying grass and the faint, sour tang of the church’s old incense. We were a small class, twenty-three of us, and our world revolved around the bell tower’s chimes and the unspoken rules of the campus. Rumors had always circled the old oak tree near the abandoned convent, but they were the kind of stories you told at sleepovers to make each other squeal, not the kind you believed. That was before the music started.

It began with a low hum, a melody just at the edge of hearing, always at dusk. Some of the girls said it was the wind through the dry leaves. But I knew better. I’d heard it first in the library, through the cracked window that faced the oak. It was a tune I recognized from a music box I had as a child, a lullaby my mother used to hum. The coincidence unsettled me more than the sound itself.

Then came the notes. A soft, hesitant piano, as if someone was learning the song by ear. It played every evening at seven, just after the last dismissal bell. The music was beautiful, sad, and strangely familiar to everyone. Each of us swore we’d heard it somewhere before, but no one could say where.

One Thursday, our class was kept late for a remedial session in the old science building. The building was a squat, moss-covered structure from the American era, and its windows were dark as we filed out. The music began just as we reached the door. It wasn’t the piano now. It was a chorus of children’s voices, humming the same lullaby, growing louder and more dissonant. Our teacher, Mrs. Alvero, froze in the doorway. She turned to us, her face pale in the dim light, and whispered, ‘Don’t look at the oak. Just go straight to the dormitory.’

We didn’t ask questions. We walked in a tight, frightened pack, our footsteps echoing on the cracked concrete. As we passed the oak, I couldn’t help but glance. Under the gnarled branches, a figure in a white dress was dancing, swaying to the hum. Its head was tilted back, and its arms were raised like a conductor’s. I stumbled, and one of my friends, Liza, grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s the music teacher who died in the fire. She never finished her lullaby.’

But that was only the first layer. The next week, the music changed. It started to mimic our daily sounds. The crunch of leaves under feet, the slam of lockers, the chatter of the cafeteria. It was as if the oak was learning us, memorizing our rhythms. One afternoon, I was alone in the music room, practicing my flute, when I heard the piano playing along with me, note for note, but reversed. I turned around, expecting to see a prankster, but the piano was closed. The lid was down, and dust was undisturbed. And yet, the keys continued to play a backward version of my piece.

I ran to the dormitory and told everyone. That night, we locked our doors and windows, but the music seeped through the cracks. It was the lullaby again, but now mixed with the sound of a motorcycle engine, and a boy’s laughter. That’s when I remembered. The senior who died two years ago, Esteban, the one everyone adored. He used to ride his motorcycle near the oak, and he’d whistle that same tune. But he wasn’t the one I feared most.

On the night of the full moon, the music reached a climax. It was a chaotic symphony of every sound we’d ever made, overlapping and discordant. I woke to a cold draft and saw the door ajar. Through the gap, the oak tree was bathed in white light. Under it, the white-dressed figure was no longer dancing. It was holding a conductor’s baton, and as it lowered the baton, the music stopped. The silence was deafening.

Then a voice, young and sweet, called out, ‘Come, my children. Time to practice.’

I felt an invisible hand tugging me toward the door. I clung to my bedpost, but the pull was strong. My roommates were all asleep, immune to the call. I began to recite a Hail Mary, but the voice laughed, and the music swelled again, this time a distorted version of the lullaby that made my ears bleed. I saw, for a moment, the figure’s face. It was a girl, about eleven, with hollow black eyes and a wide smile. She had been the music teacher’s daughter, who had died in the fire alongside her mother. They said they never found her body, but I knew they had. She was buried under the oak, and she had been practicing her mother’s unfinished concerto for decades.

As the music reached a crescendo, I shouted, ‘I won’t be your audience!’ And I forced myself to scream, a raw, piercing sound that shattered the spell. The figure tilted its head, and the music stopped. It then pointed at me and mouthed, ‘Your turn.’ I fell to my knees, shaking. When I looked up, the oak was just a tree, and the courtyard was empty.

From that night on, I never heard the music again. But I did see something new. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw a sheet of music with my name on it, and a single line of notation: ‘The Solo of the Fallen.’ I told no one, but I noticed the juniors had started to hum the lullaby during breaks. They say they learned it from an old recording, but I know the truth. It’s all part of the cadence of the red oak, a rhythm that never truly ends.