The Counter in the Orchard

My cousin Delia and I were lounging on the back porch of her farmhouse, watching our kids tear through the apple orchard in a game of hide-and-seek. The evening air was thick with the scent of ripe fruit and cut grass, and the setting sun cast long, golden fingers across the yard. We sipped cold lemonade and chatted about nothing in particular, the comfortable rhythm of our weekly get-togethers.

Then I saw her.

A little girl, maybe seven or eight, standing perfectly still at the edge of the orchard. She wore an old-fashioned white dress, the kind with a high collar and lace trim, and there was a faint, silvery halo around her, like a shimmer of heat on a summer road. She was facing a large oak tree, her small hands pressed flat against the bark, her forehead resting on her knuckles. She was counting, her lips moving silently, one finger tapping the tree in a steady, rhythmic beat.

I felt a cold prickle at the back of my neck. I glanced at Delia, and saw her staring at the same spot, her face gone pale. ‘You see her too, don’t you?’ I whispered.

‘Yeah,’ she breathed.

Before we could decide what to do, my nephew, Ben, burst from behind the porch steps, yelling ‘Boo!’ and making us both jump. We laughed nervously, and when I turned back to the orchard, the girl was gone. Just a whisper of white fading into the deepening shadows.

We tried to shake it off, but the unease lingered, a cold stone in my stomach. Eventually, we herded the kids inside and settled down for the night. Delia’s husband, Marcus, had been out back repairing a fence, and when we told him what we’d seen, he just frowned and shook his head. ‘You two have been watching too many scary movies,’ he said, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.

The kids were tucked into their sleeping bags in the living room, and Delia and I stayed up in the kitchen, whispering about the girl. We described her in the same detail: the white dress, the halo, the way she leaned into the tree, counting. We didn’t imagine it. We both saw her. Marcus went to bed early, muttering that we were being ridiculous.

Around 11 PM, Delia’s youngest, little Mia, wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. ‘Mommy, who’s the little girl in the orchard? She’s playing hide-and-seek with us. She counts so slow.’

Delia and I exchanged a look, ice running through my veins. ‘What little girl, sweetheart?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

‘The one in the white dress. She said her name is Clara. She always counts to a hundred, but she never opens her eyes. And when we hide, she finds us every time. It’s not fair.’

Mia yawned and shuffled back to her sleeping bag, leaving us in stunned silence. I remembered the counting girl, her hands on the tree, and I knew then that whatever she was, she wasn’t just a trick of the light.

Suddenly, from the living room, we heard a small, playful voice, high and clear: ‘Ready or not, here I come!’

It wasn’t any of our kids.

We ran into the living room. The kids were all wide awake, sitting up, their faces pale in the dim light. Ben pointed toward the window. ‘She’s out there,’ he whispered. ‘She’s just standing by the tree, counting again.’

I looked through the window. The girl was back, her halo now a faint, pulsing glow, her hands pressed to the tree. She began to count aloud, her voice carrying through the glass, soft and lilting: ‘One… two… three…’

‘She’s been out there every night for the past ninety years,’ Marcus said from the doorway, his voice flat. He held an old, faded photograph in his trembling hands. ‘That’s my great-aunt Clara. She died in this orchard, counting to a hundred in a game of hide-and-seek. They never found her. She’s been looking for the others ever since.’

‘Others?’ Delia’s voice was barely a whisper.

‘The other children she used to play with. She doesn’t remember they’re gone. And now she thinks our kids are them.’

As he spoke, the girl outside turned, her face lifting from the tree. She smiled, a wide, eager smile, and beckoned with one small hand. ‘I found you,’ she called. ‘It’s your turn to hide. And I’ll count again. I always count.’

We grabbed our children, huddling in the center of the room, as her counting started anew, slower, more deliberate. The orchard seemed to darken, the trees bending toward us, and I knew with sickening certainty that Clara’s game was not over. She would count until she found all her old playmates, and we were now part of her endless hide-and-seek.