The Crooked Pine Lullaby

I never thought much about the old crooked pine that leaned over the fence line between our property and the deep woods behind it. It had been there since I was a kid, its trunk twisted like a question mark, its branches sparse and gnarled. But after what happened with my grandson, I can’t look at it without feeling a cold knot in my stomach.

My daughter, Lena, drops little Emmett off with me every Tuesday and Thursday while she works a double shift at the hospital. He’s a sturdy little fellow, just turned two, with a laugh that could melt frost off a window. Today was like any other: we played with his blocks, read ‘Goodnight Moon’ three times, and then, at 12:15, I tucked him into the guest room. The room faces the backyard, and through the window, you can see that pine. He dozed off with his bunny tucked under his arm, and I thought I’d have a quiet hour to finish my crossword.

At 12:29, the knocking began. It wasn’t at the door—it was on the window of the guest room. Three slow, deliberate thumps, like someone tapping with a knuckle. My dogs, two hounds who rarely bark at anything, went ballistic. They shot to the window, hackles raised, and bayed like they’d treed a coon. Emmett woke up screaming, terrified. I rushed in, scooped him up, and tried to calm him, but he just pointed at the window and wailed, ‘Tree! Tree!’

I looked out, but there was nothing there—just the crooked pine swaying in a breeze that hadn’t been blowing a second before. I figured maybe a branch had tapped the glass. I tried to settle Emmett back down, but he fought me tooth and nail. I sang his favorite lullaby, the one about the sleepy owl, but he’d have none of it. He screamed and thrashed, his face red, tears streaming down his cheeks. I tried moving him to the living room, the nursery, even my own bedroom, but he wouldn’t calm. He just kept crying, ‘Tree! Tree!’

Finally, exhausted, I let him run around the living room. He was fine there—no screaming, just a low, anxious babble. I kept him away from the windows. After about twenty minutes, I heard a car pull into the driveway. It was Lena, home early to grab some paperwork. As she came through the front door, Emmett ran to her, buried his face in her legs, and for the first time since the knocking, he fell silent. Lena looked at me, puzzled. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked. I told her about the tapping and the dogs. She shrugged. ‘Probably a squirrel. Listen, I forgot my laptop. I’ll be right back.’ She left, and as soon as the door clicked shut, Emmett started screaming again, pointing toward the back of the house—toward the guest room.

That’s when I remembered something. When I was a kid, my older brother used to tell me a story about the crooked pine. He said it was a ‘wishing tree,’ but not the kind you throw pennies at. He claimed that if you whispered your deepest fear to it, it would take it away—but only if you gave it something in return. A name. A memory. I never believed him, even when he’d get that faraway look in his eyes. But now, watching my grandson sob and point at that damn tree, I wondered if my brother had been trying to warn me all along.

When Lena came back, Emmett finally calmed down. She took him home, and the house fell quiet except for the dogs’ low, nervous whines. I tried to shake off the unease, but my mind kept drifting to that window. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up to get a glass of water, and as I passed the guest room, I heard it again—the knocking, slow and deliberate, from the other side of the glass. I froze. I didn’t dare look. I just stood there, gripping the doorframe, until it stopped.

The next morning, I called my brother. He didn’t answer. I drove past his old house, but it was abandoned. The pine was still there, crooked and silent. I haven’t watched Emmett since. Lena says he’s been having nightmares, waking up in the middle of the night, crying, ‘The tree, the tree.’ I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t know what that tree wants, but I know it’s watching. It’s always been watching. And I’m afraid that someday, it’ll find a way to knock not on the glass, but on the door—and I’ll have no choice but to answer.