The Face in the Persimmon Tree

The night air in our mountain town of San Rafael was thick with the scent of damp earth and ripe persimmons. I’d been finishing a late shift at the town’s only diner, and the walk home through the cobblestone streets felt longer than usual. The generator had been sputtering all week, and the streetlights were weak, casting pools of sickly yellow light that barely pierced the darkness. Our house, a two-story adobe structure with a corrugated tin roof, sat at the edge of the forest, where the trees pressed close like curious spectators.

I entered through the back door, careful not to wake my grandmother, who slept in the front room, and my younger brother, who was in the room we shared. The house was quiet, save for the creaking of the wooden floorboards and the distant hum of the refrigerator. I tiptoed past the kitchen, where a single bulb flickered overhead, and made my way to the stairs. My room was at the top, a small space with a window that overlooked the persimmon tree in the front yard. The fruit was heavy on the branches, their bright orange skins glowing faintly in the moonlight.

I changed into my sleeping clothes and lay down on the narrow cot. The window was slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that carried the smell of rotting fruit. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily. There was a strange feeling, like I was being watched. I dismissed it as nerves from the late shift, but the sensation grew stronger. An invisible pressure seemed to push against my eyelids, urging me to open them. After a few minutes, I gave in.

At first, the window showed only the tree and the dark outline of the mountains. But then, something moved among the branches. A shape, pale and indistinct, separated from the shadows. It was the face of a girl, pressed against the glass, her features blurred as if seen through water. Her hair hung in limp strands, and her eyes were dark hollows. I froze, my heart hammering. I thought it might be my grandmother, who sometimes sleepwalked, but her face was unmistakable, and this was not her. The face remained, motionless, staring at me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

I tried to blink, to clear my vision, but the face was still there. It seemed to grow more defined, the skin taking on a grayish tint, the mouth opening slightly as if to speak, but no sound came. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I wanted to scream, to call for my grandmother, but my throat was constricted. The face tilted its head, and a sickening crack echoed in the room, like a branch snapping. It was then I realized the window was closed, and the face was not outside but inside, on the glass itself, a reflection of something behind me.

I slowly turned my head, my neck stiff with terror. The room was dim, but I could make out the shapes of furniture. There, in the corner near the closet, stood a figure. It was tall and thin, with limbs that seemed too long, and its face was obscured by shadow. But I knew it was the same figure, the girl from the window. She stood perfectly still, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw that her feet were not touching the floor. She hung in the air, swaying slightly, like a corpse from a rope.

The air grew cold, and the smell of persimmons turned cloying, almost rotten. I heard a faint rustling, like leaves scraping against each other, and then a whisper, so soft I almost missed it: ‘You left me.’ I tried to respond, but no words came. My body was paralyzed, my limbs heavy as lead. The figure glided closer, and I could see her face clearly now: it was a girl, perhaps twelve, with gray skin and hollow eyes. Her mouth moved, but the whisper came from everywhere: ‘You left me in the tree.’

Memories flooded back, unbidden. A rainy afternoon, years ago, when I was eight. I had been playing by the persimmon tree with a girl from the neighboring farm, Liza. We had climbed to the top, and she had slipped, her leg caught in a fork. I had run for help, but by the time I returned with her father, she was gone. They found her the next day, her neck broken, her body tangled in the branches. The town said it was an accident, but I knew I had been too slow. I had left her there, and I never spoke of it again.

Now, the girl was back. Her hand reached out, and her fingers, cold and slender, brushed my cheek. Her touch was like ice, and I felt a deep numbness spread from the point of contact. ‘You took my life,’ she said, her voice now clear and sharp. ‘Now I will take yours.’ I wanted to run, but my body wouldn’t obey. She leaned in closer, her breath a cold mist, and her eyes, once hollow, filled with a piercing white light. The room seemed to dissolve, and I was falling, falling into darkness, the last thing I heard being the wind in the persimmon leaves.

I woke the next morning on the floor beside my cot, shivering, my clothes damp with dew. The window was wide open, and the persimmon tree stood silent in the dawn light. I crawled to the window and looked out. There, among the branches, a single persimmon had fallen and split open, its pulp dark red like old blood. I never spoke of that night to anyone, and I have never slept with the window open since. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear a girl’s voice on the wind, calling my name, and I know she is still waiting for me in the tree.