The Falling Blade

When I moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of Ellery Creek, I thought I’d found peace. The house was a two-story Victorian, peeling white paint, a wraparound porch, and a yard that sloped down to a dry creek bed. It was a fixer-upper, but the price was right, and my mother and I needed a fresh start. The first week, I hung a machete I’d found in the attic on a branch of the massive oak by the driveway. It was purely decorative, but I spent an hour wedging it into the bark until it held fast. That night, I went to bed tired but content.

I woke to a sound like a steel rod snapping. I looked out my window and saw the machete on the ground, its blade buried in the dirt, as if someone had thrown it there. I went out and tried to jam it back into the same spot, but the bark was smooth, unmarred. I shoved it deeper, into a different fork, and it still wouldn’t budge. But the next morning, it was again on the grass, and this time the handle was warm, like someone had just let it go. My mother shrugged. ’It must have fallen,’ she said. I didn’t tell her that I’d checked the rope I’d tied, and the knot was tight, untouched.

I started asking around. The nearest neighbor, an old man named Pemberton, lived a half mile down the road. He had a pinched face and hands that shook when he held his coffee. I asked if anyone had died in the house. He paused, then said, ’A man named Colby. He lived there in the ’80s. He took a machete to himself in the backyard, under that same oak. They say he had been acting strange for weeks. He’d been chopping wood, then one day he just… stopped. He held the blade to his own neck and fell. They found him there, the machete still in his hands.’ I felt a chill as he spoke, but I laughed it off. ’Sounds like an urban legend,’ I said. He shook his head. ’You can look it up. The creek was red for days.’

The next night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the crickets, when I heard a rhythmic thumping from the backyard. It was the trampoline—a rusted, rickety thing I’d found at the dump and set up near the fence. But no one was out there. I tiptoed to the window, and there it was, the mat bouncing up and down, as if a ghost were rehearsing a jump. There was no wind. I watched for a minute, heart pounding, then the bouncing stopped. The next morning, there was a pair of muddy footprints on the mat, but they were small, like a child’s. I told my mother, but she rolled her eyes. ’You’ve been watching too many scary movies.’

One afternoon, I was in her room, flipping through channels, and I landed on a show about haunted places. On the screen, a figure in white stood at the foot of a bed. At that moment, I felt a presence behind me. I turned, and there it was—a translucent form, featureless, like a smear of fog, hovering over my mother’s pillow. It lingered for three seconds, then dissolved like smoke. I called for my mom, but she was in the kitchen. She came in, asked what was wrong. I told her what I’d seen. She just sighed. ’You’re imagining things, sweetie. You’ve been under stress.’

That night, I heard the trampoline again, and then a crash. I ran outside. The machete was embedded in the middle of the trampoline, blade down, the handle vibrating. I pulled it out, and as I held it, I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around, but no one was there. I brought the machete inside and locked it in the closet, but the next morning, it was back on the tree, stuck in the exact spot I had first placed it.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to dig deeper. I found a local historian who told me about the house. She said that before Colby, an old woman named Edna had lived there. She was a widow, and she had a granddaughter who died on that trampoline—it wasn’t a trampoline back then, but a falling swing. Edna was so distraught, she hung herself from the oak tree, using a rope she’d soaked in creek water. The tree was the same one I’d used to anchor the machete. She told me that some things never leave, and that the machete was Colby’s legacy, and the trampoline was Edna’s.

I told my mother everything, but she wouldn’t listen. She said I was obsessed. So I did what any reasonable person would do: I tried to destroy the machete. I took it to a blacksmith, but he refused, saying the metal felt wrong. I threw it in the creek, but the next day it was back. I burned it in a fire, but it emerged from the ashes, pristine. And then, one night, I woke up holding it. I was standing in the backyard, the blade pressed against my own throat. The trampoline was bouncing, and I could hear a child’s laughter, and an old woman’s sobs. I dropped the machete and staggered back, but I knew I couldn’t leave. The house was a tether, and I was already part of its story.

Now, I keep the machete on the tree, but I’m the one who puts it there. Every morning, I find it on the ground, and every night, I dream of Colby and Edna. My mother moved out last month, saying she couldn’t stand my ’nonsense.’ But I can’t leave. The house has claimed me. The blade is waiting, and the trampoline is quiet, but I know they’re not done with me. I wonder how long until I stop waking up.

I’ve started to write this down, in case someone finds it. If you’re reading this, don’t try to remove the machete. Don’t walk on the trampoline. And if you see a white figure at the foot of your bed, don’t look away. Just pray that it fades, and that you don’t become the next one to fall.