The Garrote of Pines

The letter I sent you last month was only half the truth. I said I was fine, that the red-faced man was just a trick of the light, and that the girl with black hair was a neighbor’s kid playing pranks. I lied. The truth is I haven’t slept in three days, and I’m not sure I’ll ever feel safe inside these four walls again.

I live in the old Hartley house, a Victorian relic at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by a forest of pine trees that always seem to lean inward, like they’re listening. My garden is a tangled mess of wildflowers and overgrown shrubs, and in the center stands an ancient oak that’s been here since before the house was built. That oak is where it all started.

Two nights ago, my cat, Mabel, darted out the kitchen door and made a beeline for the oak. I chased after her, barefoot in the wet grass, and found her halfway up the trunk, crying. I was reaching for her when I glanced through the open back door, straight through the hallway to the front window, and saw her. The girl with black hair. She was standing in the reflection, but not like a reflection. She was in the house, her face pressed against the glass of the front door, her black hair hanging over her face like a curtain. I froze. Mabel dug her claws into my arm, and I snapped back. When I looked again, she was gone.

It’s the shadow with red eyes that really breaks me. Last night, I was lying in bed, the lamp on, the curtains drawn. I heard a scratching, like nails on wood, coming from the hallway. I got up, my heart pounding, and opened the door a crack. The hallway was dark except for the sliver of light from my room. At the far end, near the stairs, there was a shape, darker than the darkness. It was tall, vaguely human, but its edges blurred like smoke. And in its center, two pinpoints of red, burning like embers. It didn’t move. It just stood there, watching me. I slammed the door and locked it. I spent the rest of the night sitting in the corner, staring at the door, waiting for the scratching to start again.

I tried to convince myself it was all in my head, stress from work, lack of sleep. But this morning, I found something that shattered that delusion. The oak tree in the garden is covered in rope burns. Deep, dark grooves in the bark, as if someone had tied a thick rope around it and pulled with all their might. That wasn’t there yesterday. And under the oak, lying in the grass, was a piece of rope. Not frayed, not old. It looked brand new, and it smelled like the sea, salt and rot. I didn’t touch it.

I called my friend, the only person I’ve told about the girl and the shadow. He came over this afternoon, and we sat on the back steps, watching the tree. He saw the rope marks too. He said, ‘That’s from a noose. Someone tied a noose to that limb, and it’s been used.’ He looked at me, dead serious, and said, ‘You need to cut that branch down or burn it.’ But I can’t. Because every time I take an axe to that tree, I hear her scream, a high, thin wail that comes from inside the house. And when I stop, it stops.

Tonight, I’m writing this in my car, parked at the end of the driveway. I’m not going back in. I can see the house from here, the lights still on in my bedroom, the curtains drawn. But I know she’s in there. I saw her at the window just now, her black hair pressed against the glass, her mouth open in a silent scream. And the shadow with red eyes is standing behind her, its arms reaching out as if to embrace her. They’re not separate. They’re part of the same horror, tethered to that tree, waiting. I don’t know if this letter will reach you. I don’t know if anyone will read it. But if you do, and you see a house with a giant oak in the garden, covered in rope burns, do not go inside. Do not even look at the windows. And if you see a girl with black hair, run. Run and don’t look back.