The Grain of the Oak

When my great-aunt Marta finally cleared out her attic, she called my mother and said, ‘You should have these. They were your mother’s, and I’ve kept them long enough.’ My mother, who had spent years avoiding anything that reminded her of the woman who had raised her with a cold, trembling hand, hesitated. But then she sighed and said, ‘Fine. Send them over.’

We were living in a rented house on the edge of the town of Ashford, where the oak trees grew so thick that the streets were always in shadow. The box arrived on a rainy Tuesday. My sisters and I, Lena and I, stood at the door as the delivery man hauled the soggy cardboard bundle onto the porch. Our mother wouldn’t touch it. ‘You girls can go through it,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Pick something for yourselves. Just don’t bring me anything.’

We tore open the box, eager for treasures. Inside were dusty photo albums, a tarnished silver mirror, a chipped porcelain doll, and, at the very bottom, a small wooden music box. It was shaped like a miniature chest, carved from dark oak, with a pattern of leaves and vines etched into its lid. When we opened it, a tinny, mournful tune played, and a tiny wooden ballerina spun in a circle. ‘I want this,’ Lena said, grabbing it before I could. Our mother, who had been watching from the kitchen doorway, flinched. ‘Put that away,’ she said, but Lena held it tight.

That night, I woke to a strange sound. It was a scratching, like tiny nails on wood, coming from the room Lena and I shared. I sat up and saw Lena sitting on her bed, staring at the music box, which was open on her lap. The ballerina was spinning, but not to the tune. It was spinning in reverse, faster and faster, and the music was a distorted, warbling version of the lullaby. ‘Lena?’ I whispered. She didn’t answer. She just kept staring, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. Then she snapped the lid shut. The room went silent. ‘Go back to sleep, Maddie,’ she said, her voice odd, like she had a cold. I lay back down, but I couldn’t sleep.

Over the next few days, Lena changed. She started humming that tune constantly, under her breath. She carried the music box everywhere, even to the dinner table, where our mother told her to put it away. Lena would just clutch it tighter. She began to talk about ‘Grandmother’, but not the way we’d heard stories of a sickly woman. She talked about a young woman with dark hair who danced in the woods, and how she’d been ‘buried in the wrong place.’ Our mother turned white when she heard that. ‘Where did you hear that?’ she demanded. Lena just smiled, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and said, ‘She told me.’

One evening, I found Lena in front of the bathroom mirror, the music box at her feet, playing the tune. She was brushing her hair, but her reflection was wrong. In the mirror, her reflection was an older woman, with the same dark hair, but with a gaunt face and wild eyes. The reflection was smiling, and it was shaking its head slowly. I screamed, and Lena turned. The reflection was normal again. ‘What?’ she said, annoyed. ‘Nothing,’ I said, backing away.

I told my mother, but she looked at me with fear and anger. ‘Stop making up stories, Maddie. You’re just jealous that Lena got the music box.’ But I wasn’t jealous. I was terrified. I started watching Lena more closely. At night, I would hear her whisper to someone, a soft, cooing voice, and then a different voice, a raspy, deep one, answering. The room would grow cold, and the smell of damp earth and rotten leaves would fill the air.

Then the trees began to die. The oak trees along our street, ancient and gnarled, started to wither. Their leaves curled and turned brown, and black, weeping sap bled from their trunks. Our neighbors complained, but the arborist said there was no cause. It was as if something had drained the life from them.

I decided to get rid of the music box. While Lena was at school, I took it from beneath her pillow. I planned to bury it in the woods, deep where no one would find it. But as I walked into the forest behind our house, I felt a presence. The air grew thick, and the sounds of birds and insects faded. I found a clearing, and in the center, there was a grave. The headstone read ‘Edith Marlowe, 1920-1994’, and it was covered in moss. But that wasn’t the worst part. Next to the grave, there was a fresh hole. It was exactly the size of the music box.

My hands trembled as I dropped the box into the hole. It landed with a soft thud, and I started to push the dirt back. But then the box opened by itself, and the ballerina began to spin. The tune rang out, louder than it had any right to be, and from the grave, I heard a rustling. The ground began to shift, and something clawed its way up, a skeletal hand, then a head, covered in rotting skin, but with eyes that glowed with a terrible light. It was the woman from the mirror.

I turned and ran, but the forest seemed to stretch endlessly. I heard her voice, a whisper that slithered into my ear: ‘You cannot give back what was claimed.’ When I finally burst out of the trees, the house was dark. I found my mother and Lena in the living room, huddled together, the music box back on the table, playing its tune. Lena looked up at me, her eyes now the same glowing amber as the woman’s. ‘She wants one of us,’ Lena said, her voice echoing. ‘She’s been waiting for a vessel.’

We tried to destroy it. We threw it into the fireplace, but the flames turned blue and died. We tried to shatter it with a hammer, but the wood wouldn’t crack. And all the while, the tune kept playing, growing louder, until it was all we could hear. My mother finally broke down, sobbing, ‘It was her dying wish. She said to bury the box with her, but we didn’t. We kept it. We kept it.’

On the third night, Lena walked into the woods without a word. I followed her, my heart pounding. She stood over the grave, which was now covered in fresh earth. She knelt and began to dig with her bare hands. I tried to stop her, but she was too strong. She uncovered the music box, and as she held it, the lid sprang open, and the ballerina spun. The tune turned into a lullaby, a sweet, haunting melody, and Lena began to sway. Then she lay down in the hole, just as the sun began to rise. She placed the music box on her chest, and the lid closed. The earth began to shift, covering her, as if the ground itself was swallowing her.

I screamed, but no sound came out. I could only watch as the soil settled, leaving no trace of my sister. The forest was silent, and the trees around the grave suddenly burst into life, green and lush, as if fed by something dark.

I returned home to find my mother in a trance-like state, humming the lullaby. She looked at me with hollow eyes and said, ‘She’s at peace now.’ But I knew better. I knew that Lena wasn’t at peace. She was with Grandmother, and they would both be waiting.

I left that house, but I took the music box with me. I couldn’t let it remain to claim another. I carried it to the deepest part of the forest, where the oaks were so thick that no light penetrated, and I buried it beneath a gnarled root. Then I walked out of the woods and never returned. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint, tinny melody floating on the wind, and I know that whatever is buried there is not at rest. And I wonder if, when I die, someone will make the same mistake and open that box again.