The Hollow Lullaby of the Thornwood

Our farmhouse sat at the edge of the Thornwood, a sprawling tangle of gnarled oaks and brambles that choked the hillside. Fifty yards from our back door stood the lone Bael tree, its bark like cracked leather and its branches reaching out like brittle fingers. It had never borne a leaf in my memory, not a blossom, not a single fruit. The locals said it grew from the grave of a murdered family, but we were newcomers, and we paid their tales no mind.

I was fourteen that summer, old enough to be left alone while my parents worked the night shift at the canning factory. Our house was a creaking relic, with drafty hallways and a bathroom at the end of the corridor. One night, a nightmare jolted me awake—something about being buried alive, dirt pressing against my face. My heart hammered as I stumbled to the bathroom, the cold linoleum biting my bare feet. The clock on the nightstand had read 12:52 as I left my room.

I was splashing water on my face when I heard it: a thin, reedy melody, like a music box winding down. A lullaby, high and quavering, drifting through the open window. My blood turned to ice. There were no other houses within a mile, and definitely no babies. The song seemed to come from the direction of the Bael tree.

I knew the story, of course. Every kid in the county knew it. A man murdered his wife and child at 1 AM, buried them beneath that tree, and now her ghost sang to the child she’d lost. I’d always scoffed, but now, with the melody curling around me, I felt a primal dread squeeze my chest.

My legs carried me to the front window, even as my mind screamed to look away. The night was moon-bright, casting long shadows across the yard. And there, beneath the jagged silhouette of the Bael tree, stood a woman in a flowing white dress. Her back was to me, but I could see she cradled something in her arms—a bundle, swaddled in pale cloth. She swayed gently, and the lullaby grew louder, almost as if she were singing to me.

Then she turned.

Her face was hidden behind a curtain of black hair, hanging in thick, wet strands, as if she’d just risen from a river. The hair parted slightly, and I saw the gleam of an eye—not white, but a milky, dead grey. She clutched the bundle tighter, and the lullaby faltered, turning into a low, guttural hum. The baby’s form seemed to shift, deform, its head lolling at an impossible angle.

I wanted to run, to hide, but my legs were rooted. The woman began to walk toward the house, her bare feet not quite touching the ground. Each step brought a faint squelch, like wet leaves being crushed. She raised one hand, and her fingers were too long, too thin, tipped with blackened nails. She pressed her palm against the window pane, and frost spiderwebbed across the glass.

Her hair parted fully then, revealing a face that was not a face at all—just a smooth, blank expanse of skin, with a mouth that opened into a dark void. The lullaby shifted into a guttural hiss, and the bundle in her arms began to writhe. I stumbled back, tripping over the rug, and slammed into the hallway wall. The song stopped.

Silence. Then, a soft scratch at the door, like fingernails on wood. A whisper, barely audible: ‘Let me in, little one.’ I didn’t sleep that night. I huddled in the corner of my room, clutching a kitchen knife, until dawn broke. When I finally peered out the window, the tree stood empty, its branches stark against the pale sky.

But the lullaby never really left me. Even now, years later, I hear it in the hum of appliances, in the rustle of wind through eaves. And sometimes, on moonless nights, I see a figure in the distance, swaying beneath a barren tree, cradling something that should not be cradled. I know one day it will reach my window again. And this time, I might not be able to say no.