The Last Berry Basket

I never told anyone about the brambles. Not even my mom, and I told her almost everything. It’s hard to explain, but I think the brambles are why I’m writing this. They were always there, at the edge of our property, tangled and thick, with thorns that could tear through jeans like paper. When I was six, Andy would lift me on his shoulders so I could reach the blackberries that grew deep inside. He said they were the sweetest ones, but you had to fight for them.

Andy wasn’t my brother, but he might as well have been. He was two years older and had looked after me since I was four, when my grandma got too sick to watch me and my mom worked double shifts. He’d already been living with us then, sort of, because his own home life was a mess. So he just became my keeper. He taught me to tie my shoes, to read the labels on canned goods at the store, and to never, ever go into the brambles without him. ‘They’re full of holes,’ he’d say, ‘that swallow things.’ I thought he meant sneakers and lost balls.

Things changed when I turned eleven. Mom married Trevor, and we moved to a smaller place near the coast. The brambles were behind our new house too, but they were different. These were sparser, gray, and they smelled like rotting fruit. The berries were sour, and they stained your hands a dark purple that wouldn’t wash off for days. Andy had just graduated high school and had taken a summer job at the docks, so he was barely around. I missed the old brambles, the ones that made sense, the ones that gave sweet berries and hid only ordinary secrets.

One August afternoon, Andy came home early, his shirt covered in fish scales and his hands raw. He said he had a present for me. He’d been saving up, and he handed me a small, wooden box, carved with patterns of vines and thorns. Inside, there was a silver locket on a thin chain. I opened it, but there was no picture. Just a tiny, dried blackberry, as black as a lump of coal. ‘This’ll keep you safe,’ Andy said, his voice cracking. Something in his eyes was different, like he was looking at me from far away.

That night, I woke to a scratching sound outside my window. I crept to the glass, and there was Andy, standing by the brambles. He was waving at me, but it was a stiff, jerky motion, like a puppet. I opened my window, and he called out, ‘Hey, let’s get some berries! The good ones are ripe!’ The moon was full, and I could see the brambles were heavier than before, drooping with dark fruit. I knew my mom would yell, but I wanted to go. I slipped out, still in my nightgown, the locket cold against my chest.

Andy didn’t wait for me. He was already at the edge of the brambles when I reached him, and he just smiled and stepped inside. I followed, the thorns catching my sleeves. The brambles were thick here, and I had to duck and weave. ‘Where are the good berries?’ I asked, but Andy didn’t answer. He kept walking, deeper and deeper, until the moonlight barely reached us. The ground became soft, and I could hear a low humming, like a hive. Andy stopped at a spot where the brambles formed a perfect circle. In the center, there was a small pit, and at the bottom, something glinted.

Andy knelt down and reached in. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a blackberry, but it was enormous, the size of my fist. It seemed to pulse. ‘This one’s ripe,’ he said, holding it out to me. The juice dripped down his wrist, and it looked like ink. ‘Eat it,’ he said. ‘It’s the last berry of the season. It’ll keep you safe, like the locket.’

I took it, but something felt wrong. The berry was warm, and it squished in my hand. I looked at Andy, and his eyes were glazed over. ‘What about you?’ I asked. He shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve had my share. I’m full.’ He smiled, and his teeth were stained purple. I looked at the pit, and I saw a scrap of cloth, like the kind from Andy’s favorite shirt, and a single sneaker.

Then Andy’s voice came from behind me, from the direction we came. ‘Hey, Kayla, where are you?’ I spun around, and there was Andy, standing at the edge of the brambles, the moonlight on his face. He was holding a flashlight. But the Andy beside me, the one who had led me there, was gone. I was alone in the circle. The giant berry in my hand had started to rot, collapsing into a stinking mess. I dropped it and ran.

When I burst out of the brambles, Andy hugged me. ‘I saw you sneak out,’ he said. ‘I was worried.’ I told him what happened, about the other Andy, about the pit, about the berry. He just shook his head. ‘The brambles are tricky,’ he said, ‘but they’re harmless. You must have had a nightmare.’ But when he looked at my nightgown, his face went pale. There was a stain on the hem, dark and purple, that I hadn’t noticed before. He took me back inside and told my mom I’d been sleepwalking.

After that, Andy left for college a week early. He never came back to visit. He calls on my birthday, but we talk about ordinary things, like weather and sports. But I’ve never forgotten that night, and I’ve never gone back to those brambles. The locket, though, I still wear it. Inside, the dried blackberry has turned to dust, but sometimes, when I touch it, I can feel a faint hum, and I swear I can smell rotting fruit. And sometimes, late at night, I think I see Andy standing by the brambles, waving at me with that stiff, jerky motion, and I know that whatever took his place that night is waiting for me to come back, to take the last berry, and never leave.