The Looming Orchard

The events I am about to share took place at my grandmother’s farmhouse in the rolling hills of Vermont, near a town called Barre. Some of the experiences I will relate are my own, and some are things that my Nana told me.

Both my grandparents were hardworking, salt-of-the-earth people. They were active in their small Methodist church and known throughout the community for their generosity. My grandfather passed away in 1978, and my grandmother stayed in the farmhouse until 1996, when a bad fall forced her into an assisted living facility. She was 92 and had been tending her garden and orchard until the very end.

In 1989, my mother and I moved in with Nana after my parents’ divorce. Mom was considering a permanent move back to the East Coast, but she wanted to take things slow. She had grown up in that house, and I think she hoped the familiar surroundings would heal her. We arrived in late spring, when the orchard was in full bloom. The air smelled of apple blossoms and fresh earth.

One night, about a month after we settled in, I woke to the sound of the television in the front parlor. I assumed Nana had fallen asleep with it on, as she often did. I padded down the creaky hallway, but when I reached the parlor door, the TV was off. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. I was about to go back to bed when I heard a distinct rustling sound from the kitchen, like someone rummaging through the pantry.

I froze. My heart hammered. I whispered, ‘Nana?’ No answer. I crept toward the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the linoleum. The rustling stopped as I approached. The kitchen was empty. The back door was ajar, swinging gently in the wind. I closed it and locked it, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The next morning, I mentioned the incident to my mother. She laughed it off, saying it was just an old house settling. But Nana looked at me with a strange intensity. Later that day, she took me aside and said, ‘You heard it, didn’t you? The rustling.’ I nodded, surprised. She sighed and told me that ever since her husband passed, she had felt a presence in the house. Not a bad presence, but one that was restless. She called it ‘the Orchard Man.’

According to Nana, the orchard had been planted by her grandfather, who was a bitter and reclusive man. He had a daughter, my great-aunt Lila, who died tragically under mysterious circumstances. The official story was that she fell from a ladder while picking apples, but Nana always suspected foul play. She claimed that on certain nights, you could hear the rustling of leaves and the creak of a ladder, and if you looked out the window, you would see a dark figure moving among the trees.

I was skeptical, but I couldn’t deny what I had heard. The following week, I woke to a tapping sound on my window. My room faced the orchard, and through the glass I saw what looked like a silhouette of a man standing at the edge of the trees. It was too tall to be human, and it seemed to be swaying slightly, as if it were a tree itself. I blinked, and it was gone.

I tried to rationalize it: a shadow from the branches, a trick of the light. But the next night, I saw it again, closer. This time, it was unmistakably humanoid, with long arms that hung almost to its knees. It was standing perfectly still, facing my window. I was paralyzed with fear. I wanted to call out, but my voice was stuck in my throat. After what felt like an eternity, it slowly turned and walked deeper into the orchard, disappearing among the trees.

I told my mother, who dismissed it as a nightmare. But Nana believed me. She said, ‘He’s getting restless. He wants something.’ She didn’t elaborate, and I was too scared to ask.

A few nights later, I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water when I heard the rustling again, but this time it was accompanied by a low moaning sound, like wind through a broken pipe. The back door was locked, but I could see the apple trees swaying violently outside, even though there was no breeze. I dropped the glass and ran to my room, hiding under the covers like a child.

The next day, Nana had a stroke. She survived, but she was left unable to speak clearly. She spent her days in a hospital bed in the parlor, staring out the window at the orchard. My mother and I took turns caring for her. One evening, as I sat beside her, she reached out and grabbed my hand with surprising strength. She pulled me close and whispered, ‘He wants the child.’ I thought she was delirious, but her eyes were sharp with fear.

I asked what she meant, but she only shook her head and drifted into sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about her words. The ‘child’—did she mean me? Or was there something else? That night, I lay awake, listening for any sound. It came just after midnight: the rustling, closer than ever, right outside my bedroom door. I heard the doorknob turn slowly, but I had locked it. I held my breath.

The knob rattled, then stopped. There was a long silence. I thought it was over, but then I heard a child’s voice, sweet and innocent, calling my name. ‘Sarah… let me in.’ I didn’t recognize the voice, but it was impossible to ignore. I felt an overwhelming urge to open the door, to see who was there. My body moved against my will, my hand reaching for the lock.

Just as I was about to turn it, I heard Nana’s voice from the parlor, faint but clear: ‘Don’t.’ The spell broke. I yanked my hand back and backed away from the door. The voice outside became a snarl, and the rustling turned into a frantic rattling of the doorframe. I screamed, and my mother rushed in, flicking on the light. The noise stopped.

We found Nana dead in her bed, a peaceful smile on her face. The doctor said she had passed in her sleep. But I knew better. She had given her last strength to save me.

The next day, we had Nana’s funeral. The orchard, once full of life, seemed to have withered overnight. The leaves fell, the branches drooped. When we returned from the service, we found the back door wide open, the house cold. On the kitchen table was a single apple, perfectly ripe and untouched, placed as an offering.

My mother and I left the farmhouse a week later. We never spoke of what happened. But I know that the Orchard Man is still there, waiting. And sometimes, when the wind rustles through the trees, I can hear Nana’s voice whispering, ‘He wants the child.’ I will never step foot in that orchard again.