The Mango Tree’s Debt

I grew up in a small, one-story house at the back of a compound in a city that never truly slept. Our house was a gift from an old landlady, a woman with kind eyes but a gaze that lingered too long on the mango tree in our backyard. Its branches stretched over our roof like a protective arm, but I always felt it was watching, waiting.

My parents were loving but often absent, working long hours to make ends meet. I was an only child, and the silence of the house was my constant companion. I learned to entertain myself with books and drawings, but there were times when the quiet grew heavy, and I could swear I heard whispers in the rustling leaves of the mango tree.

The first incident happened when I was seven. I had a fever, and my mother had to run to the pharmacy. She left me alone for barely thirty minutes, but in that time, I saw a woman standing at the foot of my bed. She was old, with long white hair that seemed to float around her, and her eyes were two black voids. She didn’t speak, but I felt her hunger, a desperate, gnawing need that made my skin crawl. When my mother returned, the woman was gone, and I was too scared to tell her.

As I grew older, the presence became more persistent. I would hear footsteps in the hallway when I was the only one home, and the mango tree’s branches would tap on the window like impatient fingers. My parents dismissed my fears, saying it was just the wind or my imagination. But I knew better.

One summer, my cousin Lina came to stay with us. She was older, bolder, and laughed at my fears. One night, we were lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling, when she pointed to the window. ‘Look, the tree is trying to get in,’ she joked. I grabbed her arm, my heart pounding. ‘Don’t say that,’ I whispered. But it was too late. The window latch clicked, and the window swung open, revealing the silhouetted branches against the moonlight.

I saw the old woman again, but this time she was clearer. She was standing at the window, her hand outstretched, and she was pointing at Lina. I screamed, but Lina saw only the tree. She got up to close the window, and as she did, a branch swept in, scratching her arm. She yelped and stepped back, and I saw blood beading on her skin. The moment the window was shut, the presence vanished, but I could feel its anger.

That night, I told Lina everything. She didn’t laugh anymore. Instead, she suggested we research the house’s history. The old landlady had never mentioned anything, but the neighbors across the street had stories. One old man told us that the mango tree was planted by the landlady’s mother, who had died mysteriously. She had been a healer, some said, and the tree was her final resting place, her spirit bound to it.

They said she was a good woman, but she had a debt to repay. She had made a deal with something dark to save her daughter’s life, and the price was her soul. The tree absorbed her essence, and now it hungered for something to even the scales.

I began to avoid the backyard altogether. I stopped playing under the tree, and I kept the curtains closed, but the presence followed me inside. I would feel icy fingers on my neck when I walked past the hallway mirror, and I would see fleeting shadows in my peripheral vision. My parents noticed I was becoming jumpy, but they chalked it up to adolescence.

Then my aunt fell ill—Lina’s mother. The doctors couldn’t diagnose her, and she grew weaker by the day. Lina was frantic, and she remembered the story. She thought if we could appease the spirit, maybe her mother would get better. She suggested we leave an offering under the tree, a piece of fruit and some sweet rice, the kind the old woman might have loved.

Reluctantly, I agreed. We went out at dusk, placing the offering at the base of the tree. As I knelt, I saw the roots shifting, as if the tree was alive. I looked up, and the branches seemed to reach down, and I felt a cold breath on my ear. ‘You are kind,’ a voice whispered. ‘But it is not enough.’

We ran back inside, and the rest of the night, the house was silent. But the next morning, my aunt’s condition worsened, and Lina received a call that she had passed away. Lina was devastated, and she never spoke of the tree again. She left a few days later, and I was alone again.

Now, I am fifteen, and the presence is stronger than ever. My parents have finally noticed the dark circles under my eyes and the tremor in my hands. They’ve decided to move, to escape this house and the tree. But as the movers pack our things, I see the old woman standing under the mango tree, and she is smiling at me.

I know that no matter how far we move, I will carry her with me. The mango tree’s debt is not paid, and I am the one who must fulfill it.