The Marrow of the Pine

My father rarely spoke of the summer he turned thirteen, and when he did, it was always in fragments—a half-finished sentence, a glance at his hands, a sudden need to check the stove. But one night, after I returned from my own foolish expedition into the hollowed-out farmhouse on Selby Lane, he sat me down at the kitchen table and told me the whole of it. He said it was the only way to keep me from making the same mistake.

That summer, my father—his name is Daniel—was staying with his cousin Marta at their grandmother’s place, a sprawling, drafty Victorian up in the foothills, surrounded by a dense growth of pines that seemed to swallow sound. It was a house of creaking floorboards and rooms that held their breath. The adults, as adults do, retired early, leaving the two of them to their own devices. And their device of choice, found in a dusty attic trunk, was an old Ouija board, its wood stained dark as dried blood, the planchette carved from bone.

It was past midnight, a night with no moon, just a blanket of stars that offered no light. They sat cross-legged on the braided rug in the parlor, a single candle between them, its flame casting long, writhing shadows. They thought it would be a game—spooky, sure, but a game nonetheless. They had no idea that the board was not a toy, but a doorway, and that something on the other side was eager to answer.

They started with the usual questions—names, ages, how many siblings. The planchette moved with a hesitant glide, spelling out letters that formed simple, boring answers. Marta giggled, her eyes wide. Daniel felt a thrill, a shiver that was half excitement, half unease. But then Marta asked, ‘Who are you?’ and the planchette shot to ‘Z’ then ‘E’ then ‘A’ then ‘L’—’ZEAL.’ Daniel frowned. ‘That’s a weird name.’ Marta shrugged. ‘Ask him something else.’

‘What do you want?’ Daniel asked, his voice a little hushed. The planchette began to move in a slow, deliberate circle, then it spelled: ‘T H E M A R R O W.’ Daniel’s blood went cold. ‘The marrow? Like in bones?’ The planchette shot to ‘Y E S.’ Marta’s smile faltered. ‘What about the marrow?’ The board went still for a long moment, the candle sputtering. Then, in a rush of violent motion, it spelled: ‘F E E D M E.’

The candle flame turned a sickly green, and a stench like rotting meat filled the room. From deep within the house, they heard a sound—a low, grinding creak, like bones being twisted in a vice. It was coming from the basement stairs. Something was climbing up, something heavy, dragging itself step by step. Daniel and Marta froze, their hands still on the planchette, which was now trembling beneath their fingers as if it were alive.

‘What do we do?’ Marta whispered, her face pale. Daniel’s mind raced. He had heard stories, warnings about never leaving a session unfinished, but he couldn’t remember how to close it properly. He yanked his hands away, and Marta did the same, but the planchette kept moving on its own, sliding to ‘G O T O T H E P I N E.’ The creaking stopped, replaced by a profound silence.

They ran. They didn’t know where, but they ran—out of the parlor, through the kitchen, to the back door. They burst into the night, the cool air a shock against their sweaty skin, and they didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the pine grove. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches interlocking overhead to form a dark canopy. Daniel glanced back at the house; every window was lit with a sickly glow, and in the attic window, he saw a shape—tall, thin, with too many joints—staring down at them.

‘It’s pointing,’ Marta said, her voice trembling. And indeed, the shape raised a long, pale arm and pointed directly at the heart of the grove. Daniel followed the direction and saw that the pines in the center were different—their bark was bone-white, and their needles were gray, as if drained of life. And at the base of the largest one, there was a hole, black and gaping, like a wound.

Something compelled them forward, a pull they couldn’t resist. They walked into the grove, the shadows closing around them, until they stood at the edge of the hole. It was impossibly deep, and from within came a faint, wet pulsing sound. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble, and roots, thick as pythons, writhed up from the earth, wrapping around their ankles. They tried to scream, but no sound came out.

Then the voice came from the hole, a voice that was not a sound but a pressure inside their skulls, buzzing like a nest of hornets. ‘You woke me. Now you must pay the marrow toll.’ Daniel felt a searing pain in his leg, as if something were burrowing into his bone. He looked down and saw the roots dig into his flesh, entering his body, sucking at the marrow. Marta screamed, a guttural, animal sound, and then she was pulled under the earth with a sickening crack.

Daniel fought, clawing at the roots, but they were too strong. He felt himself being dragged down, the darkness closing over him, and then—blessed nothing. He woke the next morning in his bed, a thin layer of pine needles covering him, his leg feeling strangely hollow. Marta was gone. The adults found her in the grove, sitting against the pine, her eyes open and vacant, her body cold as stone. The doctors said she died of a heart attack, but Daniel knew better.

He never touched a Ouija board again, and neither did I after that night when he finally told me the truth. But I’ve never told anyone the other part—the part he whispered to me, his voice cracking, as if the memory still had its claws in him. He said that every year on the anniversary of that night, he dreams of roots growing out of his own leg, reaching for him, and he knows the pine is still hungry. He says it will always be hungry, and it will never stop until it has its marrow.