The Mud Between Roots

The first time I noticed the smell, I was standing at the edge of the orchard. My grandfather’s farm was a place of order—rows of apple trees marching down to the creek, the barn’s red paint flaking like dried blood. But that morning, a thick, earthy odor rose from the ground, like something had been turned over deep beneath the soil. I dismissed it as the rain from the night before, but the feeling lingered, a prickling at the back of my neck.

The dreams started three nights later. In them, I walked barefoot along a path I knew all too well—the one that wound through the orchard, past the old well, and into the woods beyond. But in the dream, the ground was not grass and dirt; it was a black, sucking mud that pulled at my feet with each step. The trees were gnarled, their branches like grasping fingers, and the air was thick with a silence that pressed against my ears. And then I saw him: a figure, tall and broad, standing at the far end of the path. His face was a void, a shifting darkness that seemed to drink the light. He would take a step toward me, and I would wake, gasping, my heart slamming against my ribs.

At first, I told myself it was nothing—a bad dream, a bit of cheese before bed. But the dreams grew more frequent, each night the figure closer than the last. I began to feel exhausted, as if I were living two lives at once. I would fall asleep on the couch in the afternoon and wake hours later, disoriented, the taste of mud on my tongue. My mother grew worried, said I looked pale, asked if I was getting enough sun. I lied and said it was just allergies.

The first touch came on a Tuesday. I was lying in bed, the ceiling fan whirring above me, when I felt the mattress depress beside my hip. I froze, my body stiff as a board. No one else was in the house—my parents were both at work. I slowly turned my head, expecting to see the empty space, but there was nothing. The pressure remained, a heavy, cold weight, as if someone were sitting on the edge of my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered a prayer I didn’t fully believe, and after a long, agonizing minute, the pressure lifted.

I didn’t sleep that night, and the next day I avoided the bedroom, staying in the living room, the TV droning on some cooking show. I was curled up on the sofa, a blanket pulled to my chin, when I felt it again—a light touch on the back of my hand. It was not the gentle brush of a finger, but something colder, wetter, like a piece of raw meat. I yanked my hand away and looked around, but the room was empty. The touch left a damp spot on my skin, and when I looked at it, I saw a smudge of dark, gritty soil.

That was when I remembered the dream, the mud between the roots, and I understood that something was following me out of the darkness, leaving traces of itself in the waking world. I tried to tell my parents, but they exchanged glances, my mother pressing a hand to my forehead to check for fever. They said it was my imagination, that stress from school was playing tricks on me. They gave me a glass of warm milk and told me to rest.

But I couldn’t rest. The dreams came back every night, and each time, the figure was closer. In the last dream, I saw his hand—pale, long-fingered, reaching out from the shadows—and I woke with a scream caught in my throat. When I looked at my hand, I saw a faint, muddy imprint on my wrist, as if he had grabbed me in my sleep.

I decided to confront it. The next night, instead of trying to fight sleep, I let it come. I walked the dream path, my bare feet sinking into the cold mud, the trees closing in. The figure was there, waiting, and for the first time, I didn’t flee. I walked toward him, each step heavier than the last. The air grew colder, and the silence rang like a bell. When I was close enough to see the texture of his skin—or what should have been skin—he stopped, and his head tilted, as if curious.

And then he spoke, a voice like wet earth sliding over stones: ‘You’ve been treading my ground.’ I tried to answer, but my throat was clogged with dirt. He raised his hand, and I saw that his fingers were dripping with black soil, and from his palm, a seed began to sprout, a thin, green tendril that writhed in the air. ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to carry me back.’

I bolted awake, gasping, my sheets soaked with sweat and something thicker, grainy, like mud. I ran to the window and looked out at the orchard. The trees were standing, but the ground between them was dark and wet, as if it had rained only there. And at the edge of the woods, I saw a figure, tall and black, watching me. He raised a hand, and in it, he held something small and green—a seedling, growing even as I watched.

I haven’t told my parents. I don’t sleep anymore. The dreams come anyway, even when I’m awake, and the figure is always there, waiting at the edge of my vision. Last night, I felt him sit on my bed again, and this time, I didn’t ignore it. I turned to him, and for the first time, I saw his face—a mass of roots and soil, with two dark hollows where eyes should be. He reached out, and I saw that his fingers were covered in the same black mud from the dream, and I knew that he wanted me to go with him, to the place between the roots, where the ground is soft and hungry.

I’m writing this now, in the last light of the day, because I know that tonight, I will dream, and in the dream, I will walk with him into the soil. He has chosen me, and I don’t know if I can refuse. The mud is already in my skin, and I can feel something growing beneath it.

My name is Elara, and I don’t think I’ll be here when you read this.