The Mulberry Man

I’ve always found comfort in the pre-dawn hours, when the world is still and the only sounds are my own footsteps and the occasional rustle of a nocturnal creature. Last Tuesday, however, that tranquility was shattered by an encounter I still struggle to rationalize. I live on the edge of Millbrook, a small town that butts up against the Blackwood Forest. A favorite morning walk of mine takes me down Elm Street, past the old mill pond, and into a network of trails that wind through the woods. On this particular morning, a thick fog had rolled in, muffling sound and turning familiar landmarks into ghostly shapes.

I was about halfway down my usual path, near the abandoned railway bridge, when I heard voices. They were not the cheerful chatter of early joggers but a frantic, muffled exchange, punctuated by what sounded like a wet, rhythmic thudding. My first instinct was to turn back, but a mix of curiosity and concern for whatever was happening pushed me forward. I crept closer, following the sound to a clearing I’d never noticed before, hidden behind a tangle of blackberry bushes. Peering through the leaves, I saw a figure hunched over something on the ground, muttering in a language I didn’t recognize. The thudding intensified, and I realized with a jolt that the figure was beating the earth with a gnarled, dark root, as if punishing the soil itself.

I must have made a sound, a twig snapping, for the figure froze. Slowly, it turned to face me. Its face was gaunt, with sunken eyes that held an unnatural gleam, and its skin was the color of old bark. It wore a tattered overcoat, and from its neck hung a string of small, withered objects that I didn’t want to identify. It smiled, a wide, mirthless grin that showed teeth stained dark, and in a voice like gravel sliding down a chute, it said, ‘You shouldn’t be here. The roots are hungry.’ Then, without another word, it vanished. Not into the fog, not behind a tree, but simply gone, leaving behind a faint, pungent smell of damp earth and copper.

I stood there, heart hammering, for what felt like an eternity. The thudding had stopped, and the clearing was now eerily silent, except for the drip of condensation from the leaves. I half-ran back to the main trail, not daring to look back. Back on Elm Street, the fog was lifting, and a few lights had flickered on in the houses. I tried to convince myself that it was a trick of the light, or some eccentric local playing a prank, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had stumbled upon something ancient and malevolent that belonged in this forest long before the town was ever built.

Later that day, I mentioned the incident to old Mrs. Gable, who has lived in Millbrook her entire life. Her face paled, and she whispered, ‘The Mulberry Man.’ She told me that the forest holds secrets that the town prefers to forget. There’s a local legend about a man who made a pact with the forest to protect his crops, but the price was his soul. He now roams the woods, tending to the roots that bind him, and anyone who sees him is marked for an early grave. She begged me to leave Millbrook, but I have nowhere else to go. Now, each morning, I wake to find fresh scratches on my door, and in the woods, I hear a rhythmic thudding, always drawing closer. I’ve started to dig in my garden at the roots of an old mulberry tree, because I swear, at night, I can hear it whispering my name.