The Mulberry Mark

My name is Elara, and I’ve always been a bit strange. My older sister, Mira, was the one who opened my eyes to the paranormal. At first, I was terrified of the things that might lurk in our old farmhouse. But soon, my fear turned into fascination. Whenever a show about ghosts came on, I was glued to the screen. Afterward, I’d feel a creeping paranoia, but also a heightened sense of awareness, like I could feel the very pulse of the house.

Our farmhouse sat on the edge of a dying apple orchard, the trees gnarled and blackened with blight. The only color came from a massive mulberry tree that pressed against my bedroom window, its branches scraping the glass like skeletal fingers. I had a sense there were three presences in the house. The first was my cat, Shadow. She died when I was nine, and I buried her under that mulberry tree, right where she could watch over me. Even now, I’d catch glimpses of a black shape darting through the hallway. At night, I’d feel a soft weight press against my pillow, then a gentle nuzzle against my cheek. She was my best friend, and she’d left me too soon, taken by cancer.

Our dog, Bramble, had just passed away at sixteen. He was a shaggy, loyal mutt who’d been with me my whole life. The day he died, he’d dragged himself under the porch and refused to come out. By the time we found him, it was too late. I was heartbroken, but something felt different this time. The house seemed to groan with grief, and I felt a new presence—a restless one. The night after Bramble died, I woke to a scratching sound from under my bed. I reached down and felt a cold, wet nose press into my palm, but when I pulled my hand back, it was covered in dark earth and a single, shriveled mulberry.

I started seeing things. In the orchard, I’d spot a large, shadowy dog weaving between the trees, but when I blinked, it was gone. The third presence, however, was the most unsettling. It was a man, I think, but I never saw him clearly. He’d stand at the edge of the orchard, a tall figure in a long coat, his face always hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. He never moved, just watched the house. At night, I’d hear a low, humming sound, like a hymn being sung through water.

Mira had moved to the city years ago, but she called me one night, her voice tight with worry. ‘Elara, I had a dream about the mulberry tree,’ she said. ‘There’s something buried under it. Something old.’ I told her about the presence, and she went silent for a long moment. ‘Don’t dig,’ she finally said. ‘Promise me you won’t dig.’ But I was too fascinated to listen.

The next day, I took a shovel to the spot where Shadow was buried. The soil was dark and rich, and it came up easily. I dug deeper, past Shadow’s small bones, until my shovel hit something solid. It was a wooden box, rotted and crumbling. I pried it open and found a child’s doll, its porcelain face cracked, its dress stained with something dark. And in its arms, a small, leather-bound journal. I opened it to find spidery handwriting, dated over a hundred years ago. It was written by a girl named Ruth, who spoke of a ‘guardian’ she had to feed. She wrote about how she buried offerings under the tree—animals, and then, one day, she wrote, ‘He wants more. He wants me.’ The final entry was just a scrawl: ‘He comes at dawn.’

That night, I left the journal on my nightstand, and I dreamt of the man in the orchard. In the dream, he walked toward the house, his coat billowing, and I saw his face—or rather, the absence of it. There was nothing but a void beneath his hat. He reached out a hand, and in it was the doll, now whole, its eyes following me. ‘You have what is mine,’ he said, his voice like dry leaves. ‘Return it, or take her place.’ I woke with a scream, the doll sitting on my pillow, its head turned toward me.

I knew I had to undo what I’d done. I took the doll and journal back to the mulberry tree, but the roots had grown thick and gnarled, and the hole I’d dug was gone, as if it had never been. The ground was hard as stone. I tried to dig, but the shovel broke. Panic set in. I dropped to my knees and tried to claw at the earth, but it was no use. The man was there, standing just a few feet away, closer than ever. I could smell damp earth and something sweet, like rotten fruit. ‘It’s too late,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve awakened me.’

I ran into the house and locked every door, but I knew he was inside. The temperature dropped, and my breath misted. The lights flickered. I heard Bramble’s bark, but it was wrong—high and distorted, like from a memory. I saw Shadow’s form race across the floor, but she turned to look at me, and her eyes were glowing red. ‘They’re his now,’ I realized. He had claimed them, and he was claiming me.

The clock struck midnight. I heard the creak of the stairs. I backed into the corner, clutching the broken shovel. The door to my room swung open slowly, and there he stood, filling the frame. The hat was gone, and I saw his face at last—it was a swirl of shapes and lines, like static on a dead channel, and at the center, a mouth that opened into a void. ‘You were the last offering my guardian needed,’ he said. ‘A soul bound to this land.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Something cold wrapped around my ankle, pulling me toward the floorboards.

The next morning, the sun rose over the orchard, but the house was silent. On my bed lay a journal, its pages filled with a familiar handwriting—my own. It read: ‘I dug too deep. Now the Guardian has his offering. But he still watches, waiting for the next curious child who comes to listen to the whispers of the dead.’ Outside, the mulberry tree had grown vast and twisted, its roots curling through the window, and in the center of the trunk, a face had appeared—not mine, not Ruth’s, but the grotesque melding of all those who had come before.