The Mulberry Mast

I’m thirty now, and I still can’t shake the image of that night. My name is Daniel, and what happened when I was sixteen has left a permanent scar on my perception of the dark. We had just moved to the town of Graylock, a place that seemed to be perpetually coated in a fine layer of dust and silence. My only friends were my younger sister, Emily, and a neighbor named Marcus, who was a few months younger than me. We were a trio, inseparable in that way only teenagers can be.

It was the tail end of summer, and the heat clung to the air like a second skin. To escape the boredom, we often played manhunt after the sun went down, but tonight it was just the three of us. Marcus’s backyard was our usual haunt, bordered by an old wooden fence and an ancient mulberry tree that served as our home base. Its gnarled branches reached out like skeletal fingers, and the dark berries stained the ground beneath it a sickly purple. As we walked toward it, I felt a strange sensation, as if the darkness itself was thickening around us. The air grew still, and the usual symphony of crickets fell silent. I saw Emily shiver, though the night was warm.

‘It’s just your imagination,’ Marcus said, but his voice was tight. We decided to start the game anyway, with Emily as the hunter. Marcus and I scattered into the shadows. I found a spot behind a stack of old tires near the fence, pressing myself against the cold rubber. I could hear Emily’s footsteps crunching on the gravel path, then the soft rustle of leaves as she checked the bushes. Minutes passed, and the silence grew heavier. I held my breath, straining to hear any sound. Then I heard a low, wet sound, like something heavy being dragged across the grass. It came from near the mulberry tree. I peeked out from behind the tires and saw that the tree seemed to be moving, its branches swaying when there was no wind. The dark under its canopy was absolute, a void that seemed to drink the light.

I heard Emily’s voice, but it was wrong. It was as if her words were being stretched and distorted, coming out in a slow, gummy drawl. ‘Mar…cus…’ she called, but the name sounded like it was being pulled through mud. Then I saw her silhouette step into the blackness under the tree, and she vanished. The dragging sound resumed, but now it was accompanied by a soft, rhythmic squelching, like a wet cloth being wrung out. Panic surged through me. I stood up, intending to run to the tree, but my legs were rooted. Marcus appeared from behind a shed, his face pale. ‘Did you see that?’ he whispered. I nodded.

We crept toward the tree, our steps as silent as we could make them. The darkness around it was so dense that it seemed to have a physical weight, and the air tasted of copper and rot. As we got closer, I saw a shape on the ground, and my heart stopped. It was Emily, but she was on her knees, her head tilted back, and something was covering her face. It looked like a mass of dark, glistening fibers, like wet earth, and it was moving, pulsing. Then Emily turned her head, and I saw that her eyes were wide, but they were looking at me without recognition. A muffled scream escaped her, but it was too late.

I grabbed Marcus’s arm and pulled him back. We ran, not looking behind us, through the open gate and into the street. We didn’t stop until we reached my house, gasping for breath. We called the police, but when they arrived, there was no sign of Emily, and Marcus’s backyard was just a normal backyard. The mulberry tree stood there, its branches still, the ground beneath it clean. They searched for hours, but she was gone. The case went cold, and my family moved away shortly after. Marcus and I never spoke of it again, and we lost touch.

To this day, I still don’t know what I saw. But every time I see a mulberry tree, I get a chill. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that wet, dragging sound, and I know it’s coming for me, to take me back to that place under the tree, where the darkness drinks the light and the earth tastes of sorrow.