The Mulberry Tree

The harvest moon hung low and orange over the orchards, casting long, twisted shadows between the rows of gnarled apple trees. I didn’t get back to the farmhouse until nearly one in the morning, my bones aching from hauling crates at the cannery. The porch light was on, which was strange, and my cousin Willa stood on the steps, her face the color of sour milk.

‘Willa? What’s wrong?’ I asked, dropping my lunch pail.

She grabbed my arm, her fingers cold and tight. ‘I saw you. I saw you come out of the hayloft.’

‘The hayloft? I’ve been at the cannery all night,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You must have seen a fox or something.’

But her eyes were wide, unblinking. ‘It was you. Same coat, same hat. It walked past me, not ten feet away. It didn’t say a word, just walked toward the old mulberry tree and vanished.’

I laughed, but it came out hollow. ‘You’re exhausted. Too much moonshine at the harvest dance.’

She shook her head, stepping closer. ‘I know what I saw. It was you. But it wasn’t you. It had your face, but its eyes were wrong.’

A cold wind swept through the yard, rattling the dry corn stalks. The mulberry tree at the edge of the property stood black against the moon. I’d always hated that tree, with its black sap that bled like molasses and its leaves that rustled even when there was no breeze.

Willa refused to go back to the main house. She spent the night on my floor, wrapped in a quilt, staring at the ceiling. I tried to sleep, but every creak of the old farmhouse made me think of that thing stepping out of the hayloft, wearing my face.

By morning, I had convinced myself it was a trick of the light, or some drifter. But when I went to the barn to milk the cows, I found the door to the hayloft open. Inside, in the dust, were footprints. They started at the loft’s edge and led to the ladder, then across the floor to the door. I followed them outside. They went straight to the mulberry tree and stopped.

I told the sheriff, but he just laughed. ‘Probably some kids playing a prank.’

The next evening, my brother Lyle came back from the fields, his face ashen. He pulled me aside in the barn. ‘I saw you. Coming out of the orchard, heading toward the house. I called your name, but you didn’t stop. You just turned and gave me this look—like you didn’t know me.’

I felt a chill curl around my spine. ‘Lyle, I was with the vet in town all afternoon. You know that.’

He swallowed hard. ‘Then who was I talking to?’

That night, we all crowded into the kitchen. Aunt Mabel told stories of the doppelganger, how seeing one for a loved one meant death. Uncle Joe said it was just superstition, but he checked every lock on the doors three times.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. And then, out the window, I saw it. A figure standing by the mulberry tree. It wore my coat, my hat. It stood completely still, facing the house.

I grabbed a lantern and a shotgun and ran outside. ‘Who’s there?’ I shouted.

The figure didn’t move. As I approached, the lantern light caught its face. It was mine. My eyes, my nose, my scar on my chin. But the eyes were flat, like a dead fish.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

It tilted its head and smiled, a slow, terrible grin. ‘You’ve been seeing me everywhere lately. But you’re the imposter, not me.’

My blood turned to ice. I raised the shotgun, but before I could pull the trigger, it pointed at the mulberry tree. ‘Look.’

I followed its finger. Under the tree, there was a freshly dug grave. I stumbled over, the lantern shaking. The soil was dark and moist. And in the dirt, I saw my own handprint, as if I had crawled out.

When I turned back, the figure was gone. But the wind was picking up, and the mulberry tree’s leaves whispered my name.

I ran back to the house, but when I got inside, everyone was staring at me with horror. Aunt Mabel pointed at my hands. I looked down. They were covered in black, sticky sap—the same sap that bled from the mulberry tree.

‘Where have you been?’ Lyle whispered. ‘We saw you go out to the tree.’

I shook my head. ‘I just went out. I saw it.’

But they all stepped away from me. And then the lantern went out.

The next morning, I woke up in my bed, unsure how I got there. The shotgun was gone. Under my fingernails, there was black sap.

I haven’t seen the doppelganger since. But every night, I hear scratching at the window. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of someone behind me, wearing my face, smiling.

I’ve started to wonder: which of us is the real one? And I’m afraid that soon, the tree will bloom again, and there will be room for two more.

I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve tried burning the tree, but it doesn’t catch. I’ve tried moving away, but everywhere I go, the mulberry tree appears outside my window. And in every reflection, I see those dead, flat eyes watching me, waiting for the moment when I forget which one I am.